Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Winter winds howled outside the Baratie's windows, but inside, the heat from the ovens maintained a cozy atmosphere as the kitchen prepared for the evening rush.

"Slow down, you little terror!" Zeff barked as she darted between his legs, nearly sending him sprawling for the hundredth time. His good leg caught the edge of a cabinet, and he grabbed the counter to steady himself. He rubbed his hip, still sore from yesterday's tumble.

"Sora, wait!" Sanji vaulted over a counter, landing with the grace of a cat before scooping her up mid-stride and setting her down near his station. "The kitchen's hot right now, stay with me."

Her laughter echoed through the kitchen, the same bright sound that had first graced them months ago. Never did grow tired of it, despite what he'd told Sanji that night.

Previously, Zeff marked the seasons by the changing menus, but now he measured time by Sora's growth. By Autumn, her first crawl across the kitchen floor sent pots clattering. By Winter, her first dash between tables scattered bread crumbs and napkins in her wake. The girl skipped walking entirely, as if crawling bored her and running promised more excitement.

"Did you see that?" Sanji's voice cracked with pride every time she achieved something new. "She just-"

"I saw it, eggplant. Hard to miss when she almost knocked over my saucepan."

But Zeff couldn't fault the boy's enthusiasm. Each new expression, every giggle and scowl fascinated Sanji like a new recipe to master.

She shadowed Sanji's every move, tottering after him between prep stations like a small duckling. The boy's footwork improved faster with a toddler to dodge than any of Zeff's combat training. He'd pivot mid-step, scoop her up before she grabbed a knife or hot pan, all without breaking stride.

Unlike Sanji, Zeff wasn't nearly as graceful. His wooden leg caught on her toys, sending him sprawling more times than he cared to count. But she never got hurt—somehow always landing safely or caught by Sanji's quick hands.

"Watch the old geezer, baby." Sanji settled her on his hip, stirring the sauce with his free hand. "He's not as nimble as us."

"Shut it, brat." Zeff straightened his chef's hat. "Not all of us need to prance around like ballerinas."

"Bah!" Sora reached toward the stove, and Sanji twirled her away from danger.

"Still no real words?" Zeff asked, though he knew the answer. They'd all been waiting for her first word, especially Sanji who documented every milestone with religious devotion.

"Not yet." Sanji adjusted her on his hip, muscle memory from months of practice.

The kitchen had transformed over the months. They added new cabinet locks, cleared low shelves of anything dangerous, and learned to call warnings across the kitchen. "Below!" became the standard whenever she darted past, alerting the staff to watch their steps. Still, she found ways to slip through and create chaos. Like now, as she wiggled free from Sanji's grip and darted after a rolling potato.

"Sora!" Sanji called, but she just giggled and kept running.

Zeff watched his son navigate the kitchen, dancing between prep stations and dodging other cooks while keeping one eye always on his daughter. The eggplant still flirted with every pretty face that walked through their doors, despite Zeff's warnings. Just yesterday he'd nearly burned the fish, distracted by some merchant's daughter. Zeff couldn't completely stamp out Sanji's natural inclination to shower others with affection. The boy had too much heart to contain. But now Sora consumed the largest piece of it, evident in how Sanji's face lit up at each new milestone, each fresh emotion she displayed.

She hadn't spoken yet, but her expressions said plenty. Right now, they said she was planning another escape attempt. Zeff braced himself for another potential fall as she darted past, tough as a barnacle. Just like her father.

A thunderous clang froze Zeff's blood in his veins. His head snapped toward the sound, catching Sanji's face transform from shock to horror.

"Sora!"

Sanji lunged forward, shoving the scalding pot aside with his bare hands as he scooped up Sora. Steam curled up from the dark liquid spreading across the tiles, carrying the rich scent of reduced beef stock. Zeff's stomach clenched—not quite boiling, but hot enough.

"Move!" Sanji's voice cracked as he rushed to the sink.

"Room temperature!" Zeff barked, seeing Sanji reach for the cold tap. "You'll shock the skin!" Zeff's wooden leg cracked against the floor as he crossed to them. "Who left that pot on the edge?" Zeff's voice cut through the kitchen.

The kitchen stood frozen as he rounded on the responsible party—one of the newer cooks who'd left the pot unsupervised. With the speed and agility of someone half his age, Zeff's wooden leg connected with the man's backside, sending him sprawling.

"You trying to kill someone, you shitty excuse for a cook?"

He swiftly met Sanji at the sink, dreading the result of their hubris. A working kitchen really was no place for a small child. Sanji's hands were angry pink where he'd grabbed the pot, yet Sora seemed more distressed by being manhandled and pulled away from her obstacle course than by being injured. No signs of blisters forming where Sanji held her arm under the running water. No crying.

"Let me see." Zeff gently took her arm, examining it closely. Nothing. None of the blemishes they'd expect from tender skin splashed by scalding water.

"It must have missed her," Zeff sighed in relief.

But Sanji's face was pale, his visible eye wide with something beyond parental concern. "She should be-" He swallowed hard. "That stock was just under boiling."

Zeff studied Sanji's face, catching a shadow of something dark and haunted in the boy's expression.

"Tch. You're overreacting." Zeff released Sora's arm and rapped Sanji's head with his knuckles. "Look at her—more upset about your coddling than anything."

Sanji's hands trembled as he held them under the running water, cooling his own burn. Zeff caught his shoulder.

"Enough." He squeezed once. "She's fine. Been sailing these seas longer than you've been alive. Seen stranger things than a lucky baby."

Through the kitchen window, he spotted Patty and Carne dragging the new cook toward the storage room by his collar. Good. They'd handle that mess.

The rest of the kitchen staff remained frozen, watching the scene unfold. Zeff's wooden leg cracked against the floor.

"What the hell are you all gawking at?" His voice boomed across the kitchen. "Move your asses. Unless you want to explain to our customers why their food's late!" The kitchen erupted back into motion. Zeff snatched Sora from Sanji's arms.

"Go. Bandage those hands." He bounced Sora on his hip. "You're not much good with 'em like that."

Sanji opened his mouth to protest, but Zeff cut him off with a glare. His shoulders slumped as he trudged to the first aid kit, throwing worried glances over his shoulder.

Stranger things, indeed. Zeff could have sworn the stock had splashed her - his eyes might've been old, but they weren't failing him yet. Still, with her soaked from the sink water and dripping onto his chef whites, there was no way to tell now.

Best not to dwell on it.

Sora grabbed at his mustache, yanking hard enough to make his eyes water. Her giggles filled the kitchen as he gently pried her fingers loose. No signs of distress, no redness on her skin. Maybe his mind had played tricks on him in that split second of panic. The alternative...

"Here." Sanji appeared at his elbow, hands wrapped in white gauze. "I'll take her upstairs to change."

"Take the rest of the night." Zeff passed Sora over, noting how Sanji's shoulders remained tense despite his careful movements. "Make sure she's alright."

Sanji nodded, cradling Sora close as he headed for the stairs. Zeff watched them go, pushing aside the nagging questions in his mind. His granddaughter was safe—that's what mattered.

* * *

Zeff walked along the deck until he spotted the familiar wisp of cigarette smoke rising from Sanji' s third cigarette in the past hour. The boy hunched over the railing, shoulders tight as a sail in a storm. Three weeks of this bullshit. Three weeks as his cigarette breaks stretched longer, the deck rails collecting a growing pile of butts that spoke of sleepless nights and churning thoughts. Damn teenagers and their unpredictable mood swings.

"Those things'll kill your taste buds before you hit sixteen." Zeff crossed his arms.

Sanji's visible eye narrowed. "Like you give a shit what I do. Everything I cook tastes like garbage to you, anyways."

The venom in the boy's voice made Zeff's jaw clench. He may not praise every half decent or amazing dish Sanji produces, that wasn't how he did things. But Zeff sensed that wasn't what Sanji was really upset over. This wasn't about his cooking, or the cigarettes, or whatever idiotic comment someone made this morning to set him off. This was something deeper, festering like a badly cleaned wound.

"Meet me on the main deck in five minutes." Zeff turned, his peg leg striking the wood with purpose. "If you've got energy to run that mouth, you've got energy to train."

"I don't need-"

"Wasn't asking." Zeff paused at the stairs. "Whatever's eating at you needs to come out before you poison this whole restaurant with your mood. Five minutes."

He heard Sanji curse behind him, followed by the sharp sound of a cigarette being crushed against the railing. Good. The boy still had enough sense to listen, even if he'd forgotten how to talk without spitting fire.

Time to knock some of that attitude loose.

They squared off on the deck, empty due to the Baratie's monthly rest day. Sanji's form had improved—his kicks carried more power, his footwork smooth as silk. But Zeff blocked each strike, critiquing every move.

"Sloppy." He says, sidestepping Sanji's next attempt. "My grandmother kicked harder than that." Chuckling, he continues, "Hell, Sora could do better."

Something dark flashed across Sanji's face. His next kick cracked through the air with unexpected force, nearly catching Zeff off guard.

"That's more like it-"

"Shut up!" Sanji launched into a flurry of strikes. "You're always riding my ass! Nothing I cook is good enough! Running around with girls, can't cook worth shit, chasing off cooks! I'm just a disappointment to you, aren't I?

"Fuck you!" Each accusation punctuated with a kick that grew stronger, wilder, tears gathering in his visible eye. "Fuck your criticism! Fuck your rules!"

Zeff weathered the assault, it didn't take a genius to recognize he was not the real target of Sanji's rage. This was about whatever weight Sanji carried, whatever secrets kept him up at night.

"Fuck you!" Another kick. "Fuck you!" Stronger still—each strike carrying more power than Zeff expected from such a skinny frame.

A small whine drew their attention. Patty stood at the door, holding Sora. Usually she squealed with delight at their sparring matches, but now her blue eyes were wide with a new emotion they hadn't yet seen—fear, at Sanji's rage.

Zeff watched the fight drain from Sanji's body at Sora's distressed sound. His hand shot to his hair, fingers twisting in the blonde strands until his knuckles went white. His visible eye squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he pulled. The tension bled from his shoulders, leaving him looking small and lost on the deck.

"I-" Sanji's voice cracked. He dropped his gaze to the wooden planks. "I'm sorry. For everything. I just keep making trouble for you."

Zeff studied him, chest tight. Damn emotional crap. He'd rather kick the boy's head in than fumble through this conversation. But seeing Sanji's hunched shoulders, the defeat in his stance—this needed words, not boots.

"Listen here, you little shit." Zeff crossed his arms. "If you were really screwing up as a man, I'd have kept my word. The day that happens, I'll personally slice your damn balls off and slit my throat while I'm at it. That's what it means to be your damn parent."

Sora's face scrunched up, lower lip trembling as she looked between them. Sanji still wouldn't raise his head.

"I should..." Sanji cleared his throat. "I'll take her for her bath before bed." He crossed to Patty, carefully lifting Sora from his arms. "Sorry for the scene."

Sanji's footsteps echoed across the deck as he retreated, that familiar gentleness returning to his movements. His voice carried back, soft and pained as he whispered apologies to Sora.

Patty ambled over, scratching his head. "The hell was that about, boss?"

"Hell if I know what goes on in that brat's head." Zeff scratched his braided mustache. "One minute he's all sunshine around that baby, next he's ready to kick holes in my deck."

Patty lingered, shifting his weight. "Maybe we should-"

Patty lingered, wringing his meaty hands. "Should we... y'know... do something?"

"What exactly do you suggest?" Zeff's voice carried an edge sharper than his best fileting knife. "Hold him down and beat answers out of him?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Get back to work." Zeff turned toward the kitchen. "Whatever's eating at him, pushing won't help. You've seen how he clams up tighter than a barnacle when pressed."

But Zeff knew this wasn't over. That explosion on deck was just the start—the boy was like a pressure cooker with a faulty valve. All that rage had to go somewhere.

He didn't have to wait long for his answer. Two days later, Zeff's peg leg clicked against the kitchen tiles as he entered to find Sanji backed against the prep counter, jabbing a finger at one of their newest hires.

"Are you trying to kill someone?" Sanji's voice carried that dangerous edge. "Cross-contamination isn't just about keeping things tidy, you absolute moron! Raw chicken goes nowhere near prep surfaces for other foods!"

Zeff watched his sous chef's knuckles whiten against the steel counter edge. There it was - that same raw pain from two days ago, bleeding into something that had nothing to do with chicken or cutting boards.

"I've been cooking longer than you've been alive, kid." The cook shoved his arm off. When he wiped his hands on his apron, raw chicken residue streaked across the white fabric, validating Sanji's accusation.

Zeff sighed. Three weeks. This one hadn't even lasted three weeks.

"Then act like it!" Sanji grabbed a fresh cutting board. "Start over. Clean station, sanitized equipment-"

"I quit." The cook yanked off his apron, wadding it into a ball and throwing it at Sanji's feet. "Not taking orders from some teenager." He stormed past Zeff. "Keep your circus of a restaurant."

"Good riddance." Zeff crossed his arms. "Door's that way."

Sanji kicked the apron across the floor. "Third one this month. These idiots can't even follow basic food safety."

"Maybe if you weren't such a demanding little shit-"

"What, you want me to let them poison our customers?"

"I want you to stop running off every cook that walks through that door." Zeff slammed his wooden spoon down. "It's a revolving door of garbage—either they can't handle the pirates or they can't handle the pissy children."

"This isn't Sora's fault!" Sanji's face flushed red. "She hasn't done anything—"

"I'm talking about you, you idiot eggplant."

"I'm turning fifteen in a few weeks. I'm not a child."

Zeff barked out a laugh.

"Ha! I've got wheels of cheese older than you."

"Yeah? Well those wheels probably move faster than your ancient ass."

"Watch it, brat." Zeff's wooden leg thumped against his shin.

Sora's giggles echoed through the kitchen as she watched Sanji rub his shin. She toddled over to Zeff, grabbing his wooden leg with both hands.

"Pa!" She tugged at the peg, her tiny fingers wrapping around the smooth wood.

Zeff lifted his leg, letting her dangle like a little monkey. Her squeals of delight drew a grudging smile from his weathered face. The kitchen paused their work, watching the spectacle.

"Careful!" Sanji hobbled closer, hands outstretched. "She could fall-"

"Relax, eggplant." Zeff balanced perfectly on his good leg, nearly five years of practice evident in his steady stance. "She's got thicker skin than you." He lowered his leg slowly, letting Sora swing. "Besides, you think I'd let anything happen to her?"

Sanji's face flushed, his visible eye darting between Zeff and Sora. "No, I didn't mean-"

"Then quit hovering like a mother hen and get back to work."

The boy's jaw clenched, shoulders tensing as he fought against what Zeff recognized as typical teenage defiance. After a moment, Sanji's expression softened.

"Her birthday's coming up soon," he said quietly, watching Sora attempt to climb Zeff's leg again.

Zeff raised an eyebrow. "That right?"

"Yeah." Sanji ran a hand through his hair.

Zeff did the mental math as he watched Sora play with his peg leg. The boy had stumbled back that night, days from being fourteen himself, with a squalling two-week-old infant.

"Almost a year." Sanji's voice cracked. "What kind of shit father doesn't know his kid's exact birthday?"

Dark clouds gathered in Sanji's expression, that familiar self-loathing creeping across his features. Zeff had seen that look too many times over the years.

"The kind that's raising a strong brat with a hard head." Zeff lifted his leg higher, making Sora shriek with laughter. "Look at her—stuck with a good-for-nothing chain-smoking father who can't even remember important dates."

"Oi!" Sanji's face flushed red. "I'm doing my damn best here, you shitty geezer!"

"Your best includes teaching her curse words before she can string together a proper sentence?"

"That's rich coming from you! Yesterday you called Patty a-"

"We're docking in three days." Zeff cut him off, lowering Sora gently to the ground. "Take those days to post help wanted notices. Might find someone who can actually follow basic food safety protocols."

"And waste more time interviewing idiots who can't tell a julienne from a brunoise?"

"Also find this little monster a proper birthday gift." Zeff ruffled Sora's hair. "Something to make up for having such a forgetful father."

"I didn't forget! I just-" Sanji's protests died as Sora toddled over to him, arms raised. His anger melted as he scooped her up. "Fine. But we're not hiring anyone who doesn't know basic food safety."

Zeff watched Sanji dart around the kitchen, barking orders with Sora balanced on his hip. Almost a year of this dance, and the boy still guarded his secrets like a dragon hoarding gold. The dark circles under his visible eye had only grown deeper, his smiles more strained each day.

* * *

"What about new knives?" Patty suggested during prep, chopping vegetables with mechanical precision. "Kids always complaining about dull blades."

"He sharpens them himself." Zeff grunted. "Takes better care of them than you lot."

"Some nice clothes?" One of the younger cooks piped up. "He dresses like a tiny maitre'd."

"That's his style, dipshit." Carne smacked the back of the cook's head.

"Well, what about-" Another started.

"A girlfriend!" The newest hire, barely eighteen, grinned. "Set him up with someone nice. Get his mind off-"

Zeff's wooden leg connected with the idiot's skull before he could finish that thought.

"You're all useless." He glared at the gathered cooks. "Bunch of snot-nosed brats thinking you know anything."

"Well, you're impossible to please, old man." One of the newer cooks rolled his eyes. "Times have changed. You're too ancient to understand what young people want these days."

The kitchen fell silent. Even the bubbling pots seemed to quiet down.

"Too ancient, am I?" His mustache twitched. "Since you've got youth on your side, you can deep clean this kitchen. Top to bottom."

"But-"

"Make it sparkle."

Their groans of protest filled the air as Zeff stomped out to the deck. The salt air did nothing to clear his thoughts. What do you get for a boy carrying the weight of the world? For a child raising a child?

He pulled at his braided mustache, watching the waves lap against the hull. Whatever was eating at Sanji, no gift would fix it. The boy needed something beyond material goods—something to remind him he wasn't alone in this mess.

* * *

Zeff watched the Baratie drop anchor in the natural harbor, the morning sun casting long shadows across weathered fishing boats. A light breeze carried the scent of salt and fresh grass from the rolling hills beyond the shoreline.

"Oi, eggplant. Got everything packed?"

Sanji adjusted Sora on his hip, patting the bag slung across his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Diapers, food, extra clothes-"

"Good. Let's move."

They descended the gangplank with Carne and two other cooks trailing behind. A weather-beaten fisherman looked up from mending his nets as they approached.

"Looking for supplies?" The man squinted at their group. "Not much here today. Everyone's headed to Shimotsuki for the festival."

"Festival?" Sanji perked up, bouncing Sora higher on his hip.

"Big one. Whole island turns out. Past the dojo, can't miss it." The man gestured west across rolling hills. "Beautiful view this time of year, if you're interested. Though..." His eyes flicked to Zeff's peg leg and Sora. "Might be a rough walk for you folks."

"We can manage-" Sanji started.

"Actually," the fisherman stood, dusting off his pants. "I'm heading that way with my cart. Could give you a lift, if you'd like. No trouble at all."

Zeff studied the man's weathered face, finding only honest hospitality there. "What do you think, eggplant? Save those skinny legs of yours?"

Sanji scowled but his relief was obvious. "Whatever, old man."

Zeff turned to his crew. "Take the ship around the coast. We'll meet you at the western port by evening."

"But Chef-" Carne protested.

"That's an order." Zeff's tone left no room for argument. "Now get moving before I decide you need swimming practice."

The cooks grumbled but headed back to the Baratie. Zeff watched them go, then followed the fisherman to his waiting cart.

The cart creaked as they settled in among sacks of rice and fishing nets. Zeff watched the fisherman snap the reins, setting them on their way across the coastal path.

"Where you folks from?" The man glanced over his shoulder.

Zeff caught Sanji's shoulders tightening, the boy's jaw clenching as he adjusted Sora in his lap. The old chef cleared his throat. "Run a sea restaurant. Ocean's our home these days."

"Ah, sea folk! Then you'll appreciate our local fare." The fisherman's face brightened. "Festival's known for its fish dumplings. Secret recipe passed down generations."

"That so?" Zeff leaned forward. "What else you got?"

"Best rice in East Blue, right here." The man swept his arm toward the terraced fields stretching across the hills. "Sweet rice cakes, savory rice balls—all made fresh. Buddhist monks bless the offerings before sunset."

The cart bounced along the dirt path. Sora squealed with each jolt, her tiny hands reaching for passing butterflies. Her laughter drew a rare smile from Sanji, though the boy tried to hide it.

"Careful there." The fisherman steadied the reins over a particularly rough patch. "Road's seen better days."

The ride continued through the fields. Thirty minutes passed, and Sora's head eventually drooped against Sanji's chest, lulled to sleep by the cart's gentle sway.

"There's the dojo." The man pointed to a sprawling wooden building perched on a hillside. "Heart of Shimotsuki, that place. Been training swordsmen for generations. Master's getting on in years now, but still teaches the village children." He shook his head. "Lost his daughter some years back. Then his nephew ran off to sea a few months ago. Rough times."

Zeff watched the dojo pass, noting its well-worn steps and the sound of wooden swords clacking inside. The morning sun caught the polished gate posts, making them gleam like old bronze.

Through the morning haze, Shimotsuki village emerged like a painting come to life. Lanterns strung between wooden posts and the steady thump of mochi mallets filling the air. Sanji's face transformed as he took in the bustling scene. Villagers in simple work clothes darted between stalls, hanging decorations and arranging displays.

The fisherman pulled his cart to a stop near the marketplace. "Miss Yumi! Got some visitors interested in trade!"

A woman in her forties looked up from her display, wiping her hands on her apron. Her weathered face crinkled into a smile as she approached.

"These are cooks from a sea restaurant," the fisherman explained.

Sanji slid from the cart, Sora now awake and alert in his arms. The boy gravitated toward a nearby stall where two men worked a massive iron pot, steam rising in fragrant clouds.

"What kind of broth is that?" Sanji peered into the pot. "I've never seen that shade before."

Zeff turned his attention to Miss Yumi. "Heard you've got the best rice in East Blue."

"We take pride in our harvests." She gestured to the neat rows of sacks behind her. "Different varieties for different dishes. This one's perfect for-"

A sharp whine cut through their conversation. Zeff glanced over his shoulder to see Sanji bouncing a fussy Sora, whispering something he couldn't catch.

"One moment." Yumi disappeared into her shop, returning with a fresh green onion. "Here, let her chew on this. Old village remedy for teething."

Sora grabbed the offering, immediately stuffing it in her mouth. Her whimpers ceased.

"Well, I'll be damned," Zeff muttered.

"Such a precious thing." Yumi smiled. "How old is she?" Yumi asked.

Sanji shifted his weight. "One. Actually... today's her birthday."

"During the festival? That's wonderful luck!" Yumi's eyes softened. "My own children are grown, but that's such a good age. We're setting up a puppet show to keep the little ones entertained while we prepare. You're welcome to take her there, she'll be in good hands. The village mothers take turns watching the children."

Zeff watched Sanji's face darken at the mention of leaving Sora with strangers. He clutched her tighter, green onion forgotten in her tiny fist.

"No way in hell-"

"Watch your mouth, eggplant." Zeff's wooden leg thumped against the ground. "Don't disrespect a woman by rejecting her kindness."

"I'm not leaving her with-"

"Stop acting like a paranoid idiot." Zeff's mustache twitched.

"Shitty geezer, you don't understand-"

"I understand you're being an ungrateful brat."

Sanji's visible eye narrowed. "Fine! But only because I want to see what kind of puppet show they put on here." He stomped off toward the gathering of children, muttering under his breath.

Yumi's laugh drew Zeff's attention back. "What a beautiful family you have. Your son is so protective of his little sister."

He didn't correct her assumption, didn't want to overcomplicate things. "Aye, he's a good kid. Just needs to stop being such a mother hen and act his damn age."

"Mm." Yumi nodded, watching Sanji fuss with Sora's hair ribbon as he reluctantly handed her to a smiling older woman. "The festival has activities for the older children too. The teenagers usually help with the preparations, but we have games, competitions." She gestured to where several youth worked at various cooking stations. "If he's interested in cooking, we could always put him to work. Many hands make light work, as they say. And the adults can discuss a bulk discount."

Zeff huffed a laugh before following her into her shop.

Thirty minutes later, Zeff and Yuma finally settled on a fair bulk rate that would keep the Baratie's pantry stocked through the coming months.

Outside, stalls sprouted like mushrooms after rain, colorful banners stretched between poles, and the air filled with steam from cooking stations. Zeff's chest swelled with pride when he spotted Sanji at different food stations, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he folded dumplings alongside weathered grandmothers. For once, he wasn't trying to flirt or show off—just working quietly, learning their techniques.

"Your son has quite the talent," a villager commented, setting down a fresh batch of vegetables.

Zeff grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes tracking Sanji as the boy finished the dumplings and wandered to where two men stretched hand-pulled noodles. The kid's face lit up at their technique, and within minutes he had his sleeves rolled up, learning their method.

That restless energy, the way Sanji's eyes devoured every new cooking technique—it reminded Zeff of himself at that age. The boy was meant for more than just the Baratie's kitchen. He needed to taste different cuisines, learn from other masters, chase that dream of the All Blue.

Beyond the food stalls, Sora's laughter rang out as she toddled after soap bubbles another child blew into the air. The village mothers watched over their charges, passing around rice balls and telling stories. They called her "little chef" and cooed over her and her brother's matching eyebrows, assuming Zeff was the father.

Let them think what they want. Today Sanji could just be another teenager at a festival, not a young father weighted down by responsibilities he shouldn't have yet. The boy deserved these moments of freedom, these chances to simply learn and grow.

"Oi! Chef!" Carne's voice carried across the marketplace. The cook waved from near a wagon, Patty and the others trailing behind.

"About time you lot showed up." Zeff jerked his thumb toward the sacks of rice. "Get this loaded. Then you can come back for the festival—but I better not hear about any fights or broken property."

"Really?" Carne's face lit up.

"You deaf? Get moving before I change my mind." Zeff thumped his peg leg. "And remember—one toe out of line, and my boot'll be so far up your ass you'll taste wood for a week."

The cooks scrambled to work, their excitement evident in their rushed movements. Zeff watched them hustle back and forth, ensuring nothing was damaged in their haste.

Later, as afternoon shadows lengthened across the festival grounds, Zeff found Sanji seated with a group of teenagers under a grove of trees. Colored paper covered the grass around them, and their fingers moved in precise folds and creases.

"If you make a thousand paper stars," a girl in a blue yukata explained, demonstrating the technique, "your wish will come true. That's what my grandmother always said."

Sanji's visible eye widened, that familiar spark of romance and dreams flickering to life. His hands carefully followed her motions, creating a tiny star while Sora dozed in his lap. The infant's face was smeared with traces of festival sweets, her new paper crown slightly askew.

"Like this?" Sanji held up his creation.

"Perfect!" The girl beamed. "What will you wish for?"

Zeff noticed how Sanji's gaze dropped to Sora, his fingers absently smoothing her hair. He didn't answer, but Zeff recognized that determined set to his jaw. Whatever wish Sanji held close, it had nothing to do with himself.

Night crept across the festival grounds as lanterns flickered to life. Zeff watched the village girl tug at Sanji's sleeve, pointing toward the game stalls where other teenagers competed for prizes.

"Want to try? I bet you can't beat my score at ring toss."

Sanji glanced down at Sora, his refusal already forming. Zeff stepped forward, arms outstretched.

"Give her here, eggplant. Go have some fun before you turn into an old man like me."

Sanji hesitated, then carefully transferred Sora to Zeff's arms. The girl grabbed Sanji's hand, pulling him toward the game stalls.

Zeff settled at a quiet table near the food stalls, accepting a cup of warm sake from a passing vendor. Sora babbled in his lap as he sampled dumplings and grilled fish, watching Sanji's awkward attempts at the games. The boy's competitive nature soon took over, his initial reluctance forgotten as he challenged the village girl to various contests.

The other Baratie cooks scattered throughout the festival, their boisterous laughter carrying across the grounds as they won and lost at different stalls. Patty's voice rose above the crowd as he argued over the rules of a shooting game.

Sora babbled happily, reaching for his cup.

"Not for you, little troublemaker." He bounced her on his knee. "Happy birthday. One whole year of turning my restaurant upside down."

As darkness fell, lanterns lit the path up the hillside. Zeff found a comfortable spot, his crew settling around him. Sanji appeared, cheeks flushed from excitement, and reclaimed Sora.

The first explosion made her jump, tiny hands clutching Sanji's shirt. But as colors bloomed across the night sky, her fear transformed to wonder. She pointed upward, squealing with each new burst of light.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Sanji whispered against her hair.

Zeff smiled into his sake cup, watching the fireworks paint his family in shades of gold and red.

