Chapter Text
“How insolent,” Vinsmoke Yonji hissed, tapping his fingers against the table to a harried rhythm. Each click of his rings against the marble echoed in the otherwise dead silence of the conference room. “To be this late to a meeting with such esteemed company…”
Adjusting the topaz cufflinks on his wrist, Vinsmoke Niji said, “You’ve heard the rumors. The imbecile’s probably lost.”
Emboldened by the insult, Yonji sat taller. Bitingly, he began, “How we could trust someone who doesn’t know his left from right with something this crucial is beyond–”
“Yonji,” the figure at the head of the table interrupted. Instantly, the harried rhythm comes to an abrupt stop. Quiet overtakes the room once more as Vinsmoke Judge warned, “How many times must I remind you? Walls have ears.”
As though a testament to that statement, it's at this moment that the redwood double doors were thrown open, nearly swinging off their hinges to make way for the shadow entering after them. At once, the entirety of the room seems to shudder, from the swaying of the silk curtains upon the windows to the security detail stationed at each corner of the room.
Late and insolent, the Demon of the East had arrived.
“Pica sends his regards,” Roronoa Zoro said, mouth curled into a smirk that wouldn’t be out of place on the Devil himself. Under a black blazer, his white button up is half undone and painted a darkening red. Any question of what the crimson could be is quickly answered by the regards the man pulled from his pocket.
The handkerchief unfolded when it hit the center of the table. Blossoming from the folds lies a severed finger– still wet and warm with the lingering weight of life.
At the head of the table, Vinsmoke Judge’s released an exasperated breath. “I trust Pica’s still–”
“Functional enough. I haven’t touched his mouth,” Zoro assuaged, taking the seat directly across from the CEO of Germa Enterprises. The current King of the Underworld. And a man who now owed him and Dracule Mihawk a pretty sum of money for that very finger, “Yet, at least.”
“How gracious,” Judge deadpanned. “Rumor has it, you typically go for the teeth first, don’t you?”
Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Found of rumors, aren’t you all?”
For a family so deeply entrenched in bad business, they had very poor poker faces. At the question, the green-haired son’s eyes had widened and the pink-haired daughter had narrowed her gaze. Only Judge and the direct heir, Ichiji, managed to remain passive at the clear bait. Noting this, Zoro threw his line, “Pica’s more stubborn than he looks. I want to pull at least a location from him before touching his mouth.”
As dull as a salmon, Yonji bit instantly.
Youngest of the bunch, the boy was less well-known in the underworld– only in charge of small, petty operations as far as Zoro was aware. Only within seconds of meeting him was it clear why he wasn’t as high-ranking as his three siblings yet. Leaning forward, into the perfect range of Zoro’s switchblade, the dangerously prideful boy snarled, “You come late and without any information. What use to us are you if you can’t even torture–”
“Yonji,” Judge intruded, cuttingly. Nothing more than a single word, and Yonji’s lips were sealed. Though his leash was pretty long, the son had been trained. Not enough that his barking wasn’t an issue though and his father seemed well aware, the smile on his face tight as he immediately rushed to change the subject. “Nevermind Pica, Roronoa. I called you here for something new.”
Raising an eyebrow, Zoro fished a flask out of his pocket. What, or who, could pull him from a case as delicate as Pica? At this point, everyone in the Underworld knew how much Doflamingo’s growing influence bothered Germa. Vinsmoke Judge had been trying to get a hit on them for months, even reaching the point of forming an alliance with Dracule Mihawk. But now that they’d finally landed one on the group, the whole point of Zoro being here– Vinsmoke wanted to switch his focus. And Vinsmoke was a man who wasn't known to leave things unresolved. “A new mark?”
It’s Reiju who pulled out the envelope. There’s a slight hesitation to the girl’s movements as she sets it in the center of the table, over the severed finger. Judge didn’t seem to notice the slight slack in his daughter’s leash, instead the man casually remarked, “No. I don’t want this one dead. Just… supervised.”
Odd request to be given to an assassin.
Taking a long sip out of his flask, Zoro pulled a thin packet from the envelope. Skimming through just the first page, he instantly caught on the oddities of the biometrics– only 63kg at 176cm, twenty-two, male.
