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Chapter Text

Sanji is nearly used to his life in Kambakka Kingdom.  He still spends his days running and chasing and fighting all over the island, but now that he’s reached a few unspoken agreements with the ladies and gentlemen here, it’s an almost enjoyable challenge.  As long as he doesn’t step outside his cottage without a dress and makeup, they won’t bother him while he’s cooking or gardening, and they won’t try to break into his room in the middle of the night as long as he manages to sneak past all their traps at the end of the day.

That last one might be more to do with how badly he went off on Ivankov - after the Revolutionary snuck into his bedroom with a terrifying miniskirt-leotard combo - than any sense of propriety, but Sanji will take it.  You’d think someone as important as Ivankov would have better things to do than try to wheedle Sanji into trying on weird outfits in the dead of night, but apparently not.

So he has enough peace to keep sane, and after some practice, the dresses and makeup and doing his hair aren’t so bad.  It all still makes him feel all kinds of things he tries not to think about too deeply, but that’s a small price to pay in order to get stronger, and learn how to support his crew even more.

It’s a fragile peace, though, and definitely not up to weathering the kind of bullshit Ivankov likes to pull.  Sanji does his best to get out of the area any time he hears that braying laugh, unless he’s got enough cover to try and spy.  

This is one of those times.  Sanji has lost track of the latest one of Ivankov’s people he’s determined to be guarding one of the recipes, but the chase has led him close to the docks.  There are enough people around that the Queen of this ridiculous kingdom might not sense him with Haki, if he can keep anyone from spotting him and raising an alarm.

Picking up the skirts of his pink dress, Sanji crouches between a few shipping crates and concentrates on moving as quietly as possible.

“ -boy, I didn’t expect to see you here, hee-HAW!”

Sanji can’t hear the other voice, which is something of a surprise.  Most of the people here are just as loud as their Queen, in every possible way.

He has to duck out of the way while a few frazzled-looking ordinary sailors unload more crates from the ship that just docked, and the commotion cuts off most of Ivankov’s next reply.  Sneaking around the next corner, Sanji dares a peek over the top of the nearest crate.

Whoever Ivankov is speaking to is blocked from view by the Queen’s massive purple hair.  Slinking to the side, Sanji finally gets a glimpse of the mystery person, and makes direct eye contact with Crocodile.

Crocodile!  Sanji feels his jaw drop open and can’t even pull himself together enough to duck back into hiding.  The former warlord raises a fine eyebrow, and Sanji’s heart starts racing, confused adrenaline flooding his veins.  Apparently he helped Luffy in the escape from Impel Down and subsequent tragedy at Marineford, but all Sanji can think of is blowing sand, and an entire country slowly starving in an endless drought.

Turning his gaze back to Ivankov, Crocodile opens his mouth and begins to gesture in Sanji’s direction.  Before he can, Sanji feels himself moving, popping up from behind the crate and pointing like a child.

“What are you doing here?!”  His voice cracks, breaking high and shrill, and Sanji remembers that he’s wearing a pink dress, with his hair in sloppy curls tangled around his shoulders from all the running around.  One of the people he fought earlier today tried to kiss him, and there’s lipstick smeared over his cheek.  Not how he would want to confront a past enemy, but it’s too late now.

A lazy smirk spreads on Crocodile’s face as he watches, clearly not about to answer.  Sanji turns his attention to Ivankov instead.

“What is he doing here?!”

Ivankov laughs, and says, “oh candy, Croco-boy and I go waaay back,” which makes Crocodile’s smirk slip a little, but Sanji is much more concerned with the normalcy and unconcern, because even if Crocodile helped Luffy, Sanji certainly doesn’t trust him -

“Your eyeliner looks terrible,” the former warlord sneers.

Sanji makes a strangled noise and leaps over the crate, intent on kicking Crocodile into the ocean to drown, but Ivankov catches him and gives them both an exaggerated, disappointed frown.

“Croco-boy!  Candy-boy is new here, and he’s made great progress, don’t be so harsh,” the Revolutionary reprimands.  “Candy-boy, settle down!  It’s not maidenly to make a scene, hee-HAW!”

Instead of arguing, Crocodile crosses his arms over his chest and looks away with a huff.  His wickedly familiar hook gleams in the sunlight.

“Put me down!”  Sanji yells, not about to let Ivankov tell him to be ladylike at a time like this.  “I’m gonna -”

“He’s right though, Candy-boy,” Ivankov says, scrutinizing Sanji’s face.  “I know we’ve taught you better than that, you’ll have to come in and let me fix you up.” 

“I’m not going anywhere with him -”

“I heard that Eveline found a simply stunning leopard-print miniskirt in your size, maybe we should find her on the way -”

 “Not like I can stop you with the makeup,” Sanji hastily mutters, and stops trying to get away.  Eyeliner is the lesser of two evils, he tells himself, even with Crocodile there to see it.  The bastard probably won’t follow them, anyway.

The bastard follows them, and looks entirely too entertained by the situation, too.  Ivankov sets Sanji down as they leave the docks, striking a few ridiculous poses for his adoring public as he does, and Sanji does his best to keep out of view.  It’s not too difficult, given that Ivankov is over twice his height, with a posturing attitude to match.

“Giving in so easily?”  Crocodile hums, as they wait for Ivankov to make his exit.  “How unexpected.”

“Picking my battles,” Sanji snarls.

The former warlord makes a sound Sanji can’t interpret, and eyes him with an equally unreadable smirk.  Sniffing, Sanji pointedly looks the other way and tries to smooth out his hair without being too obvious about it.

“Don’t dawdle, now,” Ivankov chides, as if the two of them haven’t been waiting on him, and claps his hands together.  “We have work to do, hee-HAW!”

At least none of the ladies try to ambush him with the latest outlandish accessories while he’s with Ivankov.  Although they all probably think Sanji is going with their Queen to get dressed up anyway, so maybe it’s a moot point.  The most infuriating thing is that they’d be right.

Shaking off that frustrating thought, Sanji sneaks a glance at the only thing in the area that isn’t pink, floral, or the infuriating ruler of this insane island - Crocodile.  Ivankov herded Sanji in between the two of them, probably to stop him from escaping, and it’s bizarre to be so close to his former adversary.

Sanji remembers Crocodile as a truly intimidating enemy, but compared to Ivankov he doesn’t cut such an imposing figure.  The man’s heavy, furred coat and severe expression aren’t anywhere near as alarming as Ivankov’s fishnets and leotard.  Still, caught between them, Sanji feels very small, and positively delicate in his stupid long dress and kitten heels.

Compared to some of the other dresses and shoes he’s been given, Sanji prefers these.  At least the dress covers most of his legs, and the shoes have a nice little strap to keep them on his feet.  But none of that stops him from feeling exposed, under Crocodile infrequent glances.

They march up to Ivankov’s boudoir, and the Queen ushers Sanji onto the dainty, lace-edged stool in front of his elaborate vanity.  Gathering Sanji’s ruined curls away from his face, Ivankov tsks at him.

“What a mess, Candy-boy.”

At least it’s not a wig anymore.  After Sanji ruined a handful of them, Ivankov used his ability to grow Sanji’s natural hair out.  Whether hair growth is really the kind of hormone thing Ivankov should be able to control, Sanji doesn’t care.  He’s well used to watching people stretch the limits of their Devil Fruit powers well beyond the realm of reasonable belief, and his hair is much easier to manage now, so he’s not going to ask questions.

It’s a little easier to manage, at least.  Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Sanji has to admit that he looks like he’s been running through the woods for days, instead of mainly hiding behind bushes for a few hours.

“Lend me a hand here,” Ivankov demands, gesturing for Crocodile to hand him a hairbrush, and Sanji realizes that he’s in for an entire makeover, and not only remedial makeup lessons.

“I can only spare the one,” Crocodile says, voice dry as ever as he flips the hairbrush into Ivankov’s impatient claws with his hook.

Ivankov brays a laugh and Sanji’s head spins.  Was that a joke?  Does Crocodile make jokes?  Sanji is not prepared to see that level of humanity from the man.

What Sanji is or is not prepared for doesn’t matter.  He perches on the stool in front of the mirror and tries not to make eye contact with anyone while Ivankov brushes his hair and chats with Crocodile, nattering on about Caroline and some of the older ladies here. and how excited they’ll be to see little Croco-boy again.

Watching perfect curls take shape under Ivankov’s long, purple nails, Sanji is certain he’s mere seconds away from an existential crisis.

“None of you are that much older than I am,” Crocodile grumbles, passing Ivankov a plush ribbon that the Queen threads through Sanji’s hair.

“Hee-HAW!  But you were like a little baby, Croco-boy, you didn’t know anything about the world!  Even Candy-boy here is more worldly than you were, when you fell into my lap!”

Ivankov pinches his cheek - pinches Crocodile’s cheek, right below the forbidding scar across his face - and the former warlord glares at him through the mirror.  Sanji drops his gaze to his hands in his own lap, his chipped nail polish as pink as his dress.

“Not anymore,” Crocodile huffs.

“No, now you’re a washed-up government dog,” Ivankov retorts, tying the ribbon into a huge bow at the back of Sanji’s head.  “It’s a good thing you came back, so I can fix you up!  Like Candy-boy here, isn’t that right?”

Sanji startles at being included in the conversation, and grimaces at Ivankov.  “Dunno, I wouldn’t hang around if I was him.”

That gets him an exaggerated, purple-lipsticked pout, and a raised eyebrow from Crocodile that is altogether too understanding.  Sanji does not want to commiserate with him over anything, not even this.  Not even while the Queen scrubs his eyes with makeup remover, making Sanji splutter indignantly while those talons dig into his jaw.

“You’re breaking my heart... Or not!”  Ivankov brays, slapping a liquid eyeliner down on the vanity in front of Sanji.  “Then I’ll just have to focus on you, won’t I, Candy-boy?  Let’s get on with your lesson!”

The Queen’s teaching methods leave a lot to be desired.  Sanji isn’t sure how doing this with Ivankov breathing down his neck is supposed to make him any better at it than he was this morning, but he might as well get it over with.  Biting back a retort, he snatches up the eyeliner and slouches forward on the stool, frowning at his reflection.

“No no no, not like that!  Show him how it’s done, Croco-boy,” Ivankov squawks, “before Candy-boy gives himself raccoon eyes, for goodness’ sake.”

Crocodile shoots Ivankov a very flat stare in the mirror, before leaning over Sanji’s shoulder to take the eyeliner out of his hand.  From so close, the whiff of his masculine cologne is riveting, especially after so long surrounded by sweet perfume.

Without so much as a glance at Sanji, Crocodile drags the eyeliner over his eyelid with exaggerated patience, flicking the brush out into a perfect swooping line.

“You’re not into this too, are you?”  Sanji asks, to cover the flash of startled jealousy.  The man made that look so easy.

“Rather the opposite,” Crocodile drawls, laying the eyeliner back into Sanji’s palm with a tauntingly deliberate drag of long fingers down his wrist.  “But it’s hardly difficult.”

Well, that’s a challenge if Sanji’s ever heard one, and he’s never been the type to let anyone get the better of him.  Gritting his teeth, he leans closer to the mirror and keeps his hands as steady as he can.  That much, at least, he’s good at.

“Tilt your chin up,” Crocodile suggests, and Sanji is tempted to do the opposite, even though he’s halfway through raising his head anyway.  It definitely gives him an easier view of his own blue eyes, wide and harried behind those perfect curls.

But he wants to do this right, even if it looks like he’s taking advice from the man - getting Ivankov off his back is more important than a little lost dignity, this time.  Sanji lifts his chin, lowers his eyelids, and flicks the narrow brush across his eyes.  

Maybe it’s the indignation, or maybe it’s just that Sanji always performs best under pressure, but he manages to get the eyeliner not only symmetrical, but also perfectly shaped in elegant points.  

“Beautiful, Candy-boy!”  Ivankov cheers, and Sanji buckles under the Queen’s approving pat.  “We’ll bring out your maidenly heart yet, hee-HAW!”

Sanji still isn’t sold on the maidenly heart business, but it’s satisfying to master a skill, even one like this that he’ll never use again after his time on this island.  He can’t hold back a pleased smile, and has to admit that the makeup emphasizes his eyes in an appealing way.

“Then stop wasting my time,” he says, rolling his eyes at Ivankov.  “I’ve got shit to do, you crazy bastard.”

Ivankov tuts, but waves Sanji to the door after fluffing his curls with one last spritz of product.  To his surprise, Crocodile follows, looming over Sanji all the way out of the Queen’s mansion.

“What are you really doing here?”  Sanji demands, once they’re out of Ivankov’s earshot.

“I’m a free man, I can go where I please,” the former warlord sneers.  “And I certainly don’t have to answer to you about it.”

Sanji doesn’t have a good response to that, so all he can do is glare, hoping that Crocodile understands just how much he doesn’t like that answer.  “Well, just don’t get in my way,” he blusters.

“Why would I want to?”  Crocodile smoothly responds.  “Not everything revolves around you and your ridiculous captain, Mr. Prince.”

Bristling at the reminder of their conflict in Alabasta, Sanji opens his mouth to really give Crocodile a piece of his mind, but a chorus of giggles herald the appearance of a group of Ivankov’s ladies, and he dives into the bushes instead.  For the rest of the day, all the things he wants to say to the former warlord echo through his head, rant after rant, each more righteous than the next, but Sanji gets the feeling that Crocodile wouldn’t be fazed by any of them.

Chapter Text

In any other circumstances, Crocodile would be at the bottom of Sanji’s list of people he wants to spend any time near.  As it is, the former warlord is too much of a relief to resist.  Sanji is learning to get along with Ivankov’s ladies, sure, but it’s exhausting, and the chance to be around someone who doesn’t act that way is too tempting.

Between that and the sick fascination of having someone he hated so strenuously simply there all the time, Sanji follows Crocodile around more often than he wants to admit.

Not that he tells the man any of this, or acts friendly on the occasions that Crocodile catches him.  Sanji tells himself that he’s just making sure the asshole isn’t up to anything, and tells Crocodile the same.

“I still think you’re up to something,” Sanji insists.  It’s only the second time they’ve spoken without Ivankov around, and only a few days after the embarrassing scene in the Queen’s boudoir.  Crocodile is getting better at catching Sanji when he’s hiding in the bushes.

“I can’t say I care what you think I’m up to,” Crocodile drawls.

Sanji comes out of the treeline, shaking flower petals out of his hair, and joins Crocodile on the beach.  The former warlord creates a tiny tornado of sand, carrying away a handful of loose blossoms.  

“Ivankov might trust you, but I sure don’t, and I bet Robin would agree with me.”

Now it’s the longest they’ve spoken without Ivankov present.  Not a high bar, nor one Sanji is particularly excited to leap - no matter how refreshing it is to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t croon and fuss over him.

“Miss All-Sunday was the best associate I’ve ever had,” Crocodile says, watching Sanji adjust his skirts to sit in the sand a few steps away from where he’s lounging.  “Before you lot showed up, we had an excellent working relationship.”

“Right, that’s why she was so eager to save Luffy and run away with us,” Sanji retorts.

“I was disappointed to learn that she is so soft-hearted, but I can’t blame her for looking out for herself,” Crocodile snipes back, idly making swirls of sand dance in the air around his hook.  “Joining up with you kept her out of Impel Down.  Had I known that, I might have been tempted myself.”

“As if we would have let you!”

Crocodile gives a dark laugh at that.  “I suppose not.”

“Absolutely not!”

“I doubt I could have tolerated your ridiculous captain, even if he hadn’t just defeated me.”

With a huff, Sanji fishes out his cigarettes, and Crocodile imperiously demands a light, holding out one of his thick cigars.  Sanji automatically complies, and ignores the sardonic quirk of Crocodile’s lips as they share the silent camaraderie of a smoke.

The former warlord looks so out of place on this island, lounging on the beach with a backdrop of riotous flowers.  Even stripped down to his shirtsleeves, fur-trimmed coat laid aside, he looks overdressed compared to the locals’ preferred sundresses and lightweight skirts.

