Chapter Text
"Baby," Doflamingo chides as his turn at the ticket window approaches. "Keep Dellinger close will you? Six tickets. Yes, one child, five adults." His card beeps against the reader, and their tickets are passed through the gap in the window.
"Thank you, Doffy!"
"Thanks."
The chorus sounds off as Buffalo and Law snatch their tickets and rush inside to the snack counter. Dellinger tries to follow, but Baby's grip on his hand is firm. He pulls against her with all his might with a high-pitched whine. "Come along," Doflamingo ushers Sugar toward the entrance, Dellinger yanking Baby along in jerking motions. The inside is filled with costumed viewers—Law and Buffalo included—as Sora, Warrior of the Sea, and this movie’s villain respectively.
Outings with the younger members of his family are few and far between due to their varied interests. Though movies aren't his desired activity, Doflamingo knows well the dangers of distancing himself from them during their more formative years. Their loyalty and unconditional love is well worth the occasional two and a half hours for a blockbuster.
They find their slot in line at the broad snack counter, a few rows away from where Law and Buffalo are nearly ready to place their orders.
The boys find their seats long before Doflamingo is through the line. By the time he and the remaining three children are seeking out open spaces in the theater, they have camped out in the middle of a crowded row. Three seats remain in the row behind, starting with the aisle and ending next to a group of blonde teens: three boys and a girl. Sugar nabs the seat next to her, and Baby deposits Dellinger beside so she can claim the aisle seat. So much for family bonding, Doflamingo grimaces. The next spot available with a vantage point of all five of his rascals isn’t far.
It is, however, next to a familiar face.
Sanji sits in his seat, slumped down in the chair with his feet thrown over the headrest in front of him. Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji are in the row ahead, closer to the the center of the screen. He watches as Yonji holds a bucket of popcorn just out of Niji’s reach, taunting him with it, only settling it back in his lap after Ichiji cuffs him hard around the back of the head.
Reiju turns in her seat to glance back at Sanji. Probably checking to see if he slipped out to smoke. He rolls his eyes and gives her a halfhearted salute. Reiju’s forehead wrinkles and she turns her attention back to the screen. The lights start to lower and Sanji sinks further in his seat. He pulls a piece of red licorice from the cellophane pack on his armrest and clamps it between his teeth.
This is pretty much what he pictured when he overheard his father asking his sister to take him and his brothers on a family outing.
“Mind if I sit?” Doflamingo bends to murmur quietly.
The familiar voice pitched low in his ear causes Sanji to shoot up in his chair with a start. Two heavy thuds sound as his feet drop to the floor; his spine straightens adopting a much more respectful posture.
He hasn't seen Doflamingo since he went to his penthouse—his house. Sanji's cheeks heat and his pulse races, blood roaring in his ears with the adrenaline, the guilt he feels when he thinks about what happened after that.
"Go ahead," he says, praying his nerves don't show through in his tone. He nods his chin at the empty seat, then moves his box of candy from the armrest between them, placing it in his lap. He watches Doflamingo out of the corner of his eye as he folds himself down into the seat, exhaling quietly as his nerves begin to recede, hope taking their place.
At least now the day won't be a total bust.
Once settled, Doflamingo scans where his flock are located—all in his line of sight. On closer inspection, the teens sat next to Sugar appear to be the rest of the Vinsmoke children. Doflamingo wonders if Sanji sat apart from them of his own volition, out of preference or necessity. Poor thing.
“Big fan of Sora?” he asks instead, mindful of who sits in front of them, and the previews that will be starting soon.
Sanji hears Baby’s voice from down in front of them. He scans the audience in the dim light, picks out a few other familiar faces. That explains it. Doflamingo doesn't exactly seem like the movie-going type. He looks distinctly out of place in a sea of costumed kids and harried chaperones.
He’s him wherever he goes, Sanji supposes. Cool and collected as ever. Sanji swallows around the lump forming in his throat at Doflamingo’s question.
“I grew out of them,” he says quietly, matching Doflamingo’s volume and leaning in slightly in order to be heard. “You?”
“Not really my taste. But for family…” he trails off, gesturing to them. “What’s a few hours in the dark watching a story they enjoy?” Judge’s absence is glaring, but Doflamingo does not comment on it.
That’s nice, Sanji thinks. That seems in line with the Doflamingo he’s starting to become better acquainted with. The phrase ‘family man’ comes to mind, and it’s funny applied to such a figure, but it’s also kind of fitting.
His father bills himself as a family man to potential investors, to the public. Sanji remembers being forced to sit still and smile for hours on end for the filming of a pharmaceutical commercial when he was younger, all the while Niji was seated on a bench behind him, kicking him in the back between takes.
We’re only family if everyone’s watching, he thinks. He jams another licorice into his mouth to hide his frown and holds the pack out to Doflamingo.
He whispers, “Want one?”
A smirk tugs at Doflamingo’s lips. “If you insist,” he says, leaning onto the shared armrest to carefully select his candy of choice. He stays reclined with a slight lean toward Sanji and crosses his leg nearest.
Sanji’s skin tingles where their fingers briefly connect near the top of the box. He chews the inside of his cheek, deliberating. He moves, dropping his elbow on the armrest between them and cupping his chin in his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly over his lip.
The lights dim in the theater and the audience quiets to softer murmurs before the first preview begins to play. As anticipated, the movie is well-produced, following the same formula they always seem to. Evil villain hatches a scheme, and the do-gooder fumbles along in his effort to thwart the plot. Everyone comes back together in the end to defeat the villain with the power of friendship, plenty of special effects, and way too many quips.
Doflamingo would argue that life is much more complex than such a simple black-and-white point of view. During boisterous reactions from the audience, he glances at Sanji.
Sora sounds less like his own character and more like a tired screenwriter in Sanji’s opinion. The bad guy had a point, anyway. Sure, they laid the backstory on a bit thick, but he had every reason to be angry. One close-quarters fight in particular catches his attention and he leans forward, enjoying the dropped score and the brutality of the scene. He feels Doflamingo’s eyes on him and he turns, smiling sheepishly and slumping back into his seat.
The credits begin to roll along with the movie’s theme. The audience remