Chapter Text
The sunlight streaming through the porthole of the men’s quarters was usually Sanji’s gentle, golden signal that it was time to feed the idiots and his sweet ladies.
But today, the light felt like an insult to his eyes and head. It felt too bright and cheerful, drilling right into his temples like knives.
Sanji groaned, rolling onto his back. He expected the usual morning stiffness—the kind that came from sleeping in a hammock or crashing on a couch after a night watch—but this was different.
It felt heavy.
That was the only word for it. His limbs felt like they were filled with lead. His stomach felt tight, swollen, like he’d eaten a bad oyster, but he knew for a fact the pantry was pristine.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, and immediately hissed through his teeth as a dull, grinding ache radiated from his lower back, wrapping around his hips like a vice.
"What the hell..." he muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand against his spine.
He ran a mental diagnostic, a habit ingrained in him since childhood. Ribs? No, the cracks from that CP9 wolf guy healed a week ago. Leg? A bit sore from the Diable Jambe, but functional. Internal bleeding?
He paused, pressing a hand to his abdomen. It didn't feel like internal bleeding.
That was sharp, cold but this was... kinda hot? It felt like his insides were slowly twisting into knots.
It’s been two weeks since Enies Lobby, he thought, forcing himself to stand up. The floor of the Sunny felt unsteady beneath his feet, though the sea was calm.
Chopper gave me the all-clear days ago.
He should be at 100%. So why did he feel like he got kicked by a giant just yesterday?
He shuffled toward the door, grabbing his suit jacket. Even the fabric felt wrong today—scratchy and irritating against his skin.
As he walked out onto the deck, the fresh sea air didn't help. His mind drifted back over the last few days.
It hadn't just been physical. He’d been… off.
Volatile. That was the word.
Three days ago, Luffy had tried to steal a piece of ham when he just eaten lunch damnit!
So they went to their usual standard procedure: Sanji kicks him, yells, life goes on. But this time, Sanji had felt a surge of genuine, white-hot rage that scared even him. He’d snapped, screaming until his throat was raw, his heart pounding way too fast for such a minor offense, Luffy had really get scared he didn’t saw him till the next breakfast- he eat his dinner quickly and quietly- it made Sanji felt like shit he added extra bacon for his breakfast and water under the bridge.
And then there was the Marimo.
Even that moss-brained swordsman had noticed. “Oi, Cook,” Zoro had grunted yesterday, eyeing him from the deck while lifting weights. “You’re twitchy more than usual, your hormones all over the place. Go sleep it off before you burn the dinner.”
Sanji had wanted to kick his head off, but he didn't have the energy. And it made Zoro rise his eyebrows in shock.
Then when he thought things can’t get any worse, it get so much worse.
God, the humiliation.
Usopp had simply offered him a cup of tea because Sanji looked tired- and snappy went unsaid-. “Here, Sanji. You look like you need a break.” It was a nice gesture- not unusual for their sniper- A simple, kind gesture but it made Sanji burst into tears.
Actual tears. Streaming down his face.
He remembered Usopp’s face—absolute terror. “Sanji?! Did I poison it?! Is it too hot?! I’m sorry, don’t die!”
Sanji had fled to the pantry to hide, blaming it on onion fumes, but there were no onions. Just him, sobbing over a cup of Earl Grey, feeling like he was losing his mind.
Get it together, Black Leg, he scolded himself, lighting a cigarette as he pushed open the kitchen door. The familiar scent of the galley usually centered him. It was his domain. His kingdom.
But as he tied his apron, his hands were trembling slightly. The nausea rolled in his gut again—a heavy, dragging sensation that made him want to curl up on the floor and cry or kill himself.
"Breakfast," he whispered to the empty room, his voice raspy. "Just make breakfast I need to feed the crew. Ignore the pain."
He reached for a frying pan, but as he moved, a sharp, twisting cramp seized his lower stomach, nearly doubling him over. He gripped the counter, knuckles white, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.
Something was wrong. Something was deeply, biologically wrong. But like hell if he knew what’s going on.
The galley was a warzone of clattering silverware and chewing, exactly as it always was.
