Chapter Text
1. You must have dinner ready for when he walks through the door. Plan ahead to have a delicious meal ready for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Your family will be hungry when they come home, and the prospect of a good meal combined with a warm welcome will be the best way to his heart is through his stomach.
They all came back a little different. They’ve grown up, after all, even when sometimes it feels like they haven’t grown at all. It’s not unexpected that two years apart changes things, even if the bond between them feels stronger than ever. Physically, they’re older, mature, or in some cases, like Franky, they’re enhanced.
Zoro’s missing an eye, Franky’s nearly twice the size he was before, Usopp has abs, and Brook has songs for days now, with at least three albums that are more than entertaining, and fans at every port. It’s a little disarming, to see how much they’ve changed and grown. It leaves room for wonder, for stories that never end. And it’s exciting, too, to listen to each other and to see their growth, with things like General Franky bursting into the scene. To remember the things they went through to get that way.
Nami talks of old weather wizards, with terrible fashion sense and a sky island in the clouds, sounding fond. Robin, for her part, just smiles that disarming grin and presses a finger to her lips, sending chills down everyone’s spine. There’s no doubt she’s only gained another layer of secrets, mysteries to unravel at another date. Luffy’s stories are garbled words of Rayleigh, his new animal friends that look delicious but he can’t eat anymore, and punching things. Chopper talks of pharmaceuticals and trees of knowledge and medicinal books that span volumes and volumes.
Sanji only refers to his training as hell.
It’s still visible that he's learned, though, in the way he moves, sharp fluid motions. The way he can leap into the sky, graceful upper cuts and quick maneuvers.
It’s evident in the little things, too. He keeps a new journal now, beside his chef’s log and recipe book, with neat and tidy notes on what they ate and what they will eat. Each crew member’s diet is rationed, the meals written out, prepared so well in advance that it makes Luffy’s mouth water and it’s certain he’s dreaming of dishes to come after sneaking a glance into the mystery guide.
It shows further, when they enter the kitchen for their dinner. It shows in the preparation that goes into his meals, all portioned out and planned. There’s fresh flowers on the table and a table cloths and napkins and place settings for each crew member, as warm smells sizzle through the kitchen. Notes of cardamom intermingle with the scent of fried fish, with warm pork belly and the fresh scent of rosemary and thyme burst through the air, carried through to the galley.
It shows in the lean cuts of meat prepared for the ladies versus the fatty skin-on roasts for Luffy. The way the tomatoes are sliced thin for Chopper, but thick for Franky’s burger. The way the spice content differs in each plate, perfectly designed per crew member.
Before, they’d have buffet style family dinners, with dishes upon dishes scouring the table and a mad-dash grab to find your favourite meal, to steal food from Luffy’s crawling hands and stack up, eat quick and fast. Now each dish is individually prepared, balanced and portioned out to make sure each crew member is full, even Luffy.
“This is really yummy!” says Chopper, hooves gripping his cheeks in a sigh of contentment, as he swirls his fork into a chicken, topped with pistachios that have been glazed in caramel and candied together over a salad that vanishes into his mouth. It’s mouth-watering heaven, each bite crispy and crunchy but sweet.
“Your cooking is really the best,” says Nami, with a sigh of contentment as she bites into her own salmon dish, with a sweet orange marmalade made from the tangerines that overgrew on the Sunny while they were away. It tastes nostalgic, a bit, like home but warmer, because Belle-mere’s cooking was never quite so elegant, but there’s a heartiness to the rice served with it that cuts through the fancy texture of the salmon and brings it all together.
Sanji, for his part, brims with confidence as he twirls over the dishes, hearts in his eyes at the compliments.
If only that had been the end of it.
-
“Onigiri?” Zoro finds himself asking to an empty room. There’s a basket of it, placed in the corner of his training corner, and he didn’t even notice the person come in.
They used Haki, that’s for sure, to sneak in a snack for him before he could finish his training. It’s fresh, he thinks, as he takes a bite and tastes the burst of salt and salmon, followed by tart pickled plums. It’s good though, and heavier than he expects.
There’s an unfamiliar drink served with it, thick and green and smooth. It tastes a bit like vegetables, but not quite so sweet and he can feel it in his muscles, the sensation of growing strength. There’s a kind of bitterness that cuts underneath it all. It’s unsurprisingly, delicious.
The question lingers, though.
Why couldn’t the cook just drop it off?
-
Robin blinks, wakes up to the smell of fresh tea and biscuits in the library. Sanji’s just arrived, as though he knew she’d be awake, and he beams at her with that bright smile he gets when it comes to feeding them.
“Sanji-san,” Robin says, smiling back at him, “What did you bring for tea-time?”
She’s never asked for it, but she notices she’s suddenly hungry. As though someone knew by this time she’d need a snack.
The biscuits are flavoured like tea, iced with a light frosting that’s only a little sweet. Green matcha cookies, powdery earl grey frosting on a biscuit. A coffee flavoured lady finger that crumbles in her mouth, softens. They’re fresh out of the oven. She smiles, and makes a note to buy Sanji another book about biscuits on the next shore.