Looking away from the breadth of Crocodile’s chest in his fitted vest as the breeze wafts sophisticated cologne his way, Sanji feels a stab of jealousy.  His own dress has voluminous ruffles at the wide neckline today, disguising the shape of his torso and leaving his collarbones bare.

“How come Ivankov lets you dress like a man, anyway?”  Sanji demands.  “What makes you so special?”

“I’m well past the days when I let him tell me what to do.”

“It’s not like I’m letting him!  The bastard won’t take no for an answer!”

Letting out a long plume of smoke, Crocodile smirks at him.  “Ivankov knows that I understand who I am.  Can you say you’re certain of the same?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Come now, Mr. Prince,” the former warlord jeers.  “How long do you think Ivankov has been meddling in people’s lives?  You were so clever when your little band of friends ruined me; surely you don’t think Iva only helps a certain kind of people.”

“I don’t want his kind of help,” Sanji mutters, folding his arms around the cinched waistband of his dress.  He doesn’t want to get in touch with his maidenly heart, or anything of the sort.

“Maybe not, but I can see why Ivankov thinks he has things to teach you.”  With that, Crocodile gets to his feet, looming over Sanji with an unreadable expression.  “You aren’t as worldly and experienced as you think you are.”

Sanji doesn’t know what Crocodile means by that, either, but he’s certain that he isn’t interested in anything the former warlord thinks he should learn.  

“You could start by looking at yourself,” Crocodile pauses to add, smirking over his shoulder as he leaves.  “Your fashion sense leaves a lot to be desired.”

“It’s not my fashion sense!”  Sanji shouts.  He glares at the former warlord’s broad back for a few seconds, before forcing his gaze back to the ocean.  Digging his heels into the sand, Sanji refuses to watch Crocodile walk away.  It’s hardly his problem if the man causes trouble here, so it shouldn’t matter to him where he goes.  All the better if it’s somewhere Sanji won’t have to put up with his unsolicited opinions.

~o~

The girl in the mirror deserves to look beautiful, as all women do.  Sanji can almost distance the process of getting dolled up in the morning from himself, if he thinks about it that way.  It’s easier to accept how he looks in the finished product than it is to watch his usual appearance vanish beneath layers of blush and bows.  He likes looking good, after all, even if this isn’t a style he would choose for himself, so all he has to do is get through the preparations.  With a grim sense of satisfaction, Sanji applies perfect eyeliner over his neatly done eyeshadow, and steps back to observe.

Impeccable.  The ladies here are right about one thing - pink suits him, and as much as Sanji wishes this ensemble was a crisp dress shirt instead of a flowy sundress, it still fits him well enough.  A nearly identical dress and a set of toiletries go in his bag, and Sanji is out the door.

Off for another day of chasing recipes and avoiding whatever infernal excuse for fashion Ivankov’s ladies want to foist off on him today.  Sneaking out of his cottage and through the little garden of sprouting vegetables that he’s started in the yard, Sanji makes for the beach.

Usually, no one is here this early, unless it’s a yoga day.  Sanji can take a run on the beach and clear his thoughts, get in the right headspace for his day, and warm up for whatever comes his way.  If he gets up early enough - and he always does, used to waking to feed his crew as he is - he can sneak into the island’s luxurious spa baths without anyone seeing him, and still have enough time to redo his makeup afterward.

It’s a pain to do twice each morning, but Sanji has learned his lesson about trying to get away without.  Early risers most of this island’s residents are not, but they all seem to have a sixth sense for when Sanji is trying to so much as go for a run without perfect mascara.  The extra hassle is worth it, because whoever designed Ivankov’s spa was a damn genius.  

Sanji finishes his run, sneaks up the back paths to the spa, uneventful as ever, heads through the side door to avoid the front desk attendants, tiptoes down the hall to his favorite bath, looking over his shoulder for unexpected company - and runs smack into Crocodile as he turns the corner.  

It can’t possibly be anyone else, smelling of fresh aftershave instead of flowery lotion, and Sanji is almost too horrified to swallow his noise of surprise.  His hands come up on reflex, landing on warm skin, mottled with the familiar texture of… scar tissue… 

Eye-level with Crocodile’s sternum as he is, Sanji can’t possibly miss the pair of sweeping scars.  They’re alarmingly messy, though not nearly as bad as the disaster on Zoro’s torso, and faded with age, but still unmistakably surgical in origin.

The former warlord takes a step back, Sanji’s hands falling off his humid skin.  The towel draped over his shoulders makes it clear what he’s doing here, and for a brief moment, Crocodile looks startled, taken aback - the most human expression Sanji can remember seeing from him.

“You used to be -” Sanji blurts.

“Watch your mouth,” Crocodile warns, gritting his teeth around an unlit cigar.  “Ivankov and his girls might be willing to put up with your lack of tact, but I am under no obligation to follow their lead.”

That puts Sanji’s back up.  He’s a perfect gentleman; no one has ever accused him of lacking tact.  “What am I supposed to say, you bastard?!”

“Preferably nothing,” Crocodile sneers back.  “It’s none of your business.”

“Well, sorry for being surprised, it’s not like I wanted to run into you -”

Pulling Sanji out of the hall and back into the changing room before the bath, Crocodile fixes him with a tired glare.  “Are you trying to make a scene?  I thought you wanted to avoid attention.”

“Is that why you’re familiar with this island?  Did you come here before, when you -”

Crocodile pushes him down onto a bench, shutting Sanji up with the pressure of his large hand on his shoulder, and sits beside him.  The former warlord stares at him for a moment, and Sanji is reminded that once again he’s a mess, hair all undone and sweating through his flimsy dress, but that’s hardly important right now.  Running his hand over his face and through his damp hair, Crocodile seems to come to a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” the former Warlord drawls.  “Once upon a time, in a small backwater kingdom, there was a little boy who was a princess.  At least, that’s what they called him, one of many children in a land full of deep swamps and hanging moss.  He was expected to adhere to that image, like the rest of his sisters.”

“What does this -”

“This little boy,” Crocodile continues, silencing Sanji with a sharp look, “preferred the swamps to the palace, and though his family loved him, they didn’t understand him.  A common beginning, as I’m sure you know.”

Sanji nods, feeling snubbed and angry as he recalls his own childhood.  He’s not going to open up to Crocodile about that, but the man doesn’t pause for a response anyway.

“His parents didn’t understand why this daughter was so different from their others, but nothing quite felt right.  The boy liked to run off to the swamps to avoid etiquette lessons or embroidery, and the countless eyes, with all their expectations.  The guards wouldn’t follow, you see; they were afraid of the crocodiles.”  Crocodile pauses with a thin smile, tapping his lip with his hook.  “Eventually, he ran right through the swamp and onto the sea, becoming a pirate - and a captain by his own strength soon after.”

Waiting for Crocodile to get to the point is annoying, but Sanji is curious enough to bite his tongue and bear it.  The story doesn’t feel like mere parable.

“Hearing my crew call me sir for the first time, well, that was a revelation,” Crocodile says, watching Sanji’s startled twitch with knowing eyes.  “The answer to a life of confusion.  The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, and yet it was so obvious, suddenly, that I wasn’t a princess at all.”

“You…” Sanji trails off, knowing he’s staring at the scars below Crocodile’s pecs, but he can’t tear his eyes away as the man traces his finger along one of them.  There are other scars on his broad chest, but all of them are well faded with age, and most far less severe, so these stand out for more than just their origin.

“I had this done almost immediately,” Crocodile idly says, “by a shady doctor in a port town that didn’t mind pirates.  Later, when I met Ivankov, he helped me match the rest of my body to what I wanted it to be.”

“If you were a princess -”  Sanji blurts, dragging his gaze back up to Crocodile’s indulgent smirk, instead of those rough scars.  How should he treat Crocodile, if he was...

“I was never really a princess,” Crocodile sharply corrects him.  “I am a man, and I did not tell you this history only for you to completely miss the point.  You’re smarter than that, even if woefully uneducated.”

What was the point?  Sanji knows that Ivankov can perform all kinds of changes with his alarming devil fruit, but Crocodile still had to go through a botched surgery before meeting him.  Imagining Crocodile as a little princess makes his head spin, and the man clearly doesn’t want Sanji thinking that way, so he doesn’t see the point of Crocodile telling him all this.

“How did you meet Ivankov?  What did he -”

“Well, he made sure my nipples wouldn’t fall off due to haphazard surgery and poor aftercare, for one,” Crocodile quips.  “Among other things.”

“That can happen?!  Hold on, what other things?”

“I think that’s enough storytime for one day, Mr. Prince,” Crocodile retorts, looking Sanji up and down.  “Run along now.  You clearly need a bath, before Ivankov drags you off to fix you up again.”

Crocodile stands, and Sanji can’t help it, still shocked by the scars and the sheer unexpectedness of the conversation.  His eyes drop, blatantly scanning the front of the former Warlord’s nondescript pants before he can tear his gaze away.

“Do you want to see?”  Crocodile archly asks, the silk-smooth tone of his voice an unmistakable warning.

“No!”  Sanji yelps, squeezing his eyes shut like a child.  He’s supposed to be a gentleman, he shouldn’t even wonder about that, but like hell he’ll apologize to Crocodile about it.  And it’s entirely moot, because sure, occasionally Sanji thinks about men naked, but not men he hates!  It doesn’t matter how objectively appealing Crocodile’s broad shoulders and intelligent eyes might or might not be!

“Tiffany and some of the other ladies were looking for you,” Crocodile says, not hiding his amusement.  “Something about corsets.  It would do wonders for your figure in that shapeless dress.”

Sanji doesn’t even try to respond to that, springing up and nearly running past the former warlord to get into the bathing room proper.  He’ll just leave his clothes on the floor in there.

Once he’s sure Crocodile isn’t going to barge in and interrupt him, Sanji takes a few deep breaths and undresses.  Looking at his body in the mirror, the idea of seeing himself in a corset does light a spark of curiosity.  

A dim spark, but even that consideration is less horrifying than the idea of seeing Crocodile naked, so Sanji doesn’t repress it as vehemently as usual.  It’s easier to think about than processing all the new information and doubts Crocodile’s story inspired in him.  

Putting his hands around his waist, Sanji imagines how the silhouette of today’s pink sundress might be improved.  Maybe he would feel more comfortable that way.  It’s worth a try, but he isn’t willing to let any of Kambakka Kingdom’s pushy ladies force him into anything that easily.  What’s with them talking to Crocodile about their plans for him, anyway?

Chapter Text

This island is ceaselessly in bloom, regardless of season or climate; crabapple and sakura fill the higher ground, their petals always whimsically drifting through the air, and the areas closest to the beach are thick with bougainvillea, blossoms in a riot of color so bright that the green leaves are entirely drowned out.  Every space between is cluttered with flowerbeds, blooming shrubs, creeping vines that wreathe every building in petals, wisteria hanging low over the paths.  Sanji can’t take a breath without choking on the scent of roses.

He’s never liked solid land.  As a child it made him trip, too used to the subtle rocking of the snails, and his brothers would always jump on any sign of weakness; escaping to the Orbit, where the motion of the waves was even more omnipresent, only further endeared Sanji to the swell.  Then, of course, his months on the rock made even setting foot on stone intolerable for years, and the sound of water splashing against the boards of the Baratie is one of the fondest memories Sanji has.  He’s meant to be on the sea, and all this time spent digging his heels into soft dirt makes him fear that he’ll sink into the earth forever.

Thus, the beach.  Sanji can’t get close enough to the docks to commandeer a rowboat for so much as an hour, so walking through the sand beside the ocean is the best he can do.  If the wind picks up just right, he can imagine that he’s back on the deck of the Thousand Sunny.

Watching the ocean has always made him introspective.  Where Luffy will stare over the horizon searching for their next adventure, Sanji is more likely to be thinking of anything or nothing at all, in the few quiet moments he gets to smoke a cigarette with only the company of his own mind.  

For all that the ladies here seem to think that there’s nothing more maidenly than walking along the beach at sunset, deep in thought, Sanji finds few things on this island as soothing.  He’s certainly not thinking about his crush, the way they always titter about.  Zoro might mock him for overthinking, and Ivankov teases him about mooning over the ocean, but there’s nothing inherently maidenly about a little daydreaming.

Not that mooning or daydreaming are what he’s doing!  This island has given Sanji a lot to think about, and it’s all very serious concerns, not daydreaming.  Crocodile is one of Sanji’s main worries, at the moment, and the man is the farthest thing possible from a crush, no matter how much time Sanji spends thinking about him while wandering around on sunset-painted beaches.

Mostly, Sanji just wonders why Crocodile would share such personal information with him.  It would have made more sense for the former warlord to brush him off, threaten him about never telling anyone, something like that.  It’s hard not to feel closer to someone, even someone like Crocodile, after having that kind of conversation with him.

Sanji takes another absent drag of his cigarette, and coughs a little, pressing a hand to his abdomen.  Successful as his morning was - he managed to avoid Crocodile, Ivankov, and the rest of them for hours, and then managed to defeat one of the Newkama Kenpo masters to win one of the 99 Attack Cuisine recipes - the victory made him complacent.  Falling into a pit trap was enough of a wakeup call, but the ladies responsible for it wrangling him into a corset was more so.

If Sanji didn’t fight back with quite as much determination as usual, no one has to know.  The corset lends definite improvement to his silhouette in this dress, but Sanji underestimated how much it would constrict his breathing.  Worth it, for how much better it makes him feel about the long, flowy skirts on most of his wardrobe.

Watching his shadow stretch along the sand, forcibly narrowed waist and all, Sanji nearly misses the path back toward his cottage.  He pulls it together as he passes through areas that are more likely to have people out and about, and nearly throws himself into a hydrangea hedge when he spots Crocodile at the next intersection.

He doesn’t, partially out of vanity; it seems like every time Sanji crosses paths with the former warlord, he’s a disastrous mess, but thanks to Tiffany and the others this afternoon, he’s looking perfect now.  It’s not like he wants to talk to Crocodile, but he does want the man to know that he’s not always an ungroomed tragedy like Zoro or something.

Crocodile falls into step beside him, one fine eyebrow raised as he gives Sanji an obvious once-over.  Sanji refuses to meet his eyes, or speak first, so for a long moment, there’s no sound but the trilling of birds in the snowy-white dogwoods beyond the hedge-lined path.

“I see you ran into Tiffany,” Crocodile eventually comments.

“Yeah, so?”

“You look good,” Crocodile says, amusement clear in his voice.

“Shut up.”

When Sanji looks up, the former warlord’s eyes are lingering at his waist, where his watercolor-blue dress ties with a tight bow.  “You already have such a tiny waist, this really brings out the best for your figure.”

“Why were you willing to tell me all that, the other day?”  Sanji demands, instead of trying to come up with a response to Crocodile’s insincere compliments.  There’s no reason hearing that should make him want to preen.

“You saw the scars, and I know you realized what they are,” Crocodile shrugs, idly plucking a sprig of flowers off the hedge.  “I usually don’t tell people, because it’s none of their business, but I would rather explain on my own terms than leave you running around with whatever nonsense you would have come up with.”

“That makes sense,” Sanji grudgingly admits. 

Crocodile hums, holding the sprig of blue and pink hydrangea up beside Sanji’s face.  It matches the colors of his dress, and Sanji is a second too slow to bat his hand away as Crocodile tucks it behind his ear.  Knuckles brushing Sanji’s cheek as he draws away, the former warlord smirks at him.  “Besides.  How often do I get a chance to know someone who frustrates me so badly?  Everyone else who ever crossed me is dead, so speaking with you is a fascinating opportunity.”

Sanji squawks and puts some distance between them, feeling breathless from the corset.  Certainly that’s why.  “What the fuck, back off, I knew you’re up to something -”

“Seems the routines here bring out the best in your skin, too,” Crocodile drawls, and Sanji slaps a hand over his own cheek, the place where Crocodile touched him burning.

“I took care of my skin before ending up here,” Sanji mutters, glaring at him.  “Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t look like yours is the texture of your own damn sand.”