Luffy was inhaling pancakes like a vacuum, Usopp was recounting a "deadly battle" with a sea-beetle to Chopper, and Franky was loudly asking for more cola.
Usually, Sanji was the conductor of this chaos. He would be spinning between tables, refilling Nami’s coffee with a flourish, kicking Luffy away from the fridge, and screaming at Zoro to use a napkin.
But today, the conductor was silent.
Sanji sat at the far end of the table, his own plate of fluffy, golden omelet untouched in front of him. He was staring at the egg like it was an alien life form. The smell of the butter—usually his favorite scent—was thick and cloying, making the bile rise in his throat.
Eat, he commanded himself. You need the energy. And we don't waste food.
But his hand wouldn't move. The fork felt heavy in his grip.
Across the table, Nami exchanged a worried glance with Robin. They had noticed the lack of "Mellorine!" shouts this morning and it felt unsettling.
"Sanji?" Usopp asked tentatively, leaning away from his own plate. "You okay? You haven't yelled at me for chewing with my mouth open yet."
Sanji blinked, pulling himself out of the haze. "Huh? Oh. Sorry, Usopp. Just... keep it down."
The lack of venom in his voice was terrifying. Suddenly, a rubbery arm stretched across the table. Luffy, sensing an unguarded plate, made his move.
"If you're not gonna eat that, Sanji—"Usually, this was the part where Sanji’s heel would meet Luffy’s face. The crew braced for the impact.
But it wasn't a kick that what had come.
Zoro’s hand had shot out, grabbing Luffy’s wrist mid-air with a grip like steel. He didn't even look up from his rice, but his forearm was tensed, veins popping.
"Oi," Zoro growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Back off, Captain. Let the Cook eat."
The table went silent. Luffy blinked, retracting his arm as Zoro let go. Even Luffy looked surprised; Zoro usually encouraged the food theft just to annoy Sanji.
Zoro didn't explain. He just took a sip of his sake, his eyes sliding sideways to look at Sanji.
He had been watching the Cook since he walked in. He knew Sanji’s rhythms better than he knew his own sword forms. He knew the way Sanji stood when he was cocky, the way he leaned when he was tired.
But it been off— for a couple days now.
Sanji looked... fragile. The skin around his eyes was tight, and there was a sheen of cold sweat on his neck that shouldn't be there. And the scent. Zoro’s nose was sharp, and today, Sanji didn't smell like cigarettes and spice. He smelled like distress. Like something metallic and raw was simmering under his skin.
It made Zoro’s chest tighten in a way that pissed him off. He hated seeing the idiot look weak. It made him want to drag Sanji to the infirmary himself, or cut whatever was making him look like that.
Why aren't you fighting back, Curly Brows? Zoro thought, his grip on his sake cup tightening. Yell at me. Kick him. Do something.
Sanji looked at Zoro, confused. Usually, he would have started a fight just for the sake of it. ‘I don’t need your help, Moss-head.’
But the cramp in his stomach twisted again, a sharp, wringing pain that stole his breath. He didn't have the energy to bicker.
"Thanks," Sanji muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
He pushed his plate away, standing up shakily. "I'm done," he said, avoiding Zoro’s intense gaze.
As the kitchen door swung shut behind him, the silence in the galley was deafening."He thanked me," Zoro whispered, staring at the closed door, a cold pit forming in his stomach. "He actually thanked me."
"Something is really wrong," Nami said softly, putting down her tangerine. "Zoro, did you see his hands? He was shaking."
The dishes were finally done. He sighed, as he put the last dish away. Usually, Sanji prided himself on efficiency. He could break down a Sea King, prep a five-course meal for eight people, and have the galley spotless in under an hour.
But today, lifting a single cast-iron skillet felt like bench-pressing a cannonball.
He leaned heavily against the sink, the cool ceramic pressing into his hip. The water on his hands felt strangely irritating, and the smell of the dish soap—usually a crisp lemon scent he liked—was making his stomach churn in slow, sickening circles.
"Sanji?"
The small voice made him jump, though he tried to hide it with a casual turn. Chopper was standing in the doorway, clutching a medical book to his chest. The little reindeer’s nose was twitching, sniffing the air—not for food, Sanji realized with a jolt, but for him.