-
Franky and Usopp are thanking the cook, later, for bringing them donuts in the middle of their work, while they were covered in grease and fixing up some new weapon (decoration?) for Nami and Robin’s room. Zoro’s trying to nap, but he can hear the lilt of the cook’s voice.
“Cinnamon,” he says, and it sounds happy, “Just to dust them.”
“They were even better than the icing ones, bro,” says Franky, sounding pleased, and his voice carries over the ship and Chopper is arguing about icing versus sugar and it’s soft, the debate that engages and he can hear the cook laugh, clap his hands together and say, “Donut battle! I’ll make both tomorrow and we can taste and compare!”
He still can’t figure out why the cook doesn’t just bring him his snacks directly.
2. Prepare yourself every morning to send him off looking your best, and prepare yourself before he returns. Take an extra fifteen minutes out of your day to rest and be refreshed when he arrives. Touch your makeup up, thread a ribbon through your hair and look as fresh as possible. He’s been surrounded by work-weary people, and just by looking at your refreshing presence, you’ll warm him up.
It’s not that Sanji was never more conscious about what he wore, and his shower schedule, and things like cologne and shampoo and probably even conditioner. It’s just that now he manages to take it a step ahead.
Nami blinks, when she wakes up early one morning to find Sanji exiting the bathroom and he smells of a sharp woodsy cologne and his hair is still wet but he’s combed it and, well, she finds herself asking, “Is that hair gel?”
It’s new, she thinks, bemused as he flushes suddenly, bright and then goes noodly as he asks, “Did you notice, Nami-swan?”
It’s not that it’s a bad thing, but it’s definitely a step more than before. For her part, Nami just makes a mental note to go over the receipts later to figure out where Sanji found the money to buy hair gel, of all things. Maybe she should increase his budget to allow for it, considering all the things he does. The thought, kind as it is, vanishes immediately when she reminds herself that he’s already found money to buy it.
Still. Maybe he does deserve something.
She walks past him into the bathroom for her own morning routine, leaving the mess of a well-groomed man behind, singing praises of her beauty in the morning.
-
Usopp finds the shower basket one day by accident and blinks as he sits there with Chopper, trying to find his own shampoo that has long-since gotten lost. Meanwhile, Sanji’s got a whole host of product that blows his mind and he’s intrigued more than he was before. There’s so many different bottles, and they all smell so nice. It wasn’t like Sanji wasn’t the man on the ship with two bottles of shampoo and two different types of combs, but now it just feels like it’s gotten a little more excessive.
“What’s face cream?” he asks, stumped as he holds the tiny blue bottle up to Chopper who takes a sniff and immediately says, “It smells good.”
So they try it, glomping handfuls of the the thick white lotion onto their own faces and their skin feels smoother - or well, Usopp’s does. Chopper’s fur just gets matted and sticky and needs to be washed, but they’ll worry about it later. Right now, they’re beautifying themselves. He tucks the half-empty bottle back into the carton.
There’s beard oil , whatever that is and Usopp wonders if he should grow a beard too. Can't you just use shampoo for beards? Or soap? He drops the beard idea almost immediately at the idea of owning more than one bottle of product. There’s a separate lotion for hands and feet and one that just says body lotion. They’re fiddling through the basket of products, unaware of someone entering the room.
Sanji finds them, using his things, with different creams rubbed into their bodies and two different types of cologne sprayed into the air of the men’s cabin. Behind him walks in Zoro, who’s nose scrunches up and says, dismayed, “Why does the room smell like the cook?”
They don’t get time to answer as a leg swipes through the air, cutting directly onto Usopp’s head, knocking Chopper’s hat off, and kicking Zoro in the chest. Only one of them manages to block.
In the background, Usopp can hear Franky shouting about the door being broken and the clash of steel swords and leg, but his head is ringing and he’s probably got a concussion from all that excess force.
They don’t touch Sanji’s stuff ever again. He does, however, buy himself some of that nice smelling face lotion. His skin feels shinier now.
-
“Cook bro,” says Franky, over dinner one night after they’re all settling down to eat. “When did you change clothes?”
It’s not that they have a luxury budget for clothes, it’s just that Sanji definitely has more than the rest of the men on ship - bar Brook, who somehow managed to bring his entire concert wardrobe with him when he ran away to become a pirate all over again, and who still gets freebies from people who recognize him as a celebrity. It’s just that none of them really change that much. The girls wear new clothes every day, and Brook changes up his accessories, trading feather boa for feathered hat, and Franky switches up clothes when the grease oil gets too much but he’s never changed his clothes twice in the same day.
Sanji didn't either, but.
He could have sworn Sanji woke up this morning in a very super shirt with red and orange and purple flowers bursting over the print that looked something like what Franky owns, but now he’s back in his suit for serving dinner and it’s not that it’s bad and Franky’s not one to judge - but.
“Before dinner,” says Sanji, as he places a thick sea king burger in front of Franky and his question about why Sanji’s wearing a suit to serve dinner disappears as the scent of dill flutters up his nostrils. He can practically taste the burger, with thick cut potato fries folding around the bowl and a spicy sauce for dipping and Franky’s stomach growls.
