Chapter Text
Zeff wasn't worried. The wooden deck creaked under his peg leg as he paced, his weathered hands clenched behind his back. The evening fog crept across the water, thick enough to obscure the coastal lights of the rebuilt coastline of the Oykot Kingdom. He paused at the rail, squinting into the mist.
"That little shit," he muttered, though the curse lacked its usual bite.
The restaurant below buzzed with the last customers of the night, their muffled voices and clattering plates a familiar comfort. But Zeff stayed topside, his jaw tight as he tracked the hours since dawn when Sanji had departed in their supply boat.
A routine market run. That's all it was supposed to be. The boy had pestered him for weeks about extra work, hoarding tips and wages like a desperate man. As if Zeff wouldn't get him anything within reason for his damn birthday. Can't even accept a gift without treating it like a loan. Pride or stubbornness, maybe both.
The harbor's lights flickered through the fog, distant, dreamlike. Zeff had sent the boy alone, disguising the privilege as punishment. Away from the constant chaos of the kitchen, maybe the kid would act his age for once. Find some fancy spice to experiment with or chase after a pretty girl and get that excess energy out of his system.
The kid was at that age where his head turned at every swish of a skirt. Just last week, Zeff had found a crumpled love letter tucked between inventory sheets, full of flowery nonsense about eyes like starlight and hair like silk. He'd burned it before the other cooks could find it and tease the boy mercilessly, but still... Maybe he should have said something then.
But what the hell did he know about raising teenagers? His own youth had been spent at sea, where matters of the heart were settled in port towns and left behind with the tide. He'd tried to teach the boy respect, dignity. But hormones were hormones, and the eggplant wore both his and his heart on his sleeves.
The boy had been making eyes at customers since they first opened their doors, transforming into a lovesick puppy whenever a pretty face walked through the door. Zeff had caught him practicing pickup lines in the mirror more than once, though the brat's attempts at flirting usually ended in stammered compliments and bright red cheeks.
There had been that merchant's daughter a months back—what was her name? Pretty little thing with ribbons in her hair who'd visited with her parents. The boy had practically floated through service that day, nearly dumping soup in customers' laps because he couldn't keep his eyes off her table. Even slipped her extra dessert when he thought Zeff wasn't looking.
The family had become regulars for a while, until the father's trade route changed. Zeff had caught Sanji sneaking glances at their empty table for weeks after. Probably why the boy had been so eager to handle market runs in that direction lately...
Zeff's fingers drummed against the rail. He wasn't worried. The boy could handle himself. But as the fog thickened and the night deepened, his scowl grew darker.
Sanji always sent word, even when he'd gotten himself into trouble. Always made sure Zeff knew where to find him, like he was afraid of being forgotten if he stayed gone too long.
But the hours stretched long, and no snail call came. Not even to bail the brat out of trouble. The kid's mouth ran faster than his legs sometimes, especially since Zeff had started teaching him to fight. Like he finally had the means to back his words. He took to the kicks like he'd been born for it, channeling that desperate need to prove himself into every hit.
He kicked the railing with his wooden leg, the sensation distracting him from the uncomfortable feeling in his chest only momentarily. He'd give it another thirty minutes before taking out the backup boat.
The silence stretched, broken only by the lap of waves against the Baratie's hull. Zeff's fingers dug into his crossed arms. The boy better have a damn good explanation for this. Making him stand out here like some worried parent...
Movement caught his eye—a shadow against the gray wall settling over the sea. The shape of a small vessel emerged, too smooth on the water, barely loaded. His initial surge of relief curdled as he took in the details, or lack thereof. No crates of produce stacked high, no sacks of flour or spices. Just Sanji, slumped over something cradled against his chest.
"Damn fool better not have gotten himself robbed," Zeff growled, but his stomach knotted.
The supply boat bumped against the Baratie's hull, Sanji's movements uncharacteristically clumsy as he secured the mooring line one-handed. His other arm cradled something wrapped in what looked like his jacket. His hair hung in his face, hiding his expression.
No visible injuries, at least. But where were the supplies? Not even a single bag of flour.
The moonlight caught Sanji's face as he straightened, eyes red-rimmed, dried tear tracks on his cheeks. Zeff's jaw clenched. The boy hadn't cried since those early days after the rock. Whatever happened in town...
"You better have a damn good explanation for this." Zeff's voice cut through the night air. "No call, no supplies—"
Sanji's head snapped up, finally noticing him. "Zeff..." The word came out choked, barely a whisper.
"Don't 'Zeff' me. I gave you one job. Instead you disappear all day without a word, come back empty-handed—"
A thin wail pierced the air—the unmistakable sound of an empty belly, one he'd recognize anywhere, from any creature. The bundle in Sanji's arms squirmed, the jacket falling away to reveal a tiny fist reaching toward the sky.
"What—" Zeff's words died in his throat. He tried again. "Where the hell have you been, boy? What's..." He gestured helplessly at the infant.
Zeff's mind raced through possibilities as he stared at the squirming bundle. Had the boy stolen someone's child? Found an abandoned infant? His stomach turned at the thought of what desperate situation could have led to this moment.
"Start talking, eggplant." He kept his voice low, mindful of the crying baby. "What happened in town?"
Sanji's shoulders hunched, his grip tightening on the infant. "I can't— I just..." He swallowed hard. "She's hungry. I didn't know what to get, but—"
"Whose kid is that?" Zeff's wooden leg thumped against the deck as he closed the distance between them. "Did something happen at the market?"
The baby's cries grew louder, tiny fists waving in the air. Zeff reached for the bundle, more out of instinct than conscious thought. But Sanji twisted his body away, almost stumbled back into the small boat.
"She's..." Sanji hesitated, "She's mine."
Zeff barked out a laugh, harsh and disbelieving. "Like hell it is. What woman would—"
The new angle and shifting clouds allowed light to cast across the bundle in Sanji's arms. Zeff's words died in his throat.
Blond wisps of hair, blue eyes screwed up with tears—nothing remarkable there. But those damn curved eyebrows... Zeff had spent four years looking at those same stupid swirls every day across the kitchen.
The baby hiccupped, her crying momentarily subsiding as she blinked up at him. Those distinctive spiral eyebrows—mirror images of Sanji's—left no room for doubt.
The deck seemed to tilt beneath Zeff's feet. Where had he gone wrong? He'd tried to raise the boy right, teach him honor, responsibility. And now...
"I can explain—"
"Thirteen," he muttered. "You're thirteen, for fuck's sake."