“Recently, he’s become a bit of a thorn in this organization’s side,” Vinsmoke continued, directly contradicting the information written out on the page before Zoro. A marine biology major at a local college in California didn’t exactly sound like the makings of a huge threat to the biggest conglomerate in the Underworld. Neither did server at Baratie and bartender at Shakky’s Ripoff Bar sound all too threatening.
Young, broke college student, working two jobs between classes. Not exactly Zoro’s usual demographic of rich, old white men dabbling in business they shouldn’t.
At Zoro’s pointed glance, Vinsmoke only grinned further. “Your job is to keep that little bird alive and caged. I trust the best in the field can handle that much?”
Vinsmoke Judge had spent the past three months knocking on Doflamingo’s door. With the capture of Pica, they were on the verge of a war between every organization in the Underworld. And– “You want me on babysitting duty?”
“Not quite.” Judge angled his jaw towards the package once more. “My son isn’t quite a baby anymore, is he?”
There are three sons at the table, but only one Judge could be referring to.
Zoro’s gaze falls back down to the package instantly, zeroing in on the only picture in the entire thing. A newsclipping from the famous Baratie’s 50th Anniversary.
Under a wall of text about the best dishes in town and other praise over the head chef, there’s a picture of a man with a long, braided beard surrounded by a full kitchen staff. Directly next to them, holding a tray high in the air and laughing attractively at something one of the old men has said, there’s the mark. Unmistakable from his brothers from his regal cheekbones and celestial nose, and yet all the same, somehow so contradictingly delicate in the clear slimness of each wrist and an attractive smile lifting his full lips.
The stray without a leash.
Zoro’s own lips twitch answeringly to that sweet smile, eyes lingering a second far past appropriate. “No. He’s not.”
()
Someone's tailing him.
Before it even rolled to a complete stop, across the street from Shakky’s during one of Sanji’s night shifts, the black sedan already had all of his attention. Time doesn’t erase the feeling of having eyes on your back and shadows on your doorstep. Ten years of silence hadn’t lowered the blonde’s guard in the slightest– he’d been careful to use the back exit of the establishment that night, tagging along with the bouncer, an ex-vet named Franky, as long as he could down the block.
Two days later, it’s parked right outside of his lecture hall as he’s trying to convince Luffy to not waste his pocket change on his fourth Big Mac of the day. Teasing words die in his throat and he ends up all but dragging the black-haired boy back to their dorms in a panicked rush. Miraculously, the idiot sophomore must’ve seen something in the tight grip on his arm and forwent his usual fussing and whining, allowing Sanji to bully him around and lock the door behind them.
The week after, it’s parked next to them in the lot of the 7/11 Usopp’s stopped at to fill up the Merry (his old beat up Toyota) on one of the groups’ outings. Nami gaped when he took the wheel and nearly drove all the way down the street before a panting Usopp managed to catch up.
By now, the interrogation is far overdo. Still, Sanji feels wholly unprepared for it when Nami snapped, “What’s up with you?”
Playing nonchalant, Sanji averted his gaze and pretended like their table wasn't in the perfect position to watch him flinch whenever the door of the Baratie swung open as he returned, “Nothing, my sweet. Can I offer you any desserts? On the house, of course.” After a split second’s pause and Luffy’s far-too-eager look, “For the lady only!”
“You have been a little off,” Usopp ignored Sanji’s impressive facade of indifference like nothing. Like it wasn’t taking every ounce of the blonde’s will to not drop into a nervous breakdown in front of their table then and there. Twirling the straw in his strawberry milkshake, the junior offered an awkward smile. “You okay, man?”
Sanji was being hunted by his past after a decade of bliss. He was being stalked by who the fuck knows because his father was supposed to want nothing to do with him. And he wasn’t entirely sure what was worse, the old man suddenly having a change of heart and coming after him for God knows what, or one of the bastard’s colleagues who weren’t supposed to know he existed.
He’d been so careful. He’d done everything in his power to fulfill his side of the contract. Avoided all social media, moved far away, changed his number. Erased himself, disappeared. As far as anyone in that world was supposed to know, Vinsmoke Sanji was dead. Vanished. Merely a blip in the past. He’d held up his end of the deal.