“You still look stupid,” says Zoro, stabbing his fork into a bowl of udon noodles separately prepared for him and Sanji glowers back at the man as he snaps back, “At least I don’t coordinate my clothes with my hair.”
He’s chowing down on the burger, unthinking of Sanji’s sudden outfit changes or the argument carrying on in the background, as he devours his meal with delight.
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. Be happy to see him. Free him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first — remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Brook’s fingers press down on the piano and he sighs, a familiarity to the instrument that brings him back near fifty years, as he continues to play the old jaunty song. Besides the crew, it’s the piano he missed most, the mementos of an old ship, a different crew long gone. He can picture Yorki, sitting beside him as they run through the familiar duet of Cat’s Cradle, fingers bounding over the key’s and laughing like children as they try to learn a new tune, try to compose together. His fingers run alone over those keys now.
“What song is that?”
He turns to see Sanji, looking at him curiously enough as he sits down on the bench, in a space Yorki once took, and lights his own cigarette. His hands look calloused, and the last Brook saw of him was when he’d been chopping an endless number of carrots.
“It’s an old tune,” Brook says, “It’s unfinished, though.”
Yorki had died before they ever got a chance to settle the beat, to determine if it needed a cellist or violinist accompaniment. If the flute should have a solo or not.
“It’s nice,” Sanji says, a light smile on his face, gentler than his overarching grin of delight and not quite the smile for the women onboard, but something a little personal. A little soft. He doesn’t ask why, but instead asks, “Is it hard writing songs?”
Brook smiles, and his answer is genuine as he says, “It’s like anything else, it has its days. But I’ve had fifty years to fine tune these songs, after all. The hard part is not overdoing it. Too many parts can ruin a tune.”
“Like a good dish,” says Sanji, wisely, as he exhales smoke into the air and it vanishes, without a trace, leaving just a familiar scent of burning in the air. “You mind?”
He’s a little late to ask, but Brook simply smiles at him and says, “Yohoho, not at all! Would you like to hear another tune?”
Sanji grins, and Brook finds himself smiling back as his fingers hit the keys again and a familiar tune pours over the galley.
-
Jinbei is new aboard the deck, and he feels it sometimes. Things that don’t stand out to others often catch him off guard. He’s unused to Zoro’s sleeping form, draped into any corner that he finds. To Luffy’s ever present exuberance, suggesting ideas for entertainment that range from games to throwing things into the air just to see how far they go. He’s not used to a ship with so little structure and so much free time.
It’s surprisingly, he thinks, like a vacation.
There’s good food, provided by the ship’s chef and music at all hours. There’s someone to talk to, and things to talk about. Robin, in particular, has some of the more insightful conversation but even Usopp and Chopper have things fascinating stories to tell, which while not always true, are greatly enjoyable.
It’s on one such night that he finds himself looking up at the stars, when the scent of takoyaki fills the air, and he turns to see Hatchan’s takoyaki, in the flesh, served before him. The pungent sweet scent of the sauce lilts into the air as the cook offers it to him and settles down beside him. In the background, he can hear Luffy shouting.
“The sauce would have gone bad,” Sanji says, by way of explanation, “Felt like a good enough day to make some takoyaki.”
It tastes, Jinbei thinks, like home.
“Too bad Caimie isn’t here to dine with us,” Sanji says, and his eyes are looking dreamily off into the distance as the smoke from his cigarette blows downwind, heart shaped forms that dissipate into the air.
“It’s very good,” says Jinbei, because it is, and he’s not someone who minces words, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” says Sanji, grinning as he digs into his own portion, “I was going to try pairing the sauce with the tempura you can get at the castle but I couldn’t figure out if it would go together, or not.”
“It might,” Jinbei offers, thinking of the shrimp from the castle, “We didn’t get to eat that tempura often, but it tasted good with everything.”
“What would you guys eat instead?” Sanji asks, and Jinbei starts with surprise. Of all the questions to be asked about his time as a guard for Ryugu palace, to be asked about the meals is a first.
It takes him a minute, to find the words but in the end he’s talking. He’s talking about the delicate way the chef made sashimi platters for them, and the hearty broths fit to serve and army. He’s talking about training in the morning before breakfast and the unusualness of eating breakfast with bread, when in the palace they serve lean fish broths and when the occasion called, rice.
Somewhere in the conversation, it leads to fishman karate, and despite himself, Jinbei finds he’s agreed to teach Sanji some of the kicking techniques, in the morning, when they both rise early for force of habit.
Little by little, he’s building some form of routine. And if from then on, he starts his morning with a fish head broth made specifically for him, he doesn't mention it.
-
His sword curves through the air, and he can feel Kitetsu singing under his control, a fluid motion that took months of practice. It doesn’t cut, even when he swings down again, inserting itself into the air. There’s another step, a dance that Zoro knows as he moves forward, swords bursting around him. It’s rare that he practices his one-sword style, rarer still that he does with just Kitetsu, but then, the seas are choppy.