"I'm almost fourteen!" Sanji's voice cracked. "My birthday's in three days—"
"Almost fourteen?" Zeff's temple throbbed. "You think that makes you a man? Makes this okay?" He stabbed a finger at the infant, who had quieted but still gripped Sanji's shirt with tiny fingers.
"Where's its mother?" Zeff's mind raced through every woman who'd passed through their restaurant in the past year. That merchant's daughter? The timing worked, but she was young. But then, so was Sanji. His voice dropped dangerously low. "Another kid your age? Or—" His fists clenched as darker possibilities surfaced.
The baker's widow who always lingered at Sanji's tables? The traveling performer who'd rafted up for a week while a storm passed? More still had seemed interested in his boy, but he'd written it off as amusement at Sanji's youthful attempts at charm.
He'd sworn never to harm a woman, taught Sanji the same code. But if some adult woman had taken advantage of his boy...
"Start explaining," Zeff growled. "Now. And it better be good, because I'm about ten seconds from kicking you straight into next week, birthday or not."
The baby stirred again, making soft sounds that tugged at something in Zeff's chest. He shoved the feeling aside. Focus. The boy needed sense knocked into him, not coddling.
"Everything." Zeff took a step forward. "Where you've been. Who the mother is. What the hell you were thinking. And why you thought showing up with a baby was better than calling home."
"I didn't—" Sanji started, but the infant's wail cut through his protest. He bounced the bundle, whispering soft nonsense. "Shh, shh, it's okay. Everything's okay."
The baby's cries grew sharper, hungrier. Each piercing note twisted the knife deeper into Zeff's gut. How many times had he heard that same desperate sound during his time at sea? That primal call for sustenance that haunted his dreams and ran him off from the Grand Line?
First rule: feed the hungry.
The infant's tiny fists batted the air, searching for comfort, for milk, for its mother. Where was she? What had his fool of a son done?
Second rule: never harm a woman.
Zeff's hands trembled. He'd tried so hard to mold Sanji into an honorable man. To teach him respect, dignity, the proper way to treat others, especially women.
Weathered fingers found their way to his mustache, twisting and pulling at the braids while his jaw worked silently, eyes locked in the middle distance between them. This was his own fault as much as Sanji's, he'd failed to have those uncomfortable talks every father dreaded, but he knew what he was like at that age, and the eggplant had been making heart eyes at lady customers almost as soon as they had any lady customers.
"I didn't do anything wrong!" Sanji's voice cracked with defiance.
"Bullshit!" Zeff barked. "You expect me to believe this just happened by accident?"
"You don't understand anything, shitty geezer!"
"Then explain it to me, because all I see is my idiot apprentice showing up with a baby that's got his damn face! In all my years at sea, I've only seen that on one person." Zeff's wooden leg hammered against the deck. "Hell, maybe I should've locked your ass in the kitchen instead of letting you make eyes at every woman who walked through the door."
Sanji's face flushed red, but something flickered behind his visible eye. His arms tightened around the bundle. "You can't just—"
"What's your plan here, boy?" Zeff cut him off. "Got a cradle hidden in the pantry? Going to cook with one hand and change diapers with the other?" He gestured at the crying infant. "Where's it supposed to sleep? What's it supposed to eat? Did you think about any of that before you decided to play house?"
"I..." Sanji's shoulders hunched, anger warring with panic on his face. "I'll figure it out!"
"Figure it out?" Zeff's voice went dangerously low. "This isn't some damn recipe you can experiment with until it works. This is a baby, you half-cooked eggplant! One mistake, one failure, and—"
"I'm not—!" Sanji's voice cracked. "I won't fail her, I'm not—" His words stumbled over each other as the baby wailed louder. His shoulders hunched as he curled protectively around the bundle. "She needs me… don't make me leave her. Please don't send us away!"
The raw panic in Sanji's voice hit Zeff like a kick to the chest. The boy's visible eye was wide, glassy with unshed tears. He hadn't looked this scared since those endless days on that godforsaken rock, waiting to die.
The anger drained from Zeff's body, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. His fingers twitched with the need to act, to solve one simple problem before tackling the mountain of complications looming ahead.
Zeff sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as the infant's cries reached a fresh crescendo of discomfort, as if competing with Sanji's own pleas. His hands trembled with the need to act, to solve one simple problem before tackling the mountain of complications looming ahead.
He's a real pain, this boy of his. This wasn't how Zeff envisioned spending his retirement years. Parenting had never been in his plans, much less taking care of an infant. He was a hardened criminal, a former pirate who'd left a trail of blood and plundered riches in his wake across the most dangerous stretches of sea.
Yet here he was, completely at a loss in the face of this tiny, squalling life that his own brat was responsible for.
His frown deepened as Sanji's frantic shushing devolved into desperate pleas. The raw fear in the boy's voice was like a knee to the gut. For all his bluster about becoming a real man, in that moment Sanji looked every bit the lost, lonely child Zeff made the choice to dive head first into a storming ship's wreckage and save all those years ago.
Zeff had always been quick to anger, all hot burning emotions that he was never shown how to properly handle or express. He'd spent the last few years learning to temper his reactions, to be what this stubborn, damaged child needed. Now there were two of them to worry about.
"Stop your damn sniveling and get inside," he growled, snatching the bundle from Sanji's trembling arms. The boy's hands shot out reflexively, but Zeff's peg leg caught him in the shin.
"Ow! What—"
"That baby needs feeding, and you're letting her go hungry while you stand there blubbering. You're a cook, I've at least taught you that much." Zeff awkwardly cradled the infant against his chest as he used his wooden leg to redirect Sanji toward the restaurant entrance.
The infant's wails softened as he adjusted his hold, one tiny fist reaching out and catching in his mustache. Its eyes, so achingly familiar, stared up at him with that particular brand of determination he'd come to associate with his stubborn apprentice...
Damn, when was the last time he'd held something this small?
As much as he hated to admit it, Zeff didn't know the first thing about caring for a baby. The old salt had seen his share of young ones on ships and port towns over the years, but they had always been the concern of women who knew what to do with such things.
Farbeit for him to question a woman's judgment, but what kind of mother would trust her newborn to the seas with nothing but a teenage boy for protection? The thought sat like lead in his stomach. He'd get the full story from Sanji soon enough, even if he had to kick it out of him.
Zeff shouldered through the kitchen's doors in Sanji's heels. The clattering of pots and pans ceased as every head swiveled toward them. Steam hung thick in the air, carrying the lingering scents of dinner service.