* * *

Back aboard the Baratie, Zeff watched Sanji lug his festival purchases to his room—stacks of colored paper for those thousand-star wishes and recipe cards from the village women. The boy had filled an entire notebook with techniques and measurements, pestering every cook who'd let him watch their work.

Zeff settled into his chair, massaging his leg. The extra walking had been worth it, seeing the crew in high spirits and Sanji acting his age for once. Even now, the kitchen buzzed with talk of adding rice balls and dumplings to their menu.

Footsteps approached—that familiar hesitant shuffle Sanji got when he wanted to say something but couldn't quite manage it. Zeff looked up to his doorway.

"Today was..." Sanji cleared his throat. "Sora had fun. At the festival." His eyes darted away. "She liked the fireworks."

The words hung there, heavy with meaning. Not quite a thank you, but close enough from this proud brat. A peace offering, maybe.

"February 14th," Zeff said.

"What?"

"Her birthday. For next year's records."

Sanji's mouth opened slightly, then closed. Understanding dawned in his expression. "For next year," he repeated softly.

"Get some sleep, eggplant."

"Night, shitty geezer." Sanji turned toward his room, but Zeff caught the small smile he tried to hide.

* * *

Two weeks passed and Sanji's 15th birthday was upon them. Zeff didn't waste his time offering him the day off, knowing it would be taken as a slight more than a reward. He watched the last customers filter out for the evening, their bellies full and wallets lighter. The day's service had gone smoothly, save for that one bastard who'd thought he could rough up their host. Zeff had caught Sanji's eye, jerked his head toward the troublemaker.

"Handle it."

The kid had moved like lightning, that signature kick sending the man flying through the doors. Sanji's chest had puffed up just a bit—not that Zeff would ever tell him how much he'd improved.

Now, as the kitchen quieted and the staff dispersed, Zeff found Sanji at his station, meticulously wiping down surfaces that already gleamed.

"Come on, eggplant."

Sanji's head snapped up, probably expecting criticism about missing a spot. But Zeff just turned and headed for the stairs, his peg leg tapping against each step. The boy's footsteps followed, hesitant at first, then picking up pace.

The night air hit them as they emerged onto the top deck. Stars stretched across the sky, bright enough to cast shadows on the wooden planks.

Zeff pulled out two cigars from a case in his coat pocket, premium ones he'd been saving. He bit the end off one and lit it, then held out the other to Sanji. His visible eye narrowed, searching for the catch.

"Take it before I change my mind." Zeff waved it at him. "Special occasion and all that shit."

Sanji plucked it from his fingers, going through the motions to light his own. They settled against the railing, watching the smoke curl up toward the stars.

"You enjoy this?" Sanji wrinkled his nose.

Zeff barked out a laugh. "That's what you get for ruining your palate with those cheap cigarettes, brat."

The ocean stretched dark and endless before them, mirror-still except for the gentle lap of waves against the Baratie's hull. Zeff pointed up with his cigar. "Name that one."

"What?"

"The constellation, eggplant. The one that points north."

Sanji shot him a sidelong glance, clearly trying to figure out his angle. But he answered anyway. "Polaris. The North Star." His voice went quiet. "Spent enough nights staring at it." 84 nights on that godforsaken rock, and countless more in the years following.

Zeff leaned back, pulling up a chair to rest his weary limbs.

"And that cluster there?" Zeff traced the pattern with his cigar tip.

"Going senile already, old man?" Sanji smirked around his cigar. "That's Ursa Major. The Big Dipper points to Polaris." He rattled off the answer like reciting a well-worn recipe. "Pretty basic sea navigation."

Zeff settled into his seat, enjoying the moment of quiet, but Sanji's shoulders grew tighter with each constellation named, until he finally cracked like an egg under pressure.

"Just get it over with, old man. What'd I do wrong this time?"

The words stung more than they should have. Zeff chomped down harder on his cigar, buying time as he searched for the right words. He'd never been good at this part—the gentle stuff. Give him a kitchen full of unruly cooks or a deck full of pirates any day.

"Listen here, eggplant." He cleared his throat, the sound rough as sandpaper. "I ain't exactly... well, I'm about as delicate as a meat cleaver when it comes to touchy feely shit."

Sanji's visible eye widened, the cigar forgotten between his fingers.

"But I see something eating at you lately. Has been for a while now." Zeff shifted in his chair, wood creaking beneath him. "And I'm not asking you to spill your guts if you don't want to. But..."

The words caught in his throat like fish bones. Damn it all, why couldn't this be as simple as teaching the brat how to julienne vegetables?

"You're growing into a fine man, Sanji. Better than fine. And I'm..." He swallowed hard. "I'm proud of that. So whatever's got you tied up in knots, whatever's keeping you up at night—that's what parents are for. To help shoulder the weight."

Sanji's jaw worked, that familiar stubborn set taking hold as he straightened his posture against the railing. "I can handle my own problems. I'm not some weak-" He paused, swallowing his next words before starting again, "I don't need-" He turned toward him fully now, shoulders squared like he was preparing for a fight. "You think I'm weak, don't you? That I can't manage both the kitchen and Sora?"

"Did I say that?" Zeff kept his voice level, watching his hands clench and unclench.

"No, but you're looking at me like-" Sanji cut himself off. "Like I'm failing or something. Like I'm not good enough."

"That's not," Zeff shook his head, sighing. He really was not good at this. "A man faces his demons head-on. You think bottling everything up makes you strong? All it does is poison everyone around you."

Sanji's face twisted, caught between anger and something darker. "What would you know about it?" His voice cracked. "You don't understand anything."

"Then help me understand, damn it." Zeff leaned forward, hands gripping his knees. "Because right now, all I see is my best cook turning into a powder keg. And when you blow—and you will blow, eggplant—it won't just be you getting hurt."

"I'm handling it!" Sanji's fist slammed into the railing. "I don't need your help, or anyone else's. Just..." He backed away, shoulders hunched like a wounded animal. "Just leave it alone."

"That what you call handling it?" Zeff's patience frayed. "Picking fights with customers? Snapping at the staff? Hell, even Patty's walking on eggshells around you." Zeff's jaw clenched as he watched the boy unravel before him. Damn kid always had to make everything harder than it needed to be.

"I thought you weren't gonna make me spill my guts?" Sanji's voice dripped with venom. "That's what you said, right? Or was that just another lie?"

"I'm trying to help you, you stubborn little-"

"Help me?" Sanji laughed, harsh and hollow. "What are you gonna do if I don't tell you, huh? If I'm such a problem for the restaurant?"

He rubbed his forehead, forcing down his gut reaction to lash back. "You know damn well that's not what this is about."

"Just fire me already! Get rid of the problem!"

"We're stuck with each other whether you like it or not, eggplant." Zeff's voice roughened. "That's what family-"

"Family?" Sanji spat the word like poison, his visible eye blazed with fury. "Is that what this is about? Playing house with the orphan and his kid?"

"Watch yourself, boy,"

"Or maybe you're just trying to make up for your own failures." Sanji's words came faster now, sharper. "Failed at being a pirate, failed at finding the All Blue—might as well try failing as a father too."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp as broken glass. Zeff felt each one slice deep, but he kept his face impassive. He'd weathered worse storms than this, and he'd be damned if he'd let the brat see how much those words stung.

He saw it, though. The exact moment Sanji realized what he'd said. The boy's face crumpled like wet paper, mouth opening slightly as if to take it back. But the moment passed, pride and fear winning out over remorse.

"What, nothing to say?" Sanji's voice wavered, searching for the reaction he expected. When Zeff remained silent, the boy's shoulders hunched further. "No kicks? No lectures about respect?"

Zeff kept his expression carefully blank, though his chest ached. He'd seen this dance before—cornered animals always lashed out the hardest just before breaking.

Sanji paced now, movements sharp and jerky. "Stop looking at me like that!" He pointed at him in accusation.

Zeff cleared his throat, unable to ignore how tight it had become. "Like what?"

"Like you..." Sanji's hands raked through his hair, gripping hard. "Like you know everything! Like you can see right through me!" He heaved a breath. "Because you don't know anything! I've been lying to you this whole time, and you've been too stupid to see it!" His voice cracked on the word 'stupid', betraying the venom he tried to inject.

Sanji turned his back towards Zeff and buried his face in his hands, nearly folded onto the railing. Minutes ticked by, marked only by his uneven breathing.

Zeff watched the boy's shoulders shake, fighting every instinct to reach out.

"Shit." Sanji's fist hit the railing again, softer this time. "I didn't... I didn't mean that." His voice came out thick, muffled by his sleeve. "You're not... you're the only one who ever..." He cursed again, struggling with the words.

The silence stretched between them like pulled taffy, threatening to snap. When Sanji finally spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I've been lying to you since the day we met." His hands twisted in his shirt. "Not because I wanted to, but... my father, my real father..." The words seemed to stick in his throat. "When I was eight, he told me to never tell anyone I was his son. Said I was dead to him, to all of them."

Sanji let out a hollow laugh, words spilling from him like water from a broken dam.

"They were all... different. Special. My siblings." His fingers drummed against the railing, an anxious rhythm. "And I was just... wrong. Defective."

Zeff's jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked. He had always assumed Sanji's family was on the Orbit when it went down, or he was orphaned some time earlier in one of the various eastern conflicts. For some reason, he never considered the possibility that his family was alive and well but just… didn't want him.

"He held a funeral for me. Said I died at sea. Can you believe that?" Sanji's fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket for a cigarette, still facing away from him. "Like he wanted people to think he actually cared.

"I don't know why he didn't just kill me. But no, he just locked me underground for months. I had this, " he gestured roughly around his head, "this… helmet. Hid my face from the guards, as if there was another child prisoner in that fucking castle."

Zeff's ears perk at such a specific detail. How many castles did the East Blue even have?

Sanji continued. "Used to fantasize about finding some magic fucking fruit that'd make me invisible. Then maybe I could've..." He swallowed hard. "Could've been useful. Or at least gotten away."

Zeff's grip tightened on his chair, knuckles white. He' d known Sanji carried wounds, deep ones that went beyond the trauma they'd shared on that godforsaken rock. But this? This was methodical cruelty, the kind that left scars no amount of time could fully heal.

"Hey, old man." Sanji's voice dropped lower as he looked over his shoulder in his direction, but not making eye contact. "You know what my name means?"

Something in his tone made Zeff's stomach turn. Whatever was coming, he wouldn't like it.

"Third son. That's all I was to him—a number. We all were. Ichi, Ni, San, Yon." Sanji's words grew careful, measured. "And my sister..." He trailed off, clearly steering around something he wasn't ready to share.

"Mom was different though. She was everything they weren't. Kind. Gentle. She'd let me cook for her, tell me it was delicious even when it was terrible." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "She'd read to me for hours about the All Blue. Said I could find it someday."

Sanji's voice cracked. "But she was sick. I don't know if there was a time when she wasn't. And after she died..." He drew a shaky breath, ashed his cigarette, and brought it to his lips and turned his face back out to sea, away from Zeff's line of sight.

"Her name was Sora."

Zeff's fingers tightened around his cigar as understanding washed over him like a cold wave. Sora. The name had seemed random when Sanji first introduced the infant, but now it struck him with the weight of an anchor. Not a mother's parting gift at all, but a tribute from his son for the woman who never failed him except in death.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the cigar's wrapper. Even in his darkest days as a pirate, there had been lines Zeff wouldn't cross. Women and children were off-limits. Always. The thought of a small Sanji, trapped underground in some dungeon, made his blood boil.

And that helmet... To hide a child's face, as if they were something shameful. As if they weren't even human.

What kind of bastard threw away their own child? What kind of monster looked at this boy—this clever, determined, compassionate kid—and saw failure?

Zeff kept his gaze fixed on the stars, giving Sanji space as he cleared his throat and forced his voice back to something casual, dismissive.

"Anyway, I got away, obviously. Found the Orbit, stayed there two years before some shitty pirates attacked." Sanji's eyes cut to Zeff. "Then almost starved to death on some shitty rock with some shitty geezer who didn't realize he got a raw deal."

He brought the cigarette back to his lips.

"Everywhere I go, I cause problems. My family hates me, everyone on the Orbit's dead, and you-" Sanji's voice cracked. "I just keep failing you."

He took a long drag from his cigarette, shoulders hunched. "And now, Sora. What if I can't keep her safe? What if he finds out?"

Something in Sanji's measured tone set off warning bells in Zeff's head. The kid was still holding something back.

"So yeah," Sanji muttered, "sorry for causing such a headache. I know you never asked for this."

Zeff snorted, loud enough to make Sanji jump. "Shut up." His voice came out rougher than intended. "You think Sora's a burden?"

Sanji's head snapped up and turned, horror written across his face. "What? No! That's not what I-"

"Then stop feeling sorry for me on my behalf, you little shit." Zeff stabbed his cigar in Sanji's direction. "You're right—I never asked for any of this. I chose it. That other man? He ain't your father. He gave up that honor." He stood, closing the gap between them and making sure Sanji met his eyes. "I choose you, whether you like it or not. And you don't get to feel bad for me about it."

Zeff squeezed Sanji's shoulder, pointing back up at the inky black sky. "That cluster there—what's it called?"

Sanji's voice wavered. "Pleiades. The Seven Sisters." A tear rolled down his cheek, catching the starlight.

"And that one?"

"Cassiopeia." The word came out choked, more tears falling now. Zeff kept his grip firm on the boy's shoulder, anchoring him as his body shook with silent sobs.

The creak of his bedroom door caught Zeff's attention. One of the cooks poked their head out. "Sorry Chef, but she won't stay put-"

Before they could finish, tiny feet pattered across the deck. Sora barreled toward them, her blonde hair wild from sleep. Sanji hastily ground out his cigarette, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve.

The cook lingered uncertainly in the doorway before retreating with a quiet "Sorry," closing the door behind them.

"Don't." Zeff's voice was gruff but gentle as Sanji tried to hide his tears from Sora. "No more hiding, eggplant. Not here."

"I don't want her to worry." Sanji froze, hand still halfway to his face as Sora reached her arms up to be lifted up. "She's too young to-"

"To what? See her old man feel something besides anger?" Zeff shifted and motioned back towards the chairs, taking a seat as Sanji followed to his own. "Listen, I ain't exactly an expert at this emotional crap. Took me long enough to figure out being a man meant more than just being tough." He watched Sora pat Sanji's wet cheeks with her tiny hands. "Kids learn what we teach them. They grow on what we feed them—and I ain't just talking about food."

Sanji cradled Sora closer, his shoulders still trembling. "What if I feed her the wrong things?"

"You love that girl for exactly who she is, not who you think she should be. That's what being a parent means."

Zeff stubbed out his cigar, the ember dying in the cool night air. The night settled around them like a blanket, peaceful despite the weight of Sanji's confession hanging in the air. Sora curled in Sanji's lap, her tiny fingers playing with the buttons on his suit while he buried his face in her soft hair. Without thinking too hard about it, Zeff extended his arm across Sanji's back to grasp his further shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, he settled into the half-embrace.

"So." Zeff cleared his throat. "Fifteen years old and one year as a father under your belt. How's it feel?"

Sanji let out a wet laugh against Sora's head. "Like being thrown in the weeds during dinner service, but the rush never ends." He shifted, adjusting Sora as she started to doze. "Feels like shit most days, if I'm honest. Terrifying, knowing one any moment-" He swallowed hard. "Just want to keep her safe, you know?"

"Hmph." Zeff tightened his grip on Sanji's shoulder. "Welcome to parenthood."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. But knowing you're not alone in it should." Zeff's voice roughened. "We can handle whatever comes. But no more secrets, you hear me? Need to trust each other." He paused, studying the top of Sanji's head in the starlight. "There isn't anything else I should know, right?"

Sanji went still under his arm. A heartbeat passed, then another.

"No." Sanji's voice came out steady. "Nothing else."

Zeff believed him. Maybe that made him a fool, but he chose to anyway.

Chapter Text

Zeff paused mid-step outside the kitchen door, his peg leg hovering above the wooden planks.

"Jiji!"

"No, baby, Gee-zer."

"Bibi!" A peal of laughter followed the garbled attempt.

Zeff crossed his arms, fighting the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The little squirt had been chattering non-stop these past months, her vocabulary growing faster than her sea legs.

He remembered the morning she'd first called Sanji "dada." The brat had frozen mid-flip of an omelet, tears streaming down his face while the egg burned black in the pan. Zeff had to take over the breakfast service, shooing his emotional sous chef out of the kitchen to collect himself.

After that came an avalanche of sounds. "Mmmm" whenever she approved of food. "Pa" usually meant Patty, though sometimes she directed it at any of the cooks who gave her treats. "Batie" emerged whenever the den den mushi rang—she'd picked that up from hearing the cooks answer calls all day.

Now here she was, mangling his title. Zeff leaned against the doorframe, staying just out of sight as Sanji tried again.

"C'mon, repeat after me. Gee-zer." Sanji's voice carried through the door.

"Jiji!" Sora squealed with delight.

"You're doing this on purpose now, aren't you?"

Zeff scratched his braided mustache, torn between barging in to put a stop to this nonsense and letting it play out. The brat was probably pulling his hair out by now, face scrunched up like it did whenever things didn't go exactly his way. Served him right—all those years of "shitty geezer" were coming back to haunt him through his own kid.

Zeff pushed through the kitchen door, his peg leg clicking against the tiles. The morning crew bustled around preparing ingredients for the day's service. Steam rose from a pot of stock, and the scent of fresh-baked bread filled the air.

Zeff's eye twitched at the sight before him. Sanji had perched Sora on the prep counter, surrounded by a mountain of fresh napkins. Sanji's fingers flew through the folds, creating crisp lines and angles until each square of fabric transformed into delicate swans. Next to him, Sora mangled her own dish towel with uncoordinated fingers.

"What nonsense are you teaching her now?" Zeff grumbled, adjusting his tall chef's hat.

Sanji's hand paused mid-fold. A smirk played across his face. "Just making sure she knows what to call you, old man. Can't have her going around calling you anything but 'geezer,' can we?"

"Jiji!" Sora repeated, waving a crumpled cloth at him, triumphantly.

"See? She's got the right idea." Sanji reached over to steady her. "Though I was hoping for 'shitty geezer.'"

Zeff's wooden leg shot out, catching Sanji in the shin. "Watch your language around the baby, you damn eggplant."

"Damn!" Sora echoed.

Both men froze. Sanji's face drained of color while Zeff's turned an interesting shade of red.

"Now look what you've done," they accused each other in unison.

Zeff couldn't hold back his laughter any longer. The horror on Sanji's face at his daughter's first curse word was too much. His shoulders shook as he leaned against the counter, deep belly laughs echoing through the kitchen.

"Not funny, old man." Sanji's hands moved faster through the napkin folds, creasing with unnecessary force.

"Weren't you just teaching her to call me names?" Zeff aimed to hit him in the shin again for good measure, but he twisted away.

"Shitty geezer is different," Sanji protested. "It's practically an honorific at this point."

"Damn!" Sora repeated, clearly pleased with the reaction she'd gotten.

"See what I mean?" Sanji's voice cracked as another swan took shape. "We're corrupting her. She should be saying 'please' and 'thank you' and-"

"And what? Speaking like some noble's daughter?" Zeff snorted, watching Sanji's fingers crush another napkin into submission. "She's growing up on a floating restaurant full of rough sea cooks and ex-pirates. What'd you expect?"

Sanji's jaw clenched as he reached for another napkin. The growing flock of swans scattered across the prep counter spoke louder than whatever words he was swallowing back.

Zeff scratched his mustache, studying the boy's tense shoulders. Damn kid always did take everything too seriously. "Besides," he grunted, "could be worse. Could be taking after your cooking."

That got Sanji's attention. His head snapped up, ready for a fight. "My cooking is-"

"Exactly." Zeff cut him off with a sharp nod. "So quit your worrying about a few curse words."

"Jiji!" Sora thrust another mangled cloth his way.

Zeff took it with a grunt, pretending not to notice how Sanji's hands had finally stilled on the counter. "That's right, little lady. Though don't think this means you can get away with cursing in my kitchen."

"Damn," she whispered conspiratorially.

Sanji groaned and dropped his head to the counter while Zeff dissolved into another round of laughter. The old cook watched his son's hands twitch toward the remaining napkins, then pull back. Always in motion these days, like if his fingers stopped, his thoughts might catch up to him.

* * *

The late summer sun beat down on the Baratie's deck as Zeff surveyed their anchoring spot. Perfect placement—deep enough water to keep them steady, but close enough to the trade route to catch the eyes of passing ships. The supply vessel that'd found them last month had been a godsend, their hold packed with produce at reasonable prices. No more fighting the weather to reach port, no more haggling with crooked merchants.

The Den Den Mushi's ring echoed from the kitchen. Zeff turned from the railing, already knowing what was coming.

"You've reached the damn restaurant, would you like to make a reservation?"

Zeff's wooden leg caught the edge of a copper pot, sending it flying toward Sanji's head. The brat ducked, phone still pressed to his ear, that insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

"What'd I tell you about answering the phone like that?" Zeff's voice boomed across the kitchen. "You're gonna drive away customers before they even step foot on board!"

"Sorry about that noise," Sanji spoke into the receiver, completely ignoring him. "Just our head chef expressing himself through interpretive cookware throwing." He caught Zeff's eye and grinned wider. "Yes, we're still at the same coordinates. Though I should warn you, approach from starboard—there's less risk of getting hit by flying kitchen equipment." Sanji dodged again, the metal clanging against the wall behind him. "Two crates of dried seaweed? Let me check with the geezer."

Zeff grabbed a third pot, but paused. Dried seaweed? Must be the supply ship checking their route. His grip loosened, but didn't release entirely. Just because it was business didn't mean the brat could get away with that attitude.

"You answer that phone properly next time," Zeff growled, "or I'll make sure the next pot doesn't miss."

Zeff snatched the receiver from Sanji's hand, watching his sous chef slink back to the stoves with that infuriating grin still plastered on his face.

"Toma. What's this about seaweed?" Zeff leaned against the wall, running his fingers through his braided mustache.

"Owner Zeff! Got a canceled order. Premium stuff from the kelp beds near Dawn. Hate to see it go to waste—willing to cut you a deal."

"How much?"

"Half price. Got other goods too if you're interested."

Zeff's eyebrows rose. Toma wasn't one to slash prices without good reason. "List 'em."

Zeff balanced the receiver between his shoulder and ear, jotting notes on a scrap of parchment. "Fresh citrus at that price? Yeah, we'll take it. The dried stuff, too." He crossed out items as Toma rattled through his inventory.

The kitchen's usual cacophony of sizzling pans and shouted orders filled the background as Zeff continued his negotiations. A pot of soup bubbled over nearby, but Patty rushed to handle it before Zeff could bark orders.

"Hold on," Toma's voice crackled through the Den Den Mushi. "Almost forgot—got something special you might be interested in. Just made contact with a North Blue supplier."

Zeff's mustache twitched. "North Blue?"

"Government just cleared them for trade," Toma continued. "Seems there was some mess up there—something about a coup in one of those kingdoms. Or pirates? Details are fuzzy, but their loss is our gain. They've got wheat varieties we can't get here in the East Blue. Premium stuff for pastries, special grains too.

"Anyway," Toma said, "thought you might want first crack at it. What do you say?"

"Good prices or not, I need to know these folks are legitimate," Zeff said. Getting goods across the Red Line took more than just a successful business. It took connections, power, and the kind of wealth that came from old money or new crime. "My restaurant ain't getting mixed up in anything shady."

"Clean as they come," Toma assured. "Got all the paperwork filed with the World Government. Had my people check them out before I even considered the deal."

Sanji ladled stock into his stewpot, the sound of the liquid hitting metal almost drowning out Toma's voice, he was so close. Steam rose as he added chunks of meat and vegetables with practiced precision. Zeff stepped further to the side, away from the steam.

"What varieties we talking about?" Zeff scratched another note on his parchment.

"Winter wheat, perfect for those fancy pastries your boy makes. Strong flour too—they say it's got something special in the protein content. Oh, and spirits—proper North Blue whiskey, none of that watered-down swill."

The mention of North Blue whiskey caught Zeff's attention. Been years since he'd tasted the real thing. "Alright, if the numbers work, we'll take regular shipments."

"You won't regret it, Owner."

They hammered out quantities and payment terms, the Den Den Mushi's expressions mimicking Toma's enthusiasm as they settled on final numbers.

"Done deal then," Toma said. "See you in three days."

The snail clicked off, leaving only the sounds of Sanji's cooking and the general kitchen chaos. The boy had thrown himself into his work, stirring the stew with more force than necessary, but his movements were precise as ever.

"So..." Sanji kept his eyes on his work, but his voice held an edge of forced casualness that set off warning bells in Zeff's head. "North Blue traders, huh?" Sanji's voice had lost its playful edge, replaced by something carefully neutral. His earlier theatrical gestures were gone, movements becoming precise, controlled—too controlled for the usually fluid chef.

"Since when do you care about supply routes?"

"Just curious." Sanji's shoulder lifted in what tried to be a casual shrug but came across too stiff. His eyes stayed fixed on the pot, stirring with mechanical precision. "You think they'll come to deliver in person? Must be pretty successful to make that crossing."

The brat wasn't wrong. In fact, it was a thought that crossed Zeff's mind only minutes ago.

The legitimate route meant scaling that massive wall of red rock that split the world. Merchant vessels would dock at the base, unload their cargo onto pulley systems that hauled everything to the summit. Then came the tedious process of moving it all down the other side to waiting ships.

The other option... He'd made that journey once, through the Calm Belt. The memories of those windless waters still haunted his dreams—massive shadows lurking beneath the surface, Sea Kings large enough to swallow ships whole. No sane merchant would risk that crossing. Not unless they had incentive.

"What if they send a beautiful merchant princess?" Sanji sighed as he clasped his hands together, eyes nearly morphing into hearts. "Hair like silk, skin like porcelain, dressed in exotic Northern fashions-"

"They're wheat traders, you hormone-addled brat." Zeff grabbed the nearest blunt object, ready to knock some sense into that thick skull.

Sanji dodged the incoming strike with ease.

"All set here." He untied his apron, hanging it with practiced efficiency. "Been way too quiet upstairs. Better check on Sora before she figures out how to climb out of her playpen again."

Zeff watched him go, noting how the boy took the stairs two at a time. There it was again—that same retreat he'd seen more and more lately. First the sudden quiet, then that too-careful way of speaking, followed by some excuse about Sora needing attention. The old cook's mustache twitched as he filed away another piece of the puzzle that was his adopted son, though he couldn't yet see what picture it might form.

Before he could follow that thought further, the clash of pots from the kitchen drew his attention back to more immediate concerns.

* * *

Three days later, Toma's supply vessel pulled alongside the Baratie. The morning air carried the sharp scent of salt as Zeff supervised the loading of goods into their storage hold with their usual efficiency. That is, until Toma approached with a small wooden box.

"Special delivery from our new North Blue partners." Toma placed the ornate box on a nearby barrel. "Premium flour, aged whiskey, some specialty spices. No charge."

Zeff's mustache twitched. "No charge? Since when do merchants give away product?"

"They're eager to establish themselves here in East Blue. Heard stories about the Baratie." Toma's usually cheerful face flickered with something before his merchant's smile slipped back into place. "Though between you and me, some of those stories about their rapid expansion are... interesting."

"Hmph." Zeff lifted the box lid, examining the contents. The quality was undeniable—the flour alone would make pastries that'd have customers fighting for tables. But free goods always came with strings. "What's the real angle here?"

"They're looking to set up regular shipments. Maybe monthly, depending on demand." Toma shrugged. "Sure, the Baratie's smaller than their usual clients, but word is you're the only restaurant that uses everything they buy. No waste, no returns. That matters to them."

Zeff ran his fingers through his braided mustache. Smart play—hook them with quality goods, then jack up the prices once they're dependent. He'd seen it before.

"Tell 'em I'll consider their offer." Zeff closed the box. "But make it clear—any funny business, any sudden price hikes, and they can find another buyer."

Toma hefted another crate onto the deck. "I'll let Marceline know. She handles their East Blue clients."

"Marceline?" Sanji's head popped up from behind a stack of barrels, that familiar love-struck expression plastered across his face. "What's she like? Is she beautiful? Does she handle all the negotiations herself?"

Zeff's wooden leg tapped against the deck. Of course the brat would emerge at the mention of a woman's name.

"She's got two partners," Toma said, checking his manifest. "Henrik handles the sailing, Claude does the books. They're based out of Rakeport."