Anything can happen, and it’s better to not be caught off-guard.
“Oi, moss-head.”
It has to be the cook, and Zoro breathes, tries to catch himself as he swings again, ignoring it.
“We’re getting closer to shore,” the cook continues, unbothered by the swordsman’s defiant attitude, the ignorance. Like a cannon battering a ship, his words bash against Zoro’s impervious attitude, as he says, “Don’t get lost this time.”
The sword freezes in the air, a directional challenge that shouldn’t have happened because he’s training, and he knows the motions and that’s not supposed to happen but the cook just always manages to get under his skin.
“You’re the one who gets lost,” Zoro snaps back, fury colouring his tone and the cook just looks at him, like he’s an infant, eyes judgemental and Kitetsu senses it, sings below him for blood.
“Yeah, sure,” the cook says, hand waiving in the air and Zoro’s temper continues to flare, until the cook asks, “Why are you practicing with that one?”
Zoro blinks, freezes in space and says, ever so eloquently, “Huh?”
The cook freezes too, like it was a slip of the tongue that he hadn’t planned and he suddenly seems flustered, as he goes to his pocket and tugs out a cigarette. Busies himself with lighting and Zoro’s eyes track those fingers, the way they hover so gently over the flame. The cook swivels on his heel, turns to leave and Zoro’s left standing, with nowhere to take this confusion that lingers inside his heart.
4. Don’t greet him with complaints and problems. Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment of integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
This lesson, somehow, never stuck. And truthfully there’s strong doubts that the Okama on Momoiro Island ever enforced it to begin with. For the most part, however, it comes out primarily with just one member of the crew.
"The boat's the other way," says the cook, and Zoro turns, staring at the man staring right back at him.
The boat was definitely this way, Zoro thinks, because he came up that street with the red door earlier. He's pretty sure. Then again, he's seen several red doors since he came ashore and now he's - no he's sure. He's sure that was the red door he saw first.
"How long are you just going to stay lost for?" the cook asks, and he's leaning against a building and there's a puff of smoke, escaping between his lips and Zoro swings his gaze back around and scowls. He's not lost, he wants to say, but he's frozen for a moment, catching the way the setting sunlight leaves an orangey gold glow along the cook's cheekbones, threading through his hair.
It's uncomfortable, this new observation, and he pushes it aside. Shoves it into a dark corner, a recess of his mind that he can leave alone, for now.
"I was going this way on purpose," Zoro says, finally, "Why are you even here?"
The cook looks back at him, unphased as he says, "To find you and bring you back to the boat. We finished restocking ages ago, so we're leaving."
Zoro scowls, irritated all over again at the fact that the cook can just - just find him. Like he's some kind of magnet that attracts the cook's attention, brings him closer - except that's not it, is it? It's the opposite, he feels. Like he's the one constantly turning around, and there's the cook, standing there and doing something annoying.
He shoves that away, to the corner of his mind. It's a little too close for comfort, to think about in this moment.
-
“Oi, shit-head swordsman!” Sanji yells across the ship, “Your weights are blocking the damn door!”
There’s a grunt from Zoro in return and suddenly a bar-bell flies through the air and in the distance someone can hear Franky shouting, “Don’t let it drop!”
Zoro barely catches it in time, as Sanji glowers in fury and the weight gets tossed right back. It’s almost like a game of catch, one man kicking the bar bell, the other swinging it right back. It doesn’t touch the ground but it does crash through a railing, bump on a stair and bounce off the floor in a manner that should be impossible.
The game ends with Franky grabbing the bar-bell and using all two-hundred pounds to knock both of them down.
They lay there, side by side, staring up at the sun.
“I kicked it twenty-two times so I win,” Sanji says, groaning at the ache and bruises surely forming as he digs into his pocket for a lighter.
Zoro, for his part scowls and says, “You barely caught it the last time.”
The argument lifts through the air, loud and clear as Brook’s violin hums a merry tune to accompany it.
-
“You stink,” Sanji says, nose curled in disgust as he stares down at Usopp, Luffy and Zoro with disdain evident in his face. “And we need more fish, so go down and bathe in the ocean and get some fish.”
Usopp is trembling, trying to ignore the glower directed at him by Zoro and he’s trying to say, garbled, “Pop green stink sap is actually a rejuvenating product that makes you stronger like a thousand times and it’s actually a secret ingredient to this recipe I'm working on that -
“You still stink,” says Sanji and Zoro’s eye gleams, as he steps closer into the cook’s space, the clear stains of some putrid plan life that wafts over the air and it’s disgusting. The vague smell of rotting fish that makes his face turn green as he plugs his nose with his fingers, “Go shower.”
Luffy and Usopp take off, delighted, while Zoro scowls and says, “Don’t tell me what to do.”
The gleam in his eye is clear, as he raises one sticky, putrid hand and offers it over to the cook.
By the time Sanji gets away, he’s covered in stink sap from wrestling Zoro, his legs kicking outwards, trying to keep Zoro away without using his arms and it's a distinct disadvantage for this fight. His legs parry, trying to kick Zoro's hands away, but the swordsman is grinning, delighted because all he has to do is land one touch.