"Back to work, you nosy bastards!" His voice cracked like a whip across the kitchen as he made his way to the pantry. "Those dishes won't clean themselves." Inside the pantry, his mind wandered to distant ports, trying to recall what he'd seen used when a mother's milk was not an option. He grabs the case of evaporated milk they kept for emergencies. Sanji hovered nearby, wringing his hands.
"Stop fidgeting and make yourself useful. Get me a pot." Zeff nodded toward the hanging cookware. "Small one."
While Sanji scrambled to comply, Zeff eyed his collection of kitchen tools and wondered for the first time in his life what would best serve as a substitute for a tit. His gaze landed on the drawer of specialized equipment. A baster might work, but the rubber bulb looked too firm. Next to it lay several pastry bags, the tips ranging from thick to hair-thin.
Carne's knife stilled mid-chop. "Is that a—"
"Congratulations, you've volunteered for tomorrow's grocery duty." Zeff cut him off as he shifts his grip, tiny fingers weaving further into his mustache.
The pot clinked against the stovetop. Sanji measured out powdered milk and water, muscle memory taking over as he adjusted the flame, finally focused on the task at hand.
"But wasn't that what Sanji was supposed to—" Patty's question died as Zeff's glare landed on him.
"You can join him." He pointed between his senior cooks as the baby tugged hard, drawing an undignified grimace from Zeff. Someone—probably one of the newer recruits—snickered.
The temperature seemed to drop as Zeff's eyes swept the kitchen. Everyone suddenly finding their work stations fascinating. Good. Let them remember who ran this floating madhouse.
"Mind your own damn business and get back to work." He said as he gestured for Sanji to turn off the heat, the milk reached temperature. Grabbing the pastry bag and a clean set of tips, he planted his wooden leg behind Sanji's knees, steering the boy toward the stairs, pot in hand. "Unless anyone else wants to volunteer for extra duties?"
The sounds of furious scrubbing and clanking dishes filled the air as they continued up the stairs toward the living quarters. At least his crew knew when to shut their traps, even if they couldn't keep their noses out of other people's affairs.
Zeff's boots creaked on the wooden steps as they climbed to his quarters, the baby's whimpers echoing in the narrow stairwell. His room spread wider than the others, maps and old logbooks lining the walls. A desk dominated one corner, stacked with invoices and crew schedules.
"Fill that bag, quick." He shifted the squirming bundle while Sanji poured the warm milk mixture. The tiny fist finally released his mustache as Sanji fitted the pastry tip, reaching for the makeshift bottle with trembling hands.
Zeff lowered himself onto his bed, watching as Sanji settled into the desk chair. The infant latched onto the improvised nipple with surprising force.
"Strong grip on that one." Zeff rubbed his tender mustache. "Must take after its mother."
Sanji flinched, shoulders hunching. "Her. She's a girl." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Her name is Sora."
Zeff's groan rattled deep in his chest, brought back to reality. Perfect. Just perfect. How was he supposed to maintain discipline with a female child? He couldn't exactly kick her into shape like he did with Sanji.
"I didn't do anything wrong!" Sanji's outburst startled the baby, who released the bottle with a wet cough before quickly latching back on. "I had to take her. She wasn't safe with her mother. This is better—this is right!"
"Better?" Zeff's patience frayed. "Then explain it to me, eggplant."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft suckling noises as Sora resumed her dinner. Through the floorboards drifted the muffled chatter of his kitchen staff below, mingling with the familiar end-of-day clatter as the restaurant wound down its service.
"I can't." Sanji's jaw set in that familiar stubborn line. "But I'm doing the right thing. I won't abandon her. I'll take care of her with or without your help, shitty geezer."
"Of course you will." Zeff fixed him with a hard stare. That's the man he's raising. "But don't think this is over."
They were going to have a long night.
* * *
Zeff's wooden leg creaked as he shifted in his chair, listening to the muffled cries and soft footsteps through the walls. Sanji had paced all night, alternating between singing off-key sea shanties and whispering stories about All Blue. Zeff's hand had twitched toward his door more than once, but he'd held firm. Some lessons needed learning the hard way.
Dawn painted the kitchen windows pink as Patty and Carne shuffled into the kitchen, dead-eyed from their early wake-up call.
"Need you to add something to the list," Zeff scratched his mustache. "Baby things."
Carne sighed and pulled a server pad from his pocket, clicking the pen, "What kind of baby things?"
"Hell if I know. Ask a woman at the port."
Zeff watched his two veteran cooks exchange glances, their faces scrunching up like they'd bitten into spoiled fish.
"The brat didn't steal it, did he?" Patty's forearms tensed. "I mean, he's done some wild stuff, but—"
"You shut your mouth." Zeff cut him off. "That boy wouldn't steal a grain of rice, let alone a child."
"Come on, Chef." Carne crossed his arms. "Kid shows up with a baby in the middle of the night and we're not supposed to wonder what the hell he gets up to?"
Patty slapped the counter. "Probably knocked up some poor girl and—"
"Enough." The old chef's mustache bristled. "And you two jackasses aren't helping by running your mouths. You've been here four years. Ever seen him do wrong by anyone?"
They both looked down at their feet.
"Bad for business though," Patty mumbled. "Crying baby in a fancy restaurant."
"Could be good." Carne's face lit up. "Ladies love babies. Put the little one in a chef outfit, have her greet customers—"
"You're not using my granddaughter as a prop."
The word slipped out before Zeff could catch it. Patty's mouth fell open.
"Granddaughter?"
"Both of you, out!" Zeff grabbed a pan off the wall, primed and ready. "You're on company time."
"Ha! What company time?" Patty grinned. "You pay us in table scraps and insults."
"Only place that'd keep your sorry hides employed this long." But Zeff's voice held no bite. These idiots had stuck with him through thick and thin, helped build this floating dream from nothing.
"Yeah yeah." Patty waved him off. "We just stay for the free meals."
"And the charming company," Carne added.
"Get out of my kitchen before I kick you both overboard."
"Aye, Chef," they both called, their boat already pushed off and headed to shore.
Back through the door, Zeff eyes the sink with the mess of pots and measuring cups crusted with dried milk. The boy hadn't even rinsed them, a clear sign of how frazzled he must be. Rolling up his sleeve, Zeff resigns himself to the work. The piping bags lay limp on the counter, looking pathetic without their usual purpose of decorating fancy desserts. He'd have to boil them again before tonight, assuming the numbskulls managed to find proper bottles in town.
Steam rose from the sink as he worked, his thoughts drifting to the infant upstairs. One small tin of evaporated milk wouldn't last long. Babies needed special food, proper nutrition. He'd seen enough half-starved children in his days to know the difference good food made.