"What is it, Chopper?" Sanji asked, reaching for a cigarette. His hand shook as he brought the lighter up. He hoped Chopper wouldn't notice.
"You didn't eat," Chopper said quietly. He walked into the kitchen, his hooves clicking softly on the tile. "You made pancakes, but you didn't have any. And you're swaying."
"Just not hungry," Sanji lied smoothly, blowing a stream of smoke away from the doctor. "Tasted a bit too much while cooking. Ruined my appetite."
Chopper didn't look convinced. He trotted over and placed a hoof on Sanji's shin. "Your heart rate is elevated. And you look pale. Did you reopen a wound? I can check—"
"I'm fine, Chopper," Sanji interrupted, perhaps a little too sharply. He saw the reindeer flinch and immediately softened his tone, crouching down despite the protest from his screaming lower back. "Hey. I'm okay. Really. Just... didn't sleep well last night. Bad dreams about Zeff kicking my ass."
He poked Chopper’s hat playfully. "I just need a nap. A quick twenty minutes, and I'll be right as rain for lunch prep."
Chopper studied him for a long moment, his black eyes searching Sanji's face. Whatever he saw—maybe the genuine exhaustion in the cook's eyes—made him nod slowly.
"Okay," Chopper whispered. "But if you feel worse, you have to tell me. Promise?"
"Yeah, yeah. Doctor's orders."
Sanji watched him leave, then practically collapsed onto the long, velvet sofa in the corner of the kitchen bar. He never slept here during the day. This was his workspace. But the walk to the men’s quarters felt like an impossible journey across a desert.
He curled onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest. The position relieved some of the pressure in his abdomen, the dull ache subsiding into a rhythmic throb. Just a nap, he told himself, closing his eyes. Just twenty minutes.
As he drifted off, he expected the usual chaos of the Thousand Sunny to jolt him awake. Luffy screaming about fishing, Usopp hammering something on the deck, Franky testing a new weapon.
But it didn't happen.
Instead, through the haze of sleep, Sanji heard the strangest thing the unusual silence. Well, not total silence. But a muffled, deliberate quiet.He heard the heavy thud of boots on the deck—Zoro’s boots—followed by a sharp, hushed hiss. "Oi! Keep it down, rubber-brain. The Cook’s out cold."
"Shhh!" That was Usopp. "Don't wake him up, or he'll be grumpy all day!"
"I'm being quiet!" Luffy whispered, a loud, stage-whisper that was somehow more endearing than annoying. "Is Sanji sick?"
"Just tired," Nami’s voice drifted down, soft and authoritative. "Let him rest. Robin, can you make sure Franky doesn't start working in his shop?"
Sanji felt a warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the feverish heat of his body. They were tiptoeing. For him. The loudest, most chaotic crew on the Grand Line was walking on eggshells because they knew, instinctively, that their cook was hurting.
He wanted to get up and yell at them to stop babying him, to tell them he wasn't weak. But the darkness behind his eyelids was too heavy, and the pain in his gut was too draining.
For the first time in his life, Sanji let himself be weak enough to sleep.
Sanji felt a dull pain deep in his slumber. It wasn't the sharp, clean sting of a blade or the thud of a blunt impact—sensations he knew well enough to ignore even in his sleep. This felt different. It was a heavy, grinding pressure, sitting low in his gut like he had swallowed a lead anchor.
In the haze of his dream, he thought he was back in the Baratie, lifting a crate of frozen tuna that was far too heavy for a child. He tried to drop it, but the weight wouldn't leave. It crushed him, pressing harder and harder against his hips.
Then, the weight twisted.
Sanji’s eyes snapped open with a sharp, ragged gasp. The pain yanked him into consciousness with the violence of a kick to the ribs making him curl on his side on the kitchen sofa, his hands already clutching his stomach before his mind had even caught up.
"Ngh..."
A groan escaped his grit teeth. He lay there for a second, staring at the familiar wood of the ceiling, his breath coming in shallow, quick bursts. The dull ache had spiked into a hot, rhythmic cramping that radiated down his thighs and up his spine.