There's the spreading smell of stinky sap onto Sanji’s clothes and body and it’s Luffy, in the head, who gets excited and grapples them both down, arms tight around them as he says, “I want to play too!”
Sanji’s complaints echo throughout dinner, vicious glares directed at the both of them all night.
5. Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dust cloth over the tables. Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where you husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
It’s not like the crew is particularly clean; they’re just all good at taking care of their own spaces and dividing chores fairly evenly among the shared spaces. Chopper wipes the clinic down regularly, sanitizes his tools and changes the sheets. Robin keeps the library dusted and the books organized. Usopp and Franky have their own systems of organization and their workshops, while always chaotic to look at, are regularly maintained.
The kitchen, of course, is spotless.
But it starts to spill over into the common areas and Robin is the one who takes note first.
“Did someone wipe down the deck?” Robin asks, because they don’t have a cabin boy and often times the damage has Franky replacing the floor boards, giving it a shine.
The shipwright lifts his head, glances out at the gleaming deck and frowns. He’s pretty sure he didn’t do any strong repairs recently.
“Not me,” he offers to Robin, who does that thing Robin does, where her face goes blank and then she smiles, after a moment. It’s impressive how fast she thinks. It takes a trained eye to notice and he still hasn't gotten the hang of it.
Still, she’s not very good at sharing her thoughts, though, and so Franky finds himself prompting, “You figured it out?”
“Sanji was complaining about the deck being dirty the other day,” Robin offers, her smile not so mysterious when she looks up at him. He can read her enough by now to know she’s just happy, and to see her face twist into something more concerned . “He should have asked for help, though. I hope he doesn’t burn himself out doing everything on his own.”
Franky’s heart swells, pounds in his chest at the idea of his cook-bro putting all that extra effort in for his ship. It truly warms his heart, and reminds him every day what a good crew this is. How much they care. There hasn't been a day since he left the ports of Water Seven that he wonders if he made the right choice. In fact, it feels like he was born for this purpose, to build this ship for this group of people.
And that brings him to this question. Repairing is his job, but still, Robin’s right. He can’t let his cook bro do it all alone.
“I could build something to wipe the decks down,” Franky says, at last, a gleam in his eye. “Cleaning tools to make the job a little easier.”
“Could you build something for the dust in the library?” Robin asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Something to wash the dishes too, so cook-bro isn’t doing it alone,” Franky murmurs, already thinking ahead to the plethora of inventions just waiting to be discovered and brought to life. “Maybe I can equip the Franky Sweeper Bot with some canons too. Turn it into a defence for the ship. Can’t have too many lasers on deck. Or maybe as an attachment for the Franky General.”
He knows from the expression on Robin’s face that she's not particularly impressed at the idea of a laser-cleaning bot, but she still gives him her smile. That one she reserves for the people she likes.
“You never change,” Robin says, and she sounds fond even if he knows she doesn’t get it, and he grins back down at her, as he says, excitedly, “This is going to be super.”
-
“Did you wipe my weights down, cook?” Zoro asks, and he’s baffled because nobody touches his weights ever.
They gleam, shining and polished and smell vaguely of something citrusy. The cook, for his part, scowls back at him.
“Those things are disgusting,” the cook says, like it matters how a barbell feels or touches and Zoro’s caught, unsure if he’s supposed to thank the cook but irritation bristles at the idea of the weights even being looked at by someone and how dare the shitty ero-cook just touch his things?
But his attention is caught by the fact that the cook is in the bathroom, on his knees, with suds and soap surrounding him and water is catching on his sleeves. Crawling up the white shirt and clinging to his skin and Zoro’s never noticed before but the conversation with Usopp rings through his head (doesn’t he smell nicer?) and it does, in fact, smell nice. Like sandalwood and smoke and soft scented soap.
“What the fuck are you - are those the hammocks?” Zoro asks, because he’s staring now at the fabric in the bathtub, soaked through and the cook’s got a brush, and he’s scrubbing determinedly on something that looks a bit like Zoro’s and it’s not that he cares about the hammock, but it’s the principle.
When did he just allow the cook to touch his things, so freely?
“They’re filthy,” Sanji says, looking irritable, “And Usopp’s stinks.”
It’s all the hammocks, dragged out of the men’s cabins and Zoro feels something inside him. Irritation (Guilt?). He stamps into the bathroom, and looks around for a brush.
“What are you doing, shitty swordsman? Did you get lost? The way out is the other way,” the cook says, blue eyes glowering at him fiercely.
Zoro scowls, and grabs the brush from the cook’s surprisingly soft hand (He uses lotion, says the unhelpful Usopp sounding voice in his mind) and begins to scrub at his own hammock, ripping it from Sanji’s hands.
“Stop cleaning my shit,” Zoro says, and he sounds ungrateful even to himself as the cook curses up a storm but magics up a second brush from somewhere to start scrubbing Luffy’s and Zoro doesn’t get it, this devotion to cleanliness that extends beyond the kitchen but it feels warm. Like the water pooling around his knees, dripping off his pants.