The dishes clattered as he stacked them to dry. His wooden leg dragged slightly on the stairs—damn thing always swelled in the morning humidity. The upper deck creaked under his weight as he approached Sanji's door, pressing his ear against the worn wood.
Silence.
He eased the door open, just enough to peek inside. Morning light filtered through the porthole, casting a gentle glow across the makeshift cradle—nothing more than an old produce crate lined with clean tablecloths. The baby lay on her back, one tiny fist curled near her face, chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep.
Sanji sprawled beside the crate on his stomach, one arm dangling over the edge as if keeping watch even in sleep. A pack of cigarettes sat untouched on the nightstand—first time in months Zeff hadn't caught him sneaking a morning smoke. Small blessings.
Zeff closed the door with practiced care. Let them rest while they could—the real challenge would begin when that baby woke hungry again.
* * *
Overnight, Zeff watched his restaurant transform. The familiar chaos of service now punctuated by infant cries and Sanji's hushed reassurances. The boy refused to let the baby out of his sight, even during the busiest rushes. Dark circles shadowed his visible eye, his usual pristine appearance showing signs of wear from two nights of midnight feedings and diaper changes.
On the second day, he cornered Sanji in the kitchen during a lull in lunch service on the second day. The baby dozed in a makeshift sling across Sanji's chest while he bussed dishes like nothing was amiss.
"You can't keep dodging this conversation forever, eggplant."
"Watch me." Sanji said, already moving towards the door.
"The mother. Who is she?" Zeff followed him down the spiral stairs like a shadow.
"Not telling."
"If some woman took advantage of you—"
"It wasn't like that!" He slammed the bussing tray on a nearby table as he spun to face him. Sora stirred at his outburst, and Sanji's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "Neither of us did anything wrong."
"Then why'd she dump a newborn on you?" Zeff towered over him in a clear attempt to intimidate, but received nothing more than a defiant stare and stubborn quiet. The thought struck him that his days of looking down at the brat were numbered—the kid already reached his nose, having shot up so fast he'd stretched right through the clothes and chef whites Zeff had bought him just months ago. "How old is the baby, at least?"
Sanji stiffens. Finally, a reaction.
"Few weeks. Maybe three?" Sanji's voice cracked, averting his gaze down to the top of her head. "I don't— I don't know the exact date. Everything happened so fast when I saw her again after so—" He cut himself off.
Sanji's face twisted, like he was biting back words. He shifted Sora higher against his chest, protective.
"I should know her birthday." He turns to look Zeff in the eye. "What kind of person doesn't even know their—" He pressed his lips together, blinking hard.
The self-loathing in the boy's voice made Zeff's chest tight. But the evasions, the half-truths—something wasn't adding up. Every gentle prod and harsh demand met the same wall of silence.
"Dammit, eggplant. I can't help if you won't tell me what's going on."
"I don't need help." Sanji's jaw set stubbornly. "I just need to take care of Sora."
The other cooks adapted faster than Zeff expected. Patty and Carne's initial mockery dissolved the first time Sora grabbed Patty's finger, her tiny grip surprisingly strong. Now they argued over who got to hold her during prep work.
"She's good for business," Patty declared one afternoon, watching female customers coo over the little girl strapped to Sanji's chest. The boy's usual flirting replaced by proud parent preening—until Sora's inevitable crying sent him scrambling for the kitchen.
* * *
It was the quiet moments that troubled Zeff most. The way Sanji's eyes would drift toward the horizon, then snap back to the baby. Zeff watched the boy sway on his feet while stirring the soup, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced each day. The infant strapped to his chest gurgled, reaching for the steam.
"Give her here, eggplant."
"I got it." Sanji's words slurred with exhaustion. "She needs me."
"What she needs is to not fall in the broth," Zeff planted his peg leg. "Hand her over."
"Like hell. Your ugly mug'll just make her cry more."
"Handled you these last years, didn't I? All you did was wail and whine about everything. At least she's got a reason to cry."
Sanji's jaw clenched. "That was different. I wasn't—"
"A helpless child who needed someone to take care of them?" Zeff crossed his arms. "Could've fooled me."
"She's my responsibility."
"And you're mine, shitty eggplant. Now give me the baby before she becomes tonight's special."
An hour later, Zeff found them tucked between stacks of rice bags, the boy's lanky frame curled around Sora like a shield. Dark circles bruised under Sanji's visible eye, his chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of pure exhaustion. The infant's tiny fist clenched his wrinkled shirt.
He signaled Patty and Carne who'd followed him down. Without a word, they executed their plan with the precision of long-time kitchen partners. Patty's massive hands gently extracted Sora while the other slipped the butternut squash into Sanji's arms. The boy didn't stir, just hugged the vegetable closer.
Zeff placed his hastily scrawled note on top of the nearest rice bag where Sanji would spot it when he woke. 'Sleep or I'll kick your ass.'
Up in the dining room, Zeff adjusted the sling across his chest, copying how he'd seen Sanji wear it. Sora's weight settled against him, her wispy blonde hair tickling his chin. She smelled of milk and fresh linens.
"Oh, what a precious grandbaby!" A woman at table six clasped her hands together. "She has your eyes!"
Zeff opened his mouth to correct her, then paused. The corners of his mustache twitched upward. "Takes after her father more."
He studied her face as she dozed. She had Sanji's nose, his coloring. Even that ridiculous swirled eyebrow. Currently she looked like every other wrinkly potato of a newborn, but he'd caught glimpses of the boy in her expressions. The way her face scrunched up when upset reminded him of Sanji's own potato-like tantrums.
He shook his head. He needed to stop comparing these kids to vegetables.
Zeff settled into his worn leather armchair, adjusting Sora against his chest. The dining room's elderly patrons had pressed coins and small bills into his hands, cooing over the baby despite his gruff protests. Hard to maintain his fearsome reputation with an infant drooling on his chef's whites.
"Just a little something for the sweet girl," they'd insisted, reminding him of their own grandchildren.
Zeff pocketed the extra beli, mental calculations already running. The boy would pitch a fit if he knew, but what was the harm in a few concerned customers wanting to help? Besides, watching Sora's tiny chest rise and fall against his own, he figured he'd earned some grandfather privileges.
His bedroom felt different with her there, the familiar space transformed by mental notes of what they'd need. Proper bottles, not the modified sauce bottles they'd cobbled together. Real diapers instead of cut-up kitchen towels. And that produce crate they'd padded with blankets wouldn't work much longer, though there was something fitting about it, considering she was swapped with a squash mere hours ago.