"Rakeport?" Sanji's voice cracked slightly before he cleared his throat. "That's near, uh... Swallow Island, right?" He winced at his own question, casually reaching into his pocket to retrieve and light a cigarette, all the while avoiding Zeff's gaze.

The question caught Zeff off guard, setting off warning bells he couldn't quite place. Since when did the eggplant give a damn about North Blue geography? Even Zeff couldn't point to Rakeport on a map. He watched Sanji's face carefully, noting the too-casual way his son tried to lean against the barrels, like he was forcing himself to appear relaxed. Something was off.

"Oi!" Zeff's peg leg connected with Sanji's shin. "Focus on the supplies, not chasing skirts."

"I'm just trying to learn the business side of things, like you're always nagging me about." Sanji protested, rubbing his leg.

"Anyway," Sanji continued, his words coming too fast as he hauled a box of preserved vegetables, "how are they managing such good prices with the, um..." He paused, like he was searching for the right word. "The tariffs? For crossing the Red Line?" The last part came out almost like a question, as if he wasn't quite sure he was using the term correctly.

Zeff's jaw clenched. In all his years sailing, he'd bought and sold plenty, but he'd never bothered with the bureaucracy behind it. That was for merchants to worry about, not pirates-turned-restaurateurs. And since when did his skirt-chasing brat know anything about international trade regulations?

"That's the thing! No Line Tariffs," Toma replied. "Got their own fleet of ships. Custom-built for crossing dangerous waters." He wiggled his fingers for added flair.

Sanji nearly dropped the crate he was holding. "Custom-built how?"

"Some kind of special navigation system. Real cutting-edge stuff." Toma shrugged. "Though between you and me, there's whispers about how they got so big so fast. Lot of territory changed hands in North Blue recently."

"Any idea which territories?" Sanji's voice went flat, like he was trying so hard to sound disinterested that he'd overcorrected. His cigarette trembled slightly between his lips as he stacked another crate with mechanical precision.

Politics? From the same brat who couldn't be bothered to read the newspaper unless it featured a pretty face? Zeff's jaw clenched as he watched Sanji's careful movements, the way his questions seemed rehearsed, like he was fishing for specific information. The floating deck creaked under Zeff's shifting weight as frustration built in his chest. Something about this conversation made his gut churn worse than week-old fish, and Zeff was damn tired of being kept in the dark.

"Can't say for sure. News doesn't travel far from the North Blue these days. Though word is they've got some kind of private army-"

"Less gossip, more working," Zeff barked, cutting off the interrogation.

Sanji's shoulders slumped at Zeff's interruption. The brat never could hide his emotions well.

"Fine, fine." Sanji hefted another crate. "I just thought the wheat might be good for Sora. North Blue grains are different—denser, more protein." He balanced the box on his hip. "Could make her these little hand pies that my—" He caught himself. "That I read about."

Zeff narrowed his eyes. But before he could press further, Patty burst through the kitchen door.

"Did someone say North Blue grains?" Patty's massive forearms flexed as he grabbed a crate. "That's perfect for my new pastry idea."

"Your idea?" Sanji scoffed. "Please. I already know exactly what to make with it."

"Listen here, baby-face." Patty puffed up his chest. "I'm the head pâtissier. Anything involving flour goes through me first."

"Yeah? Well I'm co-owner, so—"

"Both of you shut it." Zeff planted his peg leg between them. These two could argue for hours if he let them. "We'll do this proper. Each of you makes your dish, crew votes on the winner. Best chef gets the new menu spot."

"Ha! You're on." Patty jabbed a finger at Sanji. "My croissants will destroy whatever baby food you're planning."

"They're not—" Sanji's face reddened. "Just watch. I'll show you what real North Blue cooking looks like."

The familiar rhythm of kitchen rivalry settled Zeff's nerves. Let the brats duke it out over flour and butter—he'd take that over political maneuvering any day. Besides, nothing tested a chef's mettle like proper competition.

"We'll hold it during Dead Water." Zeff crossed his arms.

"Dead Water?" Toma asked.

"Restaurant's closed. Been our tradition since we opened." Zeff scratched his beard. "Keeps the crew from killing each other."

The monthly two-day closure had become sacred over the years. First day for deep cleaning, second for rest. Even weathered old sea cooks needed a reset now and then.

"Your croissants?" Sanji sneered at Patty. "Last time you tried those, they came out like rocks. We used them as cannon balls."

"Better than your fancy nonsense." Patty flexed. "At least I didn't get fired from three hundred restaurants."

"Wha-" Sanji sputtered, "That was you and Carne, you muscle-headed—"

"Wrap this up. I need a damn nap." Zeff surveyed the deck. Only a handful of crates remained, mostly lighter goods that wouldn't strain the crew. He turned to Sanji with a smirk. "Oh, and since you're so interested in commerce now, eggplant, you can handle the paperwork with Toma."

"Wait, what?" Sanji's cigarette nearly fell from his mouth. "But I've never—"

"Time to learn, isn't it?" Zeff started toward his quarters, hiding his amusement at Sanji's panicked expression. "Don't forget to check the invoice twice. Numbers are tricky things."

He left Sanji stammering excuses behind him, satisfied that whatever strange mood his adoptive son was in would be cured by an afternoon of mind-numbing calculations.

* * *

Dawn crept across the Baratie's kitchen as Zeff watched his crew prepare their communal breakfast. Steam rose from multiple pots while the scent of fresh coffee mixed with herbs and eggs.

Sanji moved with his usual grace between stations, simultaneously flipping omelettes while directing Carne on the proper way to dice potatoes. The brat had gotten better at delegating, even if his methods still needed work.

"You're massacring those spuds." Sanji snatched the knife from Carne's hands. "Here, like this. Clean cuts, consistent size."

"I know how to cut potatoes," Carne grumbled, but his eyes tracked Sanji's technique carefully.

Patty hummed as he pulled fresh bread from the oven, the crusty loaves releasing waves of warmth into the already-hot kitchen. At least those two weren't at each other's throats this morning. Maybe the promise of competition had settled them down.

"Food's ready in five," Sanji called out, sliding perfect omelettes onto waiting plates.

Zeff nodded in approval. Breaking bread together kept a crew strong, especially on cleaning days when tempers ran hot. He'd learned that lesson the hard way as a pirate captain—hungry men made poor companions and worse workers.

"Get it while it's hot." Zeff raised his voice over the kitchen clatter. "And if anyone starts a fight today, they're scrubbing the grease traps with their tongue."

The threat earned a few chuckles as the crew gathered around the long kitchen table, passing plates and trading friendly insults. Another morning at sea, another meal shared. Some traditions were worth keeping, even on Dead Water days.

Sora sat in her high chair near the prep station, happily mashing banana pieces between her fingers while Sanji plated the rest of her breakfast.

"What color is this, baby?" Sanji pointed to the bright fruit on her plate.

"Orange!" Sora clapped her hands.

"And these?"

"Blue-berries!"

"Good girl. And what about this?" He touched the edge of her bowl.

"Um... green?"

"Look again. Remember the colors we practiced?"

Sora hummed, tilting her head. "Red!"

"That's right!" Sanji beamed, kissing her forehead.

Zeff's chest tightened as he watched them. He'd never had schooling himself—learned his letters from wanted posters and merchant manifests, piecing together words between ports until reading came naturally. Numbers had been easier—couldn't run a crew without knowing how to split shares or track supplies.

But Sanji was different. Someone had taught him proper, and early too.

"Alright you lot," Zeff called out to the assembled crew. "Finish up your food. We've got a full day of scrubbing ahead."

The cooks groaned but quickened their eating. Cleaning on the Baratie was no small task, but Zeff wouldn't have his restaurant's reputation tarnished by poor hygiene.

Zeff supervised from the doorway as his crew attacked weeks of accumulated grime. The scent of cleaning solutions replaced the usual aromatic spices and seared meats. His stump leg ached—damned weather changes—but he masked his discomfort with his usual scowl.

"You missed a spot," he barked at Marcus, their newest cook with a bounty that wouldn't buy dinner, who was scrubbing the baseboards. "And someone check those hood vents again."

A clatter drew his attention to where Sora toddled over with a small rag, mimicking the cook's movements on the lower cabinets. Smart kid—already learning the importance of a clean kitchen.

"Jiji, look!" Sora held up her cloth, now grimy from her efforts.

"Good work, baby. Why don't you help Carne with the spice jars?" Zeff pointed toward the pantry where Carne organized their extensive collection of seasonings.

A waiter called from the floor below, signaling to the kitchen that some would-be customers missed the memo.

Zeff walked to the fridge to grab two carefully wrapped bentos from a stack of ones he and Sanji had prepared the night before. He hobbled his way down the stairs to find a pair of visitors lingering near the entrance, their gazes darting across the vacant restaurant where the floors and tables were getting their monthly deep scrub-down, their linens hanging outside to air-dry in the late summer breeze.

"We're closed for cleaning," he announced, handing them the pre-made meals. The woman tried to pay, but Zeff waved them off. "No one leaves here hungry, but you can pay us for a hot meal when we reopen."

The morning crawled into afternoon as more hopeful customers arrived, and more bentos found homes. Zeff's leg protested with each trip, but he'd be damned if he'd let anyone see him falter.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Zeff surveyed the gleaming kitchen. His crew had outdone themselves—every surface sparkled, ready for the evening's competition.

The sun dipped low as Zeff's crew finished their cleaning duties. His kitchen gleamed like new copper, ready for the evening's entertainment. Dead Water days—when the restaurant stayed closed for deep cleaning—always ended with something special. Tonight, it was a cooking competition using their new North Blue grain shipment.

"Listen up," Zeff planted his peg leg firmly. "Rules are simple. Three dishes each: starter, main, and dessert. Every plate uses the new flour. And remember—" he fixed them with a stern look, "—we're still a seafood restaurant, not some fancy bakery."

Patty puffed up his chest. "Just you watch, old man. I'll show everyone what real innovation looks like!"

"Less talking, more cooking," Zeff growled. "You've got two hours. Winner's dish goes on the menu."

The kitchen burst into motion. Patty immediately commandeered half the counter space, spreading out elaborate tools and fancy garnishes while loudly describing his "revolutionary" vision to anyone within earshot.

Sanji's approach was different. He stood at his station, running the North Blue flour through his fingers with an intensity that made Zeff's eyebrow raise. The boy's shoulders were already tense—he always got this way during competitions, like he was carrying the weight of every criticism he'd ever received.

"Everything needs proper nutrition," Sanji muttered, reaching for eggs and fresh vegetables. "But it's got to taste good, too..."

Sora started fussing in her high chair, clearly bored with watching the preparations. She knocked her cup to the floor with a clatter that made Sanji jump.

"I've got her," Zeff said, noting how Sanji's hands had started trembling slightly. "You focus on cooking."

"I can handle both," Sanji snapped, but his relief was obvious when Zeff scooped up Sora.

"Come on, little troublemaker," Zeff settled her on his hip. "Let's count ingredients while your papa cooks."

As the competition progressed, Sora grew increasingly restless. She squirmed in Zeff's arms, reaching for shiny utensils and trying to grab passing cooks' aprons. Her demands for "Down! Down!" grew louder until even Patty's constant monologuing couldn't drown them out.

Sanji's movements became jerkier with each outburst, his careful measuring taking longer as he split his attention between his dishes and his daughter. Zeff caught him checking on Sora so often he nearly burned his sauce.

"She's fine," Zeff barked. "Eyes on your food, eggplant."

The final presentations showed the toll of the divided attention. While Patty's dishes were elaborate showstoppers, Sanji's carried a simpler elegance—though Zeff noticed how each component was sized perfectly for small hands and developing palates.

"Time," Zeff called. "Present your dishes."

Patty stepped forward first, chest puffed out. "For the appetizer, I present a North Blue wheat flatbread topped with preserved fish roe and pickled sea vegetables." He gestured to the crisp, golden rounds. "Following that, my main is butter-poached cod wrapped in wheat-flour pasta, finished with a light cream sauce. And for dessert—wheat flour beignets filled with sweet red bean paste."

The staff's appreciative murmurs filled the kitchen as they sampled each dish. Zeff noticed how Patty's techniques, though flashy, showed genuine skill.

Sanji's turn came next. His voice carried none of Patty's bravado. "A hearty fish soup with hand-rolled wheat dumplings to start." He indicated each dish with a slight nod. "The main is pan-seared sea bass with a wheat-berry risotto. Dessert is a traditional North Blue honey cake made with the specialty flour."

The voting proceeded with raised hands, dish by dish. Zeff tallied the counts while Sora watched from her perch on the counter, occasionally stealing bites from both chefs' plates.

"Fifteen for Patty. Fifteen for the brat." Zeff announced. "It's a tie."

Sanji's face went through a complex series of emotions before settling into carefully controlled neutrality. "Whatever," he muttered, already reaching for his cigarettes. "I need a smoke. Those linens should be dry by now anyway."

Zeff watched him go, noting how the boy's shoulders hunched forward like they always did when he felt he'd failed to measure up. Marcus followed him out, probably hoping to score some cigarettes of his own.

Once Sanji was safely out of earshot, Zeff turned to his crew with a growl. "Alright, which of you jackasses voted against the eggplant just to watch him squirm?"

Carne raised his hand with a grin, followed by three others. "Come on, boss, you know how fun it is to wind him up. Gets all huffy like a wet cat."

"Your food's good, Patty," Zeff admitted, watching as Sora methodically demolished another of Sanji's dumplings while ignoring Patty's elaborate pastries. "But the brat beat you fair and square. Look at her—she knows what's good."

Patty deflated slightly, examining his towering presentations. "But I worked so hard on the plating..."

"Sometimes less is more." Zeff shifted Sora to his other hip as she reached for more soup. "The eggplant's food has heart. He thought about everyone who might eat it—from teething toddlers to old sea dogs like me. That's the difference between cooking to show off and cooking to feed people."

The kitchen fell silent as they watched Sora eat, many of them seeing Sanji's dishes through new eyes. Even Patty's usual bluster faded as he watched the careful way she handled each perfectly-sized portion.

The clinking of dishes and satisfied sighs filled the kitchen as the staff finished their meals. Zeff's leg had finally stopped complaining after he'd sat down to eat, though he knew he'd pay for today's exertion tomorrow. The whole crew was running on fumes after the deep clean, content to let the quiet evening wrap around them.

The peaceful moment shattered as Marcus burst through the kitchen doors, his cigarette forgotten and burning between trembling fingers. His face had gone sheet-white, eyes wide with terror.

"What the hell's gotten into you, boy?" Zeff growled, rising from his seat.

Marcus dropped his voice low, glancing nervously at the doors behind him. "There's someone here. Sanji sent me up—he's still down there with them."

A muscle twitched in Zeff's jaw. The eggplant wasn't one to send for backup unless... "Who?"

"A Warlord." Marcus's whisper carried in the sudden silence. "Asked for you. For Red-Leg Zeff."

The kitchen crew stiffened. Even Sora stopped playing with her spoons, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Zeff's hands tightened into fists as old instincts stirred to life. A Warlord, alone, asking for him by that name?

"All of you stay put," Zeff ordered, passing Sora to Carne. "Keep Sora up here." His gaze swept across his exhausted crew, decades-old bounties and hidden pasts reflected in their tense faces. "I'll handle this myself."

He started toward the stairs, his wooden leg striking each step with deliberate purpose. Behind him, he heard Patty whisper, "Should we...?"

"No," Zeff barked without turning. "This is my restaurant. My guest." My problem, he didn't add.

Whatever this Warlord wanted, they'd picked one hell of a day to come calling. But Zeff hadn't survived this long by showing weakness, and he wasn't about to start now.

Taking a deep breath, Zeff straightened his chef's whites and adjusted his hat. Whatever was waiting downstairs, he would face it with his pride intact. The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended. Marines were one thing—they'd look the other way for a good meal and the promise of continued service. But a Warlord? They played by their own rules, accountable to no one.

His hands itched for a fight he knew he couldn't win. Not anymore. Not with one leg and twenty years of rust. But he'd be damned if he'd let anyone threaten his restaurant, his crew, his family.

At the foot of the stairs, fallen chairs caught his attention—Marcus must have knocked them over in his haste. Amateur move, showing fear like that. Then again, the boy's bounty wouldn't cover a decent wine pairing. What did he know about real danger?

There, framed by the evening light streaming through the windows, stood Dracule Mihawk.

The tension in Zeff's shoulders eased slightly. Mihawk was many things—dangerous, unpredictable, powerful beyond measure—but he wasn't known for senseless violence. If he'd wanted blood, the Baratie would already be in splinters.

The swordsman's presence filled the room like a storm cloud, dark and heavy, his hawk-like eyes fixed on...

"Sanji." Zeff's voice cut through the tension.

Thank the Seas that the brat hadn't started anything yet. But from the look in his eye, he was about five seconds away from doing something monumentally stupid.

At the sound of Zeff's voice, his son's battle-ready stance wavered, that one exposed blue eye flickering toward where the old chef had emerged at the bottom of the stairwell.

"This is above your weight class, boy. Back down." Zeff jerked his head toward the kitchen.

Zeff's jaw clenched as Sanji remained rooted in place, defiance written across his features. The boy's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Sanji." Zeff put steel in his voice.

Sanji's shoulders tensed, but he broke eye contact first. Without a word, he gathered the stack of fresh linens from where he'd dropped them and moved to a nearby table. Close enough to the stairs to appear obedient, far enough to keep watch. The sharp snap of fabric filled the air as he began folding with precise, angry movements.

Stubborn brat. At least he was out of the immediate line of fire.

The floorboards above creaked. Zeff didn't need to look up to know his entire crew was probably pressed against the top of the stairwell, ears straining to catch every word. He could practically feel their nervous energy radiating down the stairwell.

A dry chuckle escaped Zeff's throat as he turned back to their unexpected guest. "Seems you've given my staff quite the fright, Hawk Eyes. Marcus probably broke a personal record getting up those stairs."

Mihawk's piercing gaze held steady as it swept over Zeff's form, considering. Zeff planted his feet firmly, keeping his weight balanced despite his wooden leg. Years of instinct screamed at him to take a defensive stance, but he forced his posture to remain casual.

Mihawk's boots clicked against the floorboards as he slowly circled the dining room. His yellow eyes traced over the nautical decorations, the sturdy tables, the worn but well-maintained surfaces. Each sweep of his gaze felt calculated, like he was piecing together a story from the scattered evidence before him.

"The world changes quickly these days. Red Hair ascends to an Emperor of the New World. The Revolutionary, Kuma, is named a tyrant..." Mihawk's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. "And Red Leg Zeff opens a restaurant in the weakest Blue."

"Times change. Men change with them." Zeff crossed his arms. "Or they die holding onto what they were."

Behind him, Sanji's movements with the linens grew more aggressive, each fold punctuated with barely contained tension.

"Indeed." Mihawk paused by a wall of photographs—memories of successful nights, satisfied customers, and crew celebrations. "When I heard of your escape through the Calm Belt, I confess I thought you'd die a fool's death. Yet, here you stand. Hidden away with the help."

"Hidden?" Zeff's bark of laughter held no humor. "People know exactly who I am, our grand opening was in the paper." He gestured to the wall of photographs.

His wooden leg tapped against the floor as he moved closer to the wall, pointing to a faded photograph. "Right there. Five years ago." The image showed younger and thinner versions of himself and Sanji, standing proud in front of the newly christened Baratie. Their clothes hung loose on their frames, but their grins stretched wide, the key to their new life clutched between them. The gold from the Orbit's wreckage had bought them more than a ship—it had bought them a future.

Mihawk studied the photograph, his yellow eyes lingering on the young boy's face. The Warlord's expression remained unchanged, but Zeff caught the slight tilt of his head—the pieces clicking into place.

"I've got no shame in what I do now," Zeff continued, careful to keep his eyes forward. "We serve marine and pirate alike, but they come for the food now, not the fighting." He paused, scratching his beard with a chuckle, "Well, some come for fighting, but they learn quick enough that a warm meal at sea is a better option."

He felt Sanji's movements pause behind him, but forced himself not to look. Showing any special concern for the boy would only paint a target on his back. Sanji understood Zeff's past as a pirate—it was impossible not to, given their first encounter. But he didn't know the full extent of his reputation. Not the blood that had earned him his epithet, or the people who had known him before finding a better purpose. Now, with every word Mihawk spoke, more of that past surfaced.

The irony wasn't lost on him—having recently demanded honesty from Sanji while his own ghost arrived on their doorstep without so much as a call ahead. The past had a way of refusing to stay buried, especially at sea.

"A new dream then?" Mihawk asked, that penetrating gaze still searching for something.

"An old one." Zeff allowed himself a small smile. "Just found a better way to chase it."

"And how do you chase such dreams now?" His gaze dropped to Zeff's peg leg. "The seas seem intent on collecting limbs from once fearsome fighters."

The comment hung in the air long enough for Zeff to sense there was a story hidden somewhere in that remark, something that went beyond their current exchange. Soon enough, the swordsman shifted back to their staring match.

"Though, I do wonder what creature claimed your greatest weapon."

"The most vicious beast in any ocean," Zeff's words cut through the air like a blade, carrying echoes of starvation and sacrifice, "is the choice between survival and defeat."

From the corner of his eye, Zeff caught Sanji's slight twitch before resuming his steady rhythm creasing the tablecloths.

The sudden movement drew Mihawk's attention. Those hawk-like eyes shifted to study Sanji with new interest, as if reassessing a piece on a chess board he'd previously overlooked. The swordsman's gaze flickered back to Zeff, as if catching some invisible thread that connected them.

"Fascinating." Mihawk's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—less predatory, more contemplative.

Zeff watched the dangerous dance of their conversation settle into something less hostile. He'd survived this long by knowing when to bare his teeth and when to sheathe his claws. The eggplant needed to learn that too—there would always be stronger fighters, more dangerous enemies. But strength wasn't just about who could hit harder.

"Well," Zeff cleared his throat, straightening his chef's hat as a floorboard creaked overhead. Probably Patty leaning too far over the railing again. "You've come a long way. Be a shame to leave without trying the food." He gestured behind him. "Got some bottles that might interest you—vintage stuff from West Blue that'd pair well with today's catch."

It wasn't surrender to feed a potential threat. It was pride in what they'd built here, in who they'd become. Let Mihawk see that the feared Red Leg hadn't gone soft—he'd just found something worth more than fighting.

"I suppose it would be... discourteous to refuse such hospitality." Mihawk inclined his head slightly.

Sanji's movements remained stiff, tension screamed through every line of his body, but he'd stayed put, watched, learned. The boy still held himself like he expected a fight, even as he moved to fetch the leather-bound menu from the host stand.

Zeff nodded, years of experience letting see the immediate danger had passed. "Eggplant, grab a menu for our guest."

This could be good for him, Zeff realized. Let him see how even the most feared swordsman in the world could be civil over a good meal.

"While you're here," Zeff said, turning back to Mihawk, "you might help us settle a tie." He caught Sanji fidgeting with one of their leather menus, hovering just beyond the lamplight. "Fresh eyes might break the deadlock."

As the swordsman followed Sanji to a corner table, Zeff couldn't help but notice how the boy's tension shifted to professional pride as he described the day's specials. Even the most dangerous men in the world, it seemed, weren't immune to the promise of a perfectly cooked meal.

The transformation was subtle but unmistakable—as Sanji led their unexpected guest to the corner table, his movements shifted from a fighter's readiness to a chef's grace. Mihawk leaned forward slightly—the same unconscious gesture Zeff had seen countless times from hardened pirates when the aroma of perfectly seared fish reached their nostrils.

The seas were vast and violent, and yet, food was the great unifier that could lead to unexpected moments of peace.

Maybe that was the real lesson here.

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast long shadows across the lower deck as Zeff watched Sanji square off against Marcus. The newer cook might not match Sanji's raw power, but he fought with the precision of someone who'd learned to survive rather than win. Zeff recognized that edge—the kind that came from years of watching your back, choosing your battles. The young man had skills he shouldn't need at his age.

Sanji's leg whipped toward his opponent's neck. "Collier!"

"Co-yay!" Sora chirped from her perch on Carne's lap, tiny hands clapping.

Marcus ducked, already moving to exploit Sanji's follow-through. Smart. Most fighters would've tried to block.

"Your leg's dropping too low after each strike," Zeff called out.

Sanji pivoted into a shoulder strike, but Marcus was already sliding to his blind spot. The boy fought dirty—not with malice, but with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned fighting wasn't about looking good. Zeff understood that kind of survival instinct, even if he didn't care to dig into where it came from.

"You're leaving yourself open. Marcus sees it—don't you, boy?"

Marcus danced back from Sanji's kick, a familiar gleam in his eye. "Clear as day, boss." There was something almost hungry in the way he studied Sanji's technique, cataloging weaknesses with practiced ease. Not malicious, but... calculating. The kind of look Zeff had seen in younger pirates, the ones smart enough to play the long game.

Sanji shot him a glare. "Like to see you do better, old man."

"Watch your mouth and focus on your footwork." Zeff tapped his peg leg against the deck. "You're fighting like you've got lead in your shoes."

The gathered cooks winced as Marcus landed a solid hit to Sanji's ribs. The blond stumbled but recovered, determination hardening his features.

"Keep your guard up!" Zeff's mustache twitched.

Sanji growled, launching into a rapid series of kicks. Marcus fumbled backward, barely blocking the assault.

"Poitrine!" Sanji's kick connected with Marcus' chest, driving him back toward the edge of the deck.

"Better! Now finish it!"

"Flanchet!" The final kick caught Marcus square in the stomach, sending him flying over the railing with a spectacular splash.

The gathered cooks erupted in cheers and groans. Sora jumped to her feet, attempting to copy Sanji's kick. Her tiny legs tangled beneath her and she toppled onto her bottom, dissolving into peals of laughter.

The eggplant had improved, though Zeff would never admit it out loud. The morning's training brought back memories of his own crew, how they'd spar under the scorching sun to stay sharp. After Mihawk's visit, the weight of their isolation pressed heavier on his mind. The seas grew more dangerous by the day.

Sanji extended a hand over the railing, hauling a drenched Marcus back onto the deck. Water pooled around his feet as he peeled off his soaked shirt, revealing a crude tattoo with a serpent across his shoulder blade. The ink had blurred and faded—amateur work, likely done in some back-alley port years ago.

Zeff's jaw tightened. He figured Marcus was only a few years older than Sanji, so couldn't have been more than fourteen when he got that mark. Too young to sign on with the kind of crew that branded their members like cattle.

"Go get changed before you catch your death," Zeff barked.

Marcus ducked his head, clutching the wet fabric to his chest as he hurried below deck to change.

The old captain's attention shifted to Sora, who kept trying to mimic Sanji's kicks with determined concentration.

"Look at the little warrior." Patty pointed at the toddler. "Little miss is gonna give her old man a run for his money. Bet she'll be kicking higher than him before she hits ten."

Sanji whipped around, "She's not- No. She won't learn to fight."

"Aw, papa bear doesn't want his precious girl fighting?" Carne teased.

"Yeah come on, with those genes-"

"I said no!" Sanji snatched Sora up, holding her close. "She's not going to need to fight. Ever."

"Relax, eggplant. No one's forcing her into anything." Zeff stepped forward, resting a hand on Sanji's shoulder. "But you can't shield her from everything. World's too damn dangerous for that."

Sanji's jaw clenched, but he didn't pull away. Sora patted his cheek, babbling "Fan! Chay!"

"Speaking of dangerous," Zeff squeezed Sanji's shoulder. "Your form's still sloppy. We'll drill basics after lunch." He needed the boy stronger, faster. Ready for whatever storms gathered on their horizon.

They headed back inside to the dining room to settle in for lunch. Marcus slid onto the bench, his hair still damp but wearing fresh clothes. The cooks passed around platters of grilled fish and vegetables, and a warm broth to fight the coming winter chill—the usual quick fare between shifts. Zeff watched Sora who bounced around Marcus' legs. The new cook tried to eat his soup while dodging her tiny feet.

"Fanchay!" She swung her leg.

Marcus chuckled. "That's right, little miss. Just like your-" Her foot connected with his shin. He yelped, soup sloshing. "Damn, that actually hurt!"

"Takes after her old man, doesn't she?" Patty grinned.

The color drained from Sanji's face. He abandoned his own lunch to scoop her up and away from her target, meeting her eyes. "Baby, we don't kick people when they're trying to eat. Fighting is only for protecting yourself and others, understand?"

Sora's bottom lip quivered, confusion clear in her expression. Not ten minutes ago, they'd all been cheering her attempts to copy her father's kicks. Now those same movements earned her a stern talking-to.

"You could really hurt someone." Sanji's voice softened, "We want to be kind, right?"