“Ungrateful shit-head marimo,” mutters the cook, but he doesn’t stop scrubbing and there’s something strange about that.
Like the feeling of being cared for , which does fit the cook but doesn’t quite fit them . Was the cook always taking care of him, outside of the kitchen? Outside of preparing meals with those soft, white hands that scrub so fiercely at the hammock and he can see the dirt and sweat and grime coming off and something fierce echoes in his own heart, a pounding beat that leaves a flush.
It’s the heat of the steam, wafting around them, the ache of his muscles as he scrubs a little harder.
“I can clean faster than you,” Zoro says, and it’s not a thank you, but he’s scrubbing faster, and there’s water splashing around them and he’s reminded of another memory. Something long ago.
Of a girl wiping a floor, and a boy staring fiercely up at her, because the battle is over and the dojo is a mess and he doesn’t know why it matters, but it does. So he gets on his knees and proudly claims he’ll wipe the floor faster.
They’re arguing over who can carry more hammocks, and hanging them up and distantly, he remembers that he was soaked to the bone, that time too, after dueling Kuina with wash cloths instead of swords. Cold water hanging off his body, dripping from his hair.
He’s never felt so warm.
-
Sanji's scrubbing down the kitchen counters after dinner, and it's Brook who notices as he heads towards the galley to wipe down the piano. He watches, for a second, the way the cook sanitizes the counters and wipes down the ovens. The dedication to getting out the grease from the pans and he can recognize, briefly, the tune that Sanji's humming to himself. It's an old pirate shanty, from a long time ago. It wasn't very popular, back then, Brook thinks distantly, but he knows the words.
Maybe in the last few years it's picked up among the youth.
Brook pauses, staring at the keys on his own piano, and thinks briefly to the milkshakes that come, fresh and cool for him every day. There was a long period of time where he simply hadn't eaten, much less thought of something so inventive as malted milk in a drink, served cool to the touch.
His fingers curl over the keys, and despite his lack of audience, he picks up the tune. After all, even a solo needs an accompaniment.
6. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. Children are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
The Captain isn’t exactly a man that inspires armies, at first glance. It takes a moment, a few seconds in his presence to feel the warmth he gives off, the sensation of a thousand suns that burns through to your very core. To realize that one day, you’ll die for this man and there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s not a feeling that comes on lightly, nor one that you feel every day.
Still, Luffy likes to think that he doesn’t inspire those feelings, not really. The truth is that to burn like that, so hot and fervent, you have to be cared for , loved like that. He’s never quite sure what he did to be so loved by this crew, what he gave them. All he can do is punch real, real hard. They’re the ones he’s grateful for, every single day. He won’t become the Pirate King without them at his side.
The smell of meat sizzles in the air, and Luffy grins up at Sanji because it’s snack time, and his favourite snack has always, and always will be, meat. Especially the meat Sanji makes.
They’re tiny bony wings, from birds Usopp shot down earlier, trimmed and chopped into neat little rows with messy sauce that gets all over his face and Sanji’s grinning that wide, open grin at him and Luffy’s grinning back as he devours the wings, accidentally only swallowing two bones from that tangy sweet barbecue sauce flavour.
Sanji only yells at him to chew once.
“Honestly,” Sanji says, staring at him with dismay and bemusement, “How do you get so messy eating?”
Sanji moves before Luffy can stop him, or dodge, or save them both the situation. He’s got a handkerchief - from where? - that he uses to wipe Luffy’s mouth down, and then he stills, like he just got caught doing something very mad.
“Shishishi,” Luffy laughs, grins up at Sanji and knows the cook is squirming, uncomfortable, but honestly? Luffy doesn’t mind. “You’re just like Ma-chan!”
Sanji’s face twists once more, dissatisfaction evident. Which, Luffy can’t understand why, because Ma-chan is the greatest and there’s not many people like her. Still, he offers out the third-last wing, holds it aloft between the two of them.
“Try it!” he says, easily, “They’re really good.”
Sanji sighs, crouches in front of him and hits his head lightly, as he says, “I already tasted them before I served them, idiot.”
Luffy, for his part, just laughs, as he continues to chow down on the food in front of him. Another day, another reminder of how lucky a Captain he really is.
-
“Maybe I made the cotton candy too big,” Sanji says, looking thoughtfully at the problem in front of them.
“It could have been the red bean paste,” Usopp offers, unhelpfully, “Or those sticky caramels.”
Chopper is not going to cry - he’s a man, he’s not going to cry. Still, staring into the mirror, the situation is a bit of a mess. All it took was one oversized dessert dream to put them into peril, after the boat rocked violently from a fight with the marines, and Chopper’s candy dream house delight fell straight on top of him. Of all the times to fight the marines, this is the most humiliating.
His fur is caught, matted together and stuck in places all over his face. There’s no escape from his personal hell hole, where patches of sticky candy glob together uncomfortably. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not as bad as Zoro got off, or the marines. Sanji’s still wearing their blood, and it drips over the white of his shirt, down the leg of his pants. Patchy blossoms of blood bloom on Sanji and make him look impossibly cool. On Chopper, all he’s got is bursts of rainbow sticky taffy and bright pink cotton candy sinked into his skin like flowers in a field of dreams.