Crocodile outright laughs at that, and Sanji ducks his head to hide a smile, despite not feeling at all like he’s won that argument.  It’s still nice to make someone laugh, even if that person is formerly an enemy, and currently a smug thorn in his side.

~o~

It’s raining.  Like nowhere else Sanji has ever been, the wistful scent of petrichor permeates the air of Momoiro Island, mixing with the ever-present smells of flowers that mask the salt-brine of the sea.  The rain itself is soft, cool and refreshing, pattering gently against leaves and cobblestones like a lullaby.

Sanji is hiding in a bush beneath Ivankov’s parlor window, drenched to the skin by hours of eavesdropping on the Queen.  He’s hit a wall in his recipe collecting, and a day or two gathering information sounded preferable to fleeing aimlessly through the forest and hoping to stumble on something.

Besides, he’s got a bone to pick with Ivankov.  Someone’s been in his cottage, and replaced all of his underwear.  His current collection was embarrassing enough, but at least it was all plain panties in innocuous, neutral colors.  Now that’s all been swapped for cutesy, bright cotton prints, lace trim and bows on everything, and sexy lingerie.  Sanji is pissed.  He’s played by their rules, damn it - they weren’t supposed to come into his house!

Tired of waiting, Sanji leaps in through Ivankov’s open window and rolls across the carpet as the Queen snickers at him.  She’s not wearing fishnets, for once, but today’s skin-tight animal print minidress is nearly as bad.  Shaking his skirt straight with a huff, Sanji gets right to the point before Ivankov can distract him with her feminine charms.

Ivankov changes genders like most people change clothes, and Sanji has learned the hard way to use the correct pronouns when she is presenting this way.  He’s more than willing to comply, now that the Queen has explained it to him.

He’s more torn about how to treat Ivankov on these days, but Sanji knows that if he starts agreeing with the island’s Queen at all, in any form, Ivankov will never let him say no again, so Sanji does his best to treat her the same all the time.  For some reason, this seems to amuse Ivankov even more.

“Give me my stuff back!”  Sanji demands, not believing the innocent pout on those gorgeous lips for a second.  “I know this is your fault!”

This being the confection of lace and ribbon he’s wearing under his dress, which had half a dozen of the island’s ladies trying to give him advice on preserving his propriety after he kicked too high trying to get away from them this morning.  As much as Sanji dislikes the shapeless long skirts on most of his clothes, they usually preclude that kind of wardrobe malfunction, but of course today had to be the day all the fabric tangling around his legs blew out of the way entirely. 

“Oh~h?  And what stuff would that be, Candy-boy?”  Ivankov asks, fluttering her outrageously long eyelashes.

“You know perfectly well!”

“There’s a lot I have to keep track of as Queen, candy, so you’ll have to remind me of the finer details, hee-HAW!”

Sanji is not about to utter the word panties in front of this woman, and for reasons diametrically opposed to why he wouldn’t mention such a thing around any other lady.  For once, it’s his own modesty that’s at risk.  “You sent someone into my house, I know it was you.”

“You’ve been doing so well here,” Ivankov croons, “it’s time for you to keep exploring!  Be more daring!  Embrace your inner -”

“I don’t want to embrace anything,” Sanji growls, resisting the urge to stomp his foot.  He might break the delicate heel on these shoes.  “I want to be able to fight without flashing anyone.”

“That’s just part of Bridal Training, Candy-boy,” Ivankov brays, waggling her eyebrows at him.  “And don’t you want to always look your best, just in case you want to get frisky with someone special?”

About the only thing Sanji hates more than the Inner Maiden rhetoric is the so-called training for Ivankov’s fucking Bridal Arts.  So far it all sounds like excuses to keep Sanji miserable.

“Someone you’ve recently become reacquainted with, perhaps?”  Ivankov suggests.  “Someone you’ve been spending a lot of time with lately?”

Sanji pales, the simultaneous desires to hit Ivankov in the face and throw himself back out the window both so strong that he can’t do more than stand rooted to the spot, gaping in horror.  Sure, every couple days he takes a break to chat with Crocodile, but that’s just - it’s not - Ivankov is crazy to even think -

“I’m going to throw up,” he deadpans.

“Oh, come now,” Ivankov cackles.  “I know most of my candies here aren’t your type, but an intellectual gentleman like Croco-boy?  Don’t tell me I’m wrong now.”

Sanji doesn’t have a type.  He doesn’t have enough experience for one - all he’s had is the rare hasty encounter at the Baratie, and an unnamed, unmentioned something of convenience with a certain green-haired, sword-brained imbecile.  Still, he’s fairly sure his type isn’t unrepentant villains, no matter how suave.

“You’re delusional,” he chokes out, hands fisting in his skirt.  The soaked fabric clings to his legs, almost as constricting as Ivankov’s sharp smile.

A crack of thunder shakes the mansion, the light rain becoming a downpour, and Sanji is viscerally thrown back in time.  He can practically hear the cheering of Alabasta’s citizens, the crying and disbelief as the sky opened and rain fell again, after so many months of drought.

“Candy-boy?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost, are you -”

“I have to go,” Sanji breathes, eyes fixed on the water running down from the eaves.  A gust of wind blows the rain inside, splattering cold water across both of their faces, and Sanji dives for the window as Ivankov moves to close it.  She grabs his wrist, and Sanji’s will weakens as Ivankov pulls his arm against her chest, but he manages to jerk away and stumble out into the burgeoning storm.

How could he forget?  Crocodile is responsible for so much trauma, for such wilful harm to the people of the country he decided to rule.  How could Sanji spend so much time becoming friendly with the man, or let Ivankov even make the suggestions that - he can’t even think about it.

Naturally, because his life is never easy, Sanji runs into Crocodile on his way home, taking one of the pretty covered walkways that look out over the ocean where the coast rises on scenic cliffs.  It’s still not nearly dry, wind blowing the rain in from the open sides, and even the hanging flowers growing up the columns look worse for the wear.  The former warlord too, with the fur trim of his coat bedraggled as he reaches out to steady Sanji when he comes rushing around a corner.

“Don’t touch me,” Sanji snaps, tearing himself out of Crocodile’s grip.  

“Such vitriol,” Crocodile drawls.  “Come now, Mr. Prince, is that really necessary?”

“I hate you,” Sanji spits, shaken by the memory, by the clarity of his own disgust after weeks of slowly acclimating to the former warlord’s presence.  “The rain…”

Crocodile looks out over the ocean, said rain gliding down his face as his unlit cigar twitches between his lips.  Sanji can’t make out his expression, the man towering over him this close, but he doesn’t really want to.

“A man of principles,” Crocodile eventually says, turning his eyes back to Sanji.  “You and your captain both.  I can respect that.”

“Don’t bring Luffy into this,” Sanji retorts, glaring up at him.  He refuses to step away, but the calm on Crocodile’s face is disquieting, without his usual veneer of self-satisfaction.  “All those people… without water…”

The collapse of his empire, ambitions, and reputation after Luffy defeated him strikes Sanji as enough punishment for Crocodile to face for attempting to take Vivi’s kingdom from her, but there’s no way to balance out the harm Crocodile did to Alabasta’s citizens.  That’s what Sanji won’t get over; the suffering.

He stands there, heart racing, waiting for an excuse, but Crocodile doesn’t offer one.  Sanji is almost disappointed.  He wants to lash out, to scream at the former warlord and throw his excuses back in his face, but Crocodile just frowns out at the rain with a contemplative sigh.

Soaking wet, even a former warlord of the sea should be no match for Sanji.  That’s Crocodile’s weakness - Sanji could kick him out of this meager shelter right now, keep kicking until he’s thrown Crocodile right into the ocean, where he’ll never threaten anyone’s food security ever again.  

As badly as Sanji wants to, he can’t.  He’s not an avenger; not the type who can demand another person’s death in cold blood.  Crocodile is safe from his kicks, if not from his temper.

“Doesn’t helping your foolish captain do anything to level the scales?”  Crocodile asks, not sounding particularly hopeful about it as he raises one eyebrow at Sanji.

“It doesn’t work that way.”  Sanji shakes his head, trying to hold on to the anger.  “And don’t pretend that was altruism - you didn’t want to stay in prison.”

Crocodile shrugs.  “Of course not.  But I did help, and I didn’t kill all those people - you saved them.  Eventually, results must count for more than intentions.”

“I don’t think I agree with that,” Sanji mutters.

“You don’t have to.”

Sanji snorts.  It’s not fair for Crocodile to be so unapologetic, and still carry himself with such dignity.  “I can’t believe Ivankov lets you stay here."

“He isn’t happy with me,” Crocodile laughs, humorless.  “But Ivankov is a Revolutionary.  He understands what the world is like, and even at my worst, I was far from the most vile villain out there.”

“Why do you even want to be here,” Sanji mumbles.  He isn’t going to surmount this today, and it’s impossible to stay furious in the face of Crocodile’s prideful poise.

“As you’re aware, I’ve had a significant life change,” Crocodile says with a wry smile.  “I am taking a break.  For all his disapproval, Ivankov is a hospitable person, and spending a few months here is preferable to going back on the run.”

And fuck him, but that strikes a weak spot in Sanji’s armor; he can’t help feeling compassion for someone who has nowhere to go.    “Then keep away from me while you’re here, at least.”

“Now, why would I do that, Mr. Prince,” Crocodile says, syrup slow, “when you’re the most interesting person on this island?”

Sanji flashes hot despite the chilling rain, an entirely different feeling from his lingering anger.  It’s frightening.  “What the hell?”

A dark smile creeps across Crocodile’s face, nearly as wide as his scar.  “I’m enjoying my time here much more than I did the first time around.  It’s enlightening, watching Ivankov push someone else out of their shell, and I’m finding myself rather invested in your transformation.”

“You aren’t making sense,” Sanji accuses, taking a step away.  He doesn’t have to listen to this.

“You’ll be quite the pretty little princess once they’re done with you,” Crocodile mocks, watching Sanji back toward the open side of the corridor.  “But more than that, you’ve been starting to open your eyes.  That’s what’s truly fascinating, seeing you lose all those silly little preconceptions.  In fact, it’s enough to make me -"

Sanji doesn’t have to listen to this!  If Crocodile was simply making fun of him, Sanji would kick his ass, but there’s something else to the former warlord’s heated eyes and low voice, and Sanji doesn’t want to know what!   Running down the corridor will be too slow, and he hasn’t tried this before, but he’s at least seen it done, so -

He jumps out of the covered path, into the sky over the drop to the ocean, into the storm, and kicks.  Like swimming, Sanji tries to convince himself, desperate determination fueling him as he finds traction in thin air, shooting upward into the rain and thunder.  A flash of lightning makes him waver, almost startled out of the sky, but Sanji manages not to crash into the massive catalpa tree beside the path.  From there, he gets the hang of it, and sky walks the rest of the way back to his cottage.

Chapter Text

He’s too worked up to get anything else done today.  Sanji feels like he’s seen a flash of the real Crocodile, instead of the watered-down, companionable version he’s been bickering with for weeks.  

The issue is that he likes that version of Crocodile, and Sanji is well aware that people can have more than one face.  Both can be equally real, and he has to accept that.

Sanji’s problem, he bitterly tells himself, is that he’s too soft.  It’s one thing to forgive Luffy for stealing snacks, and entirely another to let a little familiarity and a few shared confidences lure him into enjoying Crocodile’s company.

But he’s always wanted to believe that people can be good, can be better.  Maybe his life doesn’t pan out that way most of the time, but Zeff and his staff of marginally-reformed pirates taught Sanji that having a messy past doesn’t mean that much.  

There’s a big difference between terrorizing a few passenger ships and taking over an entire country, between stealing treasure and stealing the rain.  It’s hard to think that the rest is the same, that Crocodile is a person distinct from his actions just as much as Patty and Carne are.  Not a good person, but maybe he could be, or at least choose different actions the way those lunkheads do.  

He’ll probably never know.  With any luck, Crocodile will take Sanji’s demands seriously, and leave him alone; there’s only so much longer the former warlord can possibly want to stay on this pink disaster of an island, and then Sanji will never have to think about him again.

Keeping half an eye out for even more trouble, Sanji makes his way through the rain-battered trees, petals clogging the puddles on the ground.  It’s weird to go back to his cottage before sunset, even if the clouds have brought night early, but even weirder is the fact that the front door is open, letting a thin slice of light out into the storm.

Sneaking in, Sanji passes through his quaint kitchen and peers around the corner.  Shifting shadows and mumbling drifting down the hall make it clear that someone is in his bedroom.

The intruder is a tiny young woman with short blue hair, a tasseled yellow minidress, and a pile of Sanji’s clothes on the floor at her feet.  As she pulls another one of his dresses out of the closet, Sanji storms into the room.

“Are you the one who’s been stealing my stuff?!”

“No,” the girl says, dropping the dress into the pile.

“You obviously are!”

“Am I, or is it really Ivan-sama who’s stealing your stuff…?”  she muses, holding up her hands in an exaggeratedly innocent gesture.  “The Queen gets what the Queen wants, sweetie.”

Sanji scowls, and then feels guilty about making such a face at a lady, no matter how startled he is, or how blatantly she’s stealing his clothes.  “Could you… not, though?  Please?”

“Are you for real?”  she snickers.  “Of course not.  Ivan-sama’s right, anyway.  You can do better.”

Suddenly exhausted, Sanji starts to sink down onto his bed, and realizes that he’s soaking wet.  The girl gives him a sympathetic smile.

“I’m Ray, sweetie,” she says.  “Your new fashion consultant, looks like.  Why don’t you get out of those wet things, and we’ll chat?”

“Ray?”  Sanji asks.  Compared to most of the other ladies here, it’s not a very feminine name.

“‘Cause I’m a ray of sunshine,” she grins, before giving him a more serious look.  “It’s the name my parents gave me.  I kept it, after coming here.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sanji stammers.  This girl is… reassuringly real, compared to how so many of the ladies here parrot Ivankov’s gregarious personality.

By this point, Sanji is too overwhelmed to do more than fumble through a little bow over her hand, even if he was inclined to ask her for more explanations.  Instead he follows her suggestion and retreats to his bathroom with a set of pajamas - he actually likes the pajamas here, even if the top is flimsy and the shorts are very short; they’re comfortable, and he might consider taking them with him once the two years are up.

When he comes out, showered and moisturized and feeling almost calm despite the day he’s had, Ray is perched in the center of his bed, surrounded by piles of clothes.

“Welcome back,” she says.  “Ready to get started?”

“Of course, mellorine!”  Sanji chirps, trying to put his usual energy into it.  “Whatever you want, I’m delighted to -”

“None of that,” Ray grumbles, arms crossed over her chest, and it’s so reminiscent of Nami when she’s fed up with him that tears prick at Sanji’s eyes.  “And don’t start crying, what is wrong with you.”

“Okay,” Sanji mumbles, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes.  In a minute, he’ll be able to put on a cheerful face for her.  He just needs a second.  “Then, um… I really only want some normal… you know… back.  Please.”

“Panties?  No can do,” she says.  “Who gave you all those, anyway?  I wouldn’t recommend those styles to my grandma.”

Sanji doesn’t whimper.  He does make a very faint, very high-pitched sound, blood rushing to his face.

“Look, sweetie, Ivan-sama wants you in cuter underwear, but I can help you pick stuff you’ll like,” Ray offers.  “What’s your favorite color?  Animal?  Do you like fish, ‘cause I found this really fun cotton print that would look just adorable with side bows, maybe a lil’ lace accent, you know?  And lingerie is fun sometimes, right?  We’ll find a set that makes you feel like the sexiest thing alive, you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound good.  Everybody likes feeling sexy.”

“My flower, I’m blessed to have your advice, but I really -”

“Everything I brought over yesterday should fit you,” Ray continues, over his protests.  “You must’ve worn some today - I know you weren’t going commando under that dress, not after you came in here looking like a drowned rat.  Comfy, right?”