She nodded, though Zeff doubted she grasped the concept. Still, she climbed into her chair without protest when Sanji set her down.

Zeff suppressed a chuckle. She had her father's stubbornness, even if she didn't yet grasp why her fun new game had suddenly become forbidden. The same determination that had kept Sanji alive on that damn rock was reflected in those innocent eyes, though thankfully under much better circumstances.

"You know," Carne leaned back, studying Marcus' bruised shin, "Might not be a bad idea to teach her proper form. Channel that energy somewhere productive."

"She's barely walking," Sanji snapped, but Zeff caught the way their words made him pause.

"Walking?" Patty snorted. "That girl's been running circles around us for almost a year. Nearly knocked over my cream puffs yesterday. We should at least baby-proof the deck rails before she takes another tumble."

Marcus rubbed his leg, something distant flickering in his expression. "My old man started teaching me at four. Sometimes knowing how to avoid a fight is more important than winning one."

"You want your girl to know how to handle herself, right?"

"Yeah, there's that dojo in Shimotsuki-"

"What about those classes on Mirror Ball-"

Zeff watched the crew file back onto the main deck, lunch break over. Patty stepped up to spar with Sanji next, but the discussion about Sora's potential training wouldn't die down.

"She's got perfect height for sweeping legs," Carne demonstrated a low kick. "Nobody expects it from a tiny thing like her."

"Could teach her to dodge first," Marcus added. "Small target, hard to hit."

Sanji's kicks grew increasingly wild, each suggestion landing like a physical blow. His jaw worked silently, tension radiating from every movement.

"She could learn pressure points," Patty mimed jabbing motions. "Perfect for tiny fingers."

Something dark flickered across Sanji's face. His next kick went wide, nearly catching Patty in the head instead of his intended target. "She's a baby, not your damn weapon!"

Marcus stepped forward, hands raised. "Hey, we're just talking about self-defense-"

"Self-defense?" Sanji's laugh held no humor. His voice cracked as he advanced. "You're all sitting here planning how to turn her into some perfect little fighter before she can even talk properly." His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. "Maybe I don't want my daughter learning that strength means hurting people. Maybe I want her to have a real childhood!"

"Enough." Zeff pushed off the railing. "Cool off, eggplant!"

His wooden leg connected with Sanji's chest, sending him backward into the ocean with a yelp.

"Daddy swim!" Sora wiggled in Carne's loose grip. The cook, distracted by the argument, had forgotten he was supposed to be watching her. She slipped free like a greased eel and hurled herself over the railing with a delighted squeal before anyone could react.

Time seemed to stop. The crew froze, horror dawning on their faces as the tiny splash followed the larger one.

"Shit!" Multiple voices shouted.

"Damn it all!" Zeff yanked off his chef's coat, cursing himself for letting the deck remain so unsafe. They'd all gotten complacent. "Someone get-"

Before anyone could move, Sanji surfaced with a gasp, Sora clutched to his chest. Her initial glee turned to confused tears as the cold reality of the ocean hit her. The crew collectively exhaled as Patty helped them aboard.

"Swimming lessons," Zeff announced, his heart still hammering despite his steady voice. "That's what we're starting with. Everything else can wait." He cast a meaningful look at the deck rails. "And get some proper safety nets up before our little fish decides to try again. I want this deck child-proof by dinner."

The crew nodded, their earlier argument forgotten in the face of their shared priority: keeping their smallest crew member safe. Even Marcus moved to help, though Zeff noticed how he kept glancing toward the horizon. The young man had good survival instincts—probably knew as well as Zeff did that the East Blue's peace wouldn't last forever. Better to be prepared than sorry, even if Sanji wasn't ready to hear it yet.

* * *

Swimming lessons at the beginning of winter hadn't been Zeff's brightest idea, but Sora took to water naturally. After her first plunge, she'd learned to float and tread water quickly, but the cold water had its price.

A cold swept through the Baratie like a hurricane through the galley. When Sora first fell ill, her tiny body wracked with fever, Zeff had watched Sanji pace himself into exhaustion, both of them helpless against an enemy they couldn't kick. But the little spitfire proved as resilient as her father, bouncing back while the rest of his crew succumbed one by one.

Zeff had personally dragged three sniffling cooks from their stations and thrown them into their bunks, threatening worse than illness if they came near his kitchen again.

The dining room echoed with empty chairs where he'd sent waiters packing at the first sign of symptoms. He'd considered closing the restaurant, but tonight's banquet for twenty couldn't be cancelled, not with specialty ingredients already delivered and taking up precious cooler space. He'd rather run the kitchen solo than watch good food rot.

Now only a handful remained standing, each wearing protective masks and washing their hands raw to avoid joining the infected.

Zeff observed Sanji's clumsy prep work. The other cooks might miss the slight tremor in his usually steady hands, but Zeff saw every tell.

"The hell's wrong with you?"

"Just the dust or spices, or something." Sanji waved him off, as he reached for the prep checklist. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, stark against skin that had been pale since yesterday's dinner service. "Or maybe I'm allergic to you nagging me."

"Nagging? I ain't nagging. I'm stating facts. You look like shit."

"I'm fine." Sanji's voice held a defensive edge, but his shoulders slumped. "Just tired, is all."

From her play corner, Sora bounced restlessly between empty prep stations, impossibly energetic despite her recent brush with illness. Too energetic, maybe, but Zeff filed that observation away for later. She'd already reorganized her toy pans three times, clearly missing her usual audience of doting cooks who would praise her "cooking" and sneak her bits of chocolate when they thought Zeff and Sanji weren't looking.

"We're short-staffed as it is." Sanji continued. "Ravi is still out and Oscar's voice is shot. Who's gonna run food?"

"I don't need you telling me how to run my restaurant." But he had a point. They were down to skeleton crew, and Sanji was the best they had on the floor—though Zeff would sooner bite off his other leg than tell him that.

"Let me wait tables, I won't touch the food prep."

Zeff crossed his arms. He recognized that desperate edge in Sanji's voice—the same one he'd had at age ten, insisting he would help Zeff with his restaurant after they'd nearly starved together. The same stubborn determination that had kept them both alive.

"Please." Sanji's voice cracked. "I'll wear a mask. Stay away from the kitchen. Whatever you want."

The distress in those words hit harder than any kick. The brat hated asking for anything, would rather work himself to death than admit weakness. Always in motion, like a shark that would die if it stopped swimming.

Zeff sighed. "One sneeze. One cough. You're benched for a week."

"Deal."

"And you keep that mask on. Don't need you spreading whatever this is to paying customers."

"Got it." Sanji tied on an apron with trembling fingers. The kitchen felt cavernous around them, half of the stations standing empty where normally a dozen cooks would be chopping, searing, and calling orders.

"Take breaks. Drink water."

"I get it!" Sanji snapped, then caught himself. "Sorry. Thanks."

Sora perked up at their voices, already wearing the tiny mask Patty had made as a joke—which had proved surprisingly useful given current circumstances. She clutched a small notepad, the pages covered in toddler scribbles meant to mimic order tickets.

"Daddy work?"

"Yeah, baby. Want to help me take orders?"

Her delighted squeal echoed through the room. At least someone was happy about this arrangement.

"We'll be the best waiters ever, right, Sora?" Sanji scooped her up and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Let's go show 'em how it's done." 

"Show 'em!" Sora echoed, giggling as Sanji carried her out of the kitchen. 

"Keep an eye on him." Zeff muttered to Patty. "He starts looking worse, drag his ass upstairs. Don't care if you have to sit on him."

"Got it." Patty grinned. "Been wanting to do that for years."

"And make sure he actually drinks something besides coffee."

"On it."

The afternoon crawled by in waves of mounting concern. Every time Sanji appeared at the pass, his condition had deteriorated further. Two hours in, his usual graceful stride had devolved into careful, measured steps. By hour three, he was gripping the service counter a beat too long when collecting plates.

The boy worked himself to the bone, had done so since Sora arrived. New clothes every few months as she grew like a weed. Educational toys that cost more than Zeff's first sword. But Sanji never complained, never let his standards slip. If anything, his cooking had grown more refined, as if determined to prove fatherhood hadn't softened him.

"Boss." Patty appeared at Zeff's elbow, voice low. "The kid just spent five minutes staring at table twelve's ticket. Had to read it back to him twice."

"Keep an eye on him," Zeff growled, turning back to his station. The rich aroma of searing beef filled the air, but he barely noticed it through his growing unease. "First sign of him stumbling..."

"Already got Marcus stationed by the stairs."

Service passed in a blur of tickets and plating, but Zeff's mind stayed split between his station and the dining room. During a rare lull, he descended to observe firsthand.

He found Sanji working a six-top of wealthy merchants, charm turned up full. Sora trailed behind, clutching her notepad and crayon, mimicking her father's professional stance.

"And what can I get for the lovely lady?" Sanji's voice carried across the room, smooth as aged whiskey despite his illness. He blinked hard, squinting at his notepad. The pen wavered across the paper, his elegant script reduced to shaky scrawl.

The merchant's wife tittered, clearly charmed. "Oh my, such manners! And your little helper is absolutely precious."

"She's learning the family business early." Sanji winked, then steadied himself against a chair back. His other hand white-knuckled the notepad. "Though I must say, mademoiselle, your radiant beauty has quite... quite..." He swayed slightly, catching himself. "...quite outshone even our finest dishes."

The compliment landed less smoothly than usual, but the customers didn't seem to notice. Zeff did. Just like he noticed how Sanji's hands shook when pouring water, how he'd started pressing his palm against the cool wall between tables, how his typical rapid-fire order call-outs had slowed to careful, measured words.

Zeff cornered Sanji by the service station, watching him sort through receipts with shaking hands. "How's the floor?"

"Fantastic." Sanji pulled out a thick wad of bills. "Table six left double the usual. And did you see that goddess at table three? Her eyes sparkled like-"

"Cut the crap." Zeff crossed his arms. "You need a break?"

"What I need is to get these orders to the kitchen." Sanji straightened his tie, the motion less precise than usual despite his obvious effort. "Can't keep beautiful ladies waiting."

"You're swaying like a drunk sailor."

"Am not." Sanji adjusted his mask, fingers fumbling with the strings. "Besides, the ladies love the mysterious masked waiter angle." Sanji twirled dramatically, then caught himself on a chair. The moment of panic in his eyes was visible only to Zeff before the figurative mask slipped back into place behind the literal one. "It's all part of the show."

"Circus, more like."

"Please, I'm fine." Sanji waved him off, "Just getting my second wind."

Zeff bit back a growl. The dining room hummed with satisfied customers, Sora bouncing between tables spreading joy. No sense disrupting good service over his stubbornness.

"Your funeral." Zeff turned toward the stairs. "Don't come crying to me when you fall on your ass."

"Wouldn't dream of it, shitty geezer."

Zeff stomped back to his kitchen, leaving Sanji to his determined self-destruction. He slammed a pan onto the stove with more force than necessary, startling nearby cooks. The clang echoed through the kitchen, but couldn't drown out his worry. Damn brat never knew when to quit.

A thud from the stairwell caught his attention. Then another. Irregular footsteps, dragging and uneven. The sound of something—or someone—sliding against the wall.

"The hell?" Zeff turned toward the sound, just as Marcus burst through the kitchen doors.

"Boss! Sanji just walked into the wine rack. He played it off smooth—told the customers he was examining the vintage—but..."

Zeff was already moving, his wooden leg hitting each step with practiced precision as he rounded the corner. He found Sanji sprawled across the stairs, Sora clutching his sleeve. The mask had slipped down, revealing his face burned crimson. All pretense of composure had finally shattered.

"Must've hit a wave." Sanji's words slurred together. He tried to push himself up, arms trembling.

"The fins are down and seas are dead calm, you idiot." Zeff grabbed Sanji's collar before he could topple backward.

"Well someone's rocking the boat." Sanji's usual sharp wit had dulled to nonsense. His skin burned through the fabric of his shirt. "Got customers waiting..."

"Got shit. You're done." Zeff hoisted Sanji up by his armpits. The boy's head lolled against his shoulder. The fever radiated through his clothes.

"Such a charmer." Sanji took an unsteady step. "No wonder you're still single."

The boy's eyes rolled back as his knees buckled below him, and Zeff nearly followed, now supporting both their weights.

"Shit. Patty!" Zeff bellowed. "Get your ass over here!"

"M'fine..." Sanji slurred, head lolling against Zeff's shoulder. "Just... need a second."

"Stubborn little shit. Should've gone to bed hours ago when I told you to, you stupid eggplant." Zeff's grip tightened as Sanji's knees buckled. "But no, you had to prove something—" He cursed as the fever heat soaked through his sleeve.

"Again!" Sora clapped, seemingly oblivious to her father's condition.

"Not now, little one." Zeff shifted to keep Sanji upright, his voice rough with worry despite his words. "Your daddy's about to learn why we don't lie to Jiji."

Zeff nodded to Patty, who lifted Sanji like a sack of flour. The boy didn't even protest—just went limp in Patty's arms.

"Get him upstairs before he makes an even bigger fool of himself," Zeff ordered, his lecture dying in his throat at how still Sanji had gone.

"Daddy sleep?" Sora tugged at Zeff's pants.

"Yeah, whether he likes it or not." Zeff's gruff tone softened as he scooped her up.

As Patty carried Sanji up to his room, Zeff held Sora close, feeling her tiny hands grip his chef's whites. Sometimes being a parent meant watching your kids make mistakes. And sometimes it meant picking them up when those mistakes caught up with them.

"Come on, little lady." Zeff headed back to the kitchen, already mentally reshuffling staff for tonight's large dinner service. "Let's make your daddy some soup."

* * *

Three days later, the winter chill still seeped through the Baratie's walls as Zeff balanced a bowl of garlic soup, climbing the stairs to check on his fever-addled son.

A hacking cough echoed from inside, followed by a cheerful giggle.

"This is the damn floating restaurant," Sanji's congested voice drifted through the door. "Would you like to make a reservation?"

Zeff's mustache twitched, feeling less sympathy with each congested word out of the idiot eggplant's mouth. Even sick as a dog, the brat couldn't answer the damn den properly.

"No, we don't deliver." Sanji's words dissolved into a coughing fit. "Yes, I understand it's your anniversary, but—hold on." He covered the receiver. "Sora, don't eat that."

Zeff pushed the door open with his wooden leg, taking in the familiar sight of their cramped quarters. Sanji lay propped up in his bed against the highest wall, while Sora's smaller bed sat empty beneath the wide arched window—the one saving grace that made the tight space feel somewhat livable. The girl stood beside her father's bed, slowly retracting her fingers from her mouth along with his now drool-covered matchbook.

"Sorry about that," Sanji croaked, "as I was saying—" Another round of coughing cut him off. His words dissolved into violent coughing, but his fingers never stopped moving. The pale blue paper in his hands transformed with practiced precision. Even bedridden, the eggplant couldn't keep his hands still.

Zeff's gaze drifted to the shelves that claimed every inch of vertical space between the crammed dressers and storage chests. Glass jars of every size lined them, each one a container for their growing collection of paper stars. Almost a year's worth of folding glittered like captured constellations—blues mixed with greens, whites scattered among black. Almost a year's worth of folding, yet still short of the thousand needed for a wish.

Sora bounced on her toes beside the bed, waiting. Sanji finished the star with a gentle pinch, holding it out to her. He put the receiver down again and Zeff swears and accepts the customer to be a lost cause.

"Careful," Sanji's voice softened. "Remember how we talked about being gentle?"

She nodded enthusiastically, cupping her tiny hands. The star looked like a precious jewel as she carried it across the room, studying the shelves with intense concentration. Her eyes darted between two jars—one filled with perfect blue stars, another a mix of blues and purples.

Zeff watched her choose a mismatched jar. His gaze drifted over other containers where colors mingled freely, evidence of past "mistakes." But Sanji never corrected her choices. The random splashes of wrong colors gave the collection character, like how every dish carried the unique mark of its creator.

"No sir, I apologize but—"

Zeff snatched the receiver. "We'll call you back." He slammed it down, glaring at his adopted son. "What part of 'rest' don't you understand?"

"I'm fine." Sanji tried to sit up straighter, but another cough bent him double. "Just a cold."

"Just a-" Zeff set the soup down with more force than necessary. "You've had a fever for three days!"

Sora patted Sanji's hand. "Hot." She pressed her tiny palm to his forehead, like she'd seen Zeff do countless times.

"Eat before it gets cold." Zeff pulled up the chair beside the bed. "And don't give me that look. I can't have you fainting again."

"I told you," Sanji's spoon clinked against the bowl. "We hit a wave and—"

"There wasn't a wave."

"...It was a rogue wave."

"No, there wasn't. You nearly cracked your skull on my wine rack because you're too stubborn to admit when you're sick."

Zeff watched Sanji's trembling hands lift the spoon. The brat had lost weight. Three days of fever had hollowed his cheeks and darkened the circles under his eyes.

Sanji slurped his soup with deliberate noise. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Zeff crossed his arms. "If that fever doesn't break by tomorrow, I'm calling Doc Morris."

"Like hell," Sanji's spoon clattered into the bowl. "I said I'm—" A coughing fit doubled him over.

Sora climbed onto the bed, patting his back. "Daddy sick."

"Even a toddler can see you're full of it." Zeff retrieved the bowl before Sanji could spill the rest of his soup. "And you're wrong—you're not fine. You're a scrawny, fever-addled idiot who can barely hold a spoon."

"Am not." Sanji reached to move the soup back to his lap, his hands shaking. "And I don't need a doctor poking at me."

"What's this about doctors?" Zeff watched another spoonful of soup miss Sanji's mouth. "What are you—twelve? Eleven?"

"I'm almost sixteen and you damn well know it." Sanji's indignant response dissolved into coughing.

"Right, almost sixteen and still hiding from doctors. Real convincing."

"Daddy." Sora grabbed Sanji's wrist, steadying his next attempt at eating. "Like this."

Zeff's mustache twitched at the sight.

Zeff watched Sora guide the spoon to Sanji's mouth like a tiny drill sergeant. The sight would've been adorable if he wasn't swaying like a mast in a storm.

"Good job, daddy." Sora beamed, before guiding the spoon back for more soup.

"Sora, baby," Sanji's voice cracked. "You're supposed to be on my side. Jiji's turning you against me."

"Someone in this family needs common sense." Zeff adjusted the blanket that had slipped off Sanji's shoulders. "And clearly it ain't you."

Sora bounced on the mattress, pointing at the paper stars scattered across the bedspread. "More! More!"

"Sure thing." Sanji's fingers fumbled with the paper, dropping it twice before managing a wobbly fold. "Just... give me a second."

"Let me take her downstairs." Zeff reached for Sora. "You need rest."

"I'm fine." Sanji's head drooped, then snapped back up. "We're making stars."

"You're making a mess." Zeff counted three failed attempts at folding scattered across the blanket. "She can help me inventory the wine cellar."

"No, she might..." Sanji blinked hard, fighting to focus. "What if she breaks something?"

"Unlike you, she listens when told not to touch."

"But the lunch rush—"

"Is handled." Zeff scooped up Sora like a sack of wiggling potatoes, earning a delighted shriek. "Doctor's orders: sleep."

"You're not a doctor," Sanji mumbled as he burrowed deeper under his blankets. Zeff grabbed the quilts from the foot of the bed, layering them on top of him further. The ovens did well to keep their floating home warm, but the winter chill remained persistent.

"Don't need fancy school to know you're too weak to stop me." Zeff headed for the door, Sora tucked under his arm.

Sanji opened his mouth to argue, but only managed another round of coughing.

Zeff nabbed the den den mushi off the nightstand, passing it to Sora. "Here, keep this safe for me."

She hugged the snail to her chest, its eyes drooping in contentment. That would keep the customers from bothering the brat while he recovered.

Balancing the half-empty soup bowl in his free hand, Zeff turned to leave.

"Wait." Sanji's voice came out small, uncertain. "You'll... you'll come back soon, right? Before dinner service?"

Zeff paused at the door. The boy hated showing weakness, would rather work himself to death than admit he needed help. But fever had a way of stripping away pride.

"'Course I will. Someone's got to make sure you haven't tried escaping through the window."

"Promise?" Sanji pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"Before sunset. Now get some damn sleep."

Zeff pushed the door closed with his peg leg, hearing Sanji's breathing even out before it latched.

He looked down at Sora, still clutching the snail phone. "What do you say we go count wine bottles? Might tire you out enough for a nap."

Her eyes lit up. "Count! Count!"

* * *

Sora can only count to ten.

"That ain't gonna work." Zeff closed his inventory ledger. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the stone floor as Sora skipped between the racks, her mismatched socks—one striped blue, one solid white—padding silently against the floor. Usually, Sanji would have caught that wardrobe disaster before she left their room.

They climbed back to the dining room, Sora trailing behind him like a duckling.

"What a precious little thing," an elderly woman cooed from her table. "Though someone should help her coordinate her outfits better."

Sora's dress clashed with the purple pants she'd somehow gotten herself into. Her hair stuck out in wild directions, held by crooked clips. Sora beamed at the attention, twirling to show off her creative fashion choices.

"Her keeper's down with a cold." Zeff explained, fighting an embarrassed flush. "She dressed herself today."

In the kitchen, Zeff tied a miniature apron around Sora's waist, her face beaming with pride at matching the kitchen staff, while Zeff was grateful to hide her mix-matched clothing he only became aware of moments ago.

Once the apron was tied neatly, he lifted her to the sink as he had her wash her hands, like Sanji taught her. Then sat her on a clean prep station as she toweled her hands with enthusiasm. "Here." He placed a bowl of pre-washed lettuce leaves before her. "Sort the big ones from the small ones."

Sora's face scrunched in concentration as she created two piles, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. Her hands, still chubby with baby fat, carefully examined each leaf.

"Good girl." Zeff nodded at her progress. "When you're done with that, we'll count the carrots." He paused. "Up to ten."

Sora's tiny fingers worked at the task with surprising dexterity as Zeff went through the motions of service with practiced efficiency. Still, something felt off. Had been for three days now.

The kitchen had filled back up with cooks finally recovered from their illness, but still felt hollow without Sanji's constant bickering and commentary. No quick "yes, chef" followed his commands. No blond head appeared at his elbow with the exact ingredient he needed. Instead, the crew fumbled through their attempts to fill the gap.

The sound of metal hitting metal rang through the kitchen as Marcus dropped a pan. Zeff's leg shot out, catching it before it clattered to the floor.

"Watch yourself." He set the pan on the counter with more force than necessary. Damn eggplant had him too used to having competent help at his side.

Steam billowed as stocks came to simmer, filling the air with rich aromas. Zeff found himself waiting for Sanji's critique of the seasonings, the constant push to improve each dish.

Sora's attention span finally gave out. She abandoned her lettuce sorting and climbed down from her seat on the counter before making a break for the door.

Patty scooped her up before she could make it too far. "Let's find you a better spot, yeah?"

They settled her in her usual perch by the porthole, where she could watch the waves and stay clear of hot stoves. They'd bolted down a cushioned bench near the porthole last month, complete with railings that kept her from tumbling off. The spot gave her a perfect view of approaching vessels while staying safely out of the kitchen's workflow.

Carne grabbed a handful of utensils from his station, trying to recreate the teaching games he'd seen Sanji play. "Hey princess, what's this?" He held up a whisk, grinning too broadly.

"Spinny!" Sora clapped her hands.

"No, no—whisk. Can you say whisk?"

"Mix!"

"Close enough." The cooks laughed, but their forced cheer rang false. Zeff allowed it—better than having her underfoot during prep—but they all knew it wasn't the same. Sanji would have turned this into a lesson about what each tool did, not just their names. Would have had her giggling while learning.

Zeff caught himself turning to share a comment with Sanji, finding empty air instead. One day the brat would chase that dream of his, sail off to find the All Blue. It was what Zeff wanted—had always wanted. So why did the thought sit like a stone in his gut?

The lunch rush blurred past in a flurry of tickets and orders. Zeff's wooden leg tapped against the floor as he moved between stations, checking dishes and barking corrections.

"Blue sail! Blue sail!" Sora's voice rang clear above the kitchen chaos. She pressed her face against the porthole glass, pointing at approaching vessels.

"Good eye." Zeff passed her a bowl of cut fruit. Her tiny hands grabbed for the pieces while she kept watch.

The dinner crowd hit like a storm. A group of sailors piled in, their boisterous laughter filling the dining room. Their party of ten quickly became twenty as more crew filtered in.

"More boats!" Sora announced between bites of the sandwich Carne had fixed her. "Blue flag! White flag!"

Zeff's attention split between expediting orders and keeping half an ear on Sora's running commentary. The sailors ordered multiple courses, their appetite matching their rowdy energy.

Between courses, the cooks took turns sliding Sora bits of fruit and cheese, keeping her content through the long hours. Patty carved her apple slices while Carne snuck her extra cookies when he thought Zeff wasn't looking.

"Watch that sauce." Zeff caught a pan before it reduced too far. "Gama, those fish need turning."

The heat in the kitchen rose with each passing hour. Sweat beaded on foreheads as the cooks rushed to keep pace with orders.

Zeff glanced at Sora's bench during a brief lull. She'd finally dozed off, curled up with her head resting on her folded arms. The setting sun cast orange light across her peaceful face.

With Sora asleep, Zeff threw himself fully into managing the flood of orders. The sailors wanted seconds, thirds, testing the kitchen's limits.

"Chef!"

Zeff's head snapped up at Patty's shout. Sanji stood in the doorway, face flushed and eyes glassy. His shirt was buttoned wrong, hair wild.

"Shit." Zeff handed off his pan to Patty just in time to catch Sanji's arm as he swayed. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Daddy!" Sora's cry cut through the kitchen's rhythm, awake from her dozing.

"I woke up and-" Sanji stumbled forward. "It was dark and I thought-"

Zeff caught him before his knees buckled. The kid burned like a furnace, fever raging worse than before.

"Thought you left." Sanji clutched Zeff's chef whites, words slurring.

"Idiot." Zeff tightened his grip on Sanji's arms. "We're on a damn boat, where would I go off to?"

Sanji's head drooped against Zeff's chest. "I don't know."

"Patty!" Zeff barked. "Take over service."

"Got it, Chef!" The kitchen burst into motion around them.

Sora scrambled down from her perch. "Daddy sleepy?"

"Your dad's an eggplant with rocks for brains." Zeff scooped her up with one arm, keeping Sanji steady with the other. "Come on, both of you. Upstairs."

The trek to the top floor took twice as long with Sanji stumbling every few steps. By the time they reached the bathroom, his shirt clung to him like a second skin.

"Bath time." Zeff started the water running. "You're both getting in."

"I don't want a bath." Sanji swayed against the door frame.

"You're drenched in sweat and smell like death." Zeff adjusted the water temperature to be suitable for Sanji's fever. "Nothing wrong with family bathing together. Now in, before I throw you in myself."

Sanji didn't argue further, which worried Zeff more than anything. He helped Sora out of her clothes while Sanji managed his own.

"I'll get you both fresh things to wear. Try not to drown while I'm gone."

Zeff shut the bathroom door, hearing Sora's delighted squeals and water splashing against porcelain. Her giggles mixed with Sanji's tired murmurs, the sounds muffled through the thick wood.

The floorboards creaked as he made his way to their shared room. The sight stopped him cold. Blankets lay twisted on the floor, the bed sheets wrinkled. A glass of water had spilled across the nightstand, soaking the novel Sanji had been reading. The window hung open, letting in the cold night air.

His gut clenched. The room told a story of desperate movement, of someone fighting their way out of bed. Memories surfaced of their first few months together, before the Baratie, how Sanji would wake yelling, begging not to be left alone. Zeff had written it off then as a child's fears, or something lingering from their time on that desolate rock, but maybe...

Almost six years he and Sanji had been stuck together, and he still didn't understand half of what made the eggplant tick. But he understood enough to know he'd screwed up, leaving him alone this long.

Zeff gathered fresh clothes from their drawers—soft cotton pants and a loose shirt for Sanji, a nightgown with little anchors for Sora. He'd need to grab his spare quilts from his own room. The night air had teeth, and Sanji's fever wouldn't appreciate the chill.

Back at the bathroom, he knocked once before entering. Steam had fogged the mirrors, but couldn't hide how Sanji's collarbones jutted sharply beneath his skin. The kid had dropped weight again, his wiry frame even leaner than usual. Between caring for Sora, working full shifts, and now this illness, he was burning through what little reserves he had.

Both heads of blond hair were darkened with water, and the familiar scent of their shared shampoo filled the humid space. Sora splashed happily in the tub while Sanji slumped against the wall, his shoulders trembling despite the warmth.

"Ready to get out?" Zeff grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack.