“We’re just going to have to shave the spots with the candy,” says Usopp, finally, and from his belt he pulls out some scissors, and a comb and a razor blade and Chopper is furious.
“I’m not shaving off my fur, you bastard!” he says, because he’s a man and he’s not vain, but he’s not going to subject himself to this kind of torture. What if his bounty goes up, and he’s a patchy monstrous reindeer for the picture? It’ll be worse than Sanji’s hand-drawn bounty, any day.
“Hold off, Usopp,” says Sanji, thoughtful, as he looks over at Chopper. “Maybe let’s try some hot water, first. It’ll get the stickier candy chunks out. As for the gum, I might have a trick my old man taught me. We can’t let our reindeer out looking ugly.”
Usopp looks only slightly disappointed, for which Chopper will never know because he’s too busy staring at his messiah, his saviour, Sanji.
The tears pour from his eyes as he wraps himself around Sanji’s leg, and cries out, “I’m not happy you’re helping me, you bastard!”
It takes them two hours of vigorous scrubbing, of pouring oil over the gummy parts of Chopper’s fur. Sanji and Usopp sit side by side, combing through the matted locks with ease. Chopper doesn’t cry until they’re done, but he does still cry.
-
The marine bastards weren’t good, Zoro thinks, the scowl present on his face in a way that doesn’t suit him. It’s the humiliation of knowing he took blows that if he’d been smarter, he could have avoided. It’s a bruised rib and a fracture to his arm. Not his usual fare, but he’d been distracted by Franky, of all people, who had decided that today he would test the Franky Sweeper. It’s not an excuse, but if it comes down to it, he blames Franky for this whole mess.
The annoying little robot was shaped like some kind of turtle, and it was crawling all over the floors of the deck, it’s legs sponges and the shell spraying water all over the place. It whirred noisily as it dispensed water and soap, and swished against the floor of the deck, wiping as it went. Not a bad invention, per se, but an irritating one for taking a nap, considering it didn’t have any sense of perception, and bumped into him twice when he was training, soaking his pants, and four times when he was napping, leaving soap all over his chest and even in his hair.
Franky called that monster a success. A success that could also battle, he claimed, except he was wrong.
The minute the marines showed up, the little turtle’s neck suddenly stretched, neck coming upwards as the face came to hip-level. The eyes, it turned out, were lasers, that Franky claimed were target-seeking but they weren’t, not really.
“Watch out Zoro-bro!” he’d said, at the last minute as he went to grab the turtle while lasers came Zoro’s way, of all things, allowing two marines to get a good landing on him and fracture his shoulder with their swords. “The target wasn’t set.”
After knocking the marines off the boat, he ended up distracted watching Franky run around with a turtle, pointing the head at different marines to blast them with lasers. And as typical of Franky, it had a cannon , powered by cola that fizzed and packed a powerful enough punch to knock down four marines. Sure, the weaponized version of the Franky Sweeper Bot was cool, but the cleaning one?
Terrible, especially for when Zoro was trying to take a nap.
Did they really need to clean the deck after a fight? It’s not like the blood had ever bothered anyone before.
“Oi, marimo,” said a voice, and he turned to see the cook crouched over him, staring into his eyes. Zoro didn’t spook, and he would deny anybody who said he did, but he did make a very manly jump. That may have bashed his head into Sanji’s nose.
“You shitty swordsman,” said the cook, clutching his face as blood started to leak from his nostrils, “What the fuck was that for?”
“Why were you just - above -
“How did you not notice?” the cook demands, and it’s at that moment the fucking robot appears, bumping into Zoro’s leg, and Zoro is tired, so he pushes the robot away, a little too hard, and it goes flying into Sanji’s stomach, knocking the man off his legs and Zoro - is amused. He’s grinning, because it’s funny.
The cook doesn’t think so, as he abandons his bleeding nose to spring into a handstand. Was the cook always that flexible? His legs swing out, knocking the turtle in the shell and cracking it open, mechanical gears and parts flying over the deck as he turns, murderous to Zoro who realizes, then, that the source of all his problems is vanquished.
And he won’t even get in trouble for it.
Franky finds them, with the carcass of the Franky Sweeper Bot, entangled in a fight of their own, legs and swords kicking between them and blood back on the deck and it turns into a threeway fight pretty quickly, that both of them lose but after, after. Zoro finally thinks he might be getting his nap - only to be stuck, awake, realizing he never did find out what the cook wanted.
7. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
It’s not a task to make Nami comfortable. The things she likes are fairly obvious, and her tastes are pretty run of the mill for someone who likes luxury. But she’s not blind, and even she knows that Sanji’s been, well, excessive, since the crew got back together. She doesn’t know where he’s been, or what he’s been up to, but it’s enough to make her wonder if he’s okay. The nosebleeds aside, the extra attention is, well, a lot.