And now there was a black car tracking his every step and shadows growing all around him and Sanji Black hadn’t had a restful slumber since it all started– nights full of memories of blood and screams and strangled sobs.
“It’s just midterm stress,” Sanji insisted, unable to force his smile any fuller in the face of three looks of varying degrees of disbelief. “It’s nothing.”
“Midterms are a month away…” Usopp argued, weakly.
Pettily, Sanji plucked up the barely touched strawberry milkshake from in front of him. Ignoring the junior’s cry of outrage, he stalked off towards the kitchens without a hint of remorse.
“They’re right,” Chef Zeff offered up his unwanted two cents the second the silver doors swung shut behind him. Shoving a to-go cup in Sanji’s hand, the old man offered him a look that is far too knowing. “You’re making more mistakes than usual, Eggplant.”
Glowering, Sanji grudgingly took the container. He hated when the old man used the serving hatch to snoop. Transferring the milkshake over, he complained, “Don’t eavesdrop, geezer. And I don’t make mistakes.”
Horrible mistake to make in front of an entire kitchen full of wizened, old cooks. Sanji had learned in his first week to never make such a claim in front of them.
Instantly, Patty paused from where he’s flipping buns on the grill to lean back and announce, “During the rush, you spelt ‘tomato’ seven different ways, all wrong,”
“Yesterday, I heard you recommend the Tres Leches to someone who just told you she was lactose intolerant,” Carne blurted, stopping to ruffle blonde hair on his way to the freezer.
Sanji swatted him away, only for Maître D' to take over in messing up his hair on his way back out to the floor. Chidingly, the server said, “You’ve double-sat my section six times today. Last Monday, you quadruple-sat it.”
“You broke a whole stack of plates earlier,” the busser boy, Tajio, snickered.
“Alright!” Sanji exclaimed, shoving the laughing server off of him. “Alright! I get it!” Rounding on the still giggling redhead boy, he jutted out an accusing finger. “And you said you were going to keep quiet about that!”
The little traitor only giggled even harder, clutching his stomach. Ugh, he should’ve known never to trust a kid busser. Sanji had been a kid busser.
“Seriously, son,” Chef Zeff groaned, pinching at the space between his brows. “I don’t know whether it’s some girl distracting you at school or whatever it is– but you’re one more broken plate away from a three-day weekend–”
“Geezer,” Sanji interrupted, heart seizing in his chest. As though the thought of having any more than a single day off a week was the most terrifying thing in the world. Unfortunately, under the weight of his student loans and his will to have enough money for at least cup noodles twice a week, it was.
Zeff knows this. It’s the only reason Sanji hadn’t been sacked in the month since the black van showed up. The Old Chef wasn’t typically very forgiving with his staff and the only reason Sanji was given any grace was because he and the geezer had always gone a bit beyond just employee and boss.
For the past ten years now, Sanji had been a busser, waiter, and line cook at the Baratie. In his last year of high school, when he turned eighteen and the state had kicked him to the curb and told him to figure it out, the geezer had given him room and board. Just as well as Sanji knew Zeff’s undiagnosed OCD and how much his mistakes were probably grating on the old man, the old man knew that days off weren’t an option for the painfully broke blonde.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t bitch about it though. Sentimental relationship or not, Zeff had zero qualms when it came to micromanaging the Baratie staff. “Then you need to focus, Eggplant,” Zeff insisted, picking up the forgotten milkshake and shoving it back into his hands. “We’ve got guests waiting on your slow ass!”
And that didn’t mean Sanji wouldn’t bitch right back either. Stomping to the serving hatch, the blonde gestured widely at the floor, which was predictably slow for a mid-morning shift on a Thursday. “Get your eyes checked, old hag! We’re dead empt–”
Cutting off, the blonde’s gaze stuttered on the table in the furthestmost corner of the restaurant. A shadow sat there– and Sanji hadn’t heard it enter.