What the hell?
He tried to uncurl, to stretch out the muscle like he would a charley horse, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony ripping through his lower abdomen. It felt like his insides were being wrung out like a wet towel.
Did he get poisoned ? No, he was a professional cook, he made sure all his stuff is fresh and clean as Zeff taught him.
Appendicitis? No, that was the right side.
This was... everywhere like a storm in his internal. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, blinking away the black spots dancing in his vision.
He felt dizzy, lightheaded, and—He looked at the clock at the wall..
Crap ! It almost lunch time and he did made anything.
So snack it is.
If he didn't start the snack now, Luffy would start gnawing on the table legs, and then he’d harass Nami, and then Sanji would have to get up and kick him, and...
Sanji swung his legs off the sofa, intending to spring into action.
Instead, he gasped.A sharp, hot coil of pain twisted low in his abdomen more fiercely, seizing him up nearly doubled him over. He gripped the armrest of the sofa, his knuckles turning white, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
And then he felt something strange, uncomfortable wetness between his legs.
It made him froze.
A cold spike of adrenaline shot through his chest. He knew the feeling of sweat, and he knew the feeling of seawater. This was neither.
It was slick, heavy, and warm.
Did I... piss myself? The thought was mortifying. No. I’m an adult. I don’t—
He stumbled toward the small bathroom attached to the galley, his movements stiff and awkward. He locked the door behind him, his hands shaking so hard he fumbled the latch twice.
He unbuckled his belt, his breath hitching in his throat. He looked down at his underwear.
It wasn't yellow though— It was red.
Sanji’s eyes widened, his pupils constricting to pinpricks.
"Blood?" he whispered, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. He frantically stripped, checking his thighs, his hips, his stomach. He twisted to see his back. Where is the wound?
Did a rib puncture an intestine? Is it a delayed internal hemorrhage from that fight two weeks ago? Did he eat glass? There was no external cu or bruises anywhere.
The blood was just... leaving him.
He leaned back against the sink, his reflection in the mirror pale and ghostly. His mind, usually sharp and tactical, spiraled into a dark, irrational place.
He must have eaten something rotten after all, or hurt himself unknowingly like the stupid he was.
"Stop it," he hissed at his reflection, splashing cold water on his face to snap himself out of the rising panic. "Think. You’re Black Leg, panic only makes things worse."
He looked down again. The blood was still there. Flowing steady.
How?
His mind raced through the last forty-eight hours, scanning for a cause.
Did he take a hit he didn't notice? He pressed his hands against his ribs, his hips, his lower back but nothing felt tender.
Did he tear something internally? Maybe lifting the heavy crates of provisions earlier? A hernia?
Did he eat something? A cold sweat broke out on his neck. He tasted everything before serving it to the crew. That strange deep-sea mushroom Robin found? The spine of that Sky Fish? Did he swallow a bone shard? Is it tearing up his intestines?
It didn't make sense. The pain wasn't in his stomach; it was lower. Deep in the pelvic cradle. It felt like his insides were knotting themselves into tight, agonizing loops. "Dammit," he breathed, gripping the sink until his knuckles turned white. "Just stop. Please, just stop."
But it didn't stop.
Because of course nothing went as he wanted ever, why it will start now.
He stare at it, it looked like uncontrolled hemorrhage really… and how it can be fixed? Easy. Apply pressure.
Not going to Chopper like the sane people dose no no. He would not freak Chopper like that. And besides what he would tell him ? How he get injured? No idea. He will be a laughing stock. So , he will deal with it, apply pressure. It was basic battlefield triage. It didn't matter why you were bleeding; if you had a hole in you, you plugged it.
With his trembling hands he grabbed a thick roll of toilet paper and wound a massive amount around his hand, creating a thick, makeshift pad. It wasn't sterile gauze, but it was all he had for now, oh god Chopper will kill him.
He shoved the wad against his anatomy, pressing it hard into his underwear, mimicking the pressure bandages Zeff had taught him to use for knife wounds.
"It’ll clot," he muttered, his voice shaking as he squeezed his eyes shut. "It has to clot. Just keep pressure on it. It’ll stop."