Sora stood up, water cascading off her tiny frame. "All clean!"

Zeff lifted her from the tub, wrapping her in the towel before she could slip. He dried her quickly, practiced movements from months of bath time routine. The nightgown slipped easily over her head.

Sanji hadn't moved, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His skin had taken on an unsettling pallor, making the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more.

Zeff's jaw tightened. The brat needed help, but his pride... "Need a hand?" He kept his tone casual, like it was Sanji's choice to accept or refuse.

The challenge worked. Sanji's eyes flickered with determination as he pushed himself to his feet. "I got it."

Zeff watched him dress with careful movements, ready to catch him if he stumbled. He hated using the kid's ego against him like this, but sometimes maintaining dignity meant more than making things easier.

He watched Sanji's slow movements as they made their way to the room. He gripped the door frame for support while trying to appear casual about it.

"Quit hovering," Sanji's voice came out rough. "I'm not some helpless child."

Zeff bit back a response, remembering how not that long ago Sanji had stumbled into the kitchen, wild-eyed and desperate. The way he'd clutched at Zeff's jacket like a lifeline. But pointing that out would only wound the boy's pride further.

Sora tugged at Sanji's pant leg. "Story?"

Despite his exhaustion, Sanji's face softened. "Of course, baby." He scooped her up with shaking arms. "Let's get you to bed."

"Let me—" Zeff started.

"You don't do the voices right." Sanji shot him a weak glare. "She likes the sea king to sound scary."

Zeff raised his hands in surrender, watching as Sanji settled at the foot of Sora's bed. His hands shook as he opened the picture book, but his voice remained steady as he read, adding dramatic growls and whooshes that made Sora giggle.

While Sanji performed his nightly storytelling ritual, Zeff slipped out to retrieve the spare quilts from his room. He returned to find Sanji tucking Sora in, his movements gentle despite his exhaustion.

He busied himself making up Sanji's bed, layering the quilts and creating a nest of warmth that would help break the fever. Heat from the kitchen below slowly seeped up through the floorboards, bringing with it the familiar sounds of dinner service continuing without them.

Carne appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray of steaming soup. "How's he doing, Chef?"

"Like death warmed over." Zeff took the tray. "But too stubborn to admit it."

"I can hear you." Sanji's voice cracked on the last word.

The familiar scent of ginger and chicken filled the room as Zeff set the tray down at Sanji's bedside. He'd grown too accustomed to Sanji's constant movement, his endless energy and sharp tongue that defined him. Seeing it by this fever-weakened shadow felt wrong and sat heavy in Zeff's gut.

After Sora drifted off, tiny fingers curled around her blanket, Zeff fixed Sanji with a hard stare. "You're getting too thin again."

"I know what my limits are." Sanji's words carried an edge as he settled into bed. "We both know this is nothing."

"Yeah, and I know how quick those limits can sneak up on you." He huffed. "She needs you healthy."

Sanji's shoulders slumped. "I know. It's just-" He glanced at Sora. "Everything else can wait. She comes first."

"And you come first for me, shitty eggplant." The words escaped before Zeff could stop them. He covered the moment by adjusting Sanji's blankets with more force than necessary. "So shut up and eat your damn soup."

Sanji's lips quirked up slightly as he took the bowl. "Getting soft in your old age."

"Watch it." But there was no heat in the words. Zeff watched as Sanji lifted the spoon to his mouth, savoring the first taste.

"I'll try harder."

"Good." Zeff nodded.

They sat in a comfortable silence as, slowly but steadily, Sanji finished his soup. Zeff stood with a groan as he took the empty bowl, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"Get some rest."

"Thanks..." Sanji mumbled, already drifting off. "...geezer."

* * *

Zeff watched the color return to Sanji's face over the next three days of enforced rest. The kid fought it at first, but exhaustion won out. When his fever finally broke that first night, Zeff allowed himself to breathe easier.

"What the hell did you do to my knives?" Sanji's voice cut through the lunch rush. "Get away from my station before you destroy anything else!"

Marcus jumped back from the prep counter, nearly dropping the filleting knife. "But Chef Zeff said—"

"I don't care what the old man said. Look at this mess!" Sanji tied his apron with sharp movements. "The mise en place is completely wrong."

A smile tugged at Zeff's mustache. The familiar chaos of his kitchen was restored as Sanji barked orders and reorganized his workspace.

"Oi, brat!" Zeff planted his peg leg firmly. "That's no way to treat your replacement."

"Replacement?" Sanji's visible eye widened before narrowing. "This hack couldn't replace a dish rag."

"Watch your mouth, eggplant. Marcus kept your station running while you lounged in bed."

"Lounged?" Sanji's face reddened. "You threatened to tie me down!"

"Because you're too stubborn to rest properly." Zeff crossed his arms. "Now apologize for being an ungrateful little shit."

Sanji's jaw worked as he glared between Zeff and Marcus. Finally, he gave a short bow. "Sorry no one taught you proper mise en place."

Zeff delivered a swift kick to Sanji's head. "That's not an apology!"

"Fine! Thank you for covering my station, Marcus. Now back the hell off before you hurt yourself."

"Better." Zeff nodded.

Zeff returned to place at the pass, watching his kitchen settle into its familiar dance. Sanji's movements flowed with practiced grace as he juggled multiple orders, his station already reorganized to his exacting standards.

"What are you doing to that poor fish?" Sanji's voice cut through the clatter of pots. "That's not how you butterfly a sea bass!"

Zeff shifted his weight, ready to intervene, but paused as Sanji's tone softened.

"Here, like this." Sanji positioned himself next to the newer cook. "See how the backbone curves? Follow that line with your knife." His hands guided the other chef's movements. "Gentle pressure, let the blade do the work. There—perfect separation."

The cook's eyes widened at the clean cut. "I've been fighting with these all morning."

"Practice that technique for the next batch." Sanji patted his shoulder. "But screw it up again and I'll kick your ass through the ceiling."

Zeff smirked. The kitchen had felt wrong without Sanji's sharp edge wrapped around a core of genuine care.

"Daddy mad!" Sora bounced in her window seat, clapping her hands.

"Damn right I'm mad." Sanji adjusted the heat under several pans. "These idiots couldn't tell reduced sauce from dishwater."

"Damn mad!" Sora echoed from her perch by the window, tiny hands clapping with delight.

The kitchen erupted in laughter as Sanji froze, face flushing red.

"Not again." Sanji pressed his palms against his eyes. "Sora, no, that's not-"

"Damn mad!" She bounced in her seat, beaming at her father.

"This is your fault, you know." Zeff couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. "Like father, like daughter."

"I hate all of you." Sanji turned back to his station, ears burning as the crew's laughter redoubled.

Zeff grinned fully now. Yes, this was how his kitchen should sound—the clash of pans, the sizzle of perfectly seared fish, and his idiot son's voice rising above it all.

Chapter Text

Zeff leaned against the railing, watching the dining room from his perch at the top of the stairs. A year anchored in these waters had proved profitable, their spot carefully chosen between the major East Blue landmasses. Weather stayed mild, fish stayed plentiful, and most importantly—customers knew exactly where to find them.

Of course, being a fixed target had its downsides. Third waiter this month had jumped ship after a particularly rowdy bunch of pirates decided to test their luck. Hadn't ended well for the pirates, but the wait staff's nerves were another matter entirely.

Below, Oscar guided Sora between the tables, the little girl clutching her notebook with both hands. She stopped at each table, scribbling nonsense while Oscar took actual orders. Most regulars knew the routine by now—let the owner's granddaughter "help" take their order, then watch her toddle off to the kitchen to "deliver" it to her father.

"Here's tea!" Sora announced to a table of merchants, mimicking Oscar's professional tone. The diners chuckled, playing along as Oscar actually refilled their cups.

At least the brat's spawn made the constant staff turnover easier to manage. Hard to stay scared of pirates when a toddler fearlessly worked the floor. Even Sanji, for all his griping about waiting tables when they're short staffed, softened whenever Sora rushed to "assist" him.

The den den mushi's ring pulled Zeff's attention back to the kitchen. He shifted his weight onto his peg leg, grimacing at the thought of more stairs.

"You've reached the damn restaurant, would you like to make a reservation?"

Zeff snatched a wooden spoon from the counter and hurled it. "Show some respect when you answer that phone, brat!"

Sanji ducked without missing a beat, the spoon clattering against the wall behind him. "It’s called personality, shitty geezer!"

The snail's expression shifted to match the caller and Sanji's demeanor transformed instantly.

"Oh my dear lady, how may I be of service to such a melodious voice on this fine day?" Sanji practically melted over the receiver.

Zeff pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course the eggplant would pull this routine.

A beat passed.

"Why you're in luck—you're speaking to the co-owner of this fine establishment." Sanji preened.

Sanji's face fell. "One moment." He covered the receiver. "Hey, call for you."

Zeff glanced at the clock mounted above the prep station. Three o'clock—right on schedule.

"Taking it in my office," Zeff grunted, heading for the stairs.

"Oh yes, better take it in your fancy office." HIs voice dripped sarcasm. "That rickety desk you crammed between your bed and the wall hardly counts—"

"At least I've got a desk, eggplant. All you've got are dirty magazines stuffed under your mattress."

Zeff heard the other cooks snicker before the door swung shut. Through the wood came a muffled "Hey! Those are—" Sanji sputtered. "I'm taking a break."

A satisfied smirk crossed Zeff's face as he climbed the steps. The kitchen door swung open and closed again behind him as Sanji took the stairs down in the opposite direction.

Zeff settled into his leather chair, the wood creaking beneath him as he lifted the receiver. His office walls held decades of memories—wanted posters, newspaper clippings, and photos of the restaurant's earliest days. A new chapter was about to unfold, one he never thought he'd write.

"This is the owner, Zeff." He kept his voice gruff, professional.

The woman on the other end matched his tone. "Pepita, regarding the hostess position."

Her voice carried authority, lacking the simpering sweetness most candidates tried. The newspaper ad had cost a pretty beli, but finding competent staff willing to work on a restaurant in the middle of the ocean was no easy task. Many who made the journey couldn't handle the pirates when they showed up. After the latest round of resignations, Zeff began screening candidates by phone—saving everyone from a wasted trip.

This time, however, he hadn't specified "men only" in the ad. The constant turnover had forced his hand. A woman couldn’t work in his kitchen—he refused to discipline them the same way he did his male staff—but he could compromise at the front of house. Not like he had much choice in the matter.

"Previous experience?"

"Five years as Hostess at the Silver Shell in Loguetown. You may call them to verify. Before that, various positions I'd rather not elaborate on."

Zeff's lips twitched. A past that needed glossing over meant she'd fit right in with his crew of miscreants.

"This ain't exactly a peaceful posting. Pirates-"

"Good." The Den Den's smile sharpened. "I was hoping for something more interesting than turning away drunken sailors."

Alright, next order of business. "We've got a toddler running around the restaurant these days," he said, further testing the waters.

"With all due respect, Chef, I'm applying to be your hostess, not a nursemaid." Her tone could've frozen hell solid. "I don't do children. If that's a deal-breaker, we can end this call now."

Zeff barked out a laugh. Finally, someone who didn't try to please him with empty promises. "The position involves managing reservations, keeping order in the dining room, and making sure our more colorful patrons behave themselves. Got twenty grown men fighting over who gets to watch the kid during service."

"That, I can handle."

Zeff scratched numbers onto his ledger as they hammered out the details. Decent starting wage, room and board included like all staff, days off. Standard stuff. The woman drove a hard bargain but knew her worth. He respected that.

"Seven days then," he confirmed, jotting down her expected arrival date. "We'll have everything ready."

After hanging up, Zeff leaned back in his chair, satisfaction at finding a promising candidate quickly souring as reality sank in.

"Shit." He lurched forward. He'd been so focused on finding competent help, he'd forgotten one crucial—the crew quarters weren't set up for mixed company.

He opened a drawer under his desk and pulled out Baratie's floor plans, spreading them across his desk. The lower deck housing was out of the question—twenty-three men's bunks, communal bathrooms, and not a lick of privacy otherwise. Even if the crew behaved themselves, it wasn't proper.

His eyes traced up to the top deck layout, where a red circle marked the storage room they'd been clearing for Sora. The space was perfect for private quarters—decent sized, had a window, far enough from the kitchen noise. But moving Sora out of Sanji's room had been the plan for weeks now. The eggplant wouldn't take this well.

The old chair groaned as Zeff stood. He placed his ledger in his apron pocket and trudged down the hall to inspect the recently cleared space. Boxes of old receipts and spare tablecloths lined the walls, evidence of Sanji's weeks of sorting and cleaning. The brat had even started teaching Sora to fold more complicated paper shapes to decorate her "big girl room."

Running a hand down his face, Zeff confronted the reality of their situation. Sanji needed his own space—sharing with a toddler wasn't sustainable. Much as she loved trailing after her father like a lost duckling, Sanji was sixteen now. The hormone-addled brat spent half his time mooning over customers, the other half sneaking off with them.

Where the hell the eggplant had picked up that silver tongue, Zeff couldn't fathom. Probably those trashy romance novels he thought he kept hidden under his mattress. The way Sanji could charm anyone who caught his eye was concerning. The brat had natural charisma, sure, but his complete lack of discretion was going to be trouble.

Last month he'd caught Sanji and that merchant's daughter attempting to sneak off to the wine cellar. Then just last week, that damn pirate boy with the freckles had Sanji hanging on every word about how he and his friend had just escaped some deserted island and were looking for a good meal. The conversation had started innocent enough, but Zeff recognized that look in Sanji's eyes. Same one he got around pretty girls.

At least he didn't have to worry about more surprise grandchildren if Sanji continued with those romantic pursuits. One was plenty.

"Jiji!" Sora's voice carried up the stairs, followed by the thundering of tiny feet. "Jiji! Look!"

The door burst open, revealing Sora brandishing a piece of paper. Oscar appeared behind her, looking apologetic.

"Sorry sir, she insisted on showing you right away."

Zeff waved him off. "You know better than to tell a lady no. I've got this."

Sora climbed into his lap without invitation, nearly knocking over his ink well in her excitement. "Made this!" She thrust the paper in his face—a crayon drawing of what might have been the Baratie, if boats were purple and had legs.

"Very nice." He carefully moved the floor plans out of crayon reach. "Where's your father?"

"Daddy with pretty lady." Sora said as she pointed towards his window.

Zeff pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he was. Through his office window, he caught sight of Sanji on the deck below, somehow already cornering another starry-eyed customer on his break. The eggplant had developed an uncanny talent for finding any attractive patron within seconds of their arrival.

The room situation would have to wait. Right now he needed to remind his sous chef that service hours meant actually serving food, not making eyes at the clientele.

Zeff shifted Sora in his arms as he descended the stairs to the dining room. His knees protested the extra weight, but the little lost duck had wrapped her arms around his neck and settled in for the ride.

The dining room buzzed with the quiet lull of late afternoon service. Regular customers dotted the tables—mostly merchants and sailors killing time between ports. Old Man Jensen, nursing his usual coffee by the window, tipped his hat at Sora. She waved back with such enthusiasm she nearly dropped her drawing.

"Quite the artist you've got there," called Madame Rose from her corner table. The aging singer had been stopping by weekly for years, back when the Baratie first opened. Now she cooed and made faces at Sora whenever they passed.

Zeff nodded gruffly, fighting the urge to preen. Damn woman knew exactly how to get under his skin, treating him like some soft-hearted grandpa. Even if she wasn't entirely wrong.

His eye caught movement by the entrance. The eggplant was escorting the young woman Zeff had seen him fawning over outside to her table, practically floating as he pulled out her chair. Her companion—clearly her date from his sour expression—sat forgotten on the other side.

"Oh monsieur, you simply must tell me more about how you prepare the seafood here," the woman giggled, touching Sanji's arm.

The brat preened. "Well mademoiselle, our techniques are quite—"

"Oi! Break's over, eggplant." Zeff bellowed across the dining room. Several customers jumped.

Sanji's face flushed red as he spun around. "I was just explaining the menu to our guests, you shitty geezer!"

"Menu's printed plain as day. Kitchen needs you more than this couple needs a third wheel."

The woman's date poorly concealed a snort of laughter. Sanji shot Zeff a murderous glare before stalking off toward the kitchen, hands jammed in his pockets.

Zeff trudged back upstairs and had the passing thought that his joints were getting too old for all these stairs. The moment he set Sora down, she darted off to the kitchen, likely to add more colors to her masterpiece or just pester the kitchen staff.

Sanji's footsteps echoed up the stairs behind them, still radiating annoyance from the dining room incident.

"Hold it, eggplant." Zeff caught him before he could storm past. "We need to talk about the storage room."

Sanji paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. "Finally! I just finished moving the last of those old ledgers." His eyes lit up. "Give me another week and I can paint it. Maybe blue, like the ocean—"

"Change of plans. The new hire needs proper quarters."

Sanji's face fell. "What? But I've been cleaning that space for weeks! Where's Sora supposed to sleep?"

"With you, for now."

"But I'm sixteen! I need my privacy!" Sanji ran a hand through his hair.

"Privacy?" Zeff barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his coffee. "You gave that up the moment you walked in here with a baby." He countered, crossing his arms. "Sora stays with you a while longer."

Sanji's visible eye narrowed. "How am I supposed to have any personal space with a toddler who thinks my bed is her playground?"

"Should've thought about that before becoming a father." Zeff couldn't help the smirk tugging at his mustache.

"But-"

"Unless you'd rather our new hostess bunk with the crew?" Zeff watched the suggestion land exactly as he'd expected. "Share a room with Patty and that lot?"

Sanji's mouth snapped shut, his chivalrous nature warring with his teenage desires. "I would never subject a woman to that horror."

Zeff couldn't help the satisfied grunt that escaped him. The eggplant's principles were as predictable as his cooking times—set a beautiful woman in front of him and his brain turned to mush, but threaten a lady's honor and he'd fight tooth and nail to defend it.

"Then it's settled."

"A woman on board..." A familiar dreamy look crossed Sanji's face. "Will she be beautiful? When does she start? Should I prepare something special for her first—"

"Keep it in your pants, eggplant. She's staff, not one of your swooning targets. And she's a grown woman, not some teenager for you to make eyes at."

"What? I would never—" Sanji's face flushed. "How dare you suggest I'd make unwanted advances toward a lady! I am nothing if not a gentleman—"

"A gentleman who spends his breaks flirting with taken women?" Zeff raised an eyebrow.

"That's different! I was merely providing excellent customer service—" Sanji sputtered.

Sora burst from the kitchen, crayon still clutched in her tiny fist. She looked between them as if trying to make a decision. She did a double-take, smiled, and pointed at Sanji's face with her free hand. "Daddy red!"

Sanji's blush deepened. "I am not!"

"Like a cooked lobster." Zeff agreed, stroking his mustache.

"Red! Red!" Sora clapped her hands, proud of herself.

"Whose side are you on?" Sanji glared down at his daughter, but there was no heat in it. "I thought we were supposed to be a team."

Sora just giggled and latched onto his leg, apparently finding his embarrassment delightful.

Sanji's complaints faded into background noise as something nagged at Zeff's mind. Those salary negotiations with Pepita had seemed steep at first, but...

He pulled his ledger from his apron pocket, flipping through the pages. The last few months had been good—better than good. Despite the constant staff turnover, revenue was up. Way up. The winter months usually meant lean times, but they'd maintained a steady stream of wealthy customers, even with the recent threat of pirates.

Even after accounting for the new hire's salary and room modifications, they'd be sitting pretty. Real pretty.

Zeff's eyes drifted to the ancient stove that had been jury-rigged more times than he could count. Patty had welded that cracked burner just last week. The walk-in's temperature gauge hadn't worked right in months. And that dumbwaiter system they'd cobbled together from spare parts...

He looked up at the ceiling, mapping the support beams in his mind. The Baratie's basic structure was sound—they'd reinforced her well over the years. But with proper planning and the right contractors, they could expand. Add another dining room, maybe even another floor of private quarters.

Room for everyone to grow.

Zeff tucked his ledger away, mind still churning with renovation possibilities. But first things first—they needed capital. And for that, they needed their best assets on the floor.

"Take more waiting shifts," he said while moving towards the kitchen door. "The two of you. Rich folks love that matching uniform nonsense."

Sanji's visible eyebrow shot up. "What are you plotting, old man?"

"Just good business sense." Zeff stroked his mustache.

"You want us to exploit my daughter's cuteness for tips?" Sanji's tone was incredulous, but Zeff caught the calculating gleam in his eye.

"Consider it karma for all those well-done steaks we've had to cook." Zeff shuddered at the memory. "Anyone who'd ruin good meat like that deserves to pay extra. Besides, we're short on wait staff until the new hostess arrives. Consider it temporary."

Sanji's eye narrowed. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Lots of things I don't tell you, eggplant." Zeff kept his expression neutral. "But play your cards right, earn enough tips, and you might get that privacy you've been whining about sooner than you think."

"That's suspiciously generous of you."

"Take it or leave it." Zeff shrugged. "Unless you'd rather I tell the crew about that time I caught you practicing pickup lines in the mirror?"

"That was private!" Sanji scooped up Sora, his face burning. "And I was reviewing wine pronunciations."

"Sure you were." Zeff crossed his arms. "'Oh mademoiselle, your eyes shine like the finest-'"

"We'll take the damn waiting shifts!" Sanji cut him off, adjusting Sora on his hip. "But I want something in return."

"You're not exactly in a position to negotiate, eggplant."

"Let me plan the New Year's menu." Sanji's eye gleamed with that familiar fire he got when talking about food. "If I'm spending less time in the kitchen, I should at least have a say in what we're serving."

Zeff stroked his mustache, pretending to consider it. "One dish. But I get final approval."

Sanji's triumphant grin told Zeff he'd gotten exactly what he wanted. "Come on, Sora." He turned to leave, bouncing Sora slightly. "Should we wear the matching blue uniforms tonight or the black ones?"

"Blue!" Sora declared, already reaching for the kitchen door.

Their voices faded up the stairs, leaving Zeff alone with his thoughts. He moved into the kitchen fully, nearly running into Patty who stood on the directly on the other side, clearly eavedropping.

"Boss?" Patty appeared at his elbow, wiping his hands on his apron. "What are you planning? You never let Sanji near the special menus."

"Mind your own damn business unless you want me telling your secrets, too." Zeff tasted the stock, adding a pinch more salt. "Like that time you tried to feed Sora coffee beans, thinking they were chocolate covered raisins?"

Patty's shoulders tensed. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

* * *

Zeff sat at the kitchen table near Sora's window perch, papers spread across the scarred wooden surface. Numbers danced across the pages—supply costs, staff wages, projected earnings. His own cramped handwriting filled the margins with notes and calculations.

He crossed another item off his list, double-checking his math. The numbers looked promising—better than he'd expected. If business kept up through winter, they'd have enough saved by spring to start their upgrades. Then he just needed to find a shipyard that could take the job.

But it wasn’t just about numbers; even if the hostess worked out, they were still three waiters short. The past week's split shifts had worked well enough—Sanji prepping while Sora slept, then both working tables until her bedtime. Tips had nearly doubled. But they needed more help, especially since Sanji wasn't meant for the floor, but for the kitchen.

Maybe this Pepita would be the answer to more than just their hosting problems. Someone to keep the dining room running smooth while he focused on bigger plans.

The door creaked open, barely audible over the sounds of the kitchen in full swing. Marcus slunk into the kitchen, cigarette smell clinging to his clothes. Kid thought he was subtle about smoking with Sanji during breaks, but subtlety wasn't his strong suit.

"The new hostess is here." Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. "She's, uh... something else."

Zeff tucked his papers away. "Define 'something else.'"

"Well, she caught Sanji flirting with a customer." Marcus shifted his weight. "Then she saw me laughing about it instead of stopping him."

Zeff groaned as he stood, chair scraping against the floor. "Where is she?"

"Front entrance. Oscar's showing her around, but..." Marcus glanced over his shoulder. "You might want to hurry. Something tells me she's used to people following her orders.

"Back to your station." Zeff jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. "Those fish won't scale themselves."

Marcus scurried off, leaving Zeff to make his way down the stairs to the bustling dining room. The dining room spread before him, tables half-full with the afternoon crowd. Near the entrance, Oscar gestured at the reservation podium while a tall woman listened, arms crossed. Her stance reminded Zeff of a Marine inspector—straight-backed, alert, cataloging every detail.

Sanji darted between tables, face flushed as he cleared plates with more force than necessary. The kid's tie hung crooked, and his usually precise movements had an edge of tension. Whatever the new hostess had said must have cut deep.

Zeff approached the front, boots heavy against the floorboards. "I'm the owner, Zeff." He extended a weathered hand. "Welcome aboard."

Her grip matched Zeff's in strength as they shook hands. She stood several inches taller than him, built like someone who'd seen her share of fights, though she carried herself with a hostess's grace. A crisp white blouse and dark slacks completed her professional appearance.

"Your establishment has quite the reputation." Her eyes swept the room. "Though I notice some areas need attention."

"We're rough around the edges." Zeff didn't bother defending it. "But we know food, and we know the sea. That's what matters."

He pointed toward the stairs. "Private rooms upstairs. Third door on the right. We'll get you settled, then I'll show you the rest."

Pepita hefted her bag and climbed the steps, each footfall precise and measured. Zeff followed, giving her space to inspect her new quarters. She pushed open the door, examining the sparse furnishings—bed, dresser, small window facing the sea.

Her lips pressed thin as she tested the mattress, checked the drawers, and studied the lock. Zeff waited in the doorway, arms crossed. Not like she had other options out here on the ocean, but let her look her fill.

The room wasn't fancy, but it beat the crew quarters below deck. Bathroom down the hall, ocean view, solid lock on the door. Better than most places offered.

"Storage used to be here." Zeff scratched his mustache. "Moved it below deck last week. Gives you space away from the rabble."

Pepita's shoulders tensed. "Because I'm a woman."

"Because you're staff leadership." Zeff shifted his weight. "Though being the only woman among twenty men, figured you'd appreciate the distance. Only ones up here are me and the sous chef. Well, and the little one."

"The toddler." Her eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as she processed this information. He could see the questions forming—who they were, how they fit together. "Family business?"

"Something like that." Zeff didn't elaborate. Let her draw her own conclusions. "Point is, you're safer here than most places. We got strict rules about respect. Man raises a hand to a woman here, he's swimming to the mainland. Old-fashioned maybe, but that's how we operate."

"Old-fashioned is one word for it." Pepita set her bag on the bed. "I don't need special treatment or protection. I need respect as a professional."

"Then earn it." Zeff shifted his weight, studying the woman before him. "Front of house needs work. Got a solid kitchen crew, but the problem is keeping the wait staff. "

"Your phone interview was quite thorough about the pirate situation." Pepita began unpacking her bag, placing pressed clothing into the drawers of the small dresser. "Most establishments would try to downplay such risks."

"Ain't my style to sugarcoat." Zeff shrugged. "Rather you know what you're getting into. Pirates come looking for trouble, we handle it. But waiting staff tends to bolt at the first sign of trouble."

From her bag, Pepita pulled out a small notebook. "What are your safety procedures? How do you handle pirates, specifically?"

Zeff snorted. "We kick their asses."

"I meant protocols. Emergency stations. Do staff know their roles during incidents?"

"Roles?" Zeff scratched his chin. "Kitchen crew fights. Wait staff gets the guests out of the way. Pretty simple."

"At my previous establishment, we conducted regular drills." Pepita flipped through her notes. "Evacuation routes, defensive positions, communication chains. Helps reduce panic, improves staff retention."

"Drills?" Zeff couldn't help but laugh. Decades at sea and he'd never heard such nonsense. "Listen, my men know how to fight. Been doing this a long time."

"And how many waiters have you lost this year?"

"Eight." Zeff's amusement faded. "Point taken."

"Structure creates confidence." Pepita jotted something down. "Clear procedures, designated safe zones, regular practice—it makes a difference. Even basic self-defense training can help staff feel more secure."

It all sounded like marine bureaucracy to Zeff, but hell, maybe that's what they needed. His fighters could handle themselves fine, but the service staff...

"Do what you want with the wait staff." He waved a hand. "Can't hurt to try something new. Just keep the dining room running smooth, that's your priority."

"Understood." Pepita closed her notebook with a snap. "I may know some people looking for work. Experience in... difficult situations."

"But?" Zeff caught the hesitation in her voice.

"But living conditions are..." She gestured at the worn floorboards, the patched walls. "Basic. These quarters are fine for me, but crew spaces below deck?"