Like today, for example, when she finds that her deck chair has been set up for her, complete with an umbrella, sun tan lotion and iced drink for a relaxed mid-morning hour. There’s a tone dial, playing some of Brook’s music for her, and she doesn’t know where he found a tone dial with that, but she takes it in stride anyways.
It’s a little bit too much, she finds, when the chair in her office has new cushions. The old ones were just fine, but these are heavier, more excessive. They are comfortable, though, and they mold just right with her spine. Sanji’s there with her afternoon coffee and orange liqueur chocolate cake to surprise her awake.
He’s a good kid, she thinks, under all that preening and yes, she’s technically younger than him, but the boys on the ship are always going to be kids.
When he leaves, her hands go into the accounting book and she makes sure to add a slight adjustment to his portion for the next shore trip, to compensate him for the pillows. And just a little extra, in the vain hopes that he might treat himself, next time.
-
“We can help you!” Chopper announces, one day, sweeping into the kitchen with Luffy on his heels. Chopper’s got a book in his hand on poisons, and Luffy just looks hungry behind him.
Sanji, for his part, looks doubtful as Chopper gets onto stool nearest to him and looks over the fish they caught. In this part of the Grand Line, it’s hard to tell which fish are safe to eat, and what’s generally easy to cook. Looks, they’re learning, are far too deceptive. Sanji’s been making notes, but this time the haul is a little bigger, a little more, and he’s trying to do this on his downtime.
“I saw your notebook,” Chopper explains, “When you were -
He cuts himself off, and Sanji understands, so he doesn’t press the issue, but finds himself asking, “So you want to help? I mean, that’s nice of you to offer -
“We can help!” says Luffy, eyes wide and grinning like a mad man, “It was Chopper’s idea!”
“It doesn’t make me happy that you gave me the credit, you bastard!” Chopper says, looking delighted as he shoves Luffy back. Neither of them seem to realize they haven’t given Sanji an explanation yet, so the cook prompts them with the simple question of, “What?”
Chopper’s smile fades, as he looks up to Sanji with wide eyes as he says, “A lot of toxic chemicals can be broken down into medicine, with the right testing. And you always test the fish alone, so I figure you’ve been cutting away anything that looks poisonous, right? Well, with me here, I can point to any familiar poisonous parts, or anything that we suspect is poisonous. And Luffy’s got a pretty high immunity to poison built up, so if we want to do a small sample test, we can use him!”
Sanji blinks, and Chopper is sure that he’s got him, that he knows that this is a good idea, but the chef replies with, “Are you sure that’s safe?”
“It is!” Luffy says, “Chopper’s a doctor!”
The doctor in question is flustered again, and pleased at the reminder that, in fact, he is a doctor, thank you very much.
“We can limit dosages, and I brought a few chemical testers. Plus I want to save some of the poisons for my own samples and testing,” Chopper explains, takes a stab at again. “And you’re doing this all alone, which is risky in itself!”
“Plus I want to taste all the meat!” Luffy adds, arms crossed and looking firm in his decision.
It takes a little more cajoling, a lot more promises from Luffy to not put just anything into his mouth, and then the trio gets to work.
-
Zoro finds the aftermath of all the testing, with the cook slumped over his kitchen counter, passed out and surrounded by the smell of rotting fish guts. It’s acridic, and it hits him the minute he walks into the kitchen. His nose curls in disgust. It’s not an atmosphere Zoro could sleep in, and he’s really only here for the booze, but still.
He always knew the cook was a weird one.
The swordsman pauses, however, as he sees spread of notes along the counter, the sudden realization that he can read his name.
Or well, Shitty Swordsman, in Sanji’s curved writing along the edges of the paper. Despite himself, Zoro picks it up.
There’s a list of fish, with tiny notes below each and Zoro can barely read it all, as he brings it up closer to his one eye. There’s tiny pointers ranging from the sweetness of the meat, to the sourness, to the potential it would go well in onigiri or whether Zoro might like it baked, versus fried. There’s more notes, on the pages, spreading outwards of fish that Zoro has tried - names he can’t remember now, or descriptions that feel vague and tiny notes of whether he appreciated the dish or not.
Zoro doesn’t even know how the bastard could know that, but there’s some kind of indicator, ranging from he ate all of it, to he was more cranky at dinnertime than usual . Zoro doesn’t know what to do with it, and he drops the notebook.
For the first time in his life, Zoro runs away.
It’s not a fight that he’s facing, but rather it’s something else. A sudden torrential downpour of awareness . It feels like there’s been clouds in front of his face, but it hasn’t rained. Like the skies in Alabasta, that he remembers feeling the heat, the burn, and the miracle of that rain as it poured along his skin but this sensation isn’t sweet. He feels disgusting.
Was the cook always doing that? Since when? Was Zoro always just unaware?
His face feels warm, like something's bubbling under his skin and he knows instinctively that it's red, that he's burning on his own and that the cook is the reason why. And he doesn't know what to make of it, because all he can think of is hammocks. Of decks. Of the cook’s hands curved over paper and the way he’s passed out in the kitchen and Zoro, for the second time this week, finds that he can’t sleep.
The box of repressed thoughts is open, and he doesn't like what he's looking at.