A shiver ran down the blonde’s spine when he matched eyes with the man over the top of the menu. The dark gaze was narrowed slightly, inspecting, and under the weight of it, Sanji felt like he was having each of his nerves being picked out by the sharpest of tweezers. Even with his vibrant green hair, he’d still somehow gone entirely unnoticed by the blonde. And judging by the arch of one of his eyebrows, he wasn’t the type to enjoy waiting.
At Zeff’s pointed look, Sanji clicked his tongue. And then he wasted no time, stopping by the table full of his friends to drop off Usopp’s milkshake– much to the relief of the junior (which in hindsight, was pretty ridiculous. The Baratie was weird about wasting food– as if he’d be allowed to toss the drink)– before squaring his shoulders and hurrying over to the table in the corner.
“Welcome to the shitty restaurant, can I take your order?” Sanji greeted, making sure his voice was just loud enough for the cooks in the kitchen to catch. Patty’s laughter echoed out of the doorway and the Old Man is complaining loudly, but Sanji doesn’t get the chance to flash them a special finger before the menu falls from the man’s face.
Even coming from someone as girl-obsessed as Sanji, the man is undeniably handsome with his tanned, clean skin and the clear muscles bulging in the trench of his V-neck– distractingly so. Sanji’s fingers tense around his pen as the man’s deep gaze runs over him, from his non-slip shoes to his ruffled hair, before finally settling to meet his gaze.
Sanji’s eyes surrender instantly, dropping down to his waiter’s pad in retreat. He tapped his foot impatiently and tried not to feel so undone under the devouring look.
“Got any drink recommendations, blondie?” the man’s voice is fitting. Baritone, sultry, expectant. Sanji suspected the man doesn’t often have to ask things twice.
“It’s Sanji,” he corrected, dully. “And it’s eleven in the morning, mosshead.”
“It’s Zoro. Roronoa Zoro,” the man corrected, a gleam in his eyes that Sanji didn’t quite like. He said his name in the same way some microcelebrity may say it– pointedly, hopefully, like Sanji was somehow supposed to recognize it. At the lack of reaction, the man’s smile tightened the slightest bit as he continued, “And it’s never too early to start drinking, Sanji.”
His name off the man’s tongue sounds unfortunately very smooth. Like it belonged there, or it had been there some time long ago. An uncomfortable feeling bubbles up in Sanji’s gut, the same he got before stepping up to present a power point made and edited by Luffy before their entire Sociology lecture last week.
Zoro doesn’t let it fester long. He doesn’t seem like the type to have patience for pauses, which is perfect for Sanji, who had never wanted to end a customer interaction faster than he did this one. “I’ll have a Bourbon. Straight."
Nodding curtly, Sanji pretended to scribble this down on his server pad– instead quickly doodling a shoddy image of a moss in a V-neck. With the image in his hand to contrast against the man’s discomforting gaze, it’s easier to force his usual customer service smile as he started off back towards the kitchen.
He only makes it a step away before a heavy hand catches his waist.
“I’ll also have a steak, rare. As bloody as you can get it, blondie,” the man added, lowly.
Ugh.
Sanji scrunched up his nose, slapping the hand off of him. “Watch the hands, creep,” he sneered. “And I fucking get it. Your dog food’s coming right up.”
For some reason, the man seemed to find this hilarious rather than insulting the way it was intended. Eye twitching, Sanji watched the man throw back his head, flexing the muscles in his strong neck as it vibrated with the sound of an attractive, deep laugh.
That laugh followed him all the way back to the kitchen, past Nami and Usopp’s concerned glances and Luffy’s wide-eyed curious one. All the way straight to Patty, whose own beer-bellied guffaws overtake Zoro’s when he accepts the ticket Sanji gave him.
Least be said, Zeff isn’t very pleased when he watches Sanji serve a guest a raw slab of steak.
But it’s worth it when Zoro’s smile wavers as the bloody dog food is set down in front of him.
Later, after the man has drained his Bourbon and Sanji has received an earful from Zeff, he stopped by the table one final time. Dropping off the check with his most shit-eating grin, the blonde mused, entirely disingenuously, “Come again.”
Setting down a thick wad of cash on the table without once checking the bill itself, Zoro stood. Winking, the green-haired man mused, “I will.”
