Chapter Text
Grainy splinters dig into Sanji's temple. His head aches, skull rocking like currents against The Thousand Sunny. Groaning, Sanji rolls onto his back as the fog clogging his mind clears--first slowly, then all at once. Eyes shooting open, he bolts upright only to groan again when blood rushes too quickly back to his beating head.
Once the dizziness settles, Sanji looks around at the mess he's sitting in. The cook's neat rows of freshly diced vegetables lay scattered around him, along with knife and cutting board. Various storage containers are knocked over and spilling out.
What the hell happened?
Hands running through his hair, tugging gently to ease the pounding beneath the roots, Sanji grimaces. His body has been reacting in strange ways lately, and he hasn't been able to piece together why.
The first clue something was wrong happened days ago, in the early throes of an indigo morning. The cook woke up with stomach pain and spent a good two hours in the bathroom puking his guts out--among other things. The pain was so bad he nearly passed out several times. Once it passed, he spent the rest of the day exhausted, sluggish, and overall confused. Sanji never contracted food poisoning, even when young and experimental with his dishes. The man simply evaded illnesses in general. Eventually, when no reasoning behind his sudden sickness came to mind, he decided to let it go as a fluke, without anyone the wiser.
The second strange instance wasn't so dramatic.
Sunny and her crew were anchored in a bustling harbor, and Sanji was climbing back onto the ship with groceries tucked under one arm when said arm suddenly gave out. One moment he felt the crates against his ribs, and the next there was no feeling at all. He paused mid-rung, heard a splash, and glanced down in time to see a giant ripple where his purchases had clearly been swallowed whole while his arm simply swung limp at his side, a sight stranger than the sensation itself.
Before he could blink, the feeling returned, and without bothering to mull over it, the cook dove into the sea to salvage what he could. It was embarrassing more than worrying--at least in the moment. Again, he'd been confused, but he didn't connect the two instances until the third time his body acted out.
This time, he and the crew were in battle against a band of rogues. They were no-name pirates with brutal tongues and little skill. They were easy to deal with, save for the fact that Sanji's foot yielded no haki to step on mid-skywalk after dodging an attack. He hit the ocean surface face-first in a spluttering display he would never live down. His only saving grace was he hadn't been that high up and, as swiftly as it vanished, his energy returned.
The downside was that he'd caught the crew's attention. After sending their wannabe intruders sailing away with their tails between their legs, Sanji blamed his mishap on the heat of the nearby summer island, and they'd all moved on with their days, reluctant or not.
Sanji couldn't though.
Not after that.
That was a day ago. Now, here he is laying in his dinner prep with a sliced open finger that was left to bleed a little too long.
Quickly grabbing a dishtowel, Sanji presses it against the offending wound. He can't remember the last time he scratched a sliver of skin from a knife. It's an art he more than mastered.
Glancing at the time, the cook curses. He cannot deny something weird is going on, but dinner is fast approaching, and he has nothing ready. Whatever is happening with him can wait. Feeding his crew came first.
Within twenty minutes the kitchen is clean, sterilized, and five dishes are readied, set for a more family-style feast to compensate for the quality. Not that quality ever truly lacked where Sanji has anything to do about it, but he digresses.
The table grows rowdy fast. Dishes passed around at top speed before Luffy manages to clear them all with a single swoop of his rubbery limbs. If anyone thinks the meal is lacking, they don't mention it, and Sanji is grateful.
Finally relaxed after watching the full smiles of his feasting friends, the chef finishes his own plate, lips quirking happily, and he clears the table of empty dishes. He has a plate full of pre-made desserts on hand to bring out. A perfect ending for a perfectly normal dinner.
A fork prods the side of his hand.
“The hell’s wrong with your finger?” comes the question out of the swordsman’s mouth.
Sanji almost drops the plates. "What?” He tries to hide the bandaged tip of his finger under the stack of dishes as everyone peers to catch a glimpse. “Nothing.” Leave it to the one idiot on the Grand Line with moss for brains to notice something as trivial as a band-aid. Someone needs to take his other eye out.
"You're hurt?" Chopper gasps.
