Work Text:
You don’t get a lot of news down here, but word gets around that Captain Reeds made a big arrest. There’s been a buzz of activity, guards rushing back and forth through the wings, and you watch with some interest from your cell.
This jail sits on an island in the middle of nowhere; guarded on one side by a rocky underwater reef, and on the other by a strong current that stirs up near-constant whirlpools. For any ships unfamiliar with the area, it’s nearly impossible to reach shore without sustaining damage.
It’s not often you see any new faces.
“Know anything?” you call over to Wades, in the cell next to yours.
“Not much,” Wades replies, shrugging. “Saw one of the guards with the sea-stone manacles, so the new guy might be a fruit-user.”
You frown, and Wades grimaces in agreement. They had a fruit-user in about a year ago, some petty criminal with a nice smile and the ability to forge anyone’s handwriting as long as they’d been in skin contact. His name was Reily and he was about as violent as the twenty-year-old sheepdog that ‘guarded’ your cell block.
There was no need to keep him in the sea-stone but the captain seemed pleased just to have an excuse to use them.
You and the others watched Reily deteriorate for weeks. In the end, his cellmate had to help him drink water. He didn’t make it two months in those damn manacles.
And, look, you and all your guys here– you’ve done some stuff. You’ve earned your time. But none of you deserve that. Reily, with his wry good humor and easy-going nature, certainly didn’t. And this new guy, whoever he is, bounty or no– he doesn’t, either.
You don’t think you’ll be able to watch that happen again. Wades is thinking along the same lines.
“We’ll see what we can do,” he says. “But let’s meet the guy first.”
By that evening, you do.
He walks into the cell block with an entourage of four guards. He looks like he came out the wrong end of an explosion; blond hair tossed into disarray, tanned skin smeared with soot, clothes torn and charred. There’s an impressive length of bruises marching up the side of his face, as if he was slammed head-first into a wall.
God, Captain Reeds is such a dick.
They stop in front of your cell and unlock the door. You half-guessed this might be the case, since the others are already doubled-up and you have this roomy eight-by-eight square footage all to yourself.
The guard tries to shove the new guy inside. It’s an asshole move, meant to make the prisoner fall flat on his face since his hands and ankles are manacled. Everybody in the ward knows this particular guard, knows that signature move. You’ve already got something to commiserate with your new cellmate about.
Except the new guy doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even budge. The guard himself stumbles, not expecting the absolute resistance, and has to catch himself on the bars.
You blink. Wades snorts. The new guy glances over his shoulder, as if to say “are you finished?” and then steps neatly inside on his own.
There’s a lot of huffing and posturing and the door gets slammed shut with a clang that echoes all down the block. The new guy lifts his hands, cuffed together with that damn sea-stone, and shoves the hair out of one side of his face. He’s young and clean-shaven, and his one visible eye is sharp.
He looks vaguely familiar, but you can’t place where you might have seen him before. You don’t get a lot of news down here.
“Hey,” he says mildly. “Anybody got a smoke?”
Introductions get passed around, the new guy gets passed a cigarette, and Wades says, “How you feelin’?”
“Can’t complain,” Sanji replies. “How are you?”
It’s such a ridiculous sentiment, considering where he is, that you grin.
“Alright, wise-guy.” Wades rolls his eyes. “I was talking about those cuffs. Are you good?”
“Oh.” Sanji looks surprised to be asked, glancing down at his wrists, winched tightly in the sea-stone manacles. Something comes and goes through his expression, too quickly for you to pin it down. He looks back up and says, completely unbothered, “I’m not a fruit-user. I think they’re just paranoid. And, you know, that’s fair.”
Some tension Wades has been carrying goes out of him, shoulders slumping in relief, and you feel it, too. Sanji looks nothing like Reily, is much younger and blonder than Reily had been, but there’s something about him that strikes you the same way. Something that makes you think he doesn’t belong here, where the sun barely reaches you, where the world is slowly passing you by.
“So what, are you a bail-jumper or something?” Pete asks from across the way. “You strike me as someone with money. Or someone with a family with money.”
Sanji lifts a hand to take another drag from his cigarette. The gesture makes it look like he’s hiding, just for a second. You think Pete’s question landed someplace tender.
“Nah, my family’s broke,” Sanji says a moment later. “We get by, though.”
Wades nods towards the sea-stone. “Why would they think you need that if you’re not a fruit-user?”
“Beats me,” he replies. “A couple of my nakama are, but it’s not like it’s contagious.”
“Ohh.” It comes from the four of you at the same time, understanding clicking neatly into place. “You’re a pirate,” you add.
Sanji grins, leaning back against the wall behind him. You notice that he gravitated to the side of the cell with the window high above him. The weak moonlight pokes its pale fingers through the grate, falling over his hair in a faint silver wash.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to introduce myself,” he says, laughter lurking in the back of his voice. “This is kind of refreshing. Do they not let you guys watch the news?”
Winter reaches through the bars, passing you a flask of contraband rum. He nods towards Sanji, who is doing a good job of charming and snarking with the guys despite the hell he’s clearly been through. His hair curtains the blue-black wreckage on the right side of his face, but he winces when he moves. You can only imagine what kind of damage his clothes are hiding. Rum down here is jealously hoarded, but it’s the best analgesic they have to offer the kid.