“Yes,” Sanji admits.  More so than some of the more modest underwear he’d been wearing, actually.  “I was surprised it fit my -”

Sanji claps both hands over his mouth, horrified that he was about to mention his intimate parts in front of a lady, but Ray only laughs at him, fishing something out of the pile of lace and silk ribbon beside her.

“Why are you surprised?”  Ray asks.  “Not everyone wants to change their bodies like that.  Plenty of the girls here have dicks, so of course we’ve got the right undies to fit.”

He’s going to die.  This conversation is going to kill him, if not from sheer mortification, then from the sight of a beautiful girl in the middle of his bed, holding up some kind of pink lace bodysuit. 

“This would look cute on you,” Ray muses, picking at the wide bow at the garment’s waist.  “But it might be overkill with a corset.  I’ve got cuter corsets for you, too, sweetie.”

This time Sanji does whimper, and Ray seems to take pity on him, dropping the lingerie back into its pile.

“Want to talk dresses instead?”  She suggests.  “You’ve been wearing all these shapeless long skirts, and I mean, there’s a time and place for everything, but variety is the spice of life, you know?  Thoughts?”

“I really don’t know anything about ladies’ clothes,” Sanji admits.  He’s content to admire whatever the women in his life are wearing, beautiful as they always look, without thinking much more about it.

Ray straightens up, and sighs.  “Okay, first off, they’re not ladies’ clothes, sweetie, they’re gonna be your clothes.  We’ll come back to that.  First, tell me - what do you like about clothes?  What makes you feel good about whatever you usually wear?”

“I like clothes that fit well,” Sanji says, thinking of his tailored suits.  It’s surprisingly easy to conceptualize this way.  “Layers.  Structure, and defined silhouettes.”

“I can work with that,” Ray says, cracking her knuckles.  “Just wait, I’ll be back in a day or two, and you’ll jump to get into my picks.”

Something about her no-nonsense attitude makes Sanji believe her.  Ray is easy to talk to, and it’s obvious that she’s forgotten more about clothes than Sanji will ever know in his life, and he thought himself pretty informed about menswear, at least.  They chat, and she scribbles in a drawing pad, noting down his preferences and sketching up outfits she thinks would suit him.  It’s almost like sitting with Usopp and Franky while they talk about inventions, except this time the invention is a dress Sanji will enjoy wearing.

“It just doesn’t suit me,” he sighs, even though he likes Ray’s latest sketch.  “I don’t want to be a woman.”

“Is putting on a dress going to make you a woman?”  Ray dryly retorts.  “Doesn’t seem to have, so far.”

Sanji squirms.  He likes the dress she’s drawn up; he’s even kind of excited to find out what he would look like in it, but… “I’m a gentleman.  I should dress like one.”

Zeff used to say that clothes make the man.  Sanji took that to heart - barring the goofy, casual hand-me-downs he got from the Baratie’s staff, he always wears suits, like a sophisticated gentleman should.  

“Seems to me what makes a gentleman is the way he acts, not what he wears, sweetie,” Ray says.  “Any asshole can put on a suit.  Plenty do.  You have to figure out how to dress as yourself.”

“I think I was,” Sanji half-heartedly protests.

Ray just shrugs.  “Then we’re gonna broaden your horizons.  There’s so much more to fashion than black slacks, let me tell you.  Once you get it through that dumb blond head that clothes don’t control your gender, you’ll be unstoppable.”

Sanji supposes that makes sense.  Such a lovely lady wouldn’t steer him wrong, would she?  He might as well take the chance to try some new things, as long as he’s stuck on this island.  Nodding, he lets her rearrange his closet, bundling some of his plainer dresses out the door as she leaves.

“Sleep on it,” Ray tells him.  “I’ll be back before you know it - you’re gonna look fabulous, and just wait, you’ll see that you can feel more like yourself than ever, even in a dress.”

“And sexy, too?”  Sanji manages to joke, remembering her earlier promise.  Not that there’s anyone here he wants to feel sexy for, no matter what delusions Ivankov has.

“That’s my boy,”  Ray grins.

~o~

Sanji attends beach yoga two mornings a week.  One of his main motivations for this is that he gets to wear pants for it, even if they are skin-tight and the instructor, Sandra, insists that he wear an equally painted-on crop top with them.  There’s a lot of face-down-ass-up kind of business with the poses Sandra likes, too, but Sanji is willing to overlook all that, because the class always turns out to be a surprisingly good workout.

It’s definitely one of the most tolerable activities Sanji has tried here, and he appreciates the truce they all uphold while the group is together.  After class, he usually joins the ladies at the spa - that’s how he got hooked on the baths in the first place - and even enjoys trying out new skincare products with them.  Sandra usually likes to take him aside to go over his form, and now that he’s loosened up with them, both literally and socially, Sanji often finds her advice to be enlightening.

None of this is maidenly, it’s just relaxing!  Keeping limber is important.  And living on the sea is rough on the skin - Sanji doesn’t want to look ancient before he’s 30, thank you very much.  The rest of the men on his crew could stand to use some moisturizer, damn it.

So he makes nice.  Linda is on a kick about using essential oils in everything, Donna cajoles Sanji into lying around with cucumber slices on his eyes, Bella all but cracks his spine in half with a massage.  Sanji manages to bow out of trying Amelia’s new Glitter Pompom Splash body spray, but has to let Martha paint his nails lime green instead, and calls it a win for the day.

That afternoon, Sanji runs into one of the girls from his yoga class while he’s fighting his way through the woods.  Clara, her name is, a heavyset, muscular young lady with beautiful doe eyes, and even though she’s coming at him with a damn cudgel now that the yoga truce is over, Sanji stumbles over his own feet and can’t bring himself to fight back.

He hasn’t really been treating the ladies here as ladies, Sanji realizes, with a wave of guilt that almost takes his knees out from under him.  He shouldn’t be fighting ladies!  

Clara kicks him in the face, and Sanji slams into a tree, head spinning as she comes to a startled stop in front of him. 

“What’s wrong with you?”  She asks, watching him struggle to his knees with blatant confusion on her face.  “You could’ve dodged that.”

“Clara, my flower, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t fight you -”

“What, because we like the same moisturizer?”  

“I can’t hurt a woman -”

The confusion warps into frustration, and Clara pulls a bottle of perfume out of her pocket.  “You know, I remember you hated this one, but if you won’t fight back, I bet everyone else will agree that Cotton Candy Stardust Plume really suits you.”

Sanji yelps, and manages to dodge the spritz of terribly saccharine liquid, but Clara knocks his feet out from under him, and he can’t bring himself to shove her away when she pins him to the ground.

He hasn’t been respecting these women the way they deserve, he’s been treating them like a threat, like an obstacle to overcome, and that’s unacceptable, he can’t -

Clara sprays the perfume all over his hair, and Sanji sneezes, coughing as it gets into his mouth.  “Get over yourself!”  She snaps, but Sanji barely resists as she applies the awful, cloying scent to his pulse points, mind blank as he tries to reconcile the loud, annoying opponents he’s been fighting for recipes with the cheerful and welcoming ladies he’s been befriending.

All Sanji can conclude is that he’s been an absolute shitheel, but he can’t even decide on why.  There are too many reasons to count.

“I’m sorry,” Sanji croaks. 

“Let me know when you figure out what you’re sorry for,” Clara says, almost kindly, before spritzing him in the face one last time.  With a pitiful whine, Sanji nods, and Clara gives him a consoling pat on the head before leaving him there in the dirt.

When Sanji gets up to trudge back to his cottage, he’s damp, bedraggled and so soaked in fucking Cotton Candy Stardust Plume that he can’t even smell the flowers around him.

~o~

Ray and Crocodile are chatting on his garden swing.  Sanji ducks back behind the hedge around the corner and lights up a cigarette, taking a few calming drags before continuing down the remainder of the path.  It’s been well over a week since he last spoke to the former warlord, and seeing him here with Ray is disquieting, to say the least.

They look up when he gets to the gate, Ray kicking her heels above the ground as the swing moves gently back and forth.  Crocodile looks too big for the delicate, white-painted set, both feet firmly planted on the ground with his hook over the top bar, but he’s clearly humoring Ray, legs flexing as he moves the swing.  

With his ostentatious coat nowhere to be seen, and the bulky outer casing missing from his hook, Crocodile looks positively relaxed.  Sanji can’t help remembering Robin explaining the many backup layers of Crocodile’s prosthetic weapon, compartments of poison and spring-loaded blades and more, and with all that removed, the gold hook looks nearly harmless.  An illusion, certainly, but a disarming one.

Taking a deep breath, Sanji squares his shoulders and resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair.  It’s a lost cause.  There’s nothing to be done but walk through the gate and be done with it.

“You smell terrible,” Crocodile tells him.

“Isn’t that Clara’s new favorite perfume?”  Ray asks, wrinkling her nose.

“And you look terrible,” Crocodile continues.

“Rude,” Ray says, smacking Crocodile’s knee.

“What are you two doing here?  Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, mellorine,” Sanji adds, with a smile for Ray, and Ray only.

“I came by to drop some stuff off for you, and found Croc lurking by your gate,” Ray shrugs.  “Figured I’d let him in to wait.”

She has a new batch of clothes with her - several long garment bags hung on the swing’s frame, and a pile of shoeboxes stacked on the ground.  Sanji is, somewhat to his own surprise, excited to open them.  The first armful of dresses she brought all made him feel much more comfortable in his own skin.  But he doesn’t want to try these with Crocodile here.

“Did you have to?”  Sanji mutters.

“It’s been illuminating to speak with her,” Crocodile says, breezing over Sanji’s inhospitable tone.  “It sounds like Miss Ray has been a great help to you.”

“She’s the best,” Sanji gushes, before remembering who he’s talking to.  He doesn’t want to make a scene in front of Ray, but… “You better not be bothering her.  Is he bothering you, my angel?”

“Relax,” Ray says, rolling her eyes at him.  “I was just telling Croc about the stuff I brought for you; what we talked about for styles and all that.  You’re gonna look great in these.”

“Like quite the pretty princess, just as I expected,” Crocodile comments, “if she’s to be believed.”

Sanji thinks he should hate the epithet, especially given how angry he was the first time Crocodile called him that, but right now it makes him squirm for entirely different reasons, feeling warmth flood his face.  “Shut the fuck up, I’m the prettiest princess you’ve ever seen,” he sputters.

“I haven’t been wrong yet,” Ray cheerfully proclaims, “but you’ve gotta at least brush your hair before you go around making claims like that, sweetie.”

“You could help me try everything on, my dear!”  Sanji suggests.

“Nah, I have to dip,” she says, breaking his heart.  Jumping off the swing, she pats the stack of boxes and smirks at him.  “Besides, I already know everything will suit you perfectly.  No need to hang around while you fuss about it.  You can thank me later.”

“I’ll help you freshen up, princess,” Crocodile decrees rather than offers.  Ray snickers, and skips out of the garden, leaving the pair of them alone.

Chapter Text

Crocodile gathers up all the bags and boxes before Sanji can so much as move, easily juggling everything in his arms and giving Sanji an expectant eyebrow raise.  “After you.”

Sanji can’t exactly leave the man out in the garden, not while he’s got all of Ray’s latest choices in his arms.  That doesn’t mean he has to be gracious about it.

“I told you to leave me alone,” Sanji snaps, stomping into his cottage.

“I never agreed to,” Crocodile smoothly responds, inviting himself down the hall to Sanji’s bedroom.  “Besides, I thought you might relent, given time to cool your temper.”

“Do you expect me to go back to acting like nothing happened?!”

“Nothing did,” Crocodile points out.

Sanji stops in the center of his room, and glares at the former warlord.  He hates that Crocodile is right.  Everything Crocodile has done, Sanji has known about from the start of their acquaintance here.  It’s only finding him tolerable that’s new.

“Is that it, then?”  Crocodile asks, while Sanji stews in his own doubts.  “I would hate to think all this effort coaxing a wild bird to eat from my hand was a waste.”

Crocodile’s tone is almost what Sanji would call conciliatory, level and straightforward as he watches Sanji with an unreadable expression.  He’s stepped just inside the room, leaving Sanji’s route to the door open if he wants to bolt - and the idea is tempting.  But Sanji doesn’t want to always be the kind of person who runs.

“I won’t forget again,” he warns.

With a shrug that betrays exactly how little the former warlord is concerned about that, Crocodile gives him a slow, sardonic smile and moves to place Ray’s delivery on the bed.  “Why don’t you go wash up, and I’ll unpack these for you.”

Spinning on his heel, Sanji gives in to the suggestion and storms into his bathroom to wash the dirt and miasma of perfume out of his hair.  He’s never been so grateful for some of the island ladies’ frivolities as now, shrugging into a luxurious dressing gown and cinching the sash tight around his waist.  Like hell he’ll go out and face Crocodile in a towel like he might have back on the Sunny.

The former warlord is picking through the dozens of products on Sanji’s vanity by the time he comes out, with a rainbow of new dresses laid out on the bed.

“Sit down,” Crocodile lazily says, gesturing Sanji onto his dressing stool.  “Your little friend was right; she does have excellent taste.”

“Of course she does,” Sanji automatically snaps, his feet taking him over to the vanity before he can think twice about it.  The scene is so similar to that first afternoon, but Sanji feels infinitely more vulnerable without Ivankov’s boisterous presence.

He can’t let Crocodile know that, so Sanji doesn’t balk, and settles himself in front of the mirror.  The former warlord deftly lifts his damp hair off his shoulders with his hook, the metal cool against Sanji’s skin as he reaches for a comb.

It feels good, letting someone else comb his hair.  Sanji’s life hasn’t had much room for gentle moments like this, even with the tension stiffening his shoulders as Crocodile shifts behind him.  As much as he wants to, Sanji can’t keep up the charade, and slumps beneath Crocodile’s touch as he works the tangles out of his long, long hair.

“I haven’t changed, you know,” Crocodile says pleasantly, meeting Sanji’s eyes in the mirror.  “I don’t regret anything I’ve done, except perhaps underestimating your ridiculous captain.”

“I know,” Sanji snaps, less offended by that statement than he feels like he should be.  What can he say - he admires people who stick to their guns.  Confidence like that is hard to come by, and Sanji has spent a lot of time pretending to have it.

Sanji’s hair slowly dries.  Crocodile coats it in a light, sweet-smelling styling product, and rolls it all up in curlers, twisting each wrap of padded fabric up to his scalp until they circle around his head like a crown.  Drawing the line at letting Crocodile touch his face, Sanji applies his own moisturizer, batting the man’s hand away.

“Back off.”  Shooting a glare at him, Sanji hurriedly rubs the silky lotion into his cheeks, trying not to make any weird faces. 

“You shouldn't be so rough,” Crocodile retorts, a smirk clear in his voice.

“Shut up.  Why do you know so much about all this, if you avoided it all as a kid?”  Sanji asks.

“I was here for a long while, after Ivankov helped me.  I was badly injured,” Crocodile adds, gesturing with his hook at the scar across his face, “and you pick things up.  My circumstances were different from your own; I wasn’t forced into any of it.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”  Sanji grumbles.  “And don’t pretend you aren’t getting a kick out of seeing Ivankov bully me into all of this.”

“Maybe,” Crocodile shrugs, “but I do not approve of all of Ivankov’s choices any more than he approves of mine.”

“Easy to see why he’d take issue with yours,” Sanji says, despite knowing it’s a cheap and obvious shot.  The weak attempt slides off the former warlord like sand off windswept rock.  “But what’ve you got against Ivankov?  Seems like you got a lot of help from him.”

“Ivankov saved me because it was convenient,” Crocodile laconically begins.  “This was in the very early days of the Revolutionary Army, you understand.  They don’t have the strength to directly oppose the World Government now, and they certainly didn’t then.  Swooping in once others have begun the hard work is more their style.”

Sanji is beginning to understand how Crocodile likes to dole out information.  This kind of buildup is inevitable, so he concentrates on his skincare routine and lets the former warlord tell his story.