Zeff scratched his chin, weighing his next words. The renovation plans weren't public yet, but if she was going to help run things... "Got plans, actually. If you can help stabilize the staff situation. Question is, can your contacts handle what we got now till then?"

Pepita's eyebrows rose. "That's substantial capital for a restaurant, especially one with your reputation."

"Food speaks for itself." Pride crept into his voice. "Pirates and Marines alike pay good money for a decent meal at sea. Crew's earned better than what we got now. Got plans drawn up for a full overhaul—new crew quarters, expanded kitchen and dining room. Just need to keep the momentum going."

"I'll make some calls." She nodded slowly. "See who might be interested in—"

A small figure appeared at Zeff's leg. Sora peered up at them, thumb in mouth, blonde hair mussed from her nap catching the afternoon light. Must have wandered over from Sanji's room when she woke up and heard them talking.

"Speaking of crew." He scooped her up, settling her against his hip. "This here's Sora."

Sora's blue eyes went wide as she took in the new face. She wiggled in Zeff's grip, reaching toward Pepita with grabby hands.

"Pretty lady!" Sora's hands reached out, grasping at air. "Like angel!"

"How... cute." Pepita took a measured step back, her professional smile tightening at the corners. The compliment sounded forced, like she was reading from a script on how to talk about children. Zeff appreciated the effort, even if it rang hollow. "Very enthusiastic."

"Like her old man." Zeff adjusted his hold before the squirming child could tumble to the floor, noting how Pepita's shoulders tensed at the child's proximity. Not everyone was comfortable around kids—fair enough. "Oi. Hands to yourself. Can't go grabbing at folks."

"Ahh sorry, Jiji." Sora apologized.

"This is Miss Pepita," Zeff said. "She'll be working with us."

"Pepi!" Sora declared proudly.

"Pe-pi-ta," the woman enunciated clearly.

"Pita!"

Pepita's shoulders dropped slightly. "Close enough, I suppose."

"Like a damn parrot in pigtails—repeats everything she hears without a clue what it means." Zeff bounced Sora on his hip. "Ain't that right?"

Sora babbled happily in response, reaching again for Pepita, who took another careful step back. The hostess's eyes fixed on Sora's face.

"The spiral..." Pepita gestured vaguely at her own brow. "Like the young waiter downstairs. Must run in the family."

Zeff grunted noncommittally. After six years of watching Sanji grow up with them, he'd heard every possible comment about those spiral brows. Jokes, insults, genuine curiosity—nothing new there. At least Pepita had the sense to keep her observation diplomatic.

"Does she always wander freely? I was clear during our call that childcare isn't part of my duties."

"Won't be." Zeff shifted Sora to his other hip as she started to wiggle, attempting to break free. "But Baratie's her home. Long as she ain't causing trouble or breaking things, she's free to roam. Usually follows the staff around like a lost duckling anyway. If she gets in your way, just holler for whoever's closest."

Relief flickered across Pepita's face. "I see. That's... reasonable."

"Jiji, down!" Sora squirmed harder, kicking her feet. "Want pretty lady!"

"That's enough of that." Zeff flipped her upside down in his arms so her arms hung towards the floor, which only made her giggle and kick more. Everything was a game to this one. "Miss Pepita needs to get settled. We'll see her at dinner service."

"Actually..." Pepita straightened her already-perfect posture. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to start immediately. I've already lost most of the day to travel."

Zeff raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. Most new hires wanted rest after traveling. "Suit yourself. Our sous chef'll be happy to get back in the kitchen."

He began to walk down the hallway, Pepita trailing behind him after securing her door. At the top of the stairs, he turned back to face her. "Kitchen's next on the tour, then we'll go over your duties."

Zeff made his way down the curved staircase, each step accompanied by Sora's delighted shrieks as she dangled upside down in his grip. Her blonde hair swayed with each movement, face red from the blood rush and pure joy.

"Hold still, you little menace." But Zeff couldn't hide his amusement as she kept squirming like a freshly caught fish.

At the middle deck, he paused. "Miss Pepita, wait here. Check our wine selection—rack's against the far wall. Need your opinion on our current inventory."

He continued down toward the main deck, Sora's giggles echoing through the stairwell. Halfway down, he stopped. No sense tracking the whole way when he could just—

"Oi! Eggplant! Get your ass up here!"

"Again, Jiji! Again!" Sora clapped her tiny hands, still hanging upside down.

"You're worse than a monkey." But he obliged, bouncing her slightly with each step back up. "One of these days you'll make yourself sick from all this excitement."

Sanji appeared at the top of the stairs, adjusting his tie. His earlier tension seemed forgotten as he spotted Sora's predicament.

"Having fun there, baby?" Sanji's whole demeanor softened as Zeff flipped Sora right-side up and passed her over. She immediately latched onto Sanji's neck, babbling about her upside-down adventure.

"Good nap?" Sanji smoothed down her static-wild hair.

"Jiji gave rides!"

Zeff jerked his thumb toward Sanji. "This is our idiot sous chef. Though seems you two already met downstairs when he was making eyes at customers instead of doing his job."

Pepita stood by the wine rack, her analytical gaze moving between them. Her eyes lingered between them, then darted to Zeff, clearly trying to piece together their unusual family dynamic. Whatever conclusion she came to, she kept to herself.

"My sincerest apologies for earlier, mademoiselle." The boy swept into an elaborate bow, Sora still clinging to his neck like a barnacle. "Our lovely customers deserve nothing but the most refined attention, which I strive to—"

"Miss Pepita here's gonna help wrangle the front of house into shape." Zeff cut him off. "Means when she tells you to quit flirting, you quit."

"Ah, but of course! Whatever the lovely Miss Pepita commands, I shall—"

"Quit it, brat." Zeff resisted the urge to kick him. Not with Sora still attached to his neck like a limpet.

Pepita's expression remained neutral, but Zeff caught the slight tightening around her eyes.

"I look forward to maintaining a professional working relationship." Her tone could have frozen the ocean. "Though I trust such... enthusiasm won't interfere with your duties?"

The kitchen door banged open. Patty's bulk filled the doorframe, a half-peeled potato forgotten in his hand as he gaped at their new hostess.

"Holy shit, he actually did it!" Patty's voice boomed through landing. "Boss finally hired a woman!"

Zeff's temple throbbed. Great. Just what they needed.

Carne's head popped out behind Patty. "No way! After all these years?" He whistled. "Thought we'd be an all-sausage kitchen till the sea dried up!"

"Get back to work!" Zeff barked, but the damage was done.

More cooks crowded the doorway, craning their necks to gawk. Marcus hung back, but his eyes were wide as dinner plates. When Pepita's gaze swept over him, he flinched like she'd struck him. Someone wolf-whistled.

Pepita's spine went rigid. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Sanji's lovesick expression vanished, replaced by a scowl that matched Zeff's own. "Oi! Show some respect, you shit-heads!"

"Language." Zeff nodded toward Sora, who watched the scene with curious eyes.

"Shit-heads!" Sora repeated cheerfully.

Zeff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Back to work," He barked. "And mind your manners, or you'll be eating through straws for a week." The cooks scattered like startled seagulls, kitchen door slamming behind them. Their excited chatter still carried through the walls.

"My deepest apologies." Sanji bowed again, face flushed with embarrassment. "They're good cooks, just..."

"Idiots." Zeff finished. "All of them."

Zeff watched Pepita's face carefully, but her professional mask never slipped. If anything, her posture grew more rigid, chin lifting slightly.

"They'll learn respect soon enough." Her tone carried the weight of experience. "I've handled worse."

Zeff believed her. The way she held herself, how she assessed exits and threats—reminded him of certain Marine officers he'd encountered in his pirating days. The kind who earned their positions through grit rather than connections.

"Eggplant." Zeff jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Take the little duck back. Make sure those idiots don't burn anything."

"Of course." Sanji shifted Sora to his hip, his earlier flirtatiousness replaced with professional courtesy. "Miss Pepita, I look forward to working with you."

As they disappeared into the kitchen, Sora's voice carried back: "Bye-bye, Pita!"

Zeff rubbed his forehead, considering his decision. Breaking years of tradition by hiring a woman came with risks. His crew respected strength—they'd fall in line once Pepita proved herself. But one wrong move could upset the delicate balance they'd built.

"Let's move before those idiots come up with more ways to embarrass themselves." He started down the stairs. "Dining room's below—might as well see what you're working with before the dinner rush hits."

If she could deliver what the restaurant needed, what his crew needed, then dealing with their initial resistance would be worth it. And if not... well, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

* * *

Zeff massaged his temples, squinting at the last of the invoices spread across his desk. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through his cabin window, making the numbers blur together. 

He pulled open his bottom drawer, retrieving a worn leather ledger. The spine cracked as he thumbed through dog-eared pages filled with his cramped handwriting. Twenty years of pirating had taught him to track every beli—though these days the treasure came from paying customers instead of plundered ships.

Zeff's gaze drifted to the hidden panel behind his bookshelf. Beyond it lay his personal vault—more of a treasure room, really. The last remaining gold and jewels from the Orbit mixed with years of carefully hoarded restaurant profits. He'd even stockpiled preserved foods. Just in case.

They were close—so close to having enough for the renovations. But keeping the crew fed and paid during construction would drain their reserves faster than a Sea King could swallow a fishing boat.

Best to keep that to himself though. Even his own crew didn't need to know just how much they'd squirreled away over the years. Pirates never really stopped being pirates, after all.

A door slammed next door, followed by the creak of bedsprings and the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

"Sleepy?" Sora's voice carried through the thin walls.

No response from Sanji. Just more creaking as he presumably flopped onto his mattress. The brat had been in a foul mood lately, snapping at the crew over minor infractions and burning more cigarettes than usual. Probably still sore about keeping Sora in his room instead of giving her the storage space as planned.

Zeff pushed away from his desk, bones cracking as he stood. Might as well check on the situation before dinner prep started. He opened his door and went over to Sanji's room, cracking the door open slowly and pausing at the sight before him.

Sanji lay face-down on his bed, arms spread like a starfish. Sora had turned him into her personal playground, carefully balancing her stuffed animals along his back. A toy seal perched between his shoulder blades, a worn rabbit near his hip, and she was currently trying to balance a wooden duck on his head.

"Careful!" Sora commanded, tongue poking out in concentration as she stretched on tiptoes to reach.

Zeff leaned against the doorframe, watching the spectacle. Each time Sanji's shoulders shook with a sigh, the toys wobbled precariously, making Sora giggle and readjust them.

"Planning to lie there all afternoon, eggplant?" Zeff finally asked. 

Sanji mumbled something unintelligible into his blankets.

"What was that?" Zeff crossed his arms. "Can't hear you when you're trying to eat your mattress."

"I can't hear you," Sanji's voice remained buried. "I'm a mountain now."

"Duck mountain!" Sora declared, carefully placing another wooden animal on Sanji's head.

"You've been moping around for days. Either spit it out or get back to work," Zeff growled.

Sanji turned his head just enough to free his mouth from the blankets. His eyes looked dull, lacking their usual fire. For a brief moment, Zeff caught a glimpse of genuine exhaustion before Sanji blinked it away, his expression shifting into practiced annoyance.

"When can I go back to the kitchen? You made your point. I'm tired of waiting tables."

"Miss Pepita mean," Sora announced, climbing onto Sanji's back to retrieve a fallen toy.

"Is that right?" Zeff asked.

Zeff watched Sora playing mountain climber on Sanji's back, considering the girl's assessment of their new hostess. The past few weeks had been... interesting. She'd thrown every demanding customer his way—the ones with endless modifications, strict dietary requirements, or just plain entitled attitudes. 

Yet the brat hadn't cracked. Even when juggling six different wine selections for a single table while keeping Sora from crawling under the tablecloths, he'd maintained that insufferable princely smile. The tips had been phenomenal. Their renovation fund was growing faster than anticipated.

Zeff's wooden leg tapped against the doorframe as he considered the past several weeks since Pepita joined the Baratie crew. True to her word, she'd brought in two new waitstaff who knew their way around rowdy pirates, and fewer issues made their way back to the kitchen. Even Patty had stopped complaining about the changes. 

However, the kitchen had gotten tense. Just yesterday, Sanji had nearly reduced a newer cook to tears over slightly overcooked rice. Even Patty and Carne were walking on eggshells, which was saying something considering their usual boisterous attitudes.

Most nights now, Sanji disappeared below deck after service. Cigarette smoke and laughter drifted up through the floorboards as he joined the crew in their cramped quarters. He'd stumble up late, reeking of cheap wine and tobacco, hours after tucking Sora in.

"She's just doing her job," Sanji shifted, careful not to dislodge Sora as he propped himself on his elbows. "The new system works. Those waiters she hired are handling the floor fine. I just want-" He paused, fingers twitching like they missed holding a knife. "The New Year's menu is mine. You approved it. I should be the one preparing those dishes for our guests, not stuck taking orders and refilling wine glasses."

"And here I thought you enjoyed swooning over the ladies," Zeff said.

"That's different," Sanji mumbled.

Zeff studied the way Sanji's fingers picked at his cuticles, a nervous habit he'd developed lately. 

"How was service today?" Zeff kept his voice neutral. "Something happen with the customers?"

"It's fine." Sanji's shoulders tensed as Sora added another toy to her growing collection. "Everything's fine." A long pause. "Actually, I was wondering... what kind of desserts do you think Miss Pepita likes? I noticed she hasn't tried many of our specials yet."

Zeff's eyes narrowed. "She's staff, eggplant. Don't go causing trouble."

"It's not like that." Sanji pushed up further, rolling to his side to look at Zeff. The movement jostled Sora's mountain, sending an avalanche of stuffed animals cascading onto the bed. Sora squealed in protest. "I just want her to feel welcome. Think I might've offended her somehow."

"Oh no!" Sora retrieved her wooden toy, then patted Sanji's head. "Bad, mountain!"

"I am a bad mountain," Sanji murmured, lowering himself back down.

Zeff watched his son become a human playground again, noting the tension in his shoulders despite his attempt at nonchalance. 

Zeff crossed his arms. "No other reason?"

"What? No! It's just..." He sighed, face smooshed into the bedding while he looked up at Zeff. "She kind of scares me, if I'm honest? Not really my type."

Zeff's laugh boomed through the room. "Scares you, does she? Good. About time a woman put the fear in you." He grinned at Sanji's scowl. "Not every woman's gonna fall for your prince charming act, boy. Some you just gotta respect and leave be. Give it time—or grow a thicker skin."

Sanji turned his face back into the mattress. "Yeah, maybe."

Zeff watched his son continue to mope and made a decision. "How're the numbers looking?"

Sanji turned his head again, brow furrowed. "Already told you service was fine."

"Not what I asked." Zeff tapped his peg leg against the doorframe. "The money, boy. Tips, sales, all of it."

"Oh." Sanji shifted carefully, mindful of Sora's toys this time. "Better than usual. Even Oscar's pulling better numbers since she started coaching him on wine pairings."

Zeff nodded. The Baratie had always run differently than land restaurants. Everyone from dishwashers to head chef earned the same base pay—a fair cut of profits after setting aside funds for supplies and repairs. Made the crew more invested in quality service when their dinner meant the difference between breaking even or breaking records.

Most of the crew treated their pay like burning holes in their pockets, blowing it on booze and cards between shifts. During Dead Water, they'd hit port towns and come back broke but grinning. Not like him and Sanji, who'd squirreled away their shares. Even with Sora's extra expenses the last two and a half years, he knew they were doing well.

"Come with me." Zeff turned toward his office.

"Can't it wait?" Sanji gestured at Sora. "I'm on break."

"Mountain sleeping!" Sora protested, placing her wooden duck over Sanji's exposed ear.

"Mountain needs to get up." Zeff jerked his head toward his office. "Got something to show you, eggplant."

Sanji groaned into his blankets. "Can't. I've been promoted to furniture."

He paused in the doorway, watching his son play dead for a toddler. The brat was avoiding him, had been for days now. Time was when Sanji would have kicked back, snarled some creative insult about Zeff's age or cooking abilities. Would have fought tooth and nail just on principle.

But lately...

Zeff's wooden leg tapped against the doorframe as he considered his options. He could leave the boy be—clearly that's what Sanji wanted. But that quick surrender, that immediate withdrawal... it reminded Zeff too much of those early days. When Sanji would flinch at raised voices, would go quiet and still at the slightest criticism.

No. Better to push. Better to prod until some of that fire showed itself. Even if it meant being the bad guy.

"Now." Zeff's boot connected with Sanji's rear, sending toys flying.

"Ow! Shit!" Sanji rolled to protect his backside. "Alright, alright! No need to get violent, shitty geezer." He sat up, rubbing his hip with a scowl. "I'm really not in the mood for whatever lecture you've got planned. Can't I just have five damn minutes to myself?"

There it was—a spark of defiance. Not much, but better than that dead-eyed acceptance. Zeff felt a twinge of guilt at deliberately provoking the boy, but he didn't know any other way. Couldn't find the words to say: I'm worried about you. I miss your fight. I have something that might help.

"No lecture," Zeff said instead, voice gruff but slightly softer. "Promise."

Sanji sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Sorry Sora, mountain has to move."

Zeff watched Sanji try to rise from the bed, only for Sora to plop down on him with her full weight.

"No!" She spread her arms and legs wide, pinning him like a starfish. "Mountain stay!"

"Come on, baby. Just for a minute." Sanji squirmed under her but she didn't budge.

Zeff's mustache twitched. "Can't even escape a baby, eggplant?"

"It's not funny." Sanji's face reddened as he attempted to sit up but Sora clung tighter, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Zeff expected Sanji to easily break free—the boy could send grown men flying with those legs of his. Now faced with a twenty-pound child, the brat looked genuinely distressed.

Well, hopefully what waited in Zeff's office would help with that. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind—or so Zeff told himself, watching his son negotiate with a two-year-old for his freedom.

"Listen, baby." Sanji's voice softened. "I'll come right back after talking to the geezer. Promise."

Sora lifted her head. "Promise promise?"

"Cross my heart." Sanji said, miming an X on his chest. "We can build a proper mountain fort when I return."

She studied him with surprising intensity for a two-year-old before finally sliding off his back. "Okay. But fast!"

Sanji sat up with a dramatic groan before he stood. As he stood to straighten his wrinkled suit, Sora was already gathering her scattered toys into a pile on his bed, humming quietly to herself. He followed Zeff out of the room.

In his office, Zeff closed the door behind them. Through the thin wall, they could still hear Sora's soft singing as she played with her menagerie of stuffed animals. He limped to his desk, rifling through stacks of papers until he found the rolled blueprints tucked beneath inventory lists.

"Sit." He jerked his chin toward the chair.

Sanji slouched into the seat, hands shoved in his pockets. "If this is about the wine cellar inventory-"

"Shut it." Zeff spread the blueprints across his desk, weighing down the corners with ledgers. "Take a look."

Sanji leaned forward, squinting at the rough sketches. "Did Sora draw this? Your proportions are terrible."

"Keep talking and you'll be waiting tables until you're my age." Zeff cuffed him lightly. "What do you see?"

"It's Baratie, but..." Sanji traced the lines with his finger, brow furrowed. "This isn't right. The kitchen's on the wrong floor. And what's all this space down here? These look like... cabins?"

"Individual quarters for the crew." Zeff tapped the lower deck. "Proper ones, not the cramped bunks we've got now."

"And these upper floors..." Sanji's eyes widened. "You're expanding? But that means..." He sat up straight. "You sneaky old bastard! You've been planning renovations this whole time!"

"Watch who you're calling a bastard." Zeff huffed, rubbing under his nose to hide his grin.

"I knew you were keeping something from me!" Sanji's indignation melted into genuine excitement. "Is that an outdoor bar? And look at all this dining space! We could double our capacity easily."

Zeff watched his son's excitement build, allowing himself a visible smile at his enthusiasm. "Triple, if we do it right." 

"Could we add an herb garden?" Sanji was practically vibrating in his seat. "Maybe on the upper deck? Maybe even some citrus trees?" His fingers traced the outdoor spaces. "What about-"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Zeff scratched his beard. "These are rough ideas. Still need someone to do the damn thing. It's been six years since we got the Baratie and I'm having troubles tracking down her builders."

Sanji's shoulders slumped. "Oh."

Zeff remembered a younger Sanji who once spoke endlessly of adventure and legendary seas. Now the boy's dreams seemed confined to kitchen layouts and herb gardens. The renovation plans suddenly felt heavier in Zeff's hands.

"Got some leads pointing to the Geckos." Zeff shifted through his papers, pulling out a worn map of the Sambas Region. He marked their current coordinates, mind already calculating the months they'd need to dock, the crew they'd need to retain during construction. The last time they'd stayed on land this long... He pushed away memories of endless hunger, of a stubborn child refusing to surrender their dream.

Different circumstances now. Different reasons. But watching Sanji bend over the blueprints, already lost in plans for improving the restaurant, Zeff couldn't help but wonder if he was giving his son roots when the boy should be spreading his wings.

"How long?" Sanji looked up from where he'd been scribbling notes in the margins. 

"Until we can start?" Zeff clarified, "Six months, give or take. Need to coordinate with the builders. After that…" He kept his voice gruff, matter-of-fact. "Have to dock somewhere for a few months while they work on her. Can't very well serve customers with the floors torn up and walls knocked down."

Sanji's hand stilled briefly on the paper, but he covered it quickly with more questions about kitchen equipment. 

"But we're really doing this?" Sanji looked up, hope written across his face. "You're serious?"

"Wouldn't waste time drawing if I wasn't." Zeff gestured at the plans. "Though I might need your help making sense of these chicken scratches."

Sanji laughed, bright and genuine. "They are pretty terrible." His hand already reaching for a pencil. "Mind if I make some notes?"

"Go ahead." Zeff stepped back, letting his son lose himself in possibilities while his own thoughts drifted to distant horizons and dreams deferred. 

Always the dutiful son now, Zeff thought, watching him sketch possible layouts. Always putting others first. The All Blue was still out there somewhere, waiting for a chef brave enough to find it. But that would have to wait. For now, Zeff had a restaurant to rebuild, and a granddaughter to spoil with proper living quarters.

"Go ahead, but don't keep the little duck waiting too long," Zeff said, watching Sanji's pencil fly across the page.

"Just a few notes." Sanji's tongue poked out in concentration as he erased a line here, adjusted a measurement there.

Zeff leaned against his desk, observing the careful way Sanji cleaned up his messy sketches. The transformation was remarkable—just minutes ago, the boy had been a listless lump on his bed. Now his eyes sparkled with ideas, his hand moving with the same precision he used when filleting fish.

"There." Sanji sat back, admiring his work. "Much better than your scribbles."

"Watch it, brat." Zeff cuffed him lightly. "You can return to the kitchen after the weekend. Just until Miss Pepita gets her final waiter trained up."

Sanji's head snapped up. "Really?"

"Don't make me regret it."

"I won't!" Sanji practically bounced out of his chair. He paused at the door, glancing back at the blueprints. "Can I keep these tonight? I want to work on some ideas."

"Just don't let Sora color on them." Zeff watched as Sanji tucked the plans under his arm, a new energy in his movements.

"Thanks, old man." Sanji paused at the door. "For this. It's... it's good to have something to look forward to."

Before Zeff could respond, Sanji was gone, his footsteps quickening as he returned to his room. Through the wall, Zeff heard Sora's delighted squeal.

Chapter Text

Awareness snapped into place before Zeff's eyes opened, an old reflex from days long past. The presence registered first—someone moving on the stairs—before the creak of floorboards even reached his ears. There was a time he'd have already been on his feet, ready to fight. But age had a way of slowing physical reflexes. Zeff stayed still, his weathered frame settled into the worn grooves of his mattress as he tracked their shuffled movement from the landing and into the bathroom. The door hinges whined as they opened—that same damn squeak he'd told Sanji to oil for months. At this point, it felt like the brat was avoiding it just to spite him.

As his initial waking panic settled into thrumming alertness, a deep tiredness settled in his bones beyond the fatigue of waking up into witching hours. The only threat they brought with them was one against their own person, but their presence was as much a part of Baratie as his own.

Sleep deemed a lost cause, Zeff reasoned he might as well do a proper check. He closed his eyes with an irritated huff, letting his senses spread through the familiar contours of their home. Early March winds whistled through her rigging, carrying the first hints of spring even as winter's chill clung stubbornly to the night air.

The Baratie breathed around him, her wooden bones flexing with each gentle swell of the ocean's embrace. A good ship was built to move like this—groaning and creaking like great lungs expanding. A rigid vessel would shatter in its first storm, something the little eggplant had taken months to understand. Zeff remembered those early days, how Sanji would startle at every odd sound, despite his insistence that he'd grown up at sea.

Behind his closed eyes, life flickered throughout the ship like distant stars on a cloudy night—his crew's sleeping presences scattered below deck, each one a dim but steady pulse he could navigate by. His awareness drifted outward, where the night watch's presence barely burned brighter than the others, their vigilance dulled by years of peaceful waters.

Then back inside, to a familiar lighthouse still in the head—the usual steady beam had taken to flickering, like a storm lamp running low on oil.

The bathroom door creaked open again as the eggplant finished his journey to his room, the door closing more quietly than the last. Though Zeff's bed sat away from their shared wall, years of seafaring had taught the old wood to carry sound like water carries ripples, bringing him every whisper and sigh from the next room.

In the stillness that followed, Zeff's awareness automatically reached for that bright spark next door. Sora's presence flickered like a candle flame as sleep gave way to wakefulness, and Zeff caught himself counting her steady breaths before he could stop.

"Daddy?" Sora's voice drifted through the thin walls.

The muffled conversation that followed was punctuated by the familiar creaking of Sanji's bedsprings and the rustle of blankets. "-sorry, baby. Didn't mean to wake you." The words dragged like molasses, confirming what Zeff's senses had already told him—another night of cards and cheap liquor below deck.

Zeff clicked his teeth, a harsh sound in the darkness that matched the bitter taste in his mouth. He turned towards their shared wall to glare through it, but his eyes caught instead on the renovation plans scattered across his desk, barely visible in the moonlight filtering through his window. The blueprints had been meant as a promise—a way to give the brat some independence, his own space away from constantly sharing with a toddler. Instead, he took it as permission to act like some green sailor on his first shore leave, stumbling home to a shared room where his daughter waited. Two birthdays in as many months should have been enough celebrating for anyone.

Usually, Zeff was fine with letting him learn from his own mistakes. Hell, he'd mostly kept his mouth shut about Sanji's tendency to chase skirts—right up until that behavior landed a baby in their laps three years ago.

Through the wall, Sora's voice piped up again, her words too soft to make out but the tone unmistakable—that particular mix of sleepy and upset that made something in his chest ache.

His mind drifted to earlier that week, to the small shadow that had appeared in his doorway well past midnight. She never cried, barely spoke—just stood there until he patted his blanket in invitation. She'd climb right into his bed without a word, just like her father used to do after nightmares when he was small enough to still admit to being scared.

Twice this week alone he'd found himself with an unexpected bedmate, forced to adjust his evening routine around a sleeping toddler while he worked through invoices or caught up on his reading. And every damn time, like clockwork, Sanji would come crashing in hours later in a blind panic, as if pirates had infiltrated the their floating fortress and specifically targeted his room.

As if anyone on this damn boat would let something happen to her. As if the Baratie wasn't the safest place in the East Blue, with its crew of reformed pirates and weathered sailors weren't wrapped around the little girl's finger.

"-ora, baby. It's sleep time. I have to work in a few hours"

"No sleep time yet," Sora whined, "Tell the fish story."

"Fish story? What…"

"Where all fishies live!" Sora clarified, her words punctuated by what sounded like her bouncing on the mattress.

When Sanji spoke again, his voice had shed some of its drunken haze. "You mean the All Blue? You- you wanna hear about that?"

"Please?"

Zeff's breath caught. Suddenly more invested in eavesdropping, his fingers dug into the rough blanket as he strained to hear better. When was the last time he'd heard Sanji talk about that dream? These days, the brat barely looked at the sea, much less spoke of leaving in search of the fabled ocean.

"The All Blue," Sanji began, voice soft but vibrant, "is the most amazing sea in the world. Where all the fish from every ocean swim together..."

"Even pink ones?"

A quiet laugh, warmer than the winter air seeping through the porthole. "Definitely pink ones. And blue ones, and silver ones that shine like stars when the sun hits them just right."

Against his will, Zeff felt a smile rise to the surface of his face. The cold that had been gnawing at his bones eased as he pictured them—Sora curled against Sanji's side like she did during afternoon naps in the kitchen, tiny fingers probably playing with the buttons on his wrinkled shirt. Through the wall, Sanji's presence burned brighter, steadier—a guiding light cutting through the fog of doubt that had settled over their shared dream.