The door to their living quarters slammed open, footsteps racing down the path to Zeff's owner suite. He sighed and tucked away the ledger as he looked at the clock. A two hour nap was better than nothing.
"Where's Sora?" Sanji burst into the office, hair wild from sleep.
"Right here, eggplant. Found my note?"
"That wasn't funny." But the tension leaked from Sanji's shoulders at the sight of her.
"Got us an extra thousand beli in tips." Zeff adjusted the sling. "Customers love a doting grandfather."
"You told them—"
"What? Rather I let the rumors run about how a restaurant of ex-cons now have a mystery baby?"
Sanji's mouth snapped shut. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions.
Sora stirred against Zeff's chest, her tiny breaths warm through his shirt. Two days. It had taken just two days for this scrap of a girl to work her way under his skin. Him, Red Leg Zeff, terror of the East Blue, gone soft over an infant with spiral eyebrows.
Not that he'd admit it. Let them wonder why the produce orders now included baby supplies. A few creative accounting tricks, that's all it was. What were a few white lies between family?
Still, Sanji's secrecy gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
* * *
"This is the last straw!" The cook slammed his knife down, pointing an accusing finger up toward the dorms. "I can't concentrate with that constant wailing. It's unprofessional having a baby in a working kitchen!"
Zeff crossed his arms, unimpressed. The man had lasted longer than he'd expected—most who couldn't handle the Baratie's particular brand of chaos cleared out within weeks.
"Door's that way." Zeff jerked his thumb toward the exit. "Don't let it hit you on the way out."
"You're making a mistake. A restaurant is no place for—"
"My restaurant, my rules." Zeff's wooden leg thumped against the floor. "And I say the baby stays."
What bothered him more than the cook's departure was Sanji's silence throughout the exchange. The boy measured formula powder with mechanical precision, not even glancing up at the commotion.
"I'm sorry." Sanji's voice was barely above a whisper once the cook stormed out. "I can pick up his shifts. Work doubles."
"Like hell you will." Zeff watched his adopted son's shoulders hunch.
"But we're understaffed now because of me—"
"Because they're weak." Zeff cut him off. "This restaurant was built for fighters, not crybabies who bolt at the first challenge. Hell, half these idiots would've quit anyway once the summer storm season hit.
"We'll anchor at the Geckos for a while. Get some new blood, restock."
Sanji tested the formula's temperature against his wrist. "She goes through so much."
"Takes after her old man. Never met a plate she didn't clean." That earned him a slight upturn of lips.
A day later, Zeff watched the Gecko Islands' shoreline grow larger through the porthole. The morning sun glinted off calm waters—perfect conditions for dropping anchor. He'd already compiled two lists: essentials for the restaurant and a growing collection of items for Sora that previous customers had recommended. The dining room had become an unexpected source of parenting wisdom—though Zeff would sooner eat his own hat than admit how much he relied on those casual suggestions from customers.
He squinted at his chicken scratch. "Who knew babies needed so much shit?"
Sanji hovered nearby, bouncing Sora against his shoulder. The boy's birthday savings had burned a hole in his pocket for months—now he finally had a reason to spend it.
"Get yourself some new pants while you're there. Those ankles are showing." Zeff smirked as Sanji tugged self-consciously at his cuffs. "And listen close—if you come back with another curly-browed brat, I'll personally ensure it's your last."
The threat earned him an eye roll, but the message landed. Once Sanji departed, Zeff secures Sora to the crook of his arm and reenters the ship, weaving through their seated guests towards the kitchen.
"The eggplant's getting too tall too fast. Suppose I'll need a new nickname soon."
"Chef, are you having a conversation with the baby?"
Zeff's head snapped up. Patty stood at the top of the stairwell, failing to hide his grin.
"Got something to say about it?" Zeff grabbed a nearby chair with his free hand and hurled it. The seasoned cook yelped and ducked, laughter echoing as he fled.
"Bunch of nosy bastards," Zeff muttered to Sora, continuing his path. "This is why we don't hire women—can you imagine?" He pauses for a second, considering. "What do you think about hiring a milk maid?" He asked Sora, who responded by reaching for her favorite toy, his steadily thinning mustache. He shook his head. "No, you're right. No woman in her right mind would sign up for this floating madhouse."
Zeff settled into his worn leather chair, adjusting Sora in his lap while scanning the horizon. Ships dotted the waterline, their white sails catching the morning breeze as they made their way toward the Baratie. News traveled fast in these waters.
"Gonna be a hell of a day." He shuffled through his notes, deciphering his own handwriting. "Let's see—fed, check. Clean diaper, check."
The snail gramophone crooned an old sea shanty, its melody drifting through the office. Zeff hung a bright red kitchen towel above her makeshift bassinet, watching her track the movement with those familiar curled eyebrows.
Hours slipped by like sand through fingers. The dining room below filled with the clatter of plates and murmured conversations. Through his window, the sun arced across the sky, painting the waves in amber hues.
"Time we had a chat." Zeff propped Sora up against his chest. "Your old man's down there somewhere, probably spending every last beli on you. Meanwhile, I've got a kitchen running half-speed. So here's the deal—you're gonna behave when we go down there. Can't have the owner looking soft, understand?"
Sora grabbed at his mustache and he pulled away, placing the towel in her grip instead.
"Maybe you'll pick up a thing or two, eh? Show these louts how it's done properly." He paused, watching her yawn. "Though you'd better cut your old man some slack. That brat's been through enough."
Zeff's voice softened. "He'd give up everything for you, you know. His dreams, the All Blue—throw it all away without blinking." He touched the wooden leg beneath his desk. "Stubborn trait runs in the family, I suppose. But dreams..." He shook his head. "Dreams are precious things. Don't let him lose his."
The dinner bell rang. Voices swelled from below as the first wave of customers arrived.
"Right then." Zeff stood, settling Sora against his shoulder. "Time to show these rookies how a real chef runs a kitchen."
With practiced movements, he secured Sora in the chest wrap Sanji had left behind. The fabric smelled of cigarettes and spices—that shitty eggplant needed to quit smoking around her.
"Don't you dare piss on my whites." He buttoned his chef's coat over her, creating a protective barrier against the inevitable splashes and splatters of service. Her tiny face peeked out at his collar, still peacefully asleep.
The kitchen's heat hit him as he pushed through the doors. Patty struggled at the grill station, sweat beading on his forehead as he juggled multiple orders.
"Move your ass." Zeff knocked him aside with his wooden leg. "You're burning those steaks."
