Chapter Text
IF THERE WAS ONE thing Sanji understood about science class thermodynamics, it was that without a constant input of energy, all existing material would gradually enter a state of disorder. He could see that exact law in front of him, in the form of a kitchen he was new to. With dishes, pots, and cutlery in random places, questionable stains sticking the floor and chefs that seemed ever so happy to be in that exact place at that exact time, Sanji couldn’t put a word other than “disorder” to the whole image.
“Welcome to the crew,” the dark haired man, the one who had been his interviewer, said.
Sanji just took in another eyeful of the view and held back the click of his tongue.
Two weeks ago was what brought him to that current position. After working at the Baratie for the better part of his life (read, the years from when he was 10 until a week ago when he turned 25), Zeff finally thought it was time for him to haul ass. He hated the idea at first, but after reconsidering and coming to the conclusion that hey, it wouldn’t be so bad leaving these assholes—“assholes” said in a fond tone—he looked for a new job.
He’d heard of The New World before. It was a fancy restaurant by day and a club by night, its appearance in their city being only a year ago. It had received hype for its design, night life, and booze, but Sanji’d been hearing recently (and seeing from the reviews) that the food was nothing to look twice at. He thought he could change that. Knew that he could, actually, so he applied for the job and went through the tedious process of hiring. There was no particular reason he picked the restaurant over any other, but if he really had to pick one it might’ve been the fact that he wouldn’t mind being a bartender at the same time as a chef, and the design of the place was nice. It gave off an expensive feel, a mixture of soft gold lighting and darkness, plush couches in the booths and dark wood chairs lining the tables, not to mention the fucking fountain at the entrance.
It was almost insulting to Sanji after seeing how well-taken-care-of the whole place was, from the welcome mat to the toilet he’d used earlier, when he stepped into the kitchen.
His interviewer, Trafalgar, he finally remembered the name, told him that the previous chef was fired because of his inadequate cooking. Sanji hoped it was also because of how badly organized the bastard was.
“Alright,” Sanji began, lifting his belongings up to what seemed like the only available space on the counter. The day hadn’t even begun and the place already seemed like a mess. Sanji squinted at the name tags of the other chefs, noting that although the place looked God awful, there were a good 4 chefs and a few busy-bodies. Their roles he didn’t know yet, but he spotted the sous-chef easily. “We’re cleaning this place up before I do the fun stuff, like destroying your menu.”
From their expressions, Sanji could tell that it’d take a bit for him to become liked—if at all. He wasn’t one to sweet talk cooking.
He’d also come to realize later on that, perhaps, becoming this kitchen’s executive chef was simultaneously the worst and best decision he’d ever made.
-
A month passed, and Sanji got his first raise. It was expected, though it wouldn’t seem like it with the amount of complaining the other chefs did on behalf of Sanji. He was either too harsh or too commanding, too much of a perfectionist or too much of a prude. Sanji just couldn’t help it. After working with Zeff—the biggest prude in the entire universe, he swore—he slowly started getting the same habits. An out-of-place spice shaker and an unclean pot weren’t big deals to some, but Sanji made sure that the people who made mistakes wouldn’t make them again. It was all in the work of making the kitchen at The New World a better place.
And, he was proud to admit it, it did become a better place. If his raise wasn’t a good enough pointer to that, the new reviews acknowledging the actual “restaurant” part of their name was.
Over the course of 30 days, Sanji had come to appreciate his job a little more, now that people actually knew what they were doing (the first week was hell on earth). Also, he really, really appreciated the ladies. Especially Nami and Robin. Oh, and Vivi. And Viola. Can’t forget sweet Rebecca either. Nojiko.
They were servers at their place, as well as front-door greeters and bar-tenders. Sanji had gotten to know all of them, but was closer to Nami and Robin simply because of their roles. The bar was in fact next to the kitchen door, and whenever Sanji strolled out when orders were coming in slow, he’d have a conversation or two with one of them. It was a treat watching them convince men to drink more alcohol in that special way of theirs. There were also days where he got to fulfill his urge to mix some drinks when they got short-staffed behind the bar, making things that weren’t even generally allowed.
Through all the time at his restaurant, Sanji started noticing the sketchy things that sometimes happened in the corner of his eye. People getting led to secluded rooms by Robin, pass the VIP door that Sanji never had the permission to go to. Words that seemed like code which would make Nami hand them a certain something while Sanji pretended to be busy looking elsewhere. He never pried, but he didn’t want to stay clueless either, so he kept his eyes observant and his hearing sharp. There was no doubt that the place was some sort of meetup for groups, but Sanji didn’t know how “bad” the groups were. Were they city-gangs or international mafias? It was hard to find out when he couldn’t ask questions.
Either way, he just did his job and observed.
It was on a busy-as-fuck Saturday night that Sanji was helping out at the front, having enough staff in the kitchen that knew what they were doing and being short-staffed out front with a sudden cold going around. He’d had experience being a server back at Baratie as well, so it was in his nature to sweet talk ladies and compliment guys to wrack up tips. He was also light on his feet, but the spilling of soup was unavoidable when he didn’t notice the presence of what seemed to be a brick wall behind him.