For a moment, Zeff could almost see it again: that impossible ocean, waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

"Can we go?"

Sora's innocent question cut through the darkness like a knife and Zeff felt the smile fall from his lips. The silence that followed stretched long enough that the creaking of the ship seemed deafening. When Sanji finally responded, his voice had lost its spark, bright presence dimmed until Zeff felt himself drifting in familiar darkness, their dream once again lost in the gathering storm. "Maybe when you're bigger. It's really far away."

Sora whined, "How far?"

Another pause. "Really, really far away," Sanji finally said, his voice carefully light while Zeff's heart sank heavy in his chest. "Hey, how about I tell you about the time Patty got chased by that seagull instead? And if you promise to lay down, you can sleep here with me tonight. Daddy's pretty tired."

Just like that, Sanji moved on, but Zeff was left reeling as the late winter chill crept back in.

The All Blue wasn't just some bedtime story to pacify a toddler. It was supposed to be their dream—the thing that had kept them both alive on that godforsaken rock when giving up would have been easier. Now Sanji treated it like another fairy tale? Something to be packed away with childhood things?

The familiar burn of irritation settled in his gut, easier to stomach than the gnawing worry that came with it. Three years ago, he'd thought the hardest part would be getting the stubborn brat to stop trying to repay a debt that existed only in his own head. Now? Now Zeff realized he couldn't imagine Sanji willingly walking away from Sora, much less dragging a defenseless child into the dangers of Paradise.

Seventeen years old now, and instead of chasing dreams, he was spending his nights below deck with cards and cheap liquor.

If the little shit ever had a prayer of finding that miracle sea, he'd need a push. A hard one. The kind that came with tough love and carefully crafted distance, not the comfortable routine they'd built here.

He pressed his face into his pillow, trying to block out the memories Sanji's fading dragged up.

Time moved slowly as he lay in the darkness of his room, once again spreading his awareness through the familiar contours of their home. The night watch's presence still paced below, the kitchen furnace burned low—one by one, he counted the sleeping breaths of his crew, each dim star in his constellation accounted for.

The familiar routine did nothing to settle the unease in his gut.

* * *

Consciousness crept in like a hangover. Zeff's eyes cracked open to a room already filled with morning light. His head throbbed, muscles stiff from tossing and turning most of the night. The familiar weight of exhaustion pressed against his chest as he stared at the ceiling, trying to piece together when he'd finally drifted off.

Footsteps shuffled across the floor next door, accompanied by the rustle of clothes and occasional giggles. A drawer opened and closed. "Where's your other shoe, baby? Did you hide it again?"

"No!" Sora's denial carried a suspicious amount of glee.

"Then why're you grinning like that, huh?"

More giggles erupted, followed by the sound of Sanji diving after her. "Got you! And look what I found under your pillow..."

Their door clicked shut, followed by the familiar creak of stairs. Zeff lay there, staring at the ceiling while their footsteps faded. His joints protested as he pushed himself up, neck cracking when he rolled it. Felt like he'd only just closed his eyes after that mess last night.

The familiar routine of strapping on his peg leg took longer than usual, fingers clumsy with fatigue. Spring couldn't come soon enough—the damp winter air made everything ache worse these days.

The hallway stretched before him, morning light barely penetrating the narrow space. Below, pots and pans clattered as the kitchen stirred to life. He made his way to the bathroom, splashing water on his face before glaring at his reflection. The man staring back had more gray than blond these days.

Back in his quarters, he laid out crisp chef whites on the bed and threw open the window. The ocean stretched endlessly, painted in morning gold. Usually this view stirred something in his chest—hope or wonder or that old familiar ache for adventure. Today it just felt heavy, like storm clouds gathering on a distant horizon.

His gaze dropped to the deck railing, settling on the splintered beam. That damn eggplant thought he could fool him about some rowdy customer breaking it. As if Zeff wouldn't notice someone making it up to the top deck. More likely the brat had broken it himself, sneaking out for a late-night rendezvous or stumbling back drunk again.

Turning away with a scowl, his eyes landed on the blueprints spread across his desk. Next to them lay last week's newspaper, featuring some smug Marine getting medals for taking down another overconfident pirate who couldn't even make it out of East Blue.

"Tch." Zeff snatched up the papers, rolling them tight without looking at them. He yanked open his door just as Pepita reached the stairs.

"Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. Get your staff together—we're reviewing renovation plans."

"Yes, sir." She nodded sharply and hustled down, taking the stairs two at a time with an ease that made his joints ache in protest.

Zeff descended to the middle deck, the familiar scent of simmering stock greeting him like an old friend. The narrow hallway bustled with morning activity – Carne lugging sacks of potatoes from storage while Marcus balanced wine bottles between his arms. They nodded respectfully as he passed, careful not to drop anything under his scrutiny.

He paused at the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. Inside, Sanji hunched over the prep station, hands moving with mechanical precision as he prepared the day's stock. No flourishes today, no knife tricks or smug commentary – just efficient, practiced movements.

A flash of blonde zipped past the corner of Zeff's vision as it made its way around the kitchen's perimeter. Sora trotted along the lower cabinets, trailing her small fingers across their wooden surfaces. In her other hand, she clutched a coloring book and wax pencils—birthday gifts from last month that hadn't left her sight since. Her dress matched Sanji's navy blue shirt perfectly, right down to the tiny pocket square sewn into her collar.

Sora completed another lap, her twin hair twists bouncing with each step. The style made her hair appear shorter than when it hung loose. He remembered when her hair was barely long enough to curl at the ears, back when it had been the same pale shade as Sanji's. Now it fell past her shoulders, catching warm hints of rose gold in the sun.

She practically vibrated with restless energy, fingers tapping against cabinets as she made her third circuit of the kitchen. Poor kid had probably been kept cooped up too long, especially with how busy the restaurant had been lately. Sanji had taken to keeping her away from the dining area during service, leaving her with fewer places to burn off that boundless toddler energy.

Zeff cleared his throat loudly. "Staff meeting downstairs in fifteen minutes. Everyone."

The kitchen stilled as heads turned his way. Sanji looked up from his station, visible eye narrowing in question until it landed on the rolled blueprints in Zeff's hand.

Sora perked up, abandoning her circuit to bounce on her toes. "Can I come too? Please, please?"

"Hold on, Sora," Sanji called, wiping his hands on a towel. "Let me finish this first."

"I'll take her down," Zeff offered, surprising himself with the words. "You'd better not ruin that stock with your daydreaming. It's already over-reduced."

Sanji's mouth opened, likely to argue about the stock, but Sora was already racing toward the door.

"Watch the stairs!" Sanji called after her. "Don't run!"

Zeff snorted, following the girl at a more reasonable pace. "She knows how to handle stairs by now. You're worse than an old grandmother."

Sora waited at the top of the spiral staircase, one hand on the railing just like they'd taught her, the other still clutching her coloring utensils. She grinned up at Zeff.

"Go ahead," Zeff nodded, watching as she carefully descended, one step at a time.

The little duckling had grown so much in the past year alone. Not just taller, but more sure of herself, more steady on her feet. She'd gone from barely managing three words to chattering nonstop, picking up every curse word and kitchen term within earshot.

Halfway down, she looked back up at him. "You coming, Jiji?"

"Right behind you." He followed, his peg leg making a hollow thump against each step. "No need to wait for this old man."

She giggled, continuing her careful descent. "Not old. Just slow, Jiji."

"Cheeky brat," Zeff muttered, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Wonder where you get that from."

"Almost there," she announced proudly, taking the final steps with exaggerated care before hopping onto the main deck.

Zeff made his way to the nearest table and lowered himself into a chair with a barely suppressed groan.

If Sora noticed his exhaustion, she made no sign of it. She immediately set off on a circuit of the dining room. Her small fingers trailed along the chair backs as she passed, counting under her breath. Zeff watched her exploration with mild amusement. After being confined to the kitchen or Sanji's quarters while the restaurant operated, the empty dining room must feel like freedom.

After completing her lap, Sora gravitated toward a nearby table where Oscar sat, folding napkins into simple shapes—boats, fans, and what might have been birds—using the techniques Sanji had taught the staff months ago. The origami napkins had been one of the few innovations Pepita had actually praised Sanji for, claiming they added "a touch of class" to their presentation.

"Can I help?" Sora asked, standing on tiptoes to see over the table edge.

Oscar smiled, sliding a stack of plain napkins toward her. "Remember how to make the boat?"

Sora nodded enthusiastically, climbing onto a chair and carefully picking up a napkin, setting her previous activity aside for the time being. Her small fingers worked with surprising dexterity, folding corners with her tongue stuck out in concentration.

The room gradually filled as staff emerged from both above and below decks. Cooks wiped their hands on aprons as they took seats, while waitstaff finished morning preparations before joining the gathering. Before long, Sanji appeared, still wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

Their eyes lock for a heartbeat before Zeff breaks away, finding sudden fascination in where the morning light traces fresh gouges in the doorframe. Probably from that rowdy bunch of bounty hunters last week, though lately, it seemed like the Baratie collected new battle scars faster than usual. All the more reason for this meeting.

Zeff snapped himself out of his thoughts as the last of the crew filed in. Patty and Carne took their usual spots near the bar, while Marcus settled into a chair near the window. Pepita stood ramrod straight by the stairs, clipboard in hand as she ticked off names. The new waiters—what were their names again? Zeff couldn't be bothered to remember—huddled together like nervous sheep, still unsure of their place in the Baratie's hierarchy.

"Everyone here?" Zeff barked, not bothering to wait for Pepita's confirmation. He cleared his throat and unrolled the blueprints across the largest table with a decisive snap. "Listen up. We've been putting this off long enough."

The crew leaned forward as one, curious eyes scanning the detailed drawings. Sora abandoned her napkin folding and wiggled her way between bodies until she stood at the edge of the table, straining on tiptoes to see.

"It's time we expand this floating shack," Zeff announced, jabbing a finger at the plans. "We've outgrown our space, and our reputation's outgrown our capacity."

Excited whispers broke out immediately. Zeff slammed his palm on the table.

"Quiet! I'm not finished. We'll stay open another month or two while we coordinate with the builders. After that, we dock for renovations."

Patty raised his hand. "How long will construction take?"

"Depends how fast they work." Zeff responded, smirking when Patty rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"And what about us during that time?" Oscar asked, voicing the question Zeff knew was on everyone's mind.

Zeff crossed his arms. "I'm not gonna beg any of you to stick around. Either the renovations will be incentive enough, or you can find another job. Your choice."

He swept his gaze across the room, meeting each pair of eyes. Most of these pirates-turned-cooks didn't care about fancy quarters. They'd slept in worse places—caves, prison cells, actual barrels. A proper bunk and somewhere to shit in peace was luxury enough.

Carne leaned over the table, squinting at the plans. "Look at the size of that kitchen!"

"And separate crew quarters," Marcus added, pointing to a section of the lower deck. "No more listening to Patty's snoring all night."

"My snoring?" Patty balked. "You're the one who talks in your sleep!"

"Private rooms for some," Oscar noted, tracing the upper deck layout with his finger. "And what's this area here?"

"Outdoor bar," Sanji answered before Zeff could. "For when the weather's good."

The crew crowded closer, fingers pointing and voices overlapping as they discovered new details. Even Pepita abandoned her professional distance to examine the dining room expansion.

"The upper floors will still have private rooms." He turned to Pepita. "Yours is here, second level. Same amenities as the other private quarters."

Pepita nodded, clearly pleased despite her attempt at neutrality. "Thank you, sir."

Zeff pointed to the top level. "My room stays here. Sanji's across the hall. Sora gets her own room next door." He tapped another section. "These are extra, for growth and guests." Good hosting meant having space for important guests, and the Baratie attracted its share of notable visitors these days. Besides, his crew had a habit of growing whether he planned for it or not.

"My room?" Sora asked, eyes wide as she reached out to palm at the plans. "Where? Where is it?"

Sanji knelt beside her, guiding her finger to the upper level. "Right here, next to mine. See? It'll be all yours."

"When?" Sora bounced on her toes, looking between Sanji and Zeff. "Today?"

Zeff couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him.

"Not quite," he said, trying to soften his naturally gruff tone. "These are plans. First we need to find the builders, then they have to do the work."

"Oh." Sora considered this, clearly trying to grasp the concept. "Tomorrow?"

"No, little duck," Zeff said. "It'll take many, many days. Months."

Her small shoulders slumped. "That's forever!"

"It'll be worth waiting for," Sanji assured her. "You can help pick colors for your room."

Sora's face scrunched up, her initial excitement evaporating. With an exaggerated huff that reminded Zeff far too much of her father's theatrical tendencies, she spun away from the blueprints.

"Boring," she declared, marching back to her abandoned napkins with dramatic flair.

"How are we affording this, anyway?" Marcus asked as he gestured at the plans. "Didn't know we pulled in that kinda money."

Zeff's mouth twisted into a wry smile. Back in his pirating days, he'd measured wealth in stolen treasure and gold, keeping it locked away in chests like some storybook villain. Now his treasure was built from honest work—years of careful budgeting, fair prices, and yes, even those extra tips from customers cooing over his granddaughter.

Before Zeff could answer, Sanji snorted, "The old man's been hoarding money since day one. You think he spends it on himself?" He waved toward Zeff's outfit, trying to maintain his cool commentary. "Look at him—probably owns two sets of clothes total."

"Watch your mouth, you little shit." Heat crawler up his neck as he swung his peg leg at Sanji's shin, which the brat dodged with practiced ease. "Just because I don't waste money on fancy suits and cigarettes-"

"See?" Sanji grinned at the crew. "He's practically a miser. Bet he sleeps on his money like a dragon."

"I save for important things," Zeff growled, "Unlike you lot throwing away your pay on booze and women."

The crew's laughter at the chaos only made Zeff's face burn hotter. He'd seen less disruption during actual pirate raids.

"That's a hell of a lot of cash you've been sitting on, boss. Been holding out on us all this time?" The comment cut through the general murmur, but Zeff couldn't pinpoint who said it.

"Hey now-" Patty stepped forward, chest puffing up like an angry rooster. "Where else you gonna find work, huh? Name one place that'll take your sorry asses with your records."

"Yeah!" Carne joined in, jabbing a finger at the crowd. "Door's right there if you don't like how the owner runs things!"

"Shut it, you two." Zeff barked out a laugh. "Don't need you sucking up. Your noses are brown enough already."

"If I may." Pepita's cool voice cut through the tension. "Owner Zeff informed me of these plans during my hiring process. While this might seem preferential treatment to senior staff, it was necessary context for the position's scope and future responsibilities. In my short time here, I've found him to be nothing but honorable in his dealings."

Getting defended by a woman wasn't exactly helping his image with his surly crew, but he nodded gratefully, regardless. He cleared his throat roughly.

"Listen up, you idiots," Zeff said, redirecting attention to the plans. "I'm still the damn owner and I don't need to explain myself to anyone. Since day one, everyone here's gotten their fair cut. Whether you drink it away or save it, that's your business." He thumped his peg leg against the floor to let out some steam. "Now, we've wasted enough time jawing about money. Focus on what matters—your suggestions for the new and improved Baratie."

Zeff watched Sanji step forward, that familiar cocky smirk playing across his face. The brat practically radiated self-importance as he smoothed down his tie.

"You heard the geezer. Suggestions are welcome but lucky for you idiots, I've already handled the important parts since no one else knows what they're doing when it comes to running a proper restaurant." Sanji tapped the blueprints with careful fingers. "Miss Pepita excluded, of course."

Something warm flickered in Zeff's chest at the brat's confidence, immediately followed by a surge of irritation that made his teeth clench. The kid had talent, no denying that. But something about Sanji's smug certainty, his casual assumption that the Baratie was his future, set Zeff's blood boiling in a way he couldn't quite name.

"Watch yourself, eggplant." Zeff jabbed a finger at him, his voice rougher than intended.

"Yeah, I know, you're the damn owner, but someone has to make sure this place runs properly when you retire."

"Retire? I'll retire when I'm dead, you little shit, and even then I'll haunt this kitchen just to kick your scrawny ass." Zeff punctuated his threat by aiming a kick at Sanji's shin.

"If you can catch me, old man." Sanji's smirk widened as he shifted aside, easily dodging Zeff's peg leg. "Face it, I've been running circles around you for over a year now."

Zeff's jaw clenched. The brat wasn't wrong—his joints ached more with each passing season, and Sanji's speed had surpassed his own years ago. That fact should have filled him with pride, but instead, it just made the knot in his gut tighten. The boy was wasting his potential here, content to be a big fish in this small, floating pond.

"And I've been running dinner service since I was twelve," Sanji continued, preening. "Who else could handle running this place better?"

"Running?" The pride in Sanji's voice sparked something ugly in Zeff's chest—a flash of anger that roared up from nowhere. He fixed Sanji with a hard stare. "All you're good for is running your mouth! I don't want you here running this place into the ground. With any luck, you'll be out of my hair by then."

The words burst out before Zeff could stop them, harsh and cutting. Part of him wanted to take them back immediately, but a deeper, more stubborn part refused to soften. The brat needed to hear it. Needed to stop making excuses, stop hiding from the world behind these wooden walls. Stop pretending the All Blue was just a bedtime story.

Sanji's shoulders tensed, his visible eye widening slightly while his jaw clenched. The hurt that flashed across his face made Zeff's stomach twist, but he kept his expression hard. Before Sanji could unleash whatever venom was building behind those gritted teeth, Pepita stepped forward and stood by Zeff's side.

"The two-level design is quite clever," she said, tracing a manicured finger along the blueprint. "Most restaurant vessels struggle with limited space, but this layout maximizes our potential capacity." Her eyes narrowed as she studied the kitchen plans.

Zeff watched Sanji's entire demeanor shift at Pepita's words, the brat's anger melting into that simpering expression he wore around women.

"Your feedback means everything, Miss Pepita." Sanji practically preened under her attention. "Finally, someone who understands the importance of proper restaurant management."

"The experience certainly shows." Pepita's tone remained professional as she straightened, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against the blueprint. "Though I wonder if that's part of the problem."

Sanji blinked. "Problem?"

"Well," Pepita addressed Zeff directly, as if Sanji hadn't spoken. "The layout suggests someone very set in their ways. Very... juvenile in its approach, rather than professional expertise."

The crew's murmurs grew louder. Someone snickered. Sanji's head snapped toward the offender, earlier lovesickness replaced with a murderous glare.

"Oi, got something to say, shit-cook?"

"Nah," Carne wheezed, "just enjoying the show."

"I'll give you a show-" Sanji started forward, but Pepita continued undetered.

"It's commendable that you're involving the crew in these discussions, Owner Zeff." Pepita turned to face him directly, effectively cutting Sanji out of the conversation. "Getting input from experienced staff will help avoid potential oversights that might come from... inexperience." Her eyes flickered briefly to Sanji. "While I don't have direct kitchen experience, I do have several suggestions for improving the dining space."

Sanji's visible eye twitched, but he maintained that strained smile. "Of course, Miss Pepita. These are just preliminary drafts. I'm certain your ideas could only enhance the design."

Pepita's gaze settled on Sanji with the same detached interest one might give a particularly presumptuous child. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

The silence stretched uncomfortably, only broken periodically by the crew giggling at Sanji's expense. Zeff watched his adopted son's face cycle through a series of emotions—anger, embarrassment, forced composure—as he struggled to remain unbothered by Pepita's dismissal. The brat's jaw twitched with the effort of maintaining that strained smile, his fingers flexing at his sides as if itching for a cigarette.

It didn't take a genius to see what Pepita was doing, in Zeff's opinion. He'd been on plenty of ships where established hierarchy was challenged. Though, normally he saw this displayed through fists and physical fights, whereas Pepita was using her words and experience. That's why he hired her, anyway. And maybe this was what Sanji needed in order to let go and see Baratie didn't need him to stay.

The thought settled like a stone in Zeff's gut. Uncomfortable, but necessary.

"Alright, enough of this pissing contest," Zeff broke the silence with a gruff bark. "We want to avoid mistakes if we can help it." He turned to Sanji, whose visible eye was still locked in a silent battle with Pepita. "We'll keep the bones of what you added, eggplant, but Miss Pepita has experience."

Pepita straightened her already impeccable posture, the subtle shift of her shoulders suggesting satisfaction without a single change in her professional expression.

"I have experience in both East and North Blue establishments and have a few ideas that might improve efficiency," she said, turning back to the blueprints. "For instance, the current flow between kitchen and dining area creates unnecessary steps for servers. If we adjust the placement of the pass-through window and add a secondary service station here—" her finger tapped a spot on the blueprint, "—we could reduce server fatigue and improve delivery times."

Zeff nodded, impressed despite himself. The woman knew her business.

"I also have a contact who can get a notice in the paper to announce the closure and re-opening when it's time," Pepita continued. "Properly marketed, this renovation could draw significant attention and new clientele."

Zeff turned back to Pepita. "A notice in the paper is a good idea. Might keep our regulars from thinking we've sunk."

"Precisely," Pepita agreed. "And with proper timing, we could coordinate the reopening with a special event."

Zeff nodded, stroking his mustache pensively. He turned to survey the dining room, his gaze settling on Sora as she slid from her chair and approached their group, now proudly holding up several cloth napkins covered in colorful scribbles. His stomach dropped at the sight of their pristine white linens now decorated with what appeared to be blue and pink fish swimming through swirls of different colored water.

"Daddy, look!" Sora waved the napkins. "For my room!"

Sanji's head whipped around, his earlier anger instantly replaced by horror. "Sora, what did you-" He snatched one of the napkins, examining the damage. "These are for customers!"

"But they're pretty now." Sora clutched the remaining napkins to her chest, lower lip trembling. "I made all the fish!"

"Those aren't-" Sanji ran a hand through his hair, visibly trying to contain his frustration. He turned to Pepita with an apologetic bow. "I'm so sorry, Miss Pepita. This is entirely my fault. I should have been watching her more carefully." He straightened, tugging at his tie. "We'll wash them right away."

"No!" Tears welled up in Sora's eyes as she hugged the napkins tighter. "They're mine! You said I can have pink fish!"

The words gave Zeff a twinge of recognition, but he couldn't place why. Sanji, however, looked genuinely puzzled. His brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not understanding the reference.

Zeff watched Sora's trembling lip, the pieces suddenly clicking into place. Pink fish. All Blue. The kid had been trying to recreate Sanji's bedtime stories on the damn napkins.

"I think we're done here," Zeff announced, rolling up the blueprints with finality. "You lot have work to do. Get to it."

The crew scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on, muttering amongst themselves. Pepita remained, her posture perfect as she stepped closer to Zeff.

"Owner Zeff, if I may?" Her voice was professionally pleasant, but her eyes flicked toward Sanji and Sora. "Perhaps it would be best if the sous chef focuses his attention where it's most needed. Children require constant supervision, after all." Her tone remained professional, but there was a subtle emphasis in her words. "We wouldn't want your hard work and planning to go to waste because of... divided priorities."

Zeff's mustache twitched with irritation. "We have it handled," he said curtly. "And Sora's not your problem, remember?"

Pepita's smile didn't falter, though her eyes cooled slightly. "Of course. I merely thought to be helpful." She smoothed her already immaculate skirt. "I'll check my books and provide you with my contact at the newspaper. They're quite reliable."

"Fine." Zeff nodded, not bothering to soften his tone.

Behind Pepita, Oscar approached Sanji, who was now kneeling beside Sora, examining the ruined napkins with a pained expression.

"I'm sorry, Sanji," Oscar said quietly. "I invited her to help me fold earlier. Should've kept a better eye on her."

"Yeah, my bad too," Marcus added, hovering nearby. "Saw her with the pencils but figured she was just drawing on paper."

Sanji shook his head, not looking up. "It's my responsibility. I should have been watching her."

Zeff finished his brief conversation with Pepita, who departed with a professional nod. Oscar and Marcus, seeing Zeff approach, quickly made themselves scarce.

Now it was just the three of them—Zeff, Sanji, and Sora, who was still clutching her artwork and looking uncertainly between the two men.

Zeff opened his mouth, intending to say something about how Sanji was stretching himself too thin, trying to be everywhere at once. He wanted to tell the brat that no one expected him to be perfect, that he was still just a kid himself in many ways. That maybe if he wasn't so damn determined to prove himself indispensable to the Baratie, he might have more time for what really mattered.

"Don't forget about the stock in the kitchen," he said, falling back on familiar harshness. "Don't let it burn while you're cleaning those linens."

"Right," Sanji said flatly, gathering the napkins from Sora's hands. "Wouldn't want to ruin that too."

He stood, taking Sora's small hand in his. "Come on, Sora. Let's go clean up our mess."

Sora looked up at Sanji, then over at Zeff, her earlier excitement completely deflated. "Sorry, Jiji," she mumbled.

Zeff's heart twisted at the nickname, but he just grunted in acknowledgment as Sanji led Sora toward the stairs, the ruined napkins clutched in his free hand.

Zeff stood alone in the dining room as they climbed the stairs, the sound of Sanji's footsteps and Sora's occasional hiccup fading into silence. The distance between them filled with unspoken words neither of them knew how to say.

* * *

Two weeks had crawled by since the blueprint meeting, and the Baratie had settled into an uncomfortable routine. The renovation plans moved forward—contractors contacted, materials sourced, permits arranged—but something else had shifted out of place.

And they still hadn't talked about it. Not really. Not about the All Blue, or Sanji's future, or the way Zeff's words had cut deeper than intended. Just business as usual, with a cold distance that hadn't been there before.

Zeff kept waiting for the explosion, for the eggplant to finally snap and confront him about letting Pepita walk all over him during that meeting. But Sanji just carried on like nothing had happened, cooking and caring for Sora with the same dedication as always. Except now there was this... wall. Invisible but as solid as steel between them. The little shit had shut him out completely, and Zeff was too damn stubborn to be the first to acknowledge it.

The morning's cleaning had left the deck boards gleaming, though they wouldn't stay that way long with these hooligans tearing around. Zeff watched the crew from his perch on a barrel, one leg propped up, leaving his peg leg to swing lazily. The competition had been Pepita's idea—a way to build camaraderie between kitchen and front-of-house staff while keeping everyone's fighting skills sharp. Zeff had to admit it wasn't a bad notion, especially with the growing tension aboard.

"Keep your guard up!" Pepita barked from beside the mast, her dark curls pinned severely back from her face. Her team of waiters hung on her every word, though they still had more losses than wins against his cooks.

"Like this?" Sora mimicked a fighting stance next to Zeff's barrel, her tiny fists raised. Several crew members chuckled, but Sanji tensed mid-drag on his cigarette.

"No fighting," he called over, voice not unkind but sharp enough.

From his perch by the barrel, Zeff watched Sora toddle over to her father, tugging at his pant leg. Sanji quickly turned his head, exhaling a stream of smoke away from her before crouching down. His face softened as he bent down to her level, murmuring something that made her giggle.

"Bruno takes the round!" Carne shouted, drawing Zeff's attention back to the match.

The crew whooped and hollered, money changing hands as the fight concluded. The big waiter had surprised everyone by taking down both Marcus and another cook, Nori, earlier. Pepita knew what she was doing when she hired these new guys after all.

He stood victorious over Patty, who lay sprawled on the deck, a look of disbelief on his face. Bruno, breathing heavily but grinning, extended a hand to help Patty up.

"That's another win for the waitstaff," Pepita announced, making a mark on her notepad. She stood at Zeff's right, maintaining a professional distance. "The cooks are falling behind."

"Hmph. Day ain't over yet," Zeff grumbled.

Bruno helped Patty to his feet, both men laughing now as Patty complained about a lucky shot.

"Not bad for a guy who just carries plates," Patty groused.

"Those plates get heavy," Bruno shot back with a grin. "And so do the drunks I haul out of here."

The den den mushi's ring cut through the cheering. Pepita slipped away from her spot near the railing to answer it, her heels clicking against the deck as she disappeared inside.

A minute later, Pepita's voice carried across the deck. "Marcus? Call for you."

The crew's reaction was immediate. "Ooooooh! Who's calling for our Marcus?"

"Got yourself a girlfriend?"

"Nah, probably his mother!"

Marcus' face flushed red as he hurried inside, pointedly ignoring the catcalls following him.

"What's a girlfriend?" Sora asked loudly from where she now played with some rope near Zeff's feet. The crew's laughter doubled as Marcus fled inside, red-faced.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Sanji muttered, taking a longer drag of his cigarette.

"Alright, alright," Zeff barked, silencing the crew with a wave of his hand. "Next match. Sanji versus Fennel."

Sanji pushed himself off the railing, stubbing out his cigarette. Fennel, a lanky new waiter with quick reflexes, took his position across from Sanji. He looked nervous but determined.

