Gift-ficcery.
Present for you, mettathron, you and your need for a Sanji fix. Told you I wouldn't go to bed until I finished it. Unbeta-ed. Tell me if it sucks, or if I missed some typos.
Title: Anniversary
Series: One Piece
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13, if that.
Sanji flipped slowly through his oldest recipe book. He didn’t need to. He knew everything in here like he knew the feel of a good melon or a cleaver in his hand, and on about the same instinctual level. It was just…
Today made ten years. Ten years since he’d been pulled off of that rock. Ten years since Zeff had taken him in and started training him. Ten whole years. An entire decade.
The book under his fingers had been written those first few years. Zeff had made him copy all of his recipes-Sanji’s handwriting had never been so neat as it had after a few solid kicks from Zeff and a shouted reminder that a recipe meant nothing if no one could read it. Square, blocky handwriting those first few dozen pages, the laborious printing of a boy who hasn’t had to do much writing in his short life. Later, his handwriting had gotten more streamlined, more elegant, more graceful, but still precisely legible. Usopp teased him about his calligraphy skills and Zoro said he wrote like a woman, but at least people knew what the hell he wanted when he left them a note.
There was a faded brown smear on the corner of the page with Zeff’s recipe for stuffed salmon. He ran his fingertips over the thin white scar on his thumb that was all that remained of the cut that had left that stain. He’d damn near split his thumb in half being careless with a kitchen knife. Zeff, whose usual attitude towards blood was “Eh, don’t let it drip into the food,” had carefully treated the injury, wrapping it in bandages and putting some sort of salve on it. He’d then kicked Sanji in the head for being dumb enough to mishandle a knife in the first place. Sanji had been banned from dishwashing and dough-kneading duty until his thumb finished healing, and that had been that.
The first recipe he’d come up with entirely on his own was about halfway through this book. Zeff had said it tasted like crap. Patty and Carne had said it was okay. Sanji had nearly torn up the recipe in frustration (to this day, it still bore faint crinkle-marks), but Zeff had told him to keep it in case he ran into someone who liked their tuna mutilated like that. Besides, he’d said, you only get one first recipe. The fact that Sanji’s had sucked was just unfortunate. Shitty old man, but he’d been right. There’s only one first time for everything.
Near the back of the book was the recipe he’d written down and served the night he’d lost his virginity. She’d been nearly twice his age and married. Memory and distance make every woman beautiful, Zeff had told him once, but in this case she hadn’t needed the help. It had been rushed and choked and over much too soon, but he could still smell her expensive perfume mixing with his cigarette smoke and taste his cooking on her lips. To this day, he couldn’t make claufoutis without getting turned on.
On the last page of this book, the first recipe he’d come up with that Zeff had actually smiled at. The expression had flicked across his face so fast that Sanji had almost lost it in his moustache, but it had been there. He’d finally gotten the herb mixture balanced, finally gotten the consistency down, finally done it right. Sanji had grinned, and Zeff had asked him what the hell he was smiling at when he had a shitload more of these to make tonight and a dinner rush coming in three hours.
He thought he’d make those particular dinner rolls tonight. Luffy would inhale them without really tasting them, Zoro would ask why there was green crap in his bread, Usopp was liable to launch at least one at Chopper with a spoon catapult (to the applause of the rest of the table if Chopper succeeded in catching it in his mouth), Robin would butter hers so slowly that Sanji would lose himself in the graceful movements of her hands, and Nami would probably take one with her after dinner so she’d have something to nibble on while she worked on her charts and maps. They wouldn’t know that today was special, which was exactly how he wanted it.
He closed the cover on the flour-dusted, lightly stained pages, ran his fingers across the spine affectionately, and smiled. The air in here smelled like cigarettes and sugar and memories. The air coming in through the open portholes tasted like salt and sunlight and dreams.