And then, as Sanji fingered through the wad of cash, blinking rapidly as the amount kept climbing far beyond appropriate for a slab of straight salmonella– the man called, over his shoulder right before the door swung shut behind him, “Be safe getting home tonight, blondie.”
In hindsight, that was a threat.
()
In Sanji’s defense, Shakky’s Rip-off Bar had its fair share of weird regulars.
Located in the dead center of the city and open the latest of all the surrounding establishments, it was destined to draw in an interesting crowd.
Before 1 A.M., all was normal. Sanji would refill beer after beer for a group of frat boys watching whatever game was playing on the TV and entertain a flock of middle aged women celebrating a birthday by flashily flipping a bottle or two. A little after midnight, these crowds would tipsily stumble out the door, laughing into each other’s shoulders and leaving behind a number on their receipts and a complete mess on their high tops.
Just as Sanji would begin to collect the discarded jugs of beer and straw wrappers, Ivankov and the Candies would enter, and the blonde would know without checking that it was 1:56 A.M. Their odd crowd was going to begin showing up.
On Thursdays, the drag show down the street they all performed in ended early and the Candies filed into Shakky’s as their designated cool-down spot. Which would be totally fine, if the owner of Bar Momoiro wasn’t dead-set on making Sanji Black his next “new Candy.”
For the entire time the queens would sit and cackle at the bar, Sanji would make Margaritas and Cosmos nonstop, all while skillfully dodging every one of Iva’s attempts to rope him into a business conversation. (Sanji didn’t care if he was late on rent again, he was not putting on lace panties and a skirt no matter how big a cut the Big Boss was offering).
At some point amid this hellish song and dance, the smoke shop across the street would close. Meaning the owner, Gin, would enter and take his usual place in the leftmost stool at the counter. A place he would plant himself in the entire rest of the night. Or at least until Sanji clocked out.
Since Sanji started at Shakky– four years ago during his first year of college– the man never missed a single shift he’s worked. By this point, he’d clocked in as many hours at the bar as Sanji himself had. Only, rather than bartending and entertaining the clientele, Gin sipped on a French Blonde (which he always ordered with the same stupid smirk on his face) and unnerved all those around him by barely blinking for three hours straight. Now, not only was Sanji sidestepping Iva’s attempts to start a conversation, but he had a heady gaze tracking his every movement all the while.
This was when the club stragglers would start wobbling in. Right when Sanji was reaching his wit’s end with margs and Gin called him over for another way too personal question, someone would come up and let him know one of the stalls had been thrown up in. Or they’d come up and throw up right in front of him.
It wasn’t glamorous work– working at Shakkys’.
While Shakky’s was open until five in the morning most nights, and Sanji was usually scheduled till then, he had a lecture tomorrow morning– well, this morning– that he couldn’t miss. That meant, where he would usually spend the next four hours turning away people who were too drunk to stand on their own feet and ignoring Gin’s heady gaze across the bar– he only had an hour left until 3 A.M. Practically nothing.
In Sanji’s defense, in between the Baratie and Shakky’s, he was on his thirteenth hour of work that day when they walked in.
Overeager to get off and already PO’ed with the weirdos continuously rolling in, his guards were down. His shift was nearly over, and he was already expecting the crowd of annoyances to keep rolling in for the rest of the night.
Even with the odd look Shakky shot his way from where she’s perched with her favorite regular– Rayleigh, Sanji saw nothing unusual with the new group entering the bar. At least, not compared to the group of half-dressed, mascara-running ladies they held the door open before them.
He has to turn down the pretty redhead when she begs for a shot of straight vodka, which turns into an argument of four-drunk-girls-on-one-overworked-bartender. After a solid five minutes, Shakky comes over to take over explaining why he can’t serve the half-conscious woman a shot of straight vodka even if her boyfriend had cheated on her two hours ago. With her mom.
As Shakky gives the girls a bit more of a womanly touch with the argument (shouting and cussing, rather than cajoling and sympathizing as Sanji had), the blonde was finally able to turn towards the group that had entered after them. Three men, who’d taken a spot a couple down from Gin and blessedly waited patiently the entire time he’d been speaking with the group of women.