The man who’d bumped into him (yes, it was the man’s fault and not his), was simultaneously the biggest presence in the room and the least noticeable person there. Sanji hadn’t heard a noise behind him—granted it was busy and loud, but he could usually tell when there was someone behind him—and this fact told him that the man probably wasn’t normal, if he needed to be walking eerily silent like that.
When Sanji turned to apologize, however, the attitude that he saw ticked him off. It was like the man hadn’t even tried to dodge Sanji, standing there and staring down at his soup-stained suit, hands in his pockets with a disdained look on his face. Some dudes, lackeys probably, attempted to clean off the man’s suit, but he stopped them with a hand, pulling on the soaked front of his shirt with an unreadable expression. Sanji hated people like that, his old Baratie self included. And usually, he’d have no problem starting a fight with bastards who walked expecting people to move for them.
Good thing he hadn’t changed one bit.
“Sorry, I don’t have 360 degrees vision,” Sanji bent to pick up the bowl that thankfully hadn’t broken on the carpeted floor, “So I couldn’t have avoided you as easily as you could’ve avoided me,” Sanji apologized—well, “apologized”.
The man looked up from his suit, piercing grey eyes making Sanji’s pulse quicken when their gazes locked. Sanji felt his skin prickle and then suddenly sensed the gaze of many, settled right onto his figure. It was at that point that he realized some of their regulars were probably working for whoever the hell this man was, and they weren’t here for just a good dinner.
The one with the most oppressive gaze—standing right in front of him—could evidently sense the challenge in Sanji’s voice, and the chef swore he saw the ghost of a smirk on his face.
“Is that so?” the hand that was pinching his shirt away from his skin lowered, landing on the hilt of one of the three swords near his waist, other remaining in his pocket. That was only another sign that this restaurant was strange in more ways than not, because what restaurant let someone bring in three whole swords? “ Maybe you shouldn’t be backing up with a tray of soup held up in the first place,” he rebutted, and Sanji grit his teeth. No matter how outnumbered, Sanji still felt the fight in him rise.
(Not his fault the lady changed her mind last second and wanted their clam chowder instead. He took, what, two steps backwards? How was he supposed to know some bastard was going to walk right into his back? And also, it was common knowledge that everything looked fancier held with one arm to the side.)
“Just doing my job, sir,” Sanji nearly spat, then he glanced down at the man’s shirt, knowing it would take a full month’s pay check to get a new one, “Would you like a napkin with that?”
“With what, my ruined mood?” he questioned. It was almost humorous.
“I’m afraid it’s up to you to—“
“What’s going on here?” a familiar voice questioned, and Sanji saw from his peripherals Trafalgar, unwilling to get the other man out of his sights in case he got sucker-punched in the face. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried after his shenanigans at the restaurants. “Sanji, you’re causing a scene.”
“So Sanji’s your name,” the other bastard stated.
The blond eyed the apparent swordsman, and then relaxed his shoulders a little, sighing. Now that Law was here he couldn’t keep up his bitchy attitude. It wasn’t that he was hiding from trouble, but even he knew he sometimes got childish when he got offended, and he’d rather his employer not see that side of him.
“Sanji’s the name,” he admitted, “I’ll go grab a cloth.”
“No need, that won’t help anything.” Cue Sanji nearly snapping at the man again.
“Boss! I’ll grab you another shirt from the car!” one of the lackeys exclaimed, and when the man didn’t object the little guy ran out.
“Sorry about that, Roronoa,” Law started, “I’ll take you to your table myself after you change. It isn’t so often that you decide to eat out here instead of in our rooms. We’ll give you the best service tonight, and if there’s anything we can do to compensate for the shirt, feel free to tell us.”
So he is important, Sanji thought, bending over to grab the tray that had rolled a meter or so away. His fingers were sticky with soup and he had a fucking mess to clean up. Who the hell decided to have carpet floors in this section?
As he picked up the tray he gave another sigh, because the intrusive gazes from earlier were leaving him, now that “Roronoa” wasn’t compromised or whatever. Sanji noted that his fingers ached just a little and he knew it was because of the spill. He had to admit that having the soup spill on one’s front should hurt. It was steaming hot after all, and though it didn’t make initial direct contact with skin, even through a shirt it must hurt. If it made Sanji’s fingers tingle from a few drops, a whole bowl-full would be shitty.
“Viola my dear,” Sanji spoke once he’d reached the kitchen again, “I’m sorry but could you bring clam chowder to table 15?” As he looked back over to where the table laid, he made eye contact with Roronoa, and even from that distance he could feel the electricity of his gaze. “I have a mess to clean up.”
-
Sanji didn’t meet or hear of Roronoa for a week after running into him that night. He got a light scolding from Law, more of an info-lecture than anything else. Law told him that Zoro, the man’s first name, basically owned the restaurant, and that getting into a fight with him nearly guaranteed getting beaten up in an alleyway. Sanji had seen him once or twice, when he glanced out of the kitchen door window and spied Robin leading a head of green to the VIP section of the place. Otherwise, it seemed that his appearance at the normal part of the place was as scarce as Law made it seem.