“I had heard that a Vice Admiral was transporting a Devil Fruit nearby, so I took the opportunity.  Once the element of surprise wore off, the tides of the fight began to turn, and that’s when Ivankov swooped in to finish the job,” Crocodile scowls.  “I kept the fruit for myself, but there was nothing I could do to avoid that meddler spiriting me away to this island.”

“Still sounds like it turned out well for you,” Sanji points out.

“And Ivankov will never let me live it down,” Crocodile growls.  Sanji feels the hair on the back of his neck rise at the tone.  “He and the rest of Dragon’s petty Revolution have no business acting so high and mighty.”

“But… what they do is important,” Sanji says.  On these seas, full of corrupt Marines, pirate crews that don’t care who they hurt, and opportunistic organizations like Germa, it’s nice to know that someone is looking out for ordinary people.  “They save people.”

“The revolutionaries rarely save anyone,” Crocodile drawls, composure back in place.  “They only help communities that have already decided to rise up.  Those cowards never stand to fight unless they’re forced into it.”

Turning away, Crocodile peruses the dresses laid out on the bed, laying one aside as Sanji touches up his nails.  One of them chipped during his scuffle with Clara, and Sanji can’t stand leaving his hands like that.  

“It sounded very pretty back then, when Ivankov explained their goals to me,” Crocodile continues, rummaging through Sanji’s drawers.  “But where were they when I took over Alabasta?”

Sanji stares at the former warlord’s broad back, for once wishing he could see the man’s face.  “Did you want them to come after you?” 

“Of course not,” Crocodile scoffs, but once again, Sanji can’t tell what he’s thinking.  “I wanted the creature comforts of my life at Rain Dinners; enough power to make anyone think twice about challenging me.  But the stage was set for them - a revolution in the making, the King suspected of creating the drought, and a mysterious criminal organization to discover if Dragon’s intelligence agents dug only slightly deeper?  They have no love for the Warlords of the Sea to begin with, and yet are too craven to actually act against them.”

Digging into that mess of unmet expectations is not how Sanji wants to spend his afternoon.  In fact, it ranks even lower than finding out what clothes Crocodile has laid out for him, so Sanji hugs his robe around himself and stands, oddly self-conscious as he looks at Crocodile without the mirror between them.

Crocodile leans back against the dresser with his arms crossed, a condescending smirk on his face.  Sanji tries to act indifferent, but it’s hard, because Ray brought this dress, and Crocodile must have picked it for a reason, even if Sanji doesn’t want to think too hard about what that might be.  Despite himself, he’s eager to see.

It’s ivory, splashed with watercolor flowers in teal and ruddy pink, with a cap sleeved, boat-neck bodice over a flirty knee-length a-line skirt.  The fabric is smooth and cool under his hands, but too thick to billow and tangle around his legs like some of the dresses Sanji hates.  It looks sophisticated and mature, instead of maidenly.  

Sanji doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until Crocodile drops a selection of lingerie onto the dress, and the smile drops off his face.  “No.” 

“Get dressed, princess.”

“Leave the room,” Sanji hisses.

Crocodile does, but not before leaning in close and straightening the collar of Sanji’s dressing gown.  “Call if you need a hand.”

Slamming the door behind him, Sanji tugs on the panties and garters and translucent silk stockings as quickly as possible.  Humiliation is lurking just beneath the rage, and below that something else, and Sanji won’t risk giving himself time to think about it.  Having Crocodile rummaging around in his underwear, considering what would look good on him… nope!  Nothing Sanji wants or needs to delve into more deeply.

He’s much more excited to slip the dress over his head, careful not to jostle the curls still setting in his hair.  Twisting to do up the back zip is more challenging.

“Zip me,” Sanji demands, throwing the bedroom door back open to find Crocodile lounging against the wall just outside.  The damn bastard might as well help, as long as he’s making Sanji go along with all this bullshit.

It’s a miscalculation.  Crocodile is very close, and it’s one thing to have the man looming behind him at the vanity, but while Sanji is standing, their height difference feels much more real.  The former warlord’s hand lingers at the small of Sanji’s back as he grips the zipper, holding the top in place with a cold press of metal.

“There you are,” Crocodile murmurs in that deep voice, and Sanji takes a sharp breath full of cologne as he whirls away.  Smoothing his skirt with nervous hands, Sanji retreats to his vanity, and Crocodile follows him across the room with that infuriating, placid smirk.

Sanji starts yanking the curlers out of his hair, and Crocodile frowns at him, raising one fine eyebrow as he takes over.  Eager to get this bizarre ritual over with, Sanji avoids eye contact and concentrates on calming his racing heart.

One by one, Crocodile eases perfect ringlets into place around Sanji’s shoulders, eyes half-lidded with absorption in his task when Sanji sneaks glances in the mirror.  Finally, Crocodile clips a few locks of hair back to frame his face, and takes a step back.

“Let’s see.”

Sanji doesn’t dare look at the former warlord as he gets up to look at himself in the luxurious full-length mirror across the room.  He’s almost as nervous about Crocodile’s reaction to the ensemble as his own.

The neckline of this dress shows off his collarbones, with his ringlets draped across his skin in a golden tease.  Sanji can’t begin to guess how many times he’s wished to smooth a lady’s long hair back over her pale shoulder, and now he can’t help imagining someone doing that to him, blunt fingers and heavy rings brushing his - 

Nope, no!  Sanji focuses on his reflection, pointedly not looking behind him, where Crocodile is fiddling with his hook, rings flashing as he moves.  The dress, the dress… well, it’s beautiful.  The cut flatters his waist even without a corset, and makes his legs look miles long beneath the skirt.

Accidentally meeting Crocodile’s eyes in the mirror, Sanji reluctantly turns, showing off his appearance.  After this strange, intimate scene, it feels like he should let Crocodile see.

Crocodile gives him a slow once-over, eyes raking across Sanji’s body, but rather than say anything about the dress, Crocodile stops and looks him in the eyes.  “How do you feel?”

Opening his mouth on a sharp dismissal, Sanji has to pause as well.  “Good.”

He does.  He looks good, and he feels good about it.  Sanji isn’t sure if this outfit is him, but it’s much closer than some of the other dresses he’s worn here.

“Good,” Crocodile quietly repeats.  “You look more like yourself.”

Sanji doesn’t know what to say to that, feeling his eyes go wide as his legs twitch, the instinct to lash out at the forefront of his mind.  What’s that supposed to mean, and why does Crocodile sound so genuine, as if he actually cares whether Sanji is comfortable in his skin here?!

“I’ll leave you be,” the former warlord drawls, strolling toward the door.  “Practice your makeup, why don’t you?  A shame to wear your face like a little girl with her first powder set, in a dress like that.”

“I’ve gotten better than that!”  Sanji shrieks, resisting the urge to throw something at Crocodile’s back.  The closest things to hand are the new shoes Ray brought over, and he doesn’t want to risk damaging them before he has a chance to try them on.

Left alone in his cottage, Sanji feels better.  This was all a distraction from his realization with Clara earlier, but he’s feeling more centered, and ready to do what he has to in order to make things right.  Loathe as he is to admit it, having Crocodile around was reassuring, in a way.

People are complicated; the world is complicated.  Sanji doesn’t have to forgive Crocodile’s crimes, but maybe it’s okay for him to put them aside.  They saved Alabasta, after all, and Crocodile did help Luffy escape, and save all those prisoners too.  This is all temporary, anyways.  

~o~

Ray shows up at his door mere moments after Crocodile leaves.  “Forgot to give you these, sweetie,” she announces, holding up another shoebox as she breezes into his kitchen.  “And Tiff sent some more banana bread for you.  Damn, you look good in that dress.  Knew it!”

Put some meat on those bones, Candy~! The note on top of the banana bread reads, curly lettering on gingham stationery.   Sanji sighs.  If Tiffany keeps feeding him her baking, he won’t fit into any of the corsets she forced him into.  It’s too delicious to resist.

“Can I make you some tea, my love?”  Sanji asks Ray, setting the cheesecloth-wrapped package aside on the counter.  “Would you like to stay for dinner?  I’d love to cook for you!”

“Did you offer Croc tea?  A little sugar?”  Ray sing-songs, suggestively raising her eyebrows at him.

“No,” Sanji replies, keeping his tone deliberately bland.  He’s learned enough to know better than to let on that he recognizes when Ray - or any of the other ladies here - are fishing for gossip.

Hopping up on the counter, Ray swings her feet out into the air and pouts at him.  “Why not?  Am I just extra special?”

“He is a man that I hate,” Sanji grumbles, getting out some tea cups and cookies, “and you are a beautiful lady I adore.  Ladies deserve special treatment.”

“That’s kind of fucked up,” Ray comments.  “I mean, beyond the fact that you obviously don’t hate Crocodile, or you’d’ve kicked him out on his ass.  You can make a man a cup of tea, sweetie.”

“Well, sure, I can and I do,” Sanji mutters, thinking of Brook, who savors every cup of tea that Sanji makes for him like it’s something precious.  “That’s not the point.”

“Nah, you’re right, the way you treat women is way worse,” Ray says, nonchalant, still kicking her heels against his cupboard doors.  Sanji can’t bring himself to be frustrated that she’s leaving scuffs.  “I’m not complaining about the free food, ‘cause you’re as good a cook as you think you are, but I want you to do it because we’re friends, not because you think all women are goddesses or whatever.”

“But you are,” Sanji whines.  “I’m eternally blessed to be friends with such a paragon of divinity -”

“I know you’re a stronger fighter than Clara,” Ray interrupts.  “Why’d you lose today?” 

“It’s wrong to hurt a lady,” Sanji mumbles, knowing it won’t go over well.

Ray just sighs, leaning forward on the edge of the counter.  “You know Clara’s gonna be pissed you went easy on her, right?  Nobody likes winning for nothing, sweetie.  C’mon, you’d hate it if that swordsman buddy you talk about all the time threw a fight.”

All Sanji can muster is a forlorn nod.  Ray is right, as always, but that doesn’t make her words any easier to take.  Even the suggestion of Zoro dismissing him like that sets Sanji’s blood aflame.

“Buck up, babe,” Ray gently quips.  “You want to treat the ladies right?  Start by treating us like real people.  Kick Clara’s ass the next time you see her, and tell her that her perfume is terrible.”

“I can’t do that,” Sanji gasps.  

“Yeah, that might be taking it too far,” Ray admits, after a pause.  “She loves that stuff.”

“It smells like artificial sugar,” Sanji grumbles.  “And acetone.”

“Your visitor has good taste in scents, though,” Ray says, not even trying to be smooth about it.  “What did you think about Croc’s cologne?  Smells great up close, right sweetie?”

Sanji bursts out laughing.  “Yeah,” he responds, wiping tears from his eyes.  Ray is incorrigible.  “Yeah, he smells good.”

“You liiiiiiiike him!”  Ray declares.

He’s not going to plead guilty to that, but it’s a comfortable tease between them, unlike the sharp shock Sanji felt when Ivankov made the same suggestion.  Ray has a way of making Sanji’s internal conflicts seem manageable.  This has been a complicated day, but as Sanji whips up tea and cookies for them to share, he thinks it’s been a good one, too.

Chapter Text

Today, Sanji is trying something different.  His doll-like dress is all pastel colors, a cute print festooned with bows and ruffles and a full skirt that doesn’t quite reach his knees, but more importantly, it involves layers upon layers of frothy lace petticoats.  Sanji is hoping that the extra material will make it more difficult to show the whole world his underwear, despite the shorter skirt - some of the advice Sanji’s gotten about fighting in dresses has been helpful, but he’s still mastering it.

It better work.  This getup is a chore to put on, from the equally over-decorated blouse under the sleeveless bodice to the enormous bow for his hair.  At least the round-toed shoes strap firmly around his ankles, and his patterned stockings vanish into the puffy petticoats, betraying no hint of the incongruously risque garter belt set holding them up.  Ray just laughed at him when he asked if there was a better-matching garter belt, like the cheerful panties in a scaled-down version of the dress’ print.

Still… he feels good in this outfit.  Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Sanji hardly recognizes himself, seeing instead a perfect, feminine doll, but the entire effect is just as well put-together as his nice suits.  This outfit lends him the same kind of confidence.

It has other benefits too.

After some of the ladies see him in this outfit, he stops getting gifts of garishly printed miniskirts, or dresses more suited to haunting a crumbling castle.  No, now Sanji can hardly leave a conversation without armfuls of ruffled blouses and increasingly extravagant hair accessories.  It seems they all love him in this style.

That forces him into another guilty realization.  He’s only recently been willing to really talk to these women, and even try to understand why they treat him the way they do.  All his conversations with Ray about his wardrobe have made him realize that everyone here was just trying to make him feel at home.  They were all giving him clothes that they like and feel confident in, because Sanji never tried to explore what he preferred himself. 

“You should have said something, sweetheart!”  Lenore says, putting her hands on her hips with such aplomb that her entire towering beehive hairdo wobbles.  “No wonder I haven’t seen you wear those snakeskin boots, if you like looking like such a sweetie pie!”

In actuality, those particular boots didn’t fit right over the muscle in Sanji’s thighs, but he won’t deny being glad of the easy excuse not to wear them.  “I apologize, my flower.”

“Well, now we know!”

It’s that easy.  Sure, they still tease him over any number of things, but some of the pressure lifts.  Through a friend of Ray’s, he even gets invited to a special tea party with some of Momoiro’s more reserved residents.  It’s an exceptionally elaborate affair, where everyone is wearing untold layers of ruffles with perfectly coordinated accessories, down to their themed jewelry and nail decorations.  Gifted with a necklace shaped like a cupcake and a box of pastel macaron earrings, Sanji promises to bring home-baked treats to the next meeting.

He gets used to the particular whoosh of air the petticoats cause whenever he lands from a high kick, and the bouncy flounce of his ringlets.  There’s a satisfying flair to it, even if Sanji still misses the stark lines of his legs in black slacks, knowing what a dramatic figure he cut in a fight.  

“See?  Told you that you’d feel good in that,” Ray tells him.

“I never doubted you,” Sanji protests, twirling over to her with a plate of mini quiche.

“Maybe not, but I bet you never thought you’d make such a pretty doll either,” she smugly says.

“Maybe not,”  Sanji echoes.  Certainly not.  Even a few weeks ago, Sanji wouldn’t have been able to so much as consider finding a style that both he and the ladies here could agree on.  Ray deserves to be smug.

~o~

Sanji relents and spends time with Crocodile after their conversation, too.  More warily, or maybe just wary in a different way; it’s not like he was welcoming the man with open arms before their falling out, either.  Now, though, he’s pretty sure that Crocodile isn’t planning anything more nefarious than sidelong glances and brazen compliments.

That’s nefarious enough, as far as Sanji is concerned.

“Isn’t this one a little too on the nose?”  Crocodile drawls, letting himself into Sanji’s garden as he ties his eagerly growing snap peas up onto a trellis.

Sanji huffs, brushing dirt off his hands onto his gardening apron, and scowls at Crocodile.  “No.”

Lillian gave him this particular dress, the shyest of the tea party members; stammering through the whole process and blushing to high heaven, unable to meet his eyes, and Sanji will treasure this gift.  The print, cakes and strawberries and whipped cream over pastel gingham, is perfect for a chef.  Maybe Sanji would never frost a cake with strawberries and whipped cream in quite this profusion, but the concept is irreproachable!

Making himself at home on Sanji’s garden swing, Crocodile gives him that increasingly-familiar once-over.  Sanji is beginning to hate it less on principle and more because of how warm it leaves him, feeling restless with anticipation.  Just because Ray and Ivankov have put the idea in his head, but now Sanji can’t help wondering.

“As long as you like it,” Crocodile says, his smirk smugly indulgent as Sanji fluffs his skirt and petticoats.  

What would he do if Sanji took him up on all this slow, complacent flirting?  It’s probably not serious - Crocodile must be acting this way to see how Sanji will react, all part of his weird insistence that Sanji is interesting.  It makes him want to call the former warlord’s bluff, but Crocodile used to run a casino - he must be a much better gambler than Sanji.

“If you don’t like it, just say so, and I’ll show you what I think of that,” Sanji retorts.

