More OP fanfic. Sorry, ST fans. . But sentences are easier to write than Heatsink! D:
These prompts were taken from the 1sentence community on LJ, but this is not a claim. Reason being that my sentences are gen and the comm is interested in pairings. So, anyway, I stole them. One sentence per prompt, yadda yadda. :D
Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece!
Sanji stared blankly at the horizon, too weary to pay attention to the ache of his belly, and when, again, he saw no ships, he decided there was no god.
Every breath felt like a knife was being stabbed into his gut and he curled around his knees in a futile attempt to ease the pain.
He shifted on his crutch and opened his mouth for goodbye, but was surprised into silence, for there was Sanji behind him, a determined look on his face, his small arms wrapped tightly around Zeff's bundle of belongings.
When had he changed from a rival castaway to a parent, wondered Zeff, shooting a glance down at the ragged boy beside him, and he sighed and placed a hand on the boy's back, steering him over to the waiting gangplank.
Sanji went from an annoyance to his protégé after one afternoon spent together in a tiny hotel kitchen.
"Teach me," said the boy, and he stood silently by the door, stubbornly still for three hours until Zeff finally tossed him a spoon.
It hung about the boy for months after they'd finally been rescued: a threatening shadow of depression that matched the shade beneath his eyes.
"This is my dream," he said, gazing proudly at the floating restaurant, the boy beside him grinning enough for the both of them.
"When – if," Zeff corrected himself, "if you are ever afraid, just hide in the pantry… but you'd better not snitch anything while you're in there."
He'd had a picture of his parents on the cruise liner but it had been lost in the storm, so he replaced it with a picture of him and Zeff and the Baratie, and that was good enough.
Apparently eighty-five days of shared history was enough to make a family.
He hugged Zeff once, when he woke in the night, and he never wanted to let go.
It was after a week or two that Zeff began to notice it, and he kicked himself for not realizing sooner: Sanji tended to wilt if he didn't get a pat on the head at least once a day.
"Three peppers, five potatoes, two bags of salt, two barrels of rum," muttered Sanji, jogging along the dock, and, with a wince and a quick rub of his swatted head, he added "and one onion."
Zeff waited for Sanji outside the shop, and they walked back to the ship together.
The sound of the pans hanging in the galley changed when the ship was under sail, from the harbor-bound cacophony to a lullaby that put the young cook to sleep at the table.
Sanji had fallen asleep in the galley again, and Zeff carried him back to his quarters, pulling off the boy's shoes and tucking him in safe and sound.
Zeff liked Sanji – his dutiful errand-running, his smile, his enthusiasm – but most of all he liked the boy's drive, his chef's soul.
"Tomorrow we're going shopping," declared Zeff, tossing one of his shirts to the pale boy on the bed, who quickly threw off his towel and began to dress without shame.
Zeff turned Sanji's head carefully with his left hand, snipping off his son's overgrown hair with the scissors in his right, and watched the yellow tufts settle gently on the boards below.
"I can see," insisted Sanji, and he shied away when Zeff tried to brush his bangs back.
Zeff tasted the mediocre soup, pushed it aside, and watched Sanji's face fall before the boy hid behind his hair; he wasn't concerned: the boy would learn in time.
"Stand up straighter," roared Zeff, his leg blurring as it came for his slouching protégé, "you'll never cook well if you don't learn to fight."
It took one second for Zeff to kick and three seconds for Sanji to see it coming.
The wooden peg leg slammed into his stomach, launching him across the deck; the pain reminded him that, once again, he had been wrong.
Are you mad? was the question, and Sanji looked so damn miserable that Zeff could only say No; no I'm not.
"I'm sorry I drive you crazy, shitty geezer," mumbled Sanji from his place draped over Zeff's shoulder, and he avoided a good-natured swat with a laugh.
Sanji was a patient child, about everything except his dinner.
"You have to blow on it, baby eggplant," growled the chef, watching his adopted son rapidly fan his burned tongue.
"Eat your vegetables."
Sanji threw up asparagus over the railing and Zeff did not make him eat it again.
Sanji cheered from the galley doors as Zeff turned his wrath on a belligerent customer, because courtesy was something they agreed on.
Whenever Sanji was alone in the galley, a boyish soprano would join in the metal rhythm of cooking.
"There are a thousand kinds of fish in All Blue?" he'd asked, eyes shining, but Zeff just smiled and shook his head, saying no, there were thousands upon thousands, and all good for the pot.
"I believe it exists," Sanji always said, and Zeff would chuckle and say "Good; keep believing."
Zeff received a book of recipes for his birthday, from Sanji, and if they were all of Sanji's favorite dishes… well, he appreciated it anyway.
"Why can't I have both?" asked Sanji, frowning through the window at the store display, his eyes darting uncertainly from the frying pan to the spatula and back again.
Zeff kicked Sanji away from the stove again, warning him that if he didn't get out from underfoot he'd be exiled from the galley for a week.
"You're lucky," said Zeff, his hand wrapped around Sanji's ankle, holding the boy upside-down above the deck, "lucky that I caught you; now stop playing in the rigging, baby eggplant."
"Are you chopping fish or are you murdering someone, pup?" asked Zeff, and he took Sanji's hand and adjusted his hold on the knife.
"Needs salt," he said, and the boy ran off to fetch it for him, almost tripping in his haste.
"Good enough," said Zeff, watching as Sanji dropped a last dash of spices into the mix, "now it's ready to bake."
Zeff held the wheel steady throughout the storm and, though his arms strained at the effort, he wore a fierce grin in the gloom.
Sea King fillet, Sea King supreme, Sea King paupiette, cravatte, delice, Sea King darne, Sea King goujon, Sea King en tresse, and colbert, colére… it was better than counting sheep.
One of many things to know about childrearing: don't leave the chocolate rum on the counter when you have a curious six-year-old aboard.
Sanji arranged the galley shelves differently than Zeff did and it was a constant irritation.
"I am not!" he cried, taking his first real smoke, and Zeff turned away, shaking his head.
"What're you looking at, Casper?" chuckled Zeff, absently reaching over to dust the flour out of Sanji's hair.
He sent Sanji off to run about the deck while he washed the dishes, letting the cares of the day drop away one by one.
Zeff touched each of the tables with care before leaving the dining room to join his son, sleeping in their quarters.
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