It was for the better, because Sanji felt that no one ever rubbed him quite the wrong way. Something about him made Sanji want to start fights. Maybe it was his unnatural appearance; his green hair and golden earrings, not to mention the three swords at his hip. Or maybe it was the cocky feeling that he just exuded, like he was sending a message to everyone that he could and would beat them at whatever hand they played.
But no matter how good it was that Sanji wasn’t encountering the man, it was evident that they’d have a run-in so long as he worked there.
The next time it happened was at the back of the restaurant. Sanji was in need of a smoke break, and it was natural to step out so that the smell wouldn’t infiltrate the food. The sight he received from the setting sun’s light was, of course, of the familiar green head, and the part he hadn’t expected was the scene of Zoro sheathing his sword with two bodies in front of him.
However, when the door clicked behind him Zoro turned faster than Sanji could even blink, sword halfway pulled out again until he realized who it was.
It took Sanji a second to gather his thoughts. He wasn’t nearly as surprised as he expected himself to be. But he supposed it was to be expected, because he knew fishy things happened at the restaurant and he knew Zoro was some part of it, whether it be in the middle of it all or not. He wasn’t expecting to see dead bodies today, but it wasn’t a sight that he was new to, unfortunately.
When he decided he should say something, it took another couple of seconds to think about what to say.
“Scared?” And yes, his first words were to provoke the man with two very limp bodies behind him.
Zoro scoffed, pressing his sword back into its scabbard. “You tell me.”
“This,” Sanji waved at the bodies, “Is not what I consider scary.” He whipped out a cigarette as he spoke, lighter coming out seconds later. “What I consider scary is the fact that you’re doing it in such an open area. Have you no sense of publicity?”
“I don’t give a shit about publicity.”
Sanji hummed, flicking the lighter and igniting a flame. “You’re right. You don’t seem the type.”
The blond could see Zoro staring at him as he lit the end of his stick, dragging in a breath after a moment.
“So, what. You cleaning that up?” Sanji questioned, “I have our dish-washer boy coming out in about five to empty the trash.”
“Five is plenty. And no, I won’t be cleaning this up.”
“Ah, so you do one part but not the other. Earlier I expected you to be more of the boss, one that does none of the dirty work, and then I thought you were a lackey who followed orders to kill but now... Not so sure.”
“I do what I want,” Zoro stated, “I don’t take orders from anyone, and I don’t do what I don’t want to do.”
The bottom curve of the sun was nearing the horizon as they spoke, and Sanji realized that the shadows in the alleyways were getting larger. Zoro looked more sinister now than he did moments ago, but it didn’t phase him.
“So,” Sanji started, “You are at the top.”
“You could say so.”
“Zoro nii-chan!” A voice came from the end of the alley, followed by two sets of feet that came running around the corner, “We assume you’re done—! You! Who are you!?”
The two lackeys from last time pulled out their swords at the sight of Sanji, and Sanji glanced at Zoro to see what he would do. The man said nothing as they charged at Sanji.
So that’s how it is.
Sanji tapped the tip of his shoe on the ground just as the blade of a sword got near him. Seconds later he’d kicked the handle out of the first man’s hand, sword glinting in the setting sun’s light as it flew up. He then spun and landed a roundhouse kick that sent the first into the one lagging behind, listening to their yells as they landed on a heap on the ground. They didn’t look so different from the bodies Zoro had dealt with, only they were showing much less blood.
Sanji turned to Zoro, meeting his gaze that’d already been there and waiting for the man to attack him. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was getting into, but Law’s warnings flashed in his mind—and he was sure that if Zoro was as strong as he seemed, he wouldn’t come out of this one with a mere beating. He’d most likely end up in pieces.
Zoro didn’t move a muscle, and Sanji did the same, on his alert because he wasn’t about to lose his life to a mere mishap. When the two lackeys stood again Zoro simply turned, walking in the way the other two came from.
“Johnny, Yosaku. The bodies.”
They glanced repeatedly between Sanji and Zoro, but soon after scrambled to dispose of the bodies. Sanji heard the doorknob behind him turn then, and he pressed his back to it, resisting against the force from the inside. He stared at Zoro’s shadow and his back as he left, and only when the lackeys turned the corner did he let off the pressure, stepping to the side and smiling when the dishwasher boy flew through the door.
“Ow, what the—“ he turned and saw Sanji, “Oh! Chef!” The boy quickly composed himself, standing straight and holding the trash bag tight in anxiousness. “You were on break?”
“I guess you could say so,” Sanji answered, tapping the crust off his cigarette, “But I’m more tired now than before.”
“Huh? Why?”
“No reason. Good work,” Sanji dropped his cigarette and stomped on it, looking once more at the end of the alley before he pulled open the door again. “Make sure you throw away the trash well.” The dead bodies that he’d seen being thrown into bags and into the bin right near them flashed in his mind. Grey eyes and glinting swords.
“Uh... yessir?”
There was really no doubt now that Sanji was going to get himself into a mess. He could sense it, even from miles away.