"No. Just a slip of the knife," Sanji assures, ignoring the raised eyebrows along the table he gets in response.
"Do knives slip for you?" Franky questions unhelpfully.
What is Sanji supposed to say? Admit he isn't perfect? At cooking? In front of Mosshead? In front of the ladies?! He can't. Won't.
He sighs. “I let myself get distracted is all.”
Which isn’t a lie. His eyes roam quickly over Zoro’s single stare, trying not to linger on anything specific. Like the way his tongue darts out and captures a grain of rice that was stuck to his bottom lip. He definitely isn’t going to ponder anything about that right now.
“That still isn’t like you, Sanji,” Nami responds as she hands him her finished meal with an added ‘thanks.’ Then she laces her fingers under her chin and sports a smile that Sanji knows is a precursor to Nami-specific mischief. “Anything you’d like to share? Maybe we can help.”
Zoro’s head snaps in her direction at the same time Usopp leans into the others conspiratorially. “He’s losing his touch,” the sniper mock whispers to them.
Sanji’s eye twitches. “What was that, long-nose?”
“Oh, nothing!”
There seems to be a scuffle of leg-kicking under the table. Luffy is laughing, having joined in without knowing why it all started in the first place. And Sanji can’t find it within himself to care either at this point. It’s enough of a distraction to steer the conversation away from him and onto dessert, which ends up working perfectly.
“Wow!” comes a chorus from the crew as Sanji returns from the kitchen with a masterful pyramid of desserts in his arms. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper shot up from their seats, drooling at the stacked sweets. The cook allows himself the pride from their reaction. Even pre-made and frozen for days, his desserts were always a remarkable sight. The pestering dims to a hum of contentment. Everyone is fully, completely stuffed to their cores, and Sanji — for the time being — is satisfied.
OoOoOoO
Just as the sunlight finally breaks through the late morning clouds, Nami rests her elbows on the handrails of The Sunny and peers overboard. The water sloshes delicately against the side of the ship’s helm. It’s a sign of a calmer current, so she isn’t surprised when only a few minutes after having set up their fishing net that Usopp is already yelling.
“Haul ‘em in!” the sniper shouts up at their cook, who had—during breakfast—laid out an unusually lengthy list of chores that needed fulfilling. The list of distractions is a sign Sanji is more upset about that wound on his finger than he is letting on, as far as Nami is concerned. Whether it is because of pride or something more troubling, she can’t say.
Still, she trusts Sanji. Which — to be fair — is a recently acquired sentiment. Not the fact that she trusts him; she trusts him with her life. She just never used to trust him with his own.
Their kind cook always has been the self-sacrificial type. His escapade to Whole Cake Island proved that more than anything else, and throughout that incident Nami witnessed some darker truths about him. Sure, he can be obnoxiously overbearing with his flirting, but at the end of the day Nami loves having a man so thoroughly wrapped around her finger she can dictate the way he breathes.
Is she manipulative? Of course. It’s an art she perfected to survive.
Besides, she would never make Sanji to do anything to harm himself or force him if he truly did not want to do something. He’s stood his ground on more than a few occasions, and Nami had been impressed as much as she’d been annoyed.
She understands Sanji a lot better these days and has had him vow to never face things alone anymore. She knew what that was like, after all. Neither of them needs to do that anymore. Not when they have nakama.
Sanji grips the fishnet’s lining in his hands and reels it in. The web of fiber surfaces from the sea filled with squirming sea critters, fresh and ready to add to their aquarium. Nami can’t help but smile when the cook’s face lights up as he announces the haul will set them up for a good month without worry. He hates worrying. So does Nami. Some days, when even Robin is on a mischievous streak, she swears Sanji and her are the only two maintaining this ship. Preparation is everything, and Sanji understands that better than most.
Below her, Usopp signals that the net is fully out of the water. Sanji — out of breath — secures the rope before moving to the edge of the deck as Franky unlatches the aquarium door.
Hold on a minute…
Nami steers her gaze back over to the blonde. His torso is slightly bent forward, chest heaving, like he just ran a dozen and one marathons. Absently, he kneads the muscles in one of his arms, brows slightly scrunched.
That’s odd.