“Your clothes aren’t for me to judge,” Crocodile dismisses.  “Surely you’ve figured that out by now.  Even if I do like what I see,” the former warlord adds.

Sanji flushes, and hopes Crocodile will chalk it up to the exertion of working in the garden.  The bastard is observant, though, so it’s probably a vain hope.  “Don’t you have anything better to do than hang around here bothering me?”

“No, princess,” Crocodile says with relish.  “I don’t.  And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

“Just because I’ve decided to tolerate you,” Sanji mutters.  

“Whatever eases your mind.”

Rolling his eyes, Sanji finishes up with his gardening while Crocodile smokes a cigar and idly pushes the swing back and forth.  Eventually, Sanji pulls out his own cigarettes and goes to sit beside him, feeling vaguely jealous of Crocodile’s lazy posture as he tucks his own feet neatly beneath him.

Not that Sanji was ever the type to manspread, but now that he knows one of the island’s ladies will pop out of nowhere to scold him if he even thinks about it, the freedom is tempting.

“I want to wear pants,” Sanji grumbles, dropping his head onto the back of the swing, his long curls spreading everywhere.

“You know, Ivankov keeps a stash of masculine clothes, too,” Crocodile comments, shaking some of Sanji’s hair off his arm.  “Would you stop complaining if I took you over there?”

Sneering at him, Sanji doesn’t bother lifting his head.  “You’d complain too.”

“Endlessly,” Crocodile deadpans.  “But I think this could be eye-opening.  Get up, princess.”

Sanji grumbles about it, but he’s curious what Crocodile might mean, which is, as ever, his undoing.  Smoothing all his skirts back into place, Sanji follows the former warlord out of the garden.

One nice thing about walking with Crocodile is that none of the ladies try to ambush him.  Instead, they wave and titter and dash out of sight with knowing smiles hidden behind their hands, but it’s still a nice break, not having to worry about getting into a fight.

The Queen seems to be out, or at least, there’s no sign of Ivankov when they get to his sprawling mansion.  Crocodile walks in like he owns the place, hand almost too low to be friendly on Sanji’s back as they walk through the halls.  A whole wing of the house is dedicated to a fashion runway, with endless closets full of clothes in every size and style of pageantry imaginable.

“Ivankov is going to make my life miserable if he finds out,” Sanji mutters, stalling against the queasy rush of envy he feels, faced with a closet full of masculine clothes.

“You say that as if you aren’t usually miserable here any more.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I doubt Ivankov expects you to dress like this,” Crocodile says, gesturing up and down Sanji’s ruffle-bedecked coordinate, “forever.  I imagine he’s trying to make you fix your worldview, and accept that you can choose.”

Choose more than just the clothes, Sanji knows.  By now he gets it, that Ivankov’s work here is letting people be whoever they want - need - to be.  But as much as Sanji is coming to enjoy presenting himself this way, he doesn’t want to do it permanently.

“As often as you want,” Crocodile adds, that laconic gaze heavy on the back of his neck as Sanji turns to look through the clothes, avoiding his eyes.

Sanji can go back to his crew after this and dress the way he used to.  He can go back to his crew and dress the way he does now, if he wants to.  He can go back to them and do both, if that’s what he needs.  Easy to say, but Sanji can’t guess what he’ll choose once that time actually comes.

One of the closest garments is a sky-blue coat, a princely cut with gold trim and silk lining.  Sanji pulls it out, hastily finding the rest of an ensemble to match.  When he turns, clutching the coat a little too tightly to his chest, Crocodile merely hands him a pair of appropriate shoes with an impassive look.

“No need to be shy, princess,” Crocodile drawls, as Sanji whirls into one of the nearby dressing rooms.  Unfortunately, the curtain door doesn’t slam, or Sanji would express exactly what he thinks of that comment.

Sanji has always liked the idea of being a prince, in the fairytale romantic sense instead of his dark reality as a scion of Germa 66.  He used to daydream about dressing like this and sweeping a pretty maiden off her feet, riding into the sunset to a happily ever after.  Maybe he’s past those fantasies, but this outfit should still make him feel something, right?

It doesn’t.  Or, at least, it doesn’t make him feel right.  The ornate coat is as much a costume as those first, awful dresses; it isn’t him.  Staring into the mirror, somehow Sanji feels like the person looking back is even less who he wants to be than his reflection on those first miserable days of smeared makeup and tangled hair.  He’s outgrown this fantasy prince, but he’s growing into someone else.

Someone better?  Sanji hopes so.  He doesn’t want to let Ray down, or any of the other people who have helped him here.  Even Crocodile, who, Sanji realizes, is still waiting just beyond the curtain.

Sanji changes back into his dress before coming out, adjusting the straps over his shoulders and the bow around his neck, straightening the ruffles at his wrists like he might button shirt cuffs.  Crocodile looks surprised, or at least less insufferably knowing than usual, but Sanji cuts him off before the bastard can say anything about it.

“It’s almost dinner time.  Come back to mine and I’ll cook you something.”

He owes Crocodile, maybe, for bringing him here.  It’s a blunt way to force a revelation, and Sanji wouldn’t go so far as to call this moment one, but he has to admit that Crocodile was right, saying that doing this would open his eyes.  Cooking for himself alone is depressing, anyway.

“My, my, what a rare invitation,” Crocodile drawls, but leaves it at that.

It’s a frustratingly welcome kind of understanding that keeps them quiet on the walk back.  Passing beneath an arbor of wisteria, Sanji sneaks a glance at Crocodile's face in the dappled sunlight sneaking through the vines, and instead of being annoyed, he feels… grateful.  Enough so that, when the wind gusts through the towering catalpa trees and laces Sanji’s hair with fallen blossoms, he doesn’t flinch as Crocodile brushes them away.  It’s difficult to call up the anger and revulsion Sanji felt when the former warlord first showed up.

“Just keep out of my way,” Sanji mumbles, showing Crocodile into his house and making a beeline for the kitchen.  He has plenty of fresh ingredients; he can make…

Crocodile makes an interested noise, and Sanji mentally shelves his recipe books, wondering what the bastard thinks he’s hmm-ing at.  The house is spotless, that’s one of the ladies’ most important Bridal Arts, as frustratingly named as those lessons are, and Sanji has to agree, cleanliness is next to godliness and all that, he didn’t need to be taught how to keep house after working under Zeff’s exacting standards back at the Baratie -

Speaking of Bridal Arts.  One of Sanji’s latest lessons was flower arranging, and, if he’s being honest, he enjoyed it a lot.  The ladies are right - a stylish flower arrangement brightens a room like little else, and Sanji found it comparable to plating good food, arranging every element to bring out the best in the whole.  Crocodile is examining his latest effort, displayed on the coffee table in his sitting room.

“You have a good eye,” Crocodile comments, when he sees Sanji looking.

“Who says I made that?”  Sanji grumbles.  Whatever softening he’s feeling towards Crocodile, he doesn’t have to sit here and take compliments like that.

“It’s not hard to see your personal touch,” Crocodile drawls back.  He lifts the demurely downturned head of one flower with his hook, reaching out to touch the petals with careful fingers.  Sanji shivers.

“Well, it only makes sense to do something with all the flowers around here,” he says, turning back to his kitchen before watching Crocodile touch dead plants can make him feel anything else absurd.

“I suppose there’s sense to all their little lessons on homemaking,” Crocodile replies, not letting Sanji drop it this time.  “You take to them well, for a pirate.”

“For a -!”  Sanji snaps, choking on all the contradictory things he wants to say.  Who says pirates can’t master keeping house?!  Not that he wants Crocodile to be thinking about how Sanji is learning all Kambakka Kingdom’s Bridal Arts, but Sanji doesn’t react well to being told he’s poorly suited to anything, even this.

He turns his back on Crocodile and means it this time, tying an apron over his dress and ignoring the pleased scoff behind him.  Sanji has a meal to cook, and then they’ll see Crocodile try to insinuate that he’s lacking!

It’s not a complicated meal, but, putting the finishing touches on each plate, Sani can’t help glancing between the decorative swirls of sauce and the flowers on the coffee table.  Will Crocodile think the same thing, that Sanji’s meals are as beautiful as flowers?  Taste begins with the eyes, even if Zeff always made sure to follow that truism with how you can’t dress up mediocrity.  The food has to be good, first and foremost.

Imperiously waving Crocodile into one of the seats at his little kitchen dining set - and doesn’t the former warlord look huge, in the tiny chair - Sanji slams his serving down in front of him with just a touch of extra venom.  “Bon appetit.”

“Such service,” Crocodile quips, and Sanji reigns in the urge to pour the wine in his other hand over the man’s head.

Instead, he glares as Crocodile begins to eat, watching each slow forkful of garden vegetables and perfectly baked fish.  It’s obvious that Crocodile knows, given the lazy eye contact he makes over each bite.

“Am I the only one eating?”  Crocodile asks, and Sanji realizes he’s been watching maybe a little too long.  

Snagging Sanji’s plate, Crocodile picks a forkful of his meal and holds it out to him.  Sanji reaches for it, opening his mouth to protest, but the former warlord pulls the food away.

“Ah, you weren’t doing it yourself,” Crocodile chides, grinning at his attempt.  “Come on now, I’ll help you.”

What Crocodile expect him to do, throw a fit?  Sanji won’t give the bastard the satisfaction.  He leans over the table and takes the bite, glowering at Crocodile all the while.

The man’s eyes darken.  Maybe that was a miscalculation.

“Good boy,” Crocodile says.

Sanji sits back hard in his chair.  It does not put enough distance between them.  This cute little café set fits perfectly in the dining nook of his cottage, and it’s perfect for tea with Ray, but Sanji feels like he’s practically sitting in Crocodile’s lap, they’re still so close, and with the bastard smirking at him like that - 

“Shut up!”  Sanji barks, falling back on a tried and true response to bullshit.

“What?”  Crocodile asks, with the audacity to offer Sanji another bite of his own dinner.  That he cooked himself!  “It’s delicious.  You should appreciate your own efforts.”

Feeling hot all over, Sanji figures he’s in too deep to back out now.  Eating from Crocodile’s hand is hardly the weirdest thing he’s ever done.  Sanji is sure he can think of something worse, once his brain starts working again.

Until then, he takes the food.  Can’t waste it, after all.  The heat in Crocodile’s eyes, flagrantly dropping to his lips before making eye contact again, is - alarming.  Exciting.  Alarmingly exciting?  It’s terrible.

“Eat your own meal if it’s so damn good,” Sanji hisses, his vehemence making one of his ringlets swing out across the table.

Crocodile tucks it back behind his ear.  What is it with this bastard’s obsession with touching his hair?

“Calm down, princess,” he drawls.  

“When has telling someone to calm down ever worked?”  Sanji mutters.  Still, he sits back, adjusts his skirts, and picks up his own silverware.  Crocodile stops teasing him, and eats the rest of his meal with obvious enjoyment, which lowers the flames of Sanji’s embarrassment to a pleased simmer.  He can’t help the low heat he feels, watching someone attractive enjoy something he made, and Sanji has to at least admit by now that he finds the former warlord compelling.  He’ll have to decide what to do about that, eventually.

Chapter Text

Before he can decide what to do, Sanji has to decide what he wants, and that’s harder to admit than, well, than he’d like to admit.  Ultimately, though, what he wants is a break from all the tension, and a break from his own whirling imagination.

It’s officially a problem.  Sanji stands next to Crocodile, and wonders whether Crocodile enjoys how delicate he looks beside him; he looks at himself in the mirror, and wonders if Crocodile thinks about touching his hair, or kissing the glossed bow of his lips.  He wants Crocodile to be thinking these things.

Sanji wants Crocodile to imagine what he’s like in bed, to lie awake wondering if he’ll be sweet and agreeable or if he’ll fight Crocodile for control.  Because Sanji is wondering too, wants to know whether the former warlord would be gentle as he is in the daylight, or if he’d stop pretending and just take what he wants behind closed doors.

He doesn’t know what he’d do; doesn’t know what he wants.  Sanji isn’t even sure whether Crocodile is pretending to be respectful of him in the first place, or whether that’s real, or which would be worse.

The idea of being the only one trapped with these thoughts is intolerable.  What if it’s all been a game after all, and Crocodile knows exactly how Sanji is feeling, and did it all just to mess with him?

“I’m in trouble,” Sanji groans.

“Sweetie,” Ray says, rolling her eyes at him, “you’ve been a mess since day one.  What’s new?”

“Ray,” Lillian chides, barely audible.

“He has, cupcake,” Ray defends.

They’ve gotten together to bake for the next tea party, an elaborate chocolate cake that Lillian wasn’t sure she could manage on her own, and of course Sanji is thrilled to help!  Ray is there as a buffer, because Lillian is still somewhat shy of him, and apparently because Ray can’t go a day without giving Sanji a reality check.

“I like him,” Sanji mumbles.  “Or I want him, at least.”

“Like I said, what’s new about that?”  Ray asks.

“Ray!”

“You haven’t seen them!”  Ray says, turning imploring eyes on Lillian.  “Sanji can’t keep his eyes off Croc unless he’s blushing too hard to even look at him, and Croc makes this face, all the time, like he’s gonna just eat him, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife!”

“Don’t be crass,” Lillian pouts.

“I cannot stress enough, cupcake, these two need to just -”

“Here’s the vanilla,” Sanji interrupts, passing Lillian the next ingredient.

“- and it wouldn’t be vanilla,” Ray snipes, leaning around Lillian to make direct eye contact with Sanji.

“And what’s wrong with vanilla,” he weakly asks, hoping Ray will let it drop.

She doesn’t, of course.  “Nothing,” she sing-songs, “if it’s that really good vanilla, you know, the decadent stuff.”

“We don’t know what that bastard likes,” Sanji mutters.

“Anything you make, sweetie,” Ray says, mercilessly.

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“He could just be messing with me, coming around to bother me all the time -”

“Look,” Ray says, stealing a taste of the cake batter out of Lillian’s bowl.  “Here’s the thing.  You say he’s been bothering you, but has Croc ever actually pushed you too far?  Seems to me he’s waiting for you to meet him halfway.  Three-quarters of the way.  That last half-step, whatever.  You have the choice, whether you’re going to take him seriously or not.”

Sanji pauses, knife hovering over the baking chocolate he’s preparing for the ganache.  Is Ray right?  A lady is always right - or, maybe not always, he reminds himself, remembering Ray’s advice about treating women like people instead of idols, though he’s certainly inclined to listen to her opinion either way - but is it true?  Sanji has protested most of Crocodile’s whims, but not so much that the former warlord has forced him into anything.  

“You know I’m right,” Ray comments, letting Lillian bat her hands away as she smirks at Sanji.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let him win,” Sanji mutters, somewhat nonsensically.

“Ladies do not start fights, but they can finish them,” Lillian pipes up, in the tones of someone repeating an oft-heard piece of advice.  Ray pats her on the back, nodding enthusiastically.

“I mean, I’m all for ladies starting fights, too,” Ray adds, “but we all know Croc started this game of chicken, so you can deal the finishing blow, sweetie.  Or try to.”

“Good luck,” Lillian earnestly adds, and Sanji can't let her down, now can he?

“I should just talk to him,” Sanji mutters, and has to consciously set down his knife, before he powders the chocolate instead of cubing it.

“Scintillating powers of deduction,” Ray says.  “Dunno how you got by without us, sweetie.”

They get the cake into the oven, and the girls let the conversation move on to other things while it bakes.  Ray kicks him out of the kitchen once the cake is out to cool.

“Lillian’s ace at decorating,” she says, shoving him back toward his room, “and you’ve got a date to catch.  Go freshen up, sweetie, we’ve got this.”

Lillian gives him a very determined nod, holding up an icing spatula and a container of pastel-colored nonpareils, so Sanji has no choice but to go.  Removing his apron, he retreats to check his makeup and study himself in the mirror.