Spying the group's smart fashion as he approached– Rolex watches and sharp cut suits– Sanji offered up a polite smile. The three men clearly weren’t club stragglers he’d have to baby into getting water or something cheap. All the same, for them to be dressed so nicely at two in the morning and slumming it around these parts meant they weren’t the type he wanted to get involved with beyond taking their order and disappearing back down the way he came.
“Gentlemen,” Sanji greeted, not even flinching when he heard the bar’s owner call one of the women a puta pendejo. Hopefully none of the three men spoke Spanish as well as the Puerto Rican Shakky did. “Sorry for the wait, what are we starting with today?”
“Hello,” the man in the center of the group greeted. Dressed in a black, steam-punk esque suit jacket with his hair dyed a frosty blue, he was the most flashy of the group. Already, he was off-putting. But he quickly promoted himself to fully alarming when he purred, “Sanji.”
It takes him an embarrassingly long second for Sanji to remember he’s wearing his name on his chest. A silver nametag just right under his collarbone, pinned into his white button-up. Even still, his heart pounds at his chest and he draws back the slightest bit from the trio.
God, Zeff was right. He is acting off. Off enough for an intervention his friends had tried to pull him into earlier. Off enough to warrant threats of a day off.
Evening his breath, Sanji tried again. Ignoring the way Shakky has escalated to fully cussing the women out, he agreed, “Yes, that’s me.” And then, more mildly, “What can I get for you?”
Gin and Tonics get added into Sanji’s mix of Cosmics and French Blondes to make. By the time the shift ends, he’s only checked in with the group of three men twice more and they remain cordial every time. Iva propositions him on the way out the door and Gin follows him all the way out before Franky scares him off. All things considered, as far as nights could go at Shakky’s, it was a pretty easy shift. Even better, when he takes a long glance down the street to find no black car waiting for him all eerily.
“You don’t want me to walk you down the street today?” Franky asked, from where he was leaning against the side of the bar, nursing a Coke bottle.
More often than not recently, Sanji would tag along with the ex-vet down the block at the end of their shifts. He thought he was being discreet about it, engaging in casual conversation with the man and pretending it was entirely coincidental that they walked the same way and left at the same time, but clearly he hadn’t been doing a great job of it judging by the concern in the blue haired man’s voice now.
God, he’d been acting so paranoid as of late. Ugh. He hated admitting Zeff was right.
Pausing where he was tugging his head through a light blue hoodie, Sanji peered through the hole to shoot the buff man a humored look. “You’re supposed to be defending the front,” he reminded him, around a laugh. “It’s fine, Franky. Shakky’s dealing with some odd people in there tonight, so watch after her for me, yeah?”
“You take all the weird with you when you leave every night,” Franky pointed out, nodding down the other direction where Gin is still stumbling down the road. Sanji shot him an unimpressed look before continuing to pop his head fully through the hole. It’s as he’s adjusting the sleeves that the bouncer relented, resigned, “Be safe getting home today, Sanji.”
For a split second, Sanji is back in the Baratie across from the steely stare. Inhaling, the blonde is paranoid again. Thoughts revolving around the hundred dollar tip the man had left on a forty dollar tab. Around black cars and looming shadows.
Exhaling, he’s returning Franky’s troubled frown with an easy smile and waving non-comittally.
Sanji was a grown man. He’s not afraid of shadows and the memories of his past don’t run his life. Not anymore, at least.
He’d worked too long and too hard for everything to derail now. Roronoa Zoro was no one, just a weird customer– as weird as the ones that visited Shakky’s every night.
Convincing himself of this, his mind was high in the clouds when he turned the corner at the end of the block. Right out of Franky’s sight and into the sight of a black car– the back door and the trunk wide open.
Sanji’s breath leaves him in a gasp as hands grip him from behind. He doesn't even get the chance to scream before a white cloth covers his lips.
“Hello, Vinsmoke,” a humorous voice breathed into his hair as Sanji struggled against the grip, holding his breath and trying to wrestle himself free.
He only lasts half a minute before his vision gives out and his legs go slack.