"Begin!" Carne shouted.

The match started clean enough—Sanji testing Fennel's defense with basic combinations while the waiter focused on staying mobile. Zeff watched with a critical eye, noting the boy's form, the precision of each strike. Something seemed off, though. Between combinations, Sanji kept darting glances to the side, somewhere near Zeff's position, but never quite meeting his eyes.

For a moment, Zeff wondered if the eggplant was finally ready to acknowledge the tension between them—if this was some awkward attempt at reconciliation. But when he followed Sanji's line of sight, he found Pepita standing a few feet away, watching with that flat, unimpressed expression she seemed to reserve just for Sanji.

So that was it. Not looking for his old man's approval at all—just trying to impress the hostess again. Something sour twisted in Zeff's gut. Here he'd been worrying about pushing the boy away, about the growing distance between them, and Sanji's mind was still fixated on getting approval from a woman who clearly had no interest in giving it.

What a nasty habit. Always seeking validation from the wrong places, always making things more complicated than they needed to be.

"Stop playing with your food, eggplant," Zeff called out, unable to keep the edge from his voice. Either you fought or you didn't—all this showing off and looking around for a reaction was just asking for trouble. "Finish it."

Sanji's eyes narrowed. The next sequence was brutal—a sweeping kick to destabilize, followed by an axe drop that left Fennel scrambling to defend. Within seconds, the waiter was on his back, Sanji's foot hovering above his chest.

"Winner: Sanji," Carne announced, somewhat unnecessarily.

Zeff watched Sanji extend a hand to help Fennel up, the gesture automatic despite the boy's brutal takedown. The waiter accepted with a sheepish grin, rubbing his shoulder where he'd hit the deck.

"Nice match," Fennel offered.

Sanji just nodded, already turning away to resume his spot by the railing. Before he could light up another cigarette, Sora barreled into his legs.

"Daddy wins! So strong, Daddy!" She bounced on her toes, arms raised in victory.

"Point to the kitchen," Zeff called to Pepita, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

Pepita's pen scratched against her notepad, but her lips were pressed into a thin line. The hostess clearly thought he encouraged Sanji's more violent tendencies too much. But sometimes a good fight was exactly what a man needed to sort himself out.

"Alright, you lot," Zeff pushed himself up from the barrel. "Break for lunch. We'll finish the bracket after everyone's fed."

The crew dispersed, their chatter and footsteps echoing across the wooden planks. Some headed for the galley, others to wash up first.

Zeff made his way down to the dining room, the crew's excited chatter about the morning's matches filling the air. Bruno had proven himself worthy of the praise Pepita kept heaping on him, though the rest of her waiters still needed work.

At the far end of the room, Pepita claimed a table with her new waiters, separate from the rest of the crew. Even after months aboard, she maintained that distance—the invisible line between 'her people' and 'the original crew' was as clear as the division between sea and sky.

"Did you see that last combination?" Carne gestured wildly, nearly taking out a passing busboy. "Thought for sure Patty had him!"

"Keep your arms down before you break something," Zeff growled, though there wasn't much heat in it. The morning's activities had done wonders for morale.

Further back, Zeff spotts Marcus' hunched form lingering by the den den mushi, seemingly finished with his call.

"Oi, Marcus. Best get your ass in here before these locusts clean out the kitchen."

Marcus startled, head snapping up. His freckles stood out stark against his pale face. "Oh, uh, yes sir." He hesitated, fingers drumming against the worn counter. "Actually... could I ask you something?"

Zeff grunted, jerking his head toward the deck. Whatever this was about, better to handle it away from curious ears.

Outside, Marcus paced a few steps before stopping at the railing. "My father called." The words came out clipped, tense. "He found out I'm here. Saw the news about the future closure in the paper."

Zeff leaned against the wall and nodded in acknowledgment, not sure where this was going. The notice had been modest—just a few lines about the upcoming renovations and temporary closure, sandwiched between another marine promotion puff piece and the latest bounty updates. He had already forgotten about it, if he was being honest with himself.

"I... may have left home without telling anyone. There were expectations, family obligations." Marcus confessed as he ran a hand through his hair. "He says I owe them. That I need to come back."

There it was. Zeff pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache forming. They hadn't even started building and already they had crew planning to jump ship.

"So you're telling me, after all the effort we put into you, you're planning to run off?"

Marcus gripped the railing harder, knuckles white. "No! It's not like that, Chef. I don't want-" He gestured at the restaurant around them. "I like it here. The crew, the work. Even getting my ass kicked in training." A weak smile flickered across his face.

The words hung heavy in the salt air. Zeff had seen that same trapped look in Sanji's eyes whenever his past came up. These damn kids and their complicated histories. At least with Sanji, Zeff had thought he understood the shape of the boy's demons. But lately... Zeff shook his head. Pirates were simpler—you knew where you stood with a blade at your throat. All this emotional shit made his head hurt.

"Listen up, you little shit." Zeff jabbed a finger at Marcus' chest. "I don't give a rat's ass what you do. Could replace you tomorrow with any half-decent cook who can follow basic instructions."

Marcus flinched, but Zeff wasn't finished.

"But if you're asking my opinion—which you weren't, but tough luck—a man picks his own path. Family obligations?" Zeff spat the words. "The only obligation that matters is the one you choose."

"But my father-"

"Isn't here, is he?" Zeff cut him off. "You're the one standing on my deck, working in my kitchen. Making your own damn choices."

Marcus looked down at his hands, conflict written across his features and looking every bit his age. In the harsh sunlight, Zeff could see the same uncertainty he'd witnessed countless times in his own son's eyes. Different circumstances, different demons, but the same lost look of a kid trying to figure out his place in the world.

"I just..." Marcus swallowed hard. "I don't know what to do."

Damnit, Zeff wasn't built for this. He hadn't opened Baratie to play father-figure to every young cook with family troubles. The boy had been good for Sanji, in his own way. Someone closer to his age to talk to out here in the middle of nowhere. The closest thing to a friend Sanji had made since they'd opened this floating madhouse. They'd spend hours talking about cooking techniques, girls, and whatever else young men discussed when they thought no one was listening. If Marcus left now...

Zeff's jaw tightened. Losing the boy would be more than just losing a decent cook. It would be taking away something Sanji needed—normalcy, camaraderie, someone who didn't see him as just 'the chef's kid with the baby.' And here was Marcus, looking at him like Zeff had all the answers, like his words actually mattered.

What the hell did he know about family obligations? He'd been a bastard and a pirate, for crying out loud. He'd spent his life taking what he wanted and leaving behind what he didn't. The only real responsibility he'd ever chosen was a half-starved brat on a rock. And now here was another one, looking for wisdom from a man who'd solved most of his problems with his boot.

"Figure it out. I've got a business to run." Zeff turned toward the entrance, then paused. "And Marcus?"

"Yes sir?"

"Whatever you decide, don't half-ass it. Ain't got no room for wishy-washy cooks in my kitchen."

Zeff walked inside and quickly found his seat amongst the crew, their earlier energy somewhat dampened by hunger. Good fights always work up an appetite. The kitchen staff moved with practiced efficiency, getting lunch on the tables while it was still hot.

Sora toddled over to him after finishing her meal. "Jiji! Up!"

He scooped her up, settling her on his hip. Her hair had gotten tangled during lunch—he'd have to remind Sanji to brush it before it became impossible to manage. "Ready to watch your old man get his ass handed to him?"

"Yeah!" She giggled, poking his mustache.

"Hah!" He carried her out to watch the final match, finding a spot near the mast where they could see the whole deck.

Bruno and Sanji squared off, both looking refreshed after the meal. But there was still that edge to Sanji's movements, like a pot about to boil over.

Just like Marcus and his family troubles, Sanji carried his own baggage. The difference was, Sanji wouldn't talk about his. Not really. Even after that night on his birthday years ago, Zeff knew there were things he still kept buried.

"Collier!" Sanji's kick caught Bruno in the shoulder, but the waiter rolled with it, coming up in a defensive stance.

Bruno was good—better than they'd initially given him credit for. He matched Sanji's power, if not his speed, managing to land a few solid hits of his own.

"So fast!" Sora bounced in Zeff's arms, completely missing the growing tension in her father's movements. She punched the air in excitement, and Zeff had to tighten his grip to keep her from tumbling.

Each exchange got sharper, more aggressive. Sanji's usual fluid style gave way to something harder, almost desperate. He'd been like this ever since Pepita started—no flirting with customers, no showing off, just increasingly violent spars and emptied wine bottles. The boy had faced down actual pirates with more composure than this. What was it about one woman's disapproval that had him so twisted up?

"Côtelette!" The kick should have ended it, but Bruno caught Sanji's leg, using the momentum to throw him off balance.

Sanji recovered with a handspring, but his landing was sloppy. Frustrated. The crew's cheering faded to murmurs as they picked up on the shift in atmosphere. Sanji's kicks were getting dangerous—not his usual controlled attacks meant to disable without permanent damage, but strikes that could really hurt someone. Like he was trying to prove something, though what the hell it could be, Zeff couldn't figure out.

"Mouton Shot!"

The combination was devastating—kicks so fast they seemed to land simultaneously. Bruno went down hard, skidding across the deck.

Victory, but instead of his usual cockiness, Sanji's eye immediately sought out Pepita by the mast, like a child seeking approval after showing off a new trick.

"Daddy won!" Sora clapped, oblivious to the tension.

Zeff adjusted his grip on her and watched as Pepita's lips pressed into a thin line, her disapproval clear as day. The hostess turned away, already moving to help Bruno up. Sanji's face darkened, that raw energy from earlier crystallizing into something harder. The cigarette came out immediately, smoke curling around him like armor. Third one in the past hour, by Zeff's count. The boy was burning through them faster lately, along with the kitchen's cooking wine. All because one woman wouldn't give him the time of day.

Zeff watched his son try to hide behind that cloud of smoke, irritation building. He'd thought the eggplant had grown out of this nonsense—this constant need to charm everyone around him, this sulking when it didn't work. Clearly, he'd been wrong. Sometimes Zeff missed the simplicity of just kicking the boy's ass when he acted up, but somehow he doubted that would solve whatever this was.

He should say something. Clear the air. Be the adult he was supposed to be.

Instead, Zeff reached for Sora's hand, getting her attention and turning towards the galley entrance.

"Come on, duckling. Let's get you cleaned up before dinner."

"But Daddy—" Sora twisted in his grip, looking back at Sanji.

"Your daddy needs a minute." Zeff kept his voice low, gentle.

The crew's excited chatter about the tournament died down as they filed back inside, leaving Sanji alone with his cigarette and wounded pride.

* * *

The dinner rush hit hard and fast. Steam billowed from pots while orders flew through the pass at a breakneck pace. Monday dinner service was halfway through, and they'd been slammed since opening. Through the kitchen windows, a dozen merchant vessels bobbed in the darkening waters. Word had spread about the upcoming renovations, bringing in curious diners wanting one last meal before the temporary closure.

"Table seven's risotto!" Patty called, sliding the plate under the heating lamp.

Zeff gave it a critical glance before nodding. "Looks decent. Get it out."

He checked the ticket times—everything moving smoothly despite the rush. His gaze shifted to Sanji, who had just returned from putting Sora to bed upstairs. The boy looked like hell warmed over. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, his usually immaculate hair limp and greasy against his forehead. His facial scruff had grown past the point of deliberate style into simple neglect.

Zeff hadn't seen him this exhausted since Sora was teething as an infant, waking them every hour with her pained wails. But Sora was sleeping through the night now, even handling her potty training with surprising ease. This was something else.

"Oi." Zeff planted himself at Sanji's station. "Did you sleep at all last night?" He knew the answer already, having heard Sanji return to his bed after another late night with the kitchen crew.

"I'm fine." Sanji responded automatically. "Got orders to fill."

"Wasn't what I asked."

"Then stop asking."

Sanji moved to the pass, plating with mechanical precision. His hands still worked with their usual skill, but the flair was missing. No flourishes, no unnecessary movements—just the bare minimum needed to get the job done.

"You look like shit," Zeff muttered, low enough that only Sanji could hear.

"Thanks for the update." Sanji didn't even look up, just continued arranging garnish with robotic efficiency.

"When's the last time you showered?"

"Yesterday. Lay off, shitty geezer."

Zeff might have pressed further, but a commotion from the line drew his attention. Carne had bumped into Sanji while carrying a pot of stock.

"Watch where you're going, you useless sack of—" Sanji's explosion was immediate and disproportionate, a string of curses that made even the veteran sailors in the kitchen raise their eyebrows.

Zeff watched as Sanji stalked away to the back door, fishing out his cigarettes before he'd even crossed the threshold. Fourth smoke break in three hours. The boy's lungs would be pickled before he hit twenty at this rate.

This wasn't just exhaustion—the eggplant was wound tighter than sail rigging in a storm. As much as Zeff hated Sanji's flirtatious nonsense with female customers, at least it had given him an outlet. Now he was just building pressure with nowhere to release it.

The kitchen door swung open, and Pepita stepped through, order pad in hand. "Owner." Her crisp uniform and perfect posture stood in stark contrast to the chaos of the kitchen. "A moment of your time? I need to discuss a potential reservation. Party of thirty, four weeks from now, just before we make port."

Zeff nodded, wiping his hands on his apron.

Behind Pepita, Sanji had reappeared in the doorway. The moment he spotted her, he turned on his heel and disappeared back outside, cigarette already lit.

Pepita's eyes narrowed at the retreating form. "I see your sous chef still can't be bothered to acknowledge my presence."

"He's taking his break," Zeff said, scanning the reservation request.

"A convenient coincidence every time I enter a room." Pepita's voice was cool. "I don't believe I'm asking for much—just the basic respect afforded to any other staff member."

Zeff looked up, confusion creasing his brow. "What are you talking about?"

The kitchen had gone suspiciously quiet. Zeff glanced around, noticing the cooks' poorly disguised interest.

"Don't you all have food to cook?" he barked.

A flurry of activity resumed as pans clattered and knives resumed chopping. Damn it all, he didn't want to have this conversation, especially not with an audience. Personal matters had no place in his kitchen during service. But Pepita's challenging stare made it clear she wasn't dropping this.

"Let's take this outside," he muttered, gesturing toward the door.

Pepita nodded curtly and followed him through the swinging doors to the main landing. The spiral staircase to their right led down to the bustling dining room, while the corridor to their left stretched toward dry storage and the staff bathroom. The landing offered the only semblance of privacy during the dinner rush.

Zeff crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. The muffled clatter of pots and pans drifted through the kitchen door, punctuated by bursts of laughter from the dining room below. His foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the weathered floorboards.

"Well?" He flicked his fingers in a 'get on with it' gesture.

Pepita smoothed her sleeve, fingers lingering on the crisp fabric. The hesitation caught him off guard—she'd never shown anything but iron-clad composure since starting at the Baratie.

"Sir, I need to discuss your son's behavior." She started, "His constant flattery, the exaggerated compliments, agreeing with everything I say—He doesn't take me seriously. "

Zeff stared at her, momentarily speechless.

"You think he's patronizing you?" he finally asked.

"Of course. I've worked in enough kitchens to recognize when someone doesn't respect me." Her jaw tightened. "Do you know what it took for me to become hostess at Silver Shell? Three years of being passed over for promotions that went to men with half my experience. Five years before that in North Blue, the owner of an establishment I'd rather not recall told me to my face that women belonged serving, not giving orders."

Zeff's eyebrows rose at the unexpected personal revelation.

"I've spent my entire career watching men like your son charm their way into positions I had to fight tooth and nail for," she continued, her professional veneer cracking to reveal genuine frustration. "So yes, when he falls over himself to agree with everything I say, when he can't even look me in the eye—I know exactly what that is."

"That boy wouldn't insult any woman if his life depended on it," Zeff snorted. "That's how I raised him. To never offend a woman. To never raise his voice or hand against a lady. Not because he doesn't respect you, but because he respects you too much."

"You've been judging that boy since the moment you stepped on this ship," he said instead, forcing his voice to remain level. "Never gave him a chance to show you who he really is."

"I judge what I see," Pepita replied evenly.

"You haven't been seeing clearly," Zeff said, struggling to keep his voice level. "What you see as special treatment is me trying to keep him from working himself to death," Zeff continued. "He's practically been a saint since you arrived. No fights, no flirting with customers—nothing but trying to earn your approval."

"I know his type." Pepita shook her head, unconvinced. "Young, irresponsible boys who charm their way through life's consequences." She paused, jaw working out her next words, "There's a darkness in him. The way he fights—" Her eyes met his, unflinching. "One day he'll cause trouble you can't fix, Owner. I respect you too much to watch you waste what you've built on someone who doesn't deserve it."

The accusation hung in the air between them. Zeff's jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. Darkness? In Sanji? The boy who'd chosen kindness when he had every reason to choose bitterness? The accusation was so absurd it bordered on sacrilege.

If Pepita had been a man, he'd have already planted his peg leg in her gut. But he'd made rules for himself long ago—never raise a hand to a woman, never disrespect a lady. Even when that lady was making his blood boil.

"Whatever you think you know about him," he said, quieter now. "You don't."

"With all due respect—"

"Respect goes two ways, Miss Pepita." Zeff cut her off. "You're right about one thing. Baratie isn't like anywhere you've worked before," he gestured toward the door and the restaurant beyond. "This isn't some land restaurant where you do your job and go home to your separate life. You've been here for months and haven't shared a single meal with the crew. Haven't had a drink after closing."

"That's not in my job description," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

Pepita was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on some point on the wall over Zeff's shoulder. He studied her in the silence. Behind her stern exterior, he sensed something familiar—someone who'd had to fight twice as hard to get half as far. Someone who'd learned to keep people at arm's length.

When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its edge.

"I don't understand you, Owner." She said, her posture deflating. "You defend him with such passion, yet I've heard you tell him to his face that you want him gone. I've seen how you two speak to each other." Her eyebrows pinched together. "Why fight so hard for someone who won't inherit your legacy?"

Zeff glanced down the stairwell toward the dining room, then back at Pepita. Her face had softened slightly, genuine confusion replacing the accusation. Baratie was never meant to be his legacy. Sanji inherited something much grander.

"We're all stuck together on a boat in the middle of the ocean," he said finally. "We fight, we argue, but at the end of the day, we're all we've got." He gestured toward the kitchen door. "Every one of those idiots in there is family. Not by blood, but by choice. Even the ones who make me want to throw myself overboard."

"Including Sanji?" she asked quietly.

"Especially that little shit." A ghost of a smile crossed Zeff's face. "That boy has a responsibility to do what I couldn't." He turned his gaze toward the small porthole window, where the endless blue stretched to the horizon. "He can't do that if he stays in East Blue forever."

Pepita studied him for a long moment, her expression shifting into something Zeff couldn't quite read. It wasn't pity—he would have bristled at that—but a kind of recognition, as if she were seeing him clearly for the first time.

Zeff cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

"Now, if you're done with the lecture," he said, gesturing to the reservation pad still clutched in her hand, "I'd like to hear why you're asking me about a reservation when that is part of your job description."

The kitchen door squeaked open. Marcus poked his head out, a question dying on his lips as he caught sight of Pepita. "Ah, sorry Chef. It can wait."

"Stay," Zeff instructed. "Let the lady finish."

Marcus nodded and hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between Zeff and Pepita.

Zeff watched Pepita take a steadying breath, composure returning as she looked at Marcus's nervous form before settling back on Zeff.

"The Serpent Pirates are requesting a private dinner in a few weeks. They'd be the last party before Baratie is scheduled to close for renovations."

"The Serpent Pirates?" Zeff repeated, rolling the name around in his head. "Never heard of 'em."

"They were quite active years ago, then vanished completely." She tapped her pen against the page.

"Thought handling troublemakers was why I hired you." Zeff waved off her concerns. "Or are you telling me you can't handle a crew that's polite enough to make reservations?"

"No, sir." Her spine straightened, professional mask back in place. "I'll take care of it." Pepita nodded curtly and turned toward the spiral staircase, her heels echoing as she descended to the dining room.

Zeff watched her go, the conversation leaving him more exhausted than a double shift. Before he could sort through his thoughts, Marcus shuffled further into the doorway.

"What was so damn important you had to interrupt?" Zeff asked, turning to the young cook.

The young cook's face flushed. "The others, uh, sent me to check if you needed rescuing from Miss Pepita."

"For fuck's sake." Zeff yanked open the kitchen door. Half his crew tumbled forward, having pressed against it to eavesdrop. Patty sprawled face-first onto the landing while Carne windmilled his arms to keep balance.

"Interesting," Zeff growled, scanning the guilty faces. "Seems like everyone's work stations have moved six feet closer to the door."

Patty bent over a cutting board, mincing garlic with intense focus. "Just rearranging for efficiency, Chef."

"That right?" Zeff planted himself in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips. "And I suppose it's just coincidence that half my kitchen staff is huddled by the door instead of cooking the thirty tickets hanging?"

Carne cleared his throat. "We were concerned about, uh, quality control."

"Quality control," Zeff repeated flatly.

The cooks all looked between each other, shuffling awkwardly as the silence stretched. Zeff crossed his arms, waiting. They reminded him of schoolboys caught passing notes, each hoping someone else would take the fall.

Finally, Carne stepped forward, puffing out his chest. "We heard what she was saying about Sanji, Chef. She doesn't know shit about him."

"Not a damn thing," another cook muttered.

Patty nodded vigorously, his massive forearms crossed. "Look, Sanji's got his problems—we all know that—but that's our little shit to criticize, not hers."

Zeff fought to keep his expression stern, though amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. The same crew that tormented Sanji daily, who complained about his perfectionism and mocked his romantic failures, now stood like a wall of indignant protectors. The same idiots who'd threatened to throw the boy overboard last week for critiquing their knife skills.

"Is that right?" Zeff asked, stroking his braided mustache. "Funny, I thought you lot couldn't stand him."

"That's different," Carne insisted. "We've known the brat since he was this high." He held his hand at waist level. "She's been here, what, four months? And she walks around like she owns the place."

"She's an outsider," Patty added. "Doesn't understand how things work here."

"No," Zeff corrected. "She's staff. Same as any of you."

"We heard what you told her, Chef," Gama piped up from the back. "About her not eating with us, not having a drink after closing.

"Yeah!" Patty cuts back in, "She acts like she's better than us."

Zeff snorted. "That's because she is better than you, and not just because she's a woman." He swept his gaze across their surprised faces.

The truth was undeniable, despite their heated discussion only a few minutes ago. A decade of experience in upscale establishments across both North and East Blue backed it up.

"She's doing the job I hired her for." He continued. "Don't bad-mouth her because she doesn't coddle your fragile egos."

"That's what Sanji says too," Marcus said, earning a few surprised looks from the other cooks. "What? He does. Says she's just professional."

Patty snorted. "Yeah, but it's obvious she's been bothering him. Kid's actually been joining us for drinks more since she showed up. Used to say he'd rather sleep in the fish hold than hang out below deck with—what was it he called our quarters?"

"A 'festering pit of masculine failure and unwashed laundry,'" Carne supplied helpfully.

"That's the one," Patty nodded.

"The drinking was supposed to be a secret," Marcus hissed, eyes widening as he realized what they'd revealed.

Zeff raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that right? Well, bang-up job then." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Zeff glanced toward the back door where Sanji had disappeared for his smoke break.. "How much booze have you lot gone through?" Zeff's eyes narrowed. "And don't bullshit me."

The cooks exchanged glances. Patty scratched his head. "Well..."

A heaviness settled in Zeff's chest. The late-night stumbling, the bloodshot eyes, the increasingly short temper—he'd known, of course. He'd just been hoping it wasn't as bad as he feared. Hoping the boy would work through whatever was eating at him. But hearing it discussed so openly, so casually, made it impossible to ignore any longer.

Not that he could say anything. The brat was old enough to make his own mistakes. But Sora... that was different. Kid needed her father present, not nursing hangovers.

"Nori." Zeff's voice cracked like a whip. "Go check our stores. Need to know what we've got before those pirates arrive anyway."

"On it, Chef." Nori hustled toward the stairs.

The cooks grumbled but returned to their stations. All except Marcus, who hovered near the prep table, fingers fidgeting with his knife handle.

"Another pirate crew?" Marcus's voice wavered. "The ones Miss Pepita mentioned? The, uh, Serpents?"

Patty elbowed him. "Scared of a few snakes?"

"N-no!" Marcus's face flushed. "Just curious about the reservation, that's all."

"What's it matter?" Zeff raised an eyebrow. "You've been here two years. Either learn to deal with pirates or find another kitchen."

"Not surprised." Patty clapped Marcus's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "You're the only cook I know who can kick like a mule when Owner forces you to spar, but still jumps at every pirate that walks through the door."

"Still hides in the pantry when Hawk Eyes shows up," Carne chuckled. "Even though the man just sits there drinking wine every few weeks."

The crew erupted in laughter. Even Zeff had to suppress a smirk, remembering how Marcus had practically melted into the shadows each time Mihawk appeared for his now-regular meals. The World's Greatest Swordsman had become something of a fixture at the Baratie. He would show up every few weeks, order the chef's selection with a bottle of their finest red, and spend hours reading while nursing his wine. Hardly the terror of the seas the papers made him out to be, but Marcus still found excuses to hide in the pantry whenever those hawk-eyes appeared.

Marcus's tendency to spook easily had become a running joke in the kitchen. For all the skill he held during their practice matches, the boy startled at his own reflection some days. He'd nearly jumped out of his skin when Pepita first toured the kitchen, though Zeff had chalked that up to her commanding presence.

Marcus's face flushed red. "I don't hide! I just... respect personal space."

"Respect personal space?" Patty howled. "Is that what you call diving behind the counter last week when that crew with the eye patches came in?"

"They looked dangerous!"

"They were marine deserters playing dress-up," Carne wheezed. "Miss Pepita had them clocked in seconds."

"Shut it!" Marcus hissed suddenly, eyes fixed on the porthole.

Through the small window, Zeff caught sight of Sanji returning from his smoke break. The crew scattered like startled fish, suddenly fascinated by their prep work. Patty attacked a pile of onions with suspicious vigor while others straightened already-neat stations.

The kitchen door swung open before he could respond. Sanji stepped through, cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, eyes red-rimmed but focused.

His gaze swept across the kitchen, lingering on Marcus's red face and Patty's aggressive chopping.

"Are we having a tea party, or are we running a restaurant?" he snapped, moving to the pass to check the hanging tickets.

"Get back to work." Zeff grunted, but Sanji just directed his pinched expression his way before returning to his place.

The cooks scrambled back to work, the moment broken. Though, Marcus still looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Poor kid had potential if he'd ever get over his nerves.

Steam rose from the pass as Sanji methodically checked each dish before sending it down. He moved with practiced efficiency, fingers dancing over plate edges, adjusting garnishes with surgical precision. At least the brat's standards hadn't slipped, even if everything else was falling apart.

"Hold it." Sanji's voice cut through the kitchen clatter. He lifted a piece of fish from Marcus's plate, examining it with narrowed eyes. "Overcooked. See how it's flaking?"

Marcus shuffled forward, shoulders hunched. "I-I can remake it-"

"No time. Table eight's waited long enough—I'll handle the replacement." Sanji passed the plate back. "This is your dinner now."

Marcus nodded quickly, setting his plate aside before moving on to the next ticket.

Zeff watched his son's hands fly over the ingredients, assembling a fresh plate with the speed of someone who'd done it thousands of times. No wasted movement, no hesitation. The boy might be running himself ragged, might be drowning his troubles in cheap wine, but he hadn't lost his standards.

The door to the main landing swung open again. Zeff watched as Sanji's shoulders tensed. But it was just Nori, his red curls bouncing as he bounded up the last few steps.

Appearing to catch sight of Sanji back at his station, Nori's usual grin smoothed into something more measured. "Chef, about those stores—we should probably restock before that big reservation Miss Pepita mentioned."

Zeff grunted, wiping his hands on his apron. He'd need to contact Toma ahead of their usual supply run. The merchant always managed to find decent prices, even for last-minute orders.

Watching Sanji's posture slowly unwind, Zeff felt a familiar weight settle in his chest. The boy couldn't keep jumping at shadows forever. Sooner or later, he'd have to man up, and if not...

There were plenty of ways off Baratie—merchant vessels always needed good cooks, and rookie pirate crews were a dime a dozen.

"Oi." Zeff called, briefly catching Sanji's gaze for the first time all evening. Something passed between them—a flicker of the connection they'd once shared, now strained to breaking. "Table twelve's soup's getting cold."

Sanji turned away without a word, the moment gone. They had customers to feed. Everything else would have to wait.