He pulled his trousers back on, wincing as the fabric tightened against his swollen, cramping abdomen. He felt dirty.
But mostly confused.
Sanji took a deep, shuddering breath, staring at the bathroom door. He fixed his tie, smoothed his hair, and forced a smile onto his face. It felt brittle, like cracked porcelain.
Just make lunch, he told himself. Don't let them see you falter. If you tell Chopper, he'll make a scene.
Just handle it.
He unlocked the door and stepped out, walking with a stiff, unnatural gait, terrified that if he moved too fast, the "bandage" would slip and the unknown injury would show itself.
The afternoon sun beat down on the deck, but in the galley, the heat was suffocating.
Sanji stood at the cutting board, his usually rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the knife slow and uneven. He was julienning carrots, but his hands—hands that could steady a scalpel or balance a wedding cake during a storm—were trembling.
His throat felt like he had swallowed a handful of desert sand. A glass of ice water sat on the counter, beads of condensation rolling down its side, taunting him.
He reached for it, his fingers brushing the cool glass.
Stop.
He snatched his hand back. If you drink, you have to pee. If you pee, you have to go to the bathroom. If you go to the bathroom... you have to look. He couldn't look. He couldn't face the red stain again. He couldn't deal with the terrified confusion of wondering which organ was failing him.
So no fluids for now, he decided grimly.
Dehydration slows the system he knew but he just needed to hold it together until the service is done.
The consequence of this logic was immediate and brutal. Without water to help his body regulate the heat and the blood loss, the cramps intensified. Now it didn’t came just in waves; they were a constant, grinding vice around his lower spine.
Every time he twisted to open the oven, a white-hot bolt of pain shot up his back, making his vision swim.
"Meshi!" The kitchen door slammed open. Luffy bounced in, grinning wide. "Sanji! I'm starving! Is the snack ready?"
Usually, Sanji would spin around, deliver a precise kick to the captain’s forehead, and yell at him to wait five minutes.
Today, Sanji didn't even turn. He just leaned heavily against the counter, taking shallow, careful breaths to keep the room from spinning. He slid a plate of sandwiches backward across the counter without looking.
"Take it," Sanji rasped, his voice dry and cracking. "Get out."
Luffy caught the plate, blinking. He tilted his head, his smile fading slightly. He looked at Sanji’s back—the hunched shoulders, the lack of fiery energy. "Sanji?" Luffy asked, munching on a sandwich but watching him closely. "You're strange today."
"scram, Captain."
Luffy lingered for a second longer, a rare frown on his face, before shrugging and bounding out.
Sanji gripped the counter, exhaling a shaky breath. One down.
"Cook-san?"
Sanji flinched. He hadn't heard the door open again. Robin was standing there, her blue eyes sharp and assessing. She held a book in one hand and was looking at him with a calm, penetrating gaze that made Sanji want to hide.
"Robin-chan," Sanji managed, forcing his posture straight, though the effort made his abdomen scream. "What can I... get for you? A fruit tart? Tea?"
"Chopper is worried about you," she said simply. She walked over to the counter, ignoring his offer. She picked up the untouched glass of water and held it out to him. "He says you’re running warm. You should hydrate."
Sanji looked at the water. It looked like salvation. It looked like a trap. “I'm fine, Robin-chan," he lied, pushing the glass gently away. "Just... busy. I'll drink later. Don't want to lose my rhythm."
Robin didn't move the glass. She looked at his pale lips, the sheen of cold sweat on his forehead, and the way his hand hovered protectively near his stomach."Stubbornness is an admirable trait in a pirate," she said softly, setting the glass down within his reach. "But not when it causes suffering. Please, take care of yourself."
She left as quietly as she arrived, leaving Sanji alone with the water he refused to touch.
Dinner was a blur of noise and nausea. Sanji moved through the dining room like a marionette with tangled strings. He walked with a stiff, unnatural gait, terrified that the makeshift pad in his trousers would shift or leak if he took a normal stride.
He set the platters down. Pasta for Luffy. Salad for Nami. Booze for Zoro.He didn't serve himself. He just stood by the sideboard, clutching a towel, waiting for it to be over.Zoro stopped eating. He held his tankard of ale halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the cook.