He looks good, after taking a moment to smooth a few flyaway hairs back into place and refresh the sheer gloss on his lips.  Ultimately, he’s… not sure what he’s looking for.  Sanji knows that Crocodile has seen every awkward growing pain he’s gone through in the few months he’s been here, so there’s no reason to primp and preen before going looking for the former warlord.  The bastard has made enough noise about enjoying Sanji’s growing confidence as much as his appearance, but it’s hard to set aside a lifelong habit of dressing to make an impression.  Adding a flouncy new hairbow, decorated with pastry charms from the tea party girls, Sanji gives his reflection one last resolute scowl before sneaking out the door.

Trying to sneak.  Ray still wolf-whistles after him, but Sanji takes it as the encouragement it’s meant to be.

Another beautiful day, the fresh spring breeze carrying the scent of flowers and cutting the warmth of the sunlight down to a perfect temperature.  Songbirds warble in the trees, every rustle of foliage sends flower petals swirling in playful eddies across the paths, and Sanji keeps all his senses on high alert, unwilling to let the lovely atmosphere lull him into a false sense of security.

Detecting a flash of intent off in the forest, Sanji manages to dodge Ivankov’s incoming kick, but still gets blown into a tree by the shockwave of the Queen’s greeting wink.

“Hee-HAW, Candy-boy, still too slow!”  Ivankov cackles, striking a pose as Sanji picks himself up.

It still isn’t much of a fight, sparring with the Queen, but Sanji is learning to be pleased with small victories - he wouldn’t have been able to dodge that first attack even a few weeks ago, and he manages to land a solid kick on Ivankov before he knocks him flat again.  Maybe he’s not getting stronger as quickly as he’d like, but he is improving.

“I don’t have time for you right now,” Sanji grumbles, dusting off his skirts.

It’s a mistake.  Naturally, Ivankov hones in on that with even more intensity than usual, bouncing in place with undisguised curiosity.  “No, Candy?  What got you in such a rush today, hmm?  You can tell me anything, hee-HAW!”

“I just don’t want to spend any extra time with you ,” Sanji attempts to backtrack, knowing it’s far too late for that.

“Don’t be shy now~!”  

“I’m looking for that bastard Crocodile,” Sanji relents.  

“Is that so?”  The Queen asks, more softly than Sanji expects.  More teasing he could brush off, but it’s rare to see Ivankov get serious.  “Why is that, candy?”

Ivankov must know.  Even without the relentless gossip chain of Momoiro Island, Sanji can’t deny that the Queen is sharp, more than intuitive enough to figure him out.  “I…” he begins.  “You know him pretty well, right?  Crocodile?  Is he just messing with me?”

“Croco-boy has always been a bit too serious for jokes,” Ivankov says, watching Sanji closely enough to make him fidget.  “And he knows better than to cause trouble right under my nose - or not!”

Ignoring the predictable pose, Sanji sighs.  “Leading me - jerking my chain is hardly causing trouble.”  Not leading him on, because it’s not like Sanji wants anything specific from the man, but he’s unsettled by his own instinctive use of the phrase nonetheless.

Ivankov tuts, waggling a finger dramatically.  “Now now, candy, a maiden’s heart is serious business!  All my girls are delicate creatures, and I won’t stand for anyone treating them wrong!”

“I’m not one of your -”

“You are while you’re here, Candy-boy,” Ivankov interrupts.  “You’re my responsibility until we send you back to your captain, just like any of the other lovely candies who wash up on my shores.  If I thought my little Croco-boy was out to break your heart, I’d give him a piece of my mind, hee-HAW!”

That’s - surprisingly comforting.  This place exists to give people like Lillian and Ray somewhere to feel safe and welcome, and Sanji knows how seriously their Queen takes that mission.  However temporary, it feels like… an honor, maybe… to be included in their community.

He’s still not a delicate maiden, though!

“I’d give him a piece of my mind myself,” Sanji retorts.

“But you haven’t yet, hmmm?”  Ivankov prompts, that teasing grin beginning to split his enormous face once more.

“Maybe that’s why I’m looking for him now,” Sanji blusters.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days,” the Queen hums.  

Blushing, Sanji crosses his arms over the floofy bows on the front of his dress, and scowls.  “I still don’t trust him.”

Mostly true.  Here, Sanji does believe that Crocodile means no harm.  He’s still struggling with the idea that that’s enough, and he doesn’t have to worry about everything else.  But beyond any nefarious plans, Crocodile is still a smug, inscrutable bastard, and Sanji has no idea what he’s thinking half the time.

“There’s a trick to being both clever and kind, candy,” Ivankov says, leaning over him with hands on his hips and another of those serious expressions.  “Don’t give someone like Croco-boy a blank slate, but you’re too far into your head about him, hee-HAW!”

“Sounds like you’re still pushing me at him,” Sanji grumbles.

“Or not!”  the Queen declares, striking another pose.  “Lighten up.  This isn’t going to change your life.”

Sanji blinks.  That’s true, and it goes hand in hand with the rest of his concerns about Crocodile, and the rest of his time here.  None of it has to leave this island, not the dresses and nail polish and patterned stocking, or this preoccupying fascination with the former warlord.  Sanji is here to learn - combat skills and new recipes and yes, maybe a few things he never knew about himself, too, but he can pick and choose.  He can have the experience without worrying about it having any bearing on his life once he rejoins his crew.  A little indulgence; it’s not something Sanji is any good at giving himself, but maybe this time it’s okay.

He’s quiet for a moment too long, and Ivankov’s grin lights up in a way that makes it clear the Queen knows he’s won.  “I can get you a waxing kit if you want, Candy-boy~ Hee-HAW!”

“For the last time, no!”  Sanji yells, and decides to make a tactical retreat.  There’s too much of a chance that Ivankov will drag him off and throw him in for a spa afternoon with some of the other ladies, and who knows what that could lead to.  Sanji still can’t say no to most of them with any regularity.

The Queen lets him go with no more than another knowing cackle, which does not make him feel any better about keeping his dignity.  After a conversation with Ivankov, it’s either open season, or the rest of Momoiro’s residents tend to give Sanji the rest of the day off from unexpected ambushes; as he walks away, the feeling in the air is lighter than before, and Sanji knows that today is one of the latter.  Somehow they all just know , and Sanji can’t think of too many things Momoiro’s ladies will be more invested in than seeing him make some progress with Crocodile, whatever that ends up being.

So he relaxes a little as he wanders around Momoiro Island looking for the man, or at least, he’s on edge in a different way.  Nervous butterflies in his stomach instead of Haki singing through his senses, jumping at every hint of tobacco smoke on the wind.

Sanji still isn’t sure what Crocodile does all day, when the man isn’t hanging around him.  Still, he isn’t exactly hard to find, especially not with every other lady Sanji encounters while he’s looking all too eager to mention where they’ve seen the former warlord last.

“Have you seen your man yet today, Candy?”  Tiffany asks, waving him down the path.

“Mr. Crocodile seemed lonely this morning, when I saw him at the Queen’s house,” Clara tells him, pointing toward the beach.  She’s forgiven him for the incident the other day, even if Sanji did have to grovel for it.  He still won’t wear her perfume, though.

“There, over there!”  Mimi titters, pushing Sanji along the sand, Noelle giggling at her side, their matching pigtails swinging.  “Meeting for a walk along the beach?”

“How romantic!”  Noelle adds.

“So cute, darling!”  They chorus in unison, vanishing into the treeline in a flash as Crocodile comes into view along the shore.

Maybe there’s something to it, if everyone is saying the same thing.  Sanji's heart does a wobbly little flip, breath catching more than the fitted bodice of his dress will excuse.  A flurry of pink petals wafts across the sand, and Sanji swears he catches a glimpse of someone shaking the branches of a nearby cherry tree as he takes a few steps closer.

He’s sure Crocodile has noticed him by now, but the man doesn’t look up from his contemplation of the ocean.  It’s calm today, the waves lapping gently at the white sand of the beach.  Crocodile is sitting a few steps back from the damp line of where the water can reach, arms crossed loosely over his knees.  He’s wearing that more practical hook again today, all the dangerous traps and bulky casing removed, and Sanji’s gaze is drawn down the dark hair on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, to the light glinting off the rounded base where the prosthetic meets skin.  He wonders if it ever chafes.  Heavy as all the hidden weapons in his usual model must be, surely it’s not always comfortable.

“Did a crocodile eat your hand?”  Sanji asks, dropping onto the sand beside the former warlord.  He’s barefoot in the sand, looking more at ease than Sanji’s ever seen him.

“What a conversational gambit,” Crocodile drawls, raising an eyebrow at him.

“You never said,” Sanji shrugs.

“I think I’ll let you keep wondering.”

“I was wondering something else,” Sanji blurts out, immediately feeling his face go red as his fingers clench in his skirts.

“Oh?  What might that be, princess?”

The ladies here love to wax poetic about the feeling of having a crush.  Sanji’s not hearing an orchestra behind Crocodile’s every word or seeing stars or any of that, but some of it… 

More than just barefoot and missing his usual, intimidating hook, Crocodile is dressed down to a loose white shirt, left unlaced all the way past his sternum.  The former warlord doesn’t seem to notice as the wind teases at the light fabric, gifting Sanji an unhindered view of his broad chest and the pair of old scars there.  He’s sure Crocodile sees when his gaze catches on them, but the man still doesn’t shift.  It’s so different from their confrontation in the spa, when Crocodile made Sanji look in a challenge that he certainly failed - that Crocodile is so relaxed with him now is more trust than Sanji thinks he’s truly earned, but it’s heady nonetheless.

Looking down for a moment, avoiding Crocodile’s eyes by straightening the bows along the hem of his skirt, Sanji fluffs the layers underneath until his petticoats lie evenly over his thighs.  The glittery patterns on his stocking sparkle in the sun, eye-catching, but Crocodile is watching his face when Sanji raises his head again.  He’s certainly not going to stammer out his doubts without looking the man in the eye.

“You’re interested in me,” Sanji accuses.  “Not just messing with me.”

“Fascinated by you, in fact,” Crocodile smirks, “but that didn’t sound like a question.”

“What are you going to do about it?”  Sanji challenges, heart pounding more intently than ever.

Crocodile leans closer, looming over him, and reaches for Sanji’s face, tilting his chin up with warm fingers.  The moment hangs in the air and Sanji shivers, eyelashes fluttering, but the final breach of his personal space never occurs.

It’s almost certain that someone is spying on them from the bushes, but there’s no point trying to hide gossip of this caliber from the ladies of Momoiro Island.  If nothing else, Ray will tease it out of him within minutes the next time Sanji sees her, so he doesn’t have any more excuses to hesitate.

Reaching up, Sanji pulls Crocodile down by the back of his neck, smelling cigar smoke and rich cologne before their lips meet.  Crocodile’s hand possessively caresses along his jaw and slides into his hair, no doubt mussing his carefully set curls.

Crocodile is so much larger than he is that Sanji can't help feeling delicate, pressed so close together like this, but that only makes him more determined not to let the bastard treat him like a blushing maiden.  He pushes for the angle he wants to slide their lips together, feeling Crocodile’s blunt nails and the weight of his rings against his scalp, and enjoys the vindication when Crocodile goes along with it.

There are no ringing bells, no sense of perfect rightness, but it’s a satisfying and electric kiss, especially after all the frustration Sanji has gone through on this damn island.  Crocodile, Sanji thinks rather distantly, is the type of man who knows what he wants, and has the patience to wait for it to come to him once his mind is made up.  This is probably all following the former warlord’s plan, but Sanji can’t bring himself to care.

Unable to resist pushing for more, Sanji topples Crocodile back into the soft sand.  The former warlord lets him, and lying sprawled across Crocodile’s solid torso makes Sanji even more acutely aware of how much larger the other man is, even while he revels in the indulgence, feeling light and delicate under Crocodile’s possessive hand as it slides down his back.  Crocodile hardly seems to notice his weight, let alone mind it, and the thought makes Sanji shudder, excitement rushing through him.

After memorizing the taste of the former warlord’s mouth - mostly the smoke of his ever-present cigars, if Sanji is honest, but he’s glad to finally know it nonetheless - Sanji sits up to catch a breath, pleased to see the intense darkness of Crocodile’s eyes as he looks down at him.

“I was just going to ask you to dinner,” Crocodile quips, and Sanji blinks, confused, before remembering the last question he had asked, and blushing furiously.

“Yeah right,” he snaps, “looking at me like that, and - and touching -”

Crocodile only smirks, and Sanji snaps his mouth shut before he can give the man the pleasure of seeing him any more flustered.

“Besides,” he adds, not quite able to give it up yet, “ I’m the one who invites people to dinner.  Lovely ladies, usually, not sandy old bastards, but -”

“Prove it,” Crocodile interrupts, this time pulling Sanji in with his hook though some of the ribbons on the front of his dress, and slowly running his hand up Sanji’s leg from ankle to calf, teasing at the layers of ruffles above his knees, but not reaching so much as a finger beneath his skirt.  Yet.

“Come over for dinner,” Sanji breathes, before he can think better of it.

Chapter Text

After extracting themselves from one another - a few more kisses and irreparable damage to his carefully styled curls later - Sanji finds himself back at his cottage, alone, with far too much time to think and yet not nearly enough to make a meal that would really blow the smug bastard out of the water.  It doesn’t matter that Crocodile has stopped by for a meal before; this is different.

He settles for a menu that would impress anyone with taste, and still leaves him enough time to make himself presentable again.  Really, keeping his hair this long would be impossible on the Sunny, with Luffy hanging off of him all the time, not to mention all the other routine shenanigans.  He would spend half the day trying to fix his curls.

It’s almost suspicious that Ray doesn’t come by, given the rumors Sanji is certain are spreading like wildfire amongst Momoiro’s ladies.  She’s probably giving them space, which is almost worse than having her here, trying to give far too personal of advice.

Sanji thinks, and overthinks, standing in front of his closet and holding up dress after dress.  Is he trying too hard?  Is he being too obvious?  Will Crocodile give him that intolerably smug smirk if he reaches beneath Sanji’s skirt and finds -

That’s definitely getting ahead of himself.  Sanji still puts on some of his prettiest matching underthings.  Better to be overdressed.

After clipping the delicately ribbon-patterned stockings into the lacy garter belt, Sanji picks out a soft, fluffy petticoat, covering any glimpse of the bare skin above the lace-edged stockings and giving his skirt the perfect flouncy shape.  Something a little more classic this evening, petal pink with an understated floral pattern along the hem and plenty of cream ruffle accents.  Pulling a few curls back from his face, Sanji pins them in place with the large matching bow, and surveys himself in the mirror.

The cream lace gloves might be too much.  Setting them back on top of his vanity, Sanji makes sure his nails are perfect, spritzes on some light perfume, and heads to the kitchen, satisfied with his choice of armor.

He makes lobster risotto and vegetables roasted in a light balsamic vinaigrette, and whips up some fast-rising dinner rolls to go with them, crusts shiny with egg glaze.  When he goes to get his ingredients out of the fridge, Sanji finds two slices of beautifully decorated chocolate cake, with a thank-you note in Lillian’s tiny handwriting.  That’s dessert taken care of, and Sanji’s heart flutters, imagining Ray helping Lillian set these aside for them.  It’s obvious they guessed how his evening would go.

Before he can start to worry whether the food will be done before his dinner date arrives - and doesn’t the word date send a thrill down his spine - Sanji hears the now-familiar knock of Crocodile’s hook against his front door. 

Crocodile has dressed up too, and Sanji has to swallow a nervous insult, taking in the well-fitted dinner jacket and waistcoat highlighting the former warlord’s broad shoulders.  For a wild moment Sanji finds himself reaching to touch the silky shine of the blood red shirt stretched across Crocodile’s chest, and grabs the edge of the door instead.

“Come in,” Sanji says, a moment too slow.  Sure enough, Crocodile smirks at him, adjusting his cravat with his hook and waving a bottle of wine as he slides past Sanji into the house.  

Sanji can’t help noticing that even though Crocodile is dressed to kill, he’s still wearing the same simple hook from earlier that day.  He’s shown up looking good, not intimidating.