"Chef! I didn't expect—" Patty's eyes fixed on the bundle beneath Zeff's whites.
"What, never seen a man multitask before?" Zeff flipped three steaks in rapid succession, his movements smooth despite the extra weight at his chest. "Get back to work before I kick your teeth in."
The sizzle of meat hitting the grill filled the air. Heat rose around them, but Sora stayed cool, protected by the layers of fabric. She stirred once when he barked orders down the line, tiny fingers curling against his chest.
"Quiet down, you little shit." He patted her back through his coat. "Can't have you waking up and causing chaos like your old man."
The familiar rhythm of service took over—plate, garnish, call out orders. The weight against his chest became just another part of the dance, like his wooden leg or the burn scars on his hands. One more adjustment to the endless adaptations of running this floating madhouse.
Zeff adjusted his grip on the wooden spoon, stirring the pot with one hand while the other steadied Sora against his chest. The brat squirmed, her usual post-nap fussing right on schedule.
"Settle down, you little shit." He patted her back through his whites, no heat to his words. She was surprisingly docile for a baby, at least in his limited experience with what came through their restaurant halls. "Your old man'll be back soon enough."
The gentle rock of the Baratie seemed to settle her, same as it did every day. Steam rose from the pot, carrying the rich aroma of seafood stock—the familiar scents and sounds of her makeshift nursery. Between the clanging pots and sizzling pans, Sora's eyes grew heavy again.
"Chef! There's a delivery!" Carne's voice cut through the kitchen din.
Zeff turned from the stove, careful not to jostle Sora. A group of nuns stood at the service entrance, their habits stark against the weathered wood. Wooden crates filled their arms.
His jaw clenched. More charity. The restaurant's patronage had spread word faster than a wildfire, despite his growled warnings to mind their own business.
"We heard about your situation," one nun explained, setting down a box.
"Didn't ask for help." Zeff shifted his weight, wooden leg creaking.
"The Lord provides—"
"I provide." He cut her off. "Been doing fine without divine intervention my whole life."
The nun smiled, undeterred. "Consider it a community gift, then. Books on childcare, some educational materials." She gestured to the crates. "And proper formula preparation guides—quite different from cooking stock, wouldn't you say?"
Zeff grunted, eyeing the supplies. Practical items, at least. No religious propaganda hidden between the pages, he hoped. Those women might dress like penguins, but they knew their stuff.
"Fine." He huffed. "Put it all in my office." Zeff waved Carne away. "And don't let that shitty eggplant see when he gets back. Knowing him, he's blown half our budget on frilly dresses and hair bows she won't wear for months."
Sora cooed against his chest, tiny fingers curling into his lapel.
"Yeah, yeah. You'll defend his stupid purchases." He adjusted her position. "Just like him—no sense of practical spending."
The first dinner rush passed silently until Sanji burst through the kitchen doors, his hair windswept from the supply run. The boy's eyes landed first on Sora, still nestled against Zeff's chest, before darting to assess the state of dinner service.
"Welcome back, eggplant." Zeff shifted as Sanji approached, carefully transferring Sora and removing her wrap from his torso. "Bout time you showed up."
Sanji cradled her close, checking her over with practiced movements before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. Within moments, he secured her and the chest wrap and stepped up to the line beside Zeff, falling into their familiar rhythm.
Pride swelled in Zeff's chest as he watched Sanji's knife work—clean, precise, no wasted movement. The boy had grown so much, maybe too much too fast. Sometimes Zeff caught glimpses of the child he should have been—playing games with the other cooks, sneaking treats between meals, making messes just for the hell of it. Instead, Sanji carried himself like a man three times his age, shoulders squared against burdens no teenager should bear.
The ache in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared his throat. "Did you follow the list or waste all our money on frilly shit?"
"Shut up, old man." Sanji plated three orders in quick succession. "You're just jealous you can't pull off a proper tie."
"How many bows did you buy?"
A flush crept up Sanji's neck. "She'll grow into them. And I got us matching accessories—women love a man who can dress well and handle children."
"Tch. There's more to romance than being a smug little shit."
"Like you'd know anything about romance, shitty geezer."
They fell into their familiar rhythm, trading barbs between orders. For a moment, everything felt normal—just another busy night at the Baratie. Then a pot crashed against the tile. Sora's wail cut through the kitchen chaos. Sanji's smile vanished as he quickly passed off his station, scooping her from Zeff's arms and heading for the door.
"I've got her," he muttered, already shifting into father-mode.
Zeff watched him go, that familiar ache returning. Sometimes he wondered if he could have done more to preserve what little childhood Sanji had left.
* * *
Zeff watched the dinner crowd thin out, his wooden leg tapping against the floorboards. Three weeks at the Geckos had brought changes—fresh faces in the kitchen, steady business, but the stillness gnawed at him.
And apparently his brat rediscovering hormones.
"Chef." Patty cornered him between prep stations. "Sanji's at it again. Table seven—third time this week he's made eyes at the customers."
"Oscar said he found him entertaining some girl during his break." Carne chimed in, "Getting handsy in the storage room."
"For fuck's sake." Perfect. Just what he needed—his fourteen-year-old sous chef thinking with anything but his brain. The irony wasn't lost on him, given the infant sleeping upstairs, snail monitor perched high on its wall shelf terrarium away from the heat of the stoves.
Later that night, Zeff found Sanji in the darkened dining room, pressed against some girl with more lipstick than sense. He cleared his throat.
"Out." His voice cut through their startled gasps. The girl scurried away, face flaming.
"My angel, wait—" Sanji called after her, spouting flowery nonsense until Zeff's peg leg caught him behind the knees.
"Sit down, eggplant." Zeff crossed his arms. "We need to talk about protection."
"What—" Sanji choked on smoke. "No. We absolutely do not."
"You've already got one kid. I won't have you filling my restaurant with more."
"That's— that's different!" Sanji's face burned red. He lashed out with a kick that Zeff easily dodged from his vantage point.
"You're ruining my chances at true love!" Sanji glared up at him. "I'm not a little kid anymore."
"That's the point." Zeff hauled him up by his collar. "You're fourteen with responsibilities. Can't have you chasing skirts when you should be chasing your dreams."
Zeff's jaw clenched as Sanji straightened his rumpled jacket, face still flushed from embarrassment or anger—probably both.
"We weren't doing anything wrong." Sanji kicked at an invisible speck on the floor. "Just kissing."
"That what you call it?" Zeff's mustache twitched.
"My hands stayed where they belonged!" Sanji's voice cracked. "Above clothes, over the waist. I know how to be a gentleman."