He had been watching him all day. He saw the way Sanji avoided the bathroom. He saw the way Sanji flinched when Franky slapped him on the back. And now, he saw Sanji bracing himself against the wall, his face a shade of grey that matched the ash in an ashtray.
"Oi," Zoro grunted, setting his tankard down with a heavy thud.
"What is it, Moss-head?" Sanji muttered, eyes closed.
"Sit down," Zoro ordered. It wasn't a request. "You look like you're gonna keel over. You're shaking so bad you're vibrating the floorboards."
"I'm fine," Sanji snapped, his eyes snapping open.
"You're not fine," Zoro retorted, his voice rising. "You haven't drunk anything all day. You're pale as a sheet. If you're sick, admit it so Chopper can fix you. Stop acting like a martyr."
The accusation hit Sanji’s frayed nerves like a spark in a powder keg. The pain in his gut twisted violently, a sharp, humiliating reminder of the "leak" he was hiding.
"SHUT UP!"
Sanji slammed his hand onto the sideboard, rattling the silverware. The entire crew jumped. Sanji never yelled like that—not with that kind of raw, desperate aggression.
"I said I'm fine!" Sanji roared, his voice breaking as a wave of dizziness hit him. "Just eat your damn food and stop watching me! It’s none of your business!"
He spun around, clutching his stomach as the movement sent a fresh spike of agony through him, and stormed out of the galley, leaving the crew staring at his retreating back in stunned silence.
The echo of the slamming door hung in the air like a physical weight.
Making even Luffy stop his chewing mid-bite. Robin’s book was lowered. Even Franky had paused his usual "Super!" commentary, the cyborg's eyebrows raised high.
Chopper sat at the end of the table, his hooves clutching his fork, but he hadn't taken a bite in ten minutes. His blue nose was twitching furiously, his brow furrowed in deep, troubled concentration as he stared at the empty chair where Sanji had been sitting.
"Chopper?" Usopp whispered, breaking the silence. "You okay, buddy?"
Chopper didn't look up. He sniffed the air again, a small whimper escaping his throat."I..." Chopper started, his voice trembling. "I think... I smelled blood on him."
The temperature in the galley seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Blood?" Luffy asked, his voice losing all its childish playfulness. "Like... from the fish he cooked?"
"No," Chopper shook his head, his ears flattening against his hat. "Human blood. It was faint because of the cigarettes and the food smells, but it was there. Fresh. And... metallic. Like a wound that keeps opening."
"He's hiding an injury," Robin concluded, her voice calm but cold. "He was holding his side all day."
Nami’s fork hit her plate with a sharp clatter. She whipped her head around, her eyes narrowing into a terrifying glare. She locked eyes directly with Zoro.
Zoro, who was already on edge from Sanji’s outburst, bristled immediately. The implication was clear, and it made his blood boil. His hand instinctively went to Wado Ichimonji’s hilt.
"What?!" Zoro barked, his face flushing with defensive anger. "Don't look at me like that, Witch! I didn't touch the Cook! We haven't even sparred in three days! I would never cut him like that and just leave it!"
"I know you didn't cut him, you idiot!" Nami snapped back, standing up and slamming her hands on the table.
"Then what?!"
"I'm glaring because you two are exactly the same!" Nami shouted, pointing a furious finger at the swordsman. "You get hurt, you hide it, you bleed out in a corner until you almost die, and then you act like it's nothing! He's pulling a 'Morons' right now, and it’s pissing me off!"
Zoro opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it shut. He looked at the door Sanji had just exited, his jaw tightening. He couldn't deny it. He had done exactly that at Little Garden. And Whiskey Peak. And... well, a lot.
"If he's hiding it," Zoro muttered, looking away, his voice dropping to a rough growl, "it's bad. The Cook doesn't hide small cuts. He whines about them to get sympathy from the girls. If he's silent..."
"...then he's scared," Luffy finished, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his straw hat.
"I have to go check on him," Chopper said, hopping off his chair with determination. "If he's bleeding that much, he needs a doctor, whether he wants one or not."