Chapter Text
He should scold the boy for slamming the door. There are plenty of other people living in this building who appreciate peace and quiet. Except there’s a soft sniffle too. Zeff glances over his shoulder at the kid.
He’s a mess. His clothes are dirty and rumpled, his hair hanging further in his face than usual as he bows his head forward. Zeff’s not sure if the mark on his cheek is dirt or a bruise. It’s not the first fight he’s gotten into with the other kids in the neighborhood, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. He’s also sure their doctor will have something to say about it when he inevitably finds out, but, well.
The kid’s already been through hell, and those other kids are assholes. Picking fights seems to be getting something out of the kid’s system, and Zeff’s not quite yet prepared to deal with the fallout when he’s forced to find another outlet.
“Well then?” he asks, “Did you at least kick their asses?”
“Not exactly.” the kid sniffs again, reaching up to swipe his hand under his eye.
Zeff scoffs. “Remind me to teach you a few moves sometime. Once I’ve gotten my land legs back.”
The kid glares up at him through his hair, “I’m going to hold you to that, Old Man.”
“I expect you to!” Zeff snaps. He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it. “Wash your hands and make yourself useful.”
The kid scoffs, but does as he’s told, coming over to join Zeff at the counter once he’s done. Zeff grabs a damp towel and roughly wipes the dirt off his face until he flinches away. A bruise then.
“I can wash my own face!” he protests, snatching the towel away.
“Then do a better job of it!” he takes the dirty towel back, tossing it towards the sink before wrapping an arm around the kid’s waist and lifting him up to sit on the counter. “Don’t get used to sitting on the counter.” he points a warning finger at the boy’s face.
“I know!” he leans away from Zeff’s finger, but accepts the bowl of shrimp and paring knife he’s handed.
“You know what to do with those?”
“Obviously.” the brat snaps, glancing over at the pan of vegetables Zeff has sauteing and the pot of water simmering, ready for the pasta he’s still rolling out.
It’s another thing their doctor wouldn’t like. Him standing and cooking and lifting the kid. But he’s got two legs under himself again, and he needs to be ready once their ship is.
“I’m going to take a look at it tomorrow,” he says, trusting the boy to understand what he’s talking about. “It should be close to ready soon. Are you coming with me?”
The boy’s eyes light up at the offer, “Can I?” he begs.
“I offered, didn’t I?” Zeff snaps, focusing on rolling his dough out enough instead of watching the way this kid lights up at the prospect of anything related to being in a kitchen and away from this island.
Zeff’s sure their doctor would have something to say about putting the kid to work too, but it’s a better outlet than letting him lose the fights he keeps picking.
Not that Zeff doesn’t have his own concerns about the kid. He’s tiny for one. In a way that started long before their three months of malnutrition. He’s not putting on weight very well either. It’s been months since they got off that rock, and he’s barely gained any weight back. His cheeks are still hollow and there are still dark circles under his eyes. A decent night's sleep that doesn’t end with his waking them both after a night terror would help with the latter. And once he’s able to stomach more than half a bowl of broth, it will help with the former.
It’s strange. Having gone from cooking for a full crew of hungry pirates to just two people who can barely manage a single portion between them.
Aside from a shared love of cooking and a search for the All Blue, the kid is still a mystery to him. It had taken him weeks just to wrangle his name from him. Sanji. It’s not an East Blue name, and he speaks with the traces of something that reminds him of the North Blue accent he had occasionally heard on the Grand Line. Except the kid’s is more posh. He can read and has proper manners, which is more than he would expect from a chore boy, even one from a fancy cruise liner. He’d almost guess the kid was well born, except it wouldn’t explain how he ended up in the East Blue without anyone looking for him.
But just getting his name was as difficult as pulling teeth and twice as painful, so he’s let any other personal details go for now.
Besides. He doesn’t so much mind having a companion now that his crew’s gone.
The kid’s finished with the shrimp, so Zeff scoops up one of the vegetables in a spoon and offers it to him. His nose wrinkles as he chews it.
“You used more spice last time.” he complains.
“Half of it came back up last time.” Zeff raps him on the head with the spoon before using it to gesture as the bowl of shrimp, “Go ahead and add those in.”
Sanji dumps them in with the vegetables and takes the spoon to stir the pan around as Zeff adds the pasta to the water. It won’t take long for either to cook.
He’s still not sure whether it was the acid of the tomato sauce he had made, or the amount of spicy pepper the boy had insisted he liked that had made him sick, but Zeff had hated seeing him cough it all back up a few hours later. He had hated the way the boy had sobbed and apologized for wasting food even more.
So for now, it’s just enough butter to brown and coat everything, and just enough spices to enhance the flavors.
Sanji surrenders the spoon again after a few minutes so Zeff can fish the pasta out and toss it around with everything else. “Careful,” Zeff reminds him as he wiggles across the counter just enough to reach for their plates.
It’s good food, Zeff would stake his other foot on that, but it’s a pitiful amount that he serves them. What he wouldn’t give to be able to serve this kid as much as a growing child needs to eat.
It’s strange the ways survival can change you.
But Sanji smiles as he eats it, so that’s good enough for now.