Chapter Text
Sanji prides himself on his knowledge of his crewmates.
Their likes, dislikes, heritage—all the things that shape someone’s palate are important to consider when feeding them.
For example, Robin-chan has particularly refined taste. Sanji is always on the lookout for rare and high quality teas, just to see her smile as he serves them.
The quest for that precious smile has led him here: to a market on some backwater planet, in the presence of another lovely lady.
Struck by her beautiful visage, he reaches blindly behind him until his fingers meet woven wool. The tower of groceries grunts in surprise, but stays impressively upright as Sanji yanks it along by the haramaki.
The goddess behind the stall barely looks up as they approach, but doesn’t stop him from perusing the various types of dried leaves on display. None of the labels are in Standard, but Sanji isn't so inexperienced that he can’t pick out different types of tea on sight.
“Hello, my dear,” he says and gives her his most winning look as he picks up a bag of plomeek leaves, “I must say, you have the most-”
“Fifty-thousand Berri,” the lovely lady says flatly. Her pale, green-tinged face is completely devoid of any expression, from her dark eyes to her delicately pointed ears.
Fifty thousand?!?! Plomeek is rare, but not that rare. At that price, he’s undeniably getting scammed.
Sanji can’t help it—he swoons. He’s always had a soft spot for Vulcans. Something about a woman that will look down on you from under sword shaped brows is just…utterly irresistible.
Unfortunately, as much as he’s dedicated to fulfilling her every desire, he simply can’t pay her price.
Nami-san, in her infinite wisdom, had given him limited funds for this supply run and the meat he’d bought to satiate their capitan had taken the majority of the money.
“Ah, well, you see, my sweet-” he tries, trying to express through adoring eyes that if she just lowered the price a little-
“Fifty-thousand,” she repeats, unyielding.
Sanji deflates. Not completely, of course, the pretty lady is still looking at him. But he’d been looking forward to what he could do with a Vulcan tea.
Like most Vulcan foods, plomeek is mild and delicately flavored, and can be used to make broths, teas, and infusions.
With a heavy heart, he begins to discard his plans of a round of plomeek-based desserts, perfect for Robin-chan and other, unnamed members of the crew who don’t like sweets.
Alas, he can’t argue with the lady’s flawless logic—or her transfixing looks—so he steels himself against the disappointment.
Before he can muster up the courage to gracefully excuse himself, the pile of groceries shifts precariously, revealing a rather grumpy looking marimo.
Sanji watches a several pound piece of paper-wrapped chuck teeter dangerously before righting itself. “Oi!” he demands, feeling the spark of annoyance that only one swordsman can truly trigger, “What do you think you’re-”
An unexpected sword hilt to the ribs halts his sentence. While he’s doubled over and wheezing, its owner snatches the bag out of his hands and slaps it on the counter.
“Kau-leh-teh.”[1]
The shopkeeper blinks, and gives Zoro an obvious once over.
Then, in the most blatant display of interest Sanji has ever seen from a Vulcan, she swivels her entire body to give the shitty swordsman her full attention.
“Reh-leh leh-teh.”[2]
Sanji’s mouth falls open. Is this…is this fucking negotiating?
The lovely lady won’t even spare him an extra word, but she’ll negotiate with sentient moss?
“Lehkuh leh-teh.”[3]
In a fit of insanity, Sanji forces himself to consider Zoro from a stranger’s perspective.
Tan skin, peeking through gaps in his clothes and littered with scars. Arched brows, tapered at the ends and giving him a permanently scowly, flat expression. Shorn green hair, practical to the extreme. Pointed ears, accented with dangling gold.
“Dah-leh leh-teh.”[4]
Sanji is man enough to admit that, combined with the swords, he cuts a rather dashing figure.
He looks, regrettably, like something off the cover of one of the shitty romance novels Sanji pretends not to buy at port stations.
He looks Vulcan.
“Sep-wafikh.”[5]
At this last word, the marimo’s expression goes faintly smug. He shoves his hand in Sanji’s face, palm up.
Sanji stares dumbly at the hand. Zoro holds it out more insistently.
“Money, cook,” he says, “Gimme the damn Berri.”
Sanji hands him the damn Berri.
—
It takes Sanji two full days to put his finger on what was so off about that interaction with the shopkeeper.
After that, Luffy liberates a small mining planet, and he has to make rations for a hundred stretch to feed three hundred.
On top of everything, he develops a persistent headache around the same time their sentient patch of moss decides that he’s done socializing with their new allies. Sanji knows exactly where he is, can almost feel him skulking around at the edges of his awareness, but he keeps being pulled aside for this-or-that task, for another round of celebratory drinks, so it takes another five days for him to corner the swordsman.
Zoro is, as usual, crouched in the crow’s nest, dubbed thus no matter how many times Franky reminds them it’s an observation deck, bro, doing something incomprehensible with a plate of metal about four times his weight.
Sanji very calmly places a plate of onigiri on the bench— not a peace offering, Sanji is very comfortable asking his crewmates personal questions—and aims a halfhearted kick at the swordsman’s backside.
He has to keep Zoro sharp, after all. No use in a swordsman that can’t deal with sneak attacks.
All he gets for his trouble is a little sway and a silent glare.
Sanji kicks him again for good measure. This time, it gets him a reaction.
“What,” Zoro grumbles, shifting on the balls of his feet, “I’m busy.”
“I made onigiri,” Sanji sniffs, “Figured you could have the misshapen ones.”
As one, they turn and look at the perfectly symmetrical and neatly plated snacks.
Zoro, just like Sanji knew he would, only raises an eyebrow and doesn’t comment.
“Two more sets,” he says finally, and then Sanji is treated to the dubious honor of watching him hop around the room like a startled hlai fighting its first saddle.
After a few Standard minutes, he puts the weight back on the rack and joins Sanji on the bench.
“Whassup,” he mumbles and, with impressive disregard for manners of any kind, promptly shoves an entire onigiri in his mouth.
Sanji graciously lets this slide with only a sharp kick to the shin.
“Since when do you speak Vulcan?” he asks, trying to keep his heart rate under control.
He certainly didn’t need the rest of the crew asking awkward questions about his heritage, but this is Zoro, who probably wouldn’t bother to string two thoughts together that didn’t contain booze or swords if someone held a phaser to his head.
Case in point, the swordsman simply shrugs and mumbles, “Learned as a kid,” around a mouthful of rice.
Sanji frowns. He's pretty sure Shimotsuki is a primarily human colony, but that doesn't mean there aren't hybrids wandering around. “One of your parents was Vulcan?”
Zoro shoots him a withering look that he normally reserves for Luffy’s particularly stupid antics. “I’m Terran. My sensei had a Vulcan wife.”
Sanji gapes at him. Zoro stares back, no hint of humor in his eye.
“Marimo,” he says, slowly and carefully, “You have green blood.”
“So?” Zoro retorts. A hint of confusion has entered his expression, as if Sanji has suddenly changed the subject.
This fucking idiot.
“Vulcans,” he says, more forcefully, “have green blood.”
Blank staring.
How is this Sanji’s life?
“ Humans, ” Sanji continues, this time with real frustration in his voice, “have red blood. ”
The swordsman mulls that over for a moment, and then snorts. “Yeah, right. Luffy’s human, and he has purple blood.”
Zoro barely gets his forearm up in enough time to block the roundhouse kick Sanji aims at his head, onigiri held safely in his opposite hand.