“Here,” you say, nudging his arm with the flask. You don’t think he’d thank you for pointing out the pain he’s in, so you say, “This’ll warm you up.”
That surprise touches him again, shaving years off his face, as though kindness from strangers is the last thing he expects from the world. But he moves through it like a professional, nodding his thanks and taking a swig. It’s a rough, heady grog, without any citrus to mask that hard water taste, but he swallows it down as smooth as wine and doesn’t even wince.
He passes the flask back, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Hey,” Winter says sharply, fighting a grin of his own, “don’t judge me. I ain’t got a distillery around here to work with, you know.”
“I’d never,” Sanji says, waving a hand. “Just making a mental note. Back home, our first mate will drink anything. I’m realizing now how much gold I’d save on my grocery budget if I made him brew his own shit.”
That gets a round of good-natured jeering, and Sanji seems to relax a little, with rum in his belly and thoughts of his home in the front of his mind.
“Without you around, he’ll have no choice but to learn,” Pete says matter-of-factly.
“Oh, I’ll definitely be around,” Sanji replies. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
You’ve met pirates before, here and there. They’re a rough-and-tumble sort, a hardy, war-born breed. They talk about the sea with fear and reverence, they’ll gladly spend hours describing the proud lines of their ship as it cut through a squall or daringly outmaneuvered a Naval fleet.
You don’t think you’ve ever heard a pirate call it 'home’ before. You don’t think you’ve ever met a pirate who talked about their first mate with all the measured exasperation of a brother who has had it up to here with his sibling’s shit.
“So you’re a chef, are you?” Wades asked, philosophically steering the conversation into safer waters. Behind him, Winter is giving Pete a speaking look, one that suggests he ought to shut his mouth before someone does it for him. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in the Sambas region of East Blue,” Sanji says easily, even eagerly. “There’s a floating restaurant there called the Baratie. My father owns it. He taught me everything I know.”
They pass an hour that way, trading stories of families and hometowns and favorite dishes. Sanji comes a little more alive with every new recipe they float by him. His fingers twitch, as if aching for a spoon or a spatula. You find yourself wishing this kid was anywhere else in the world but here.
A guard comes by and smacks the barrel of his gun against your cell, railing at the lot of you to shut up.
“And you,” he says, jabbing a finger in Sanji’s direction. Sanji exhales a plume of smoke in his direction, looking bored. “Enjoy that cigarette. It’ll be your last. An admiral will be here in the morning to collect you, and it’s payday come early for the rest of us when we get our cut of your bounty.”
“Hey, you’re welcome,” Sanji says. “Dream big.”
The guard looks apoplectic. Wades looks exhausted by Sanji’s whole person in general, rubbing a hand over his face and muttering a prayer. You’re half-worried they might try to drag Sanji out of the cell to make an example out of him, but in the end the guard spits on the ground and leaves.
“Do you have a death wish?” Winter demands of Sanji the moment the block door slams closed.
“I mean, it kind of comes with the job,” Sanji replies. He rubs the butt of his cigarette out on the floor with a put-out expression. “I didn’t join up expecting an easy ride.”
“What are you worth?” you ask with a sense of dread.
This isn’t going to be like watching Reily go slowly, after all– this is going to be an abrupt departure. Sanji is going to be taken someplace horrible, like Impel Down, or the nearest gallows. His bright young life is all but over.
And he has the gall to shrug.
“Enough,” he answers. “Those guys are probably planning their retirement,” he adds, with a nod to the door the guard had gone out of.
Wades looks like he wants to reach through the bars and strangle him. Winter does, too. You are coming around to that sentiment yourself. This kid doesn’t seem to give a shit about himself.
“I don’t buy it,” Pete retorts. “Someone like you? Some cook from East Blue? You’re probably worth a couple hundred thousand bellies at best, maybe a million, if your captain’s somebody.”
Sanji tilts his head back so that it rests against the dirty wall behind him. He’s still upright, somehow, through sheer stubbornness or spite. He doesn’t look like someone who only has tonight left to live.
In fact, he looks sharp. There’s no better word for it. His expression is still as peaceable as it has been since he arrived, but watching him is like watching a knife slide out of its sheath. He is, abruptly, dangerous. A tool made for cutting.
“If you knew where I’ve been, you would be terrified of me,” he says.
And the north-facing wall explodes.
Sirens begin wailing, and acrid smoke starts billowing up in thick pillars. Panicked voices rise on the other side of the jail, followed by rapid-gunfire. You jerk to your knees and then to your feet, but you don’t exactly have anywhere to run. Emergency lights are flashing but you can’t see anything.
A few figures cut through the dark and the smoke, darting towards the cell bock. And then, impossibly, a voice calls out, “Sanji?”
Your cellmate is on his feet beside you, pressing forward against the bars.
“I’m here,” he calls out. For the first time since he got here, there’s a fracture in his voice.