Zeff snorted. Some gentleman, necking in dark corners like a hormone-addled teenager. Which, he supposed, was exactly what the brat was.
"I respect women." Sanji's visible eye blazed. "Unlike some shitty old men who chase them out of their restaurants."
"Watch your mouth." Zeff's wooden leg thumped against the floor. "You think I don't know what happens when young idiots let their hearts do the thinking?"
"That's different! Sora isn't—" Sanji cut himself off, teeth clicking shut.
"Isn't what?" Zeff leaned forward, but Sanji just shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Nothing. But I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" The words came out sharper than intended. "Because from where I'm standing, you've got a baby upstairs and now you're sneaking around with customers in my storage room."
"That's not fair." Sanji's shoulders hunched. "And Marie isn't just some customer—she actually likes me."
Zeff's chest tightened at the hurt in the boy's voice. Marie. Of course the little shit had learned her name, probably her favorite foods and dreams too. His wooden leg scraped across the floor as he shifted his weight.
"Sure, eggplant. I'm sure she does." He kept his tone neutral, years of practice masking the concern underneath. "But we're lifting anchor come morning."
Sanji's head snapped up. "What? We just got here three weeks ago."
"And now we're leaving." Zeff met his gaze steadily. "Weather's turning. Got a letter about good fishing grounds up north."
"But—"
"But nothing. You're getting attached. To the town, to the girl—"
"I'm not attached!" Sanji's voice cracked again. "And even if I was, so what? Maybe I want something normal for once."
Zeff's chest tightened. Normal. As if anything about their situation was normal. "I'm trying to look out for you, eggplant." The words came out gruffer than intended. "That's what parents do."
Sanji muttered something undoubtedly disrespectful, but Zeff was already heading for the helm. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon—time to point east and leave these waters behind.
Zeff climbed the stairs, muttering curses about teenagers and their mood swings. He paused at the top of the stairs as he caught Sanji's off-key humming mixed with Sora's fussy whimpers. The brat hadn't slept properly in days, dark circles under his eyes matching the ones under Zeff's own. The walls between their rooms might as well be paper for all the crying that filtered through.
"Shh, come on baby girl. It's time for sleep."
Zeff rubbed his mustache, guilt tugging at his conscience. The boy needed an outlet for his stress. He almost felt bad about interrupting him with the island girl earlier.
Almost.
Down in the chef's quarters, the new recruits played cards around the common table. Fresh faces, green as spring cabbage when it came to proper knife work, but he'd beat the skill into them soon enough. More importantly, they didn't flinch at the constant brawls or curse at baby cries piercing through dawn service.
"Gama." Zeff beckoned their navigator, a weathered man who'd sailed these waters for thirty years. "Need your input on our heading."
Gama spread his charts across the table, pointing east toward deeper waters. "Sir, shortest route would take us past Conami, but—"
"Word has it fishmen hold those waters." Zeff's jaw clenched. He'd crossed paths with fishmen before, back when his kicks could split galleons. Nasty business. "Mark an alternate course. We're not risking those routes."
"Heard they're demanding protection money from passing ships." Gama's fingers traced wider paths around the islands. "Three times what the Marines charge for safe passage."
Zeff snorted. "More like extortion." He studied the charts, calculating supplies against travel time. They could swing south, adding two days to their journey. Better than testing their luck against opponents who could snap masts like twigs.
The restaurant could handle any regular pirates, but fishmen were different. Zeff wouldn't gamble his family's safety, not with Sanji barely keeping his eyes open and Sora still learning to sleep through the night.
Course successfully plotted, the men got to work lifting anchor and set their sails, clear skies and stars as their guide. Through the wall, Sora's cries finally quieted to soft whimpers. One less thing to worry about, at least for tonight.
* * *
They're west of Loguetown when it happens.
The laugh burst through the kitchen like a bell, clear and bright. Zeff's head snapped up from the sauce he'd been reducing. Through the steam, he caught Sanji frozen at the prep station, knife suspended mid-chop as tears streamed down his face.
"She laughed." Sanji's voice cracked. "Did you hear that?"
Before Zeff could answer, Sora let out another peal of giggles from her basket perched on the counter. The sound hit something deep in Zeff's chest, dragging him back decades to a distant shore in Paradise.
"Reminds me of an island I once docked at." Zeff moved the sauce off the heat. "Whole damn village would throw a feast when a baby laughed for the first time."
Knife set safely on the counter, Sanji wiped his face with his sleeve. "A feast?"
"That laugh is what makes us human, they'd say." Zeff crossed to where Sora lay. "Marks the moment a child truly joins the world."
The boy's shoulders relaxed, tension bleeding out of him for the first time in months. He wiped his hands quickly as he leaned over Sora, immediately coaxing another laugh with wiggling fingers.
"Carne! Patty!" Zeff's voice carried through the kitchen. "Clear the evening service tomorrow. We're having a celebration."
"What for?" Patty stuck his head through the door.
"The little shit learned to laugh. Now move your ass and help me plan this properly."
"A party? For a laugh?" Carne scoffed, but Zeff caught the smile tugging at his mouth.
"You got a problem with that?" Zeff raised his wooden leg threateningly.
"No chef!" Both men scrambled to attention, badly hiding their own excitement.
Zeff watched Sanji scoop up Sora, spinning her close to his chest while she squealed with delight. The boy's smile stretched wide enough to match his daughter's, like he'd finally remembered he was still a child himself.
"Patty, raid the cold storage. I want those bluefin we caught last haul, and break out the good stuff."
"The '42 vintage?" Carne's eyes widened.
"Did I stutter?"
"Right away, chef!"
Patty lingered by the door, hands fidgeting. "What about the dessert course?"
"Your specialty." Zeff crossed his arms. "Make it count."
A grin split Patty's face as he darted toward the pantry, already muttering about custard and cream.
Sanji hovered near the prep station, Sora balanced on his hip. "I can help with the—"
"Like hell you will." Zeff jabbed a finger at him. "Take that kid upstairs and give her a proper bath. She's been marinating in kitchen smoke all day."
"But the feast—"
"Is none of your business." Zeff softened his voice. "Go be a father for once instead of playing cook. Draw her one of those fancy bubble baths you're always going on about."
Sanji's visible eye narrowed. "They're therapeutic, old man."
"Then go get therapeutic. And don't come back down until you both smell like a damn flower shop."
Sanji opened his mouth to argue, but Sora chose that moment to grab a fistful of his hair and yank. His protest turned into a yelp as he stumbled toward the stairs.