“Something smells delicious,” Crocodile murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell Sanji’s perfume even as his eyes flick toward the kitchen.

Taking a steadying breath, Sanji gets out two glasses and waves Crocodile toward the table.  “Why don’t you pour that, and I’ll be right there with the food.”

Crocodile whisks the bottle away in a whirl of sand before taking the glasses, and sits in the spot with a better view of Sanji’s activity in the kitchen after setting them down to pour the wine.  Resisting the urge to get too fancy with the plating, Sanji restrains himself to one sprig of decorative basil, and settles down across from his date.

“To your health,” Crocodile drawls, raising his glass.  “Thank you for the invitation, princess.”

“I still think you’re a terrible person,” Sanji tells him, clinking their glasses together with a satisfying ring.

“I am a terrible person,” Crocodile agrees, sounding nothing but pleased about it, “but you don’t mind all that much, do you?”

Sanji rolls his eyes and takes a drink.  They eat in silence for a while, nothing but the polite clink of silverware and a few languid glances exchanged across the table.  After a while, Crocodile gets up to take off his jacket, slinging it across the back of his chair, and when he sits down again to roll up his shirtsleeves, Sanji doesn’t say anything about the way their ankles touch.  The fabric of Crocodile’s pants is frictionless against his stockings.

“My compliments to the chef,” Crocodile indulgently says, setting his silverware beside his empty plate.

He doesn’t need to say it - Sanji has been watching the subtle enjoyment on Crocodile’s scarred face for the entire meal - but it feels good to hear regardless.  That Crocodile cares enough to say it, no matter how laconically, matters.

“There’s dessert,” Sanji replies, tangling their ankles together beneath the table as he sits up straighter.

“What kind of dessert?”

“Well, there’s chocolate cake,” Sanji says, enjoying the momentary flicker of disappointment on Crocodile’s carefully casual expression.  The honey in Crocodile’s low drawl was clearly fishing for something else.  “But it will keep until tomorrow, if you’re staying over.”

“Am I staying over?”  Crocodile asks, watching with unhurried amusement as Sanji shrugs, getting up to clear their plates and spend a few seconds tidying up the kitchen.

He doesn’t want to seem too eager, but Sanji’s had about enough dancing around the question, too.  The anticipation from playing the game is fun, and Sanji’s nerves are singing with it, but he wants another taste of the intensity from earlier in the afternoon.

“Just come in here,” he grumbles, jerking his head toward his bedroom.  This gives him the opportunity to watch Crocodile’s hungry expression in the mirror across the room as the former warlord follows him, which Sanji thinks is rather sneaky of him, until Crocodile catches his eye in the reflection, and smirks.  Sanji sighs.  “And close the door.”

Sanji lets Crocodile come to him, a few last steps across the room to put the final touches on the anticipation building between them.  Once he’s close enough to lay a hand on Sanji’s waist, Sanji has to crane his neck to meet Crocodile’s eyes, feeling that oddly heady illusion of delicacy again.  Crocodile leans down to kiss him, hand sliding up Sanji’s back beneath his curls, his other arm coming around and winding his hook into the oversized bow at the small of Sanji’s back as Crocodile pulls him closer.

If nothing else, the man sure knows how to kiss.  Sanji hardly notices Crocodile crowding over him; or rather, it’s exciting, as much so as the former warlord’s thin lips coaxing his own open, but Crocodile pulls back after the barest slip of tongue.

“You deserve someone better, really,” Crocodile idly observes, leaning over Sanji and making him arch farther back over his arm, “but that won’t stop me from treating you the way you deserve.”

“And how’s that?”  Sanji asks, clinging to Crocodile’s shoulders over the smooth silk of his shirt.

“Well, like a princess, of course,” Crocodile drawls, closing the distance between them to press a kiss beneath Sanji’s ear.  “I’ve seen how you react to praise.”

“Don’t start mocking me now,” Sanji warns, even as he tilts his chin to give Crocodile easier access.

“Mocking?  When you’re the prettiest princess on this entire island?”

Fine, the praise does go to his head.  Sanji shivers, wanting more of Crocodile’s broad hand on him.  “I’m not a delicate flower.”

“I’m well aware,” Crocodile assures him, thick fingers threading through Sanji’s curls.

“So I don’t care if you think I deserve to be coddled or whatever bullshit -”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve never been much concerned with what people deserve.”

With that, Crocodile sweeps Sanji off his feet and onto the bed, getting a knee up beside him and stealing his breath with another kiss.  Sanji runs his fingers through the former warlord’s hair, mussing his usual severe style.  Loose strands fall around Crocodile’s face as he draws back.

“What are you thinking?”  Sanji gasps.

“I’m thinking I’ve been waiting far too long for permission to ravish you, princess,” Crocodile says, his usual bored drawl replaced by smoky hunger.

Sanji shudders, heat blooming in his gut and also definitely in his face, in a blush that only reinforces the princess image, but he can’t bring himself to care.  Scooting back, he grabs Crocodile by the collar and pulls the man with him, careless of his shoes dragging on the duvet.

Crocodile catches him beneath one knee, the metal of his hook cold through Sanji’s stockings, and runs his hand down his calf, unbuckling the ankle straps of Sanji’s cute low heels and tossing them aside with a tsk.  Sanji responds by yanking at the former warlord’s waistcoat, unfastening it and Crocodile’s shirt roughly enough to threaten the buttons. 

“Who said you have that kind of permission?”  Sanji asks.

“Well, people do say it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Crocodile muses, sitting up against the headboard and reaching out to invite Sanji into his lap, “but I have little interest in either.”

“Shitty bastard,” Sanji grumbles, placing his hand in Crocodile’s and settling over his thighs.  They share a lingering kiss, soft enough that Sanji can tell Crocodile is mostly talk, at least in this.

Sliding his hands into Crocodile’s haphazardly opened shirt, Sanji runs them over his impressive pectorals, and looks down to draw his fingers along the prominent scars.  He’s touched Crocodile's chest before, but this time, with the air simmering between them, the texture feels almost electric beneath his fingertips.

“I don’t have much feeling there,” Crocodile idly says, “but you look like you’re enjoying yourself, so go ahead, princess.”

Sanji flushes with heat and almost yanks his hands away, but the combination of the pet name echoing in his head and the feeling of Crocodile’s hand creeping up his thigh under his skirt keeps him in place.  The former warlord’s fingers meet bare skin, toying with the ribbon of Sanji’s garters, and he shivers, watching the shift of his skirt as Crocodile’s hand moves.

“I’m surprised you wear all this,” Crocodile says, fingers skating up Sanji’s hip, over the lace and silk of the panties he picked out to the lower edge of the garter belt, barely accessible beneath where his dress is tied tight around his waist.  “Or did you dress up for me?”

“Not for you,” Sanji retorts.  Crocodile smiles at that, whether because of all they’ve talked about, that Sanji should dress how he wants for himself, or because the former warlord can tell it’s barely half-true, Sanji isn’t sure.  “Besides, I’m used to shirt stays.  This isn’t so different.”

“Isn’t it though,” Crocodile drawls, pushing Sanji’s skirt and fluffy petticoats up with his hook until the tops of his stockings are visible, the lace dark against his skin.  Sanji swallows hard as Crocodile’s hand sweeps over his inner thigh, slowly feeling his way down the muscles in his legs.  Restless, Sanji squirms, knees squeezing around Crocodile’s hips as the former warlord takes his time.  “I imagine this shows you off better.”

Sanji hisses, one hand tight in Crocodile’s shirt and the other holding his own skirt out of the way as Crocodile traces the tip of his hook beneath the thin ribbon, sliding it up along his skin.  “It doesn’t match accidentally, I’ll tell you that much.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow, the curve of his lips smug and eyes heated as he looks at Sanji.  “Why don’t you take the dress off and show me, princess.”

Sanji thinks Ray will forgive him for throwing the dress on the floor instead of giving her work the care it deserves.  In fact, he thinks she would be proud of him.  

~o~

Sanji is still not fully used to sleeping on dry land.  When he wakes to the motion of a gentle rise and fall beneath his head, for a moment, he thinks he’s back on the Sunny, or further than that, maybe the Baratie - but there’s no smell of the sea in the air, the noise of seagulls replaced by twittering spring songbirds, and instead of the roll of waves, the sensation is accompanied by the feeling of a hand stroking through his hair.  Sanji begins craving a cigarette before he even fully recognizes the scent of cigar smoke, and as the haze of sleep clears from his mind, he realizes that he’s curled up with his head on Crocodile’s chest.

Tilting his head, Sanji is met with the sight of the former warlord perusing a book of romantic poetry one of his yoga classmates gave him, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose.  Crocodile glances down when Sanji moves, but doesn’t say anything, taking his hand off Sanji’s hair only long enough to direct a twist of the sand holding the book in place to turn the page, the lazy gesture accompanied by a dry hiss of fine grains on paper.  Morning light streams through the half-drawn curtains.

He should ask Crocodile to come to yoga with him sometime.  It would be funny to watch Sandra correct the former warlord’s posture.  After last night, it would be fun to tease Crocodile with all the ways Sanji can bend, too.  Now he knows how much the man would appreciate it, not to mention the chance to see Sanji’s legs in yoga pants.

“Ever done yoga?”  Sanji mumbles, before he can think better of it.

“No.  Why do you ask?”

“It’s fun.  You should come sometime.”

“With you?”

Maybe he should sit up for this.  It’s awfully couple-y to be making plans with his head pillowed on Crocodile’s broad chest, and that’s not what they are, is it?  “Only if you want to.  Sandra is a good instructor.”

Crocodile only hums, setting the poetry aside in another whirl of sand, so Sanji does roll off of him, trying not to read too much into the former warlord’s vague smirk.  He’ll say no, that will be that, and Sanji can get up to make breakfast.

“Sure.”

Sanji blinks.  “Wait, really?”

“You aren’t pulling indifference off nearly as well as you think you are,” Crocodile tells him.  “Someday you’ll have a good person who deserves you, someone who’ll treat you as well as you deserve.  But that isn’t me, and for now, you’re mine.  I can go to yoga with you.”

“Huh.  I can’t tell if I’m offended by that or not,” Sanji grumbles, pulling his messy hair back into some semblance of order.

“You would know if I was trying to offend you,” Crocodile drawls.  “Don’t be so fussy, princess.”

“I’ll show you fussy.”  Sanji considers staying in bed longer, but he’s really craving that cigarette now, and it’s already later than he usually gets up.  Breakfast won’t make itself.

Partially out of spite, he throws on an oversized shirt and leggings instead of getting dolled up for the day just yet.  Sanji can treat himself to one lazy morning.

He makes poached eggs and avocado toast, and after they eat Sanji tells Crocodile to do the dishes while he goes back into his room to get properly dressed.  The former warlord looks mildly affronted by the water, but Sanji specifies that he’s not allowed to ruin the finish on his plates by scouring them with sand, and Crocodile doesn’t protest beyond rolling his eyes.  

Once he’s changed, into a sweet blue dress with classic details and cream lace, Sanji remembers Lillian’s cake, and he figures it’s close enough to brunch to eat again.  Sitting across from Crocodile, dressed down in his untucked shirt, is beginning to feel normal.  The rest of his crew will never believe it, if Sanji chooses to tell them once they’re reunited.

Well, Robin might.  She’s always a few steps ahead.

“What do you think Robin would say if I told her we met here?”

That makes Crocodile’s thin eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, which pleases Sanji more than whatever answer the former warlord might give.

“Miss All-Sunday doesn’t know the details of my past, if that’s what you’re asking,” Crocodile huffs, “but I doubt she would be surprised.”

“Yeah,” Sanji agrees, taking a bite of cake and watching Crocodile watch him, as he licks a bit of frosting off his fork.

“I’m surprised you would even think of asking her.  Surely you wouldn’t want your little friends to know you spent time with me.”

“After, you know, Marineford -” Sanji swallows, the reminder of his failure to be there for his captain still difficult to stomach, “I doubt Luffy would bat an eye, so there’s not much anyone else would say.”

Not about meeting Crocodile here.  It’s the rest of their relationship that might not go over so well, but it won’t matter once Sanji leaves Momoiro Island.

“Don’t expect me to cooperate with him that way ever again,” Crocodile warns.

“I certainly won’t,” Sanji tells him, “but Luffy probably thinks you’re buddies now.”  

Crocodile mock-shudders and rolls his eyes, and Sanji snickers, kicking his feet up into Crocodile’s lap.  Hooking them into a more comfortable position, Crocodile doesn’t miss a beat, acting like it’s perfectly normal as he sets down his fork to rub the knob of bone in Sanji’s ankle.  With a swirl of sand lifting his fresh mug of coffee to his lips, the former warlord sips at it, fingers running over the smooth texture of Sanji’s legs in his stockings.

“Finish your cake,” Sanji mutters, when the casual touch begins to feel a little too purposeful.

His front garden is empty when Sanji opens the door to see Crocodile off, and he eyes the path and what he can see of the surrounding area suspiciously.  Sanji never gets left alone for this long, and he’s beginning to wonder what the consequences of the ladies’ restraint will be, once Crocodile has left.  He’s going to have to dodge so many invasive questions, but somehow, the prospect doesn’t sound all that miserable.

“Walk of shame,” Sanji teases, watching Crocodile shrug into his slightly rumpled jacket.

“Why would I be ashamed?”  Crocodile quips.  “All Ivankov’s people know I’ve had my sights on you.  Your little friend Ray gave me quite the fascinating ultimatum the other day about it.”

“She did?!  What did she say?”

“Very little that bears repeating,” Crocodile dryly says.  “I’m sure you can guess.”

Sanji can imagine it all too well.  “Shouldn’t that make you more concerned?”

“I believe we came to an understanding.  She wanted to know what I thought of you, what I would get out of this, to make sure my intentions aren’t nefarious.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That neither of us will be here for long,” Crocodile says.  “This is a place for transitions, and exploration.  You know that well enough.”

Which is more or less what Sanji concluded, and he frowns at Crocodile, smoothing his hands along the skirts of today’s dress.  “You seem past the whole experimental stage.”

“Maybe,” Crocodile shrugs, “but I can still enjoy an interlude away from my usual machinations, and spending time with someone like you.”

“Like me?”  Sanji asks, still not certain where Crocodile is going with this.

“Fishing for compliments is unbecoming, princess.”

“I’m not your princess,” Sanji retorts.

“Does the name bother you?”  Crocodile purrs, leaning in close and tilting Sanji’s chin up with his hook.

“Stop deflecting,” Sanji says, batting the touch away.  He likes the endearment, damn it, and he knows damn well that Crocodile has figured that out by now.

“You give me an opportunity to be someone I’m usually not, princess,” Crocodile drawls.  “Someone who goes to yoga with their paramour, apparently, and I like it.  That’s worth something, even though neither of us is looking for a happily ever after here.”

Sanji blinks, startled by the sincerity.  Even after everything they’ve talked about, he wouldn’t have expected Crocodile to be so open about such a personal reason.

“You’re wasting your compassion on me.  Don’t be so kind you forget to be clever,” Crocodile adds, echoing some of Ivankov’s advice.  “That quick wit is what caught my attention in the first place, even if I’ve come to see that your grace and empathy make up the core of who you are.”

Spluttering, Sanji raises his hands to cover his flaming cheeks, trying to come up with a response to that.  He’s getting used to Crocodile’s smooth talk by now, but that’s just too much!

“Look at that blush,” Crocodile gloats, taking one of Sanji’s hands in his to kiss his knuckles.  “You make it impossible not to tease you, princess.”

“Get out of here,” Sanji says, halfheartedly shoving Crocodile out the door before he can change his mind and drag the man back inside.

Smirking, Crocodile rakes his fingers through his hair, giving Sanji a last lingering once-over before heading down the garden to the gate.  “I’ll see you at yoga, then.  I’m sure it will be inspiring.”

Bemusedly, Sanji watches him go.  He wonders if he’ll be able to shake the silly, fond smile off his face by the time Ray shows up to grill him for details, and decides it doesn’t matter.  She’ll be glad to know he’s having fun.