Sanji threw the galley door open, and yelled that they’d be eating lunch al fresco today. Luffy shouted that whoever Al Fresca was, he couldn’t have any of his meat. Sanji laughed despite himself.
Title: Anniversary
Series: One Piece
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13, if that.
Sanji flipped slowly through his oldest recipe book. He didn’t need to. He knew everything in here like he knew the feel of a good melon or a cleaver in his hand, and on about the same instinctual level. It was just…
Today made ten years. Ten years since he’d been pulled off of that rock. Ten years since Zeff had taken him in and started training him. Ten whole years. An entire decade.
The book under his fingers had been written those first few years. Zeff had made him copy all of his recipes-Sanji’s handwriting had never been so neat as it had after a few solid kicks from Zeff and a shouted reminder that a recipe meant nothing if no one could read it. Square, blocky handwriting those first few dozen pages, the laborious printing of a boy who hasn’t had to do much writing in his short life. Later, his handwriting had gotten more streamlined, more elegant, more graceful, but still precisely legible. Usopp teased him about his calligraphy skills and Zoro said he wrote like a woman, but at least people knew what the hell he wanted when he left them a note.
There was a faded brown smear on the corner of the page with Zeff’s recipe for stuffed salmon. He ran his fingertips over the thin white scar on his thumb that was all that remained of the cut that had left that stain. He’d damn near split his thumb in half being careless with a kitchen knife. Zeff, whose usual attitude towards blood was “Eh, don’t let it drip into the food,” had carefully treated the injury, wrapping it in bandages and putting some sort of salve on it. He’d then kicked Sanji in the head for being dumb enough to mishandle a knife in the first place. Sanji had been banned from dishwashing and dough-kneading duty until his thumb finished healing, and that had been that.
The first recipe he’d come up with entirely on his own was about halfway through this book. Zeff had said it tasted like crap. Patty and Carne had said it was okay. Sanji had nearly torn up the recipe in frustration (to this day, it still bore faint crinkle-marks), but Zeff had told him to keep it in case he ran into someone who liked their tuna mutilated like that. Besides, he’d said, you only get one first recipe. The fact that Sanji’s had sucked was just unfortunate. Shitty old man, but he’d been right. There’s only one first time for everything.
Near the back of the book was the recipe he’d written down and served the night he’d lost his virginity. She’d been nearly twice his age and married. Memory and distance make every woman beautiful, Zeff had told him once, but in this case she hadn’t needed the help. It had been rushed and choked and over much too soon, but he could still smell her expensive perfume mixing with his cigarette smoke and taste his cooking on her lips. To this day, he couldn’t make claufoutis without getting turned on.
On the last page of this book, the first recipe he’d come up with that Zeff had actually smiled at. The expression had flicked across his face so fast that Sanji had almost lost it in his moustache, but it had been there. He’d finally gotten the herb mixture balanced, finally gotten the consistency down, finally done it right. Sanji had grinned, and Zeff had asked him what the hell he was smiling at when he had a shitload more of these to make tonight and a dinner rush coming in three hours.
He thought he’d make those particular dinner rolls tonight. Luffy would inhale them without really tasting them, Zoro would ask why there was green crap in his bread, Usopp was liable to launch at least one at Chopper with a spoon catapult (to the applause of the rest of the table if Chopper succeeded in catching it in his mouth), Robin would butter hers so slowly that Sanji would lose himself in the graceful movements of her hands, and Nami would probably take one with her after dinner so she’d have something to nibble on while she worked on her charts and maps. They wouldn’t know that today was special, which was exactly how he wanted it.
He closed the cover on the flour-dusted, lightly stained pages, ran his fingers across the spine affectionately, and smiled. The air in here smelled like cigarettes and sugar and memories. The air coming in through the open portholes tasted like salt and sunlight and dreams.
Sanji threw the galley door open, and yelled that they’d be eating lunch al fresco today. Luffy shouted that whoever Al Fresca was, he couldn’t have any of his meat. Sanji laughed despite himself.