"Serves you right," Zeff called after him. "Now get moving before I kick your ass up there myself."
The kitchen settled into a familiar rhythm as his cooks bustled about their tasks. Zeff allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow would mark more than just a baby's first laugh—it would be the first real celebration they'd had since Sora's arrival.
The next day, Zeff watched from across the dining room as Sanji made another ridiculous face at Sora. The boy had been at it for hours, pulling his features into increasingly absurd expressions while the baby squealed with delight. The other cooks crowded around, plates of half-eaten food forgotten as they egged him on.
"Do the fish face again!" Patty raised his wine glass.
"No, the monkey one!" Someone else called out.
Sanji obliged, puffing his cheeks and crossing his eyes. Sora's laughter rang out, pure and bright. His face lit up like he'd discovered gold each time she giggled, desperately chasing that sound as if it might vanish forever.
Zeff's wooden leg tapped against the floor as he approached their table. Sanji caught the movement and straightened, his face flushing red as he tried to smooth his features back to his usual cool demeanor.
"Just showing them how she—" Sanji cleared his throat, tugging at his collar. "I mean, they wanted to see..."
"Hmph." Zeff crossed his arms. "And here I thought you were trying to catch flies with that mouth of yours."
The other cooks snickered. Sanji's blush deepened as he busied himself adjusting Sora's bib.
"I wasn't—"
Sora reached up and grabbed Sanji's nose, cutting off his protest. Her delighted shriek echoed off the walls as she yanked.
"Ow! Hey!" Sanji's attempt at dignity crumbled as she pulled harder.
"Seems the little lady's found something better to laugh at," Zeff couldn't keep the amusement from his voice.
Sanji shot him a glare, but his lips twitched upward as Sora released his nose to pat his cheeks instead. The boy's eyes softened, drinking in every smile like water in a drought. Zeff recognized that desperate thirst—the need to hoard every scrap of joy before life could snatch it away.
The old chef's chest tightened as he shook off the melancholy. The boy had grown into a man faster than any of them realized—proof sat right there in his arms, gurgling and tugging his hair.
"Patty! Get the brat a drink. Something stronger than that piss-water wine."
"I'm fine—" Sanji started.
"Put some hair on that smooth chest of yours." Zeff rapped his knuckles on the table. "Can't have my sous chef making faces like a circus clown without a proper excuse."
Patty returned with a bottle of aged whiskey, the good stuff they saved for special occasions. He poured a generous measure into a crystal glass and slid it across the table.
"I need to keep making her laugh." Sanji dodged the glass, bouncing Sora on his knee. "She just learned how—"
"She's not gonna forget overnight, you idiot." Zeff grabbed the glass and shoved it into Sanji's free hand. "Besides, you'll get sick of that sound soon enough."
That wasn't fooling anyone, but it worked well enough as he snatched the baby from his son's arms and booted him from the chair. Though they'd only first heard her laugh one day ago, it seemed impossible to picture their restaurant lacking that sound. Even considering the problems they'd faced since she'd come into their lives.
"But—"
"Drink." Zeff's tone left no room for argument. "Your daughter just hit a milestone. That deserves a proper toast."
Sanji's visible eye widened at the word 'daughter.' His fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the glass. He lifted it, hesitated, then knocked back half the whiskey in one go.
The cooks erupted in cheers. Sora startled at the noise, then joined in with another peal of laughter. Sanji coughed, eyes watering, but his grin stretched wider than Zeff had seen in months.
"There's your first drink as a real father." Zeff clapped him on the shoulder. "Now stop worrying and celebrate properly."
Zeff bounced Sora on his knee, watching his staff through the haze of cigar smoke. The newer cooks had shed their initial hesitation, diving into the festivities with the same wild abandon as his veteran staff.
Somewhere in the background, a glass breaks. Everyone freezes, but the new busboy jumps to get a broom, beating Sanji to the punch. Good kid, if a bit young. Still three years older than Sanji, so who is Zeff to judge his choices in career?
"See that mess over there?" Zeff muttered to Sora as she gummed at her bottle. "That's what happens when you give pirates a reason to celebrate."
Sora's eyes drooped as she finished the last drops of milk. Zeff shifted her to his shoulder, his calloused hand supporting her head with a gentleness he didn't know he had until recently.
With the glass dealt with, the idiot cooks continued with their partying like nothing happened.
"Give her here." Sanji wobbled over, cheeks flushed from the whiskey. "S'my turn."
"Sit your ass down before you drop her." Zeff kicked out a chair, forcing Sanji back into his seat. "Can't even walk straight."
Patty slapped Sanji's back hard enough to make him spill his drink. "Who knew the brat was such a lightweight?"
"Three drinks!" Carne howled. "Three drinks and he's done!"
"M'not done." Sanji tried to stand again, reaching for Sora. "Want my baby."
"Your baby's sleeping." Zeff tucked her closer, away from Sanji's unsteady hands. "Now eat something to absorb that booze and act like a proper man celebrating his first child, or I'll boot you straight into the ocean to sober up."
The other chefs roared with laughter as Sanji slumped back, grumbling into his glass. Zeff felt Sora's tiny fingers curl into his mustache, her breathing evening out as she drifted off against his chest.
"That's right, little sprout." He kept his voice low, meant only for her ears. "Let your idiot father make a fool of himself. Someone's got to keep their dignity around here."
As midnight crept closer, the celebration had quieted to a low hum of contentment, plates scraped clean and bottles emptied. His cooks sprawled across tables, trading stories between yawns.
Sanji slumped forward, chin propped on his folded arms as he stared up at Sora's sleeping face.
"Won't let them find us here." The words slurred together, barely audible over the clink of glasses.
Intrigued, Zeff probed, "Who's that, eggplant?"
"Doesn't matter." Sanji's visible eye fixed on his daughter, sharp despite the alcohol. "They can't have her. Won't let them make her like—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
The hair on his neck stood up. For months he'd watched this boy dodge questions about Sora's mother, about where she came from. Now drunk words spilled truth between the cracks.
"Make her like what?"
Before he could press further, Sanji's breathing evened out into soft snores. The old chef cursed under his breath. Three months of silence, and the answers slipped away with consciousness.
Sora stirred against his chest, tiny fingers curling into his chef's whites. Whatever shadows lurked in Sanji's past, they cast their weight over this child too. Zeff tightened his hold on her, a familiar protective fury building in his gut.
"Whole mess of trouble you two brought to my doorstep." He brushed a thumb across Sora's cheek. She settled deeper into sleep, innocent to the weight of her father's words.