His feet wobble backwards. Nami’s heart stops at the same time Franky shouts.
“Sanji-bro, watch out— HEY!”
Nami screams.
Their cook’s eyes roll back, and he disappears off the ledge, sucked into the sea.
OoOoOoO
Chopper is yelling at something behind Sanji.
Suddenly, Queen’s sword smacks into him, and Sanji’s body bends sharply at impact. But his feet stay where they are. His body firm in its spot. He straightens with a few cracks of his bones. It didn’t hurt. Not at all.
He looks around, relieved at first, but then he sees the looks on the faces around him. Wide eyes, pinpointed on him through fear. Terror. His crew is there. All of them. Stepping back. Away from him.
“Guys?”
They don’t answer. Keep retreating.
“Guys, what’s wrong?”
He steps forward, hands reaching out, and is blocked by three swords and a straw hat. Protecting them, Sanji realizes.
Protecting them from him.
Lungs burning, Sanji blinks awake. He’s floating. No—drowning.
He stares through the green sea haze as his legs, urges them to kick. They start, yet as minutes pass the surface remains out of his reach. Every push from his thighs to his toes bears fruitless success. Like he isn’t moving at all. Is he even facing the right direction anymore? His chest tightens with every second that passes, about to pop.
Panic begins to set in, but Sanji tries to control it. Tame it back so he can focus. Focus on what, though, he doesn’t know. He’s already swimming.
Swimming. Swimming. Swimming!
His vision begins to black out around the edges, and just as he’s about to light up his haki in a last-ditch effort to force momentum, something thick wraps around his waist. He struggles, but when he swivels his head around he sees the marimo, and it’s almost embarrassing how reassuring that is.
And annoying.
But Sanji is in and out of consciousness, and there’s too much water in his mouth, and his throat is burning, and the air is chilly, and someone is smacking him on the back way so hard he wants to kick them in the face, and—
“Sanji… Sanji!”
Sanji’s back pistons forward as he splutters, expelling a stream of saltwater from his lungs. Chopper turns him onto his side. Gross noises exit his lips as oxygen re-enters his body like a fresh hit of nicotine. Sanji gulps as much of it as he can without suffocating on air. But that’s exactly what he does—choking and gagging. It’s like his body is in its own experience, disconnected from his logic. It erects him on his knees before he can even think about it, only to betray him again. His own weight is too much. He falls forward into a pair of arms, familiar in their strength.
How is the green-headed idiot always right here?
Right here witnessing his humiliation like he can sense when the cook is about to make a fool of himself.
Sanji wants to crumple up and be thrown back into the water. But it’s warm here, actually. Others are calling his name, but Sanji can’t focus. Zoro smells of warm rice and sea salt, with a pinch of turmeric. Sanji can boil him up and serve him on a plate every day for the rest of his life. For now, he’ll leave his head rested on the curves of the swordsman’s chest. His soft chest.
His…ample chest…
Fuck!
He shoves out of Zoro’s arms and lands unceremoniously on his side with a grunt. His body aches, and the pain from his landing rattles his bones.
“Sanji, calm down.” It’s Nami’s voice, but she’s too far away. Carried off by the wind. Someone needs to bring her back. Sanji — Sanji needs to rescue her.
“Just breathe,” Usopp’s voice interrupts his daydream.
“You’re safe, Sanji.” Robin. Beautiful, gorgeous Robin.
He wants to listen to her. If anyone is aware of the situation it’s their exceptionally intelligent archeologist. But it’s too hot, and too loud. A tornado of voices swirls around him, and he can’t keep track. His mind spins further away from them.
Jinbei is somewhere behind him. “His breathing’s picked up again,” the fishman notes.
“He’s sweating like crazy,” Franky adds.
“What’s wrong with him?” Luffy.
Mosshead seems to be demanding something. “Chopper?!”
“He’s burning up,” Chopper answers, voice an octave too high even in Sanji’s ears. “He has a fever, and his body is going into shock.”
Sanji fades fast, lungs engulfed in flames he can barely feel anymore. The last thing he hears before going under once again is Chopper’s final diagnosis.
“It’s happening too quickly! If we can’t slow it down, he’ll die!”
x.X.x