A split-second later, someone is standing in front of you. Someone familiar. They’re short and skinny, dressed in bright red and yellow, a straw hat hanging from a string around their neck. There’s a thin scar beneath their eye, and a much larger one stretched across their chest.
You don’t get a lot of news down here, but even you recognize Straw Hat Luffy when you see him.
“Holy fucking shit,” Pete breaths.
“Zoro,” Straw Hat says, and a green-haired man appears at his shoulder as if plucked from thin air. He draws one of the swords at his hip and cuts through the thick steel door with hardly more than a flick of his wrist.
The first mate Sanji spoke of in tones of warm annoyance, who drinks away their gold and who Sanji is going to bully into home-brewing from now on, is Pirate Hunter Zoro. Of course he is.
The bars give way. Straw Hat moves before Sanji can do more than sway in his direction. He steps into the dingy cell and reaches up for his cook with both hands, familiar and proprietary. Sanji allows his chin to be turned, his hair pushed back so that the grisly bruises on his face are exposed.
Straw Hat’s eyes are black with anger. This, you think, is the boy who started a war for his brother. This, you realize, is why Sanji was unafraid.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“Of course you are,” Straw Hat snaps. “You’re mine, you’re the best. Of course you’re fine. Zoro, get these off him.”
He’s glaring at the sea-stone manacles with a hatred that seems disproportionate to their crimes.
“I don’t want him coming anywhere near my hands with those,” Sanji says immediately, as their first mate begins to lift a blade.
“Fuck you, swirly,” Pirate Hunter retorts.
“I’m going to count to three,” a new voice says from behind them, in a tone that crackles like electricity in a storm, “and when I’m done, you two are not going to be standing around arguing like toddlers in the middle of our jailbreak.”
Sanji lights up when Cat Burglar Nami joins them. He offers his cuffed wrists to her without fuss, and she makes short work of them with a stolen set of keys. She tosses the key ring to you when she’s done, by virtue of you being in her immediate vicinity, then touches Sanji’s face in much the same way Straw Hat had moments ago. Her touch, unlike her tone, is gentle.
“Chopper will fix you right up,” she says. “Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Sanji says, turning to you. “You guys want a lift?”
Pirate Hunter glances at Straw Hat, who in turn, glances at you. His eyes are– you don’t want to say otherworldly, but it’s the only word that comes close. He’s staring right through you. You think, for one panicked second, that if you had said even one unkind word to his friend, he would be able to tell.
But you didn’t. So he nods, and Pirate Hunter cuts the rest of the cell doors into metal ribbons. You, Wades, Winter and Pete fall into step with the pirates as they make their way out of the cell block, passing the keys between each other as you go.
“He’s that Sanji,” Pete is muttering, face pale. “I told Black Leg Sanji he wasn’t even worth a million.”
Sanji is rubbing his freed wrists with no small amount of relief. The cuffs left angry red welts behind, and it’s something you can see all three of his crewmates clocking with sharp eyes. Pirate Hunter cuts the hand off the next guard you encounter, in something that looks like retribution.
Their entire operation takes about ten minutes. This tiny island was unprepared for them. Hell, you think somewhat manically, Impel Down was unprepared for them. Captain Reeds didn’t stand a fucking chance.
Down at the wharf, a ship is waiting on the moonlit water. It’s brightly-colored and bold, with a lion figurehead and a cheerful Jolly Roger. Sanji’s eyes are glued to it. Every step he takes towards it looks lighter than the last.
Home, he called it, not even an hour ago. You can see it now.
You’re joined on the gangplank by the rest of the raiding party, Wanted faces spilling past you– Devil Child, Soul King, Cyborg, the fucking Knight of the Sea– and Sanji barely makes it two feet across the grassy deck before he’s besieged. There’s a little reindeer clutching his knee, and a rabbit-shaped girl clinging to one of his arms, and both of them are bawling. Sanji, half-laughing, holds them as best he can.
Cat Burglar is barking orders that her boys are scrambling to follow, and within minutes they’ve set sail, maneuvering through the treacherous waters that surround Reed’s island with laughable ease.
Exactly five seconds after Chopper closes his medical bag and deems Sanji well, Sanji looks directly at Luffy and asks, “Have you eaten?”
Luffy lifts his chin, defiant for reasons that go beyond you. “Of course not. You weren’t here.”
And that’s how you find yourself sitting in a warm galley, crowded around a scarred wooden table, with some of the most infamous people in the world. The skeleton offers you a cup of hot coffee, and numbly, you accept.
Apparently, you’re in for a treat. The kitchen comes alive under Sanji’s practiced hands, a medley of saucepans sizzling away on the stove.
Luffy is sitting on the counter next to him, legs folded. Nominally, he’s helping to wash vegetables, but in practice he’s just sneaking bites of hot peppers and mushrooms every time Sanji looks away.
They both seem happy to be in each other’s company, regardless of their near-constant squabbling.
“Hey, this isn’t half-bad,” Zoro says to Winter, after a generous swallow of his home-made grog.
In the kitchen, Sanji turns and catches your eye unerringly. He lifts his brow, as if to say, 'see what kind of shit I have to deal with?’ and you can’t help it.
You lean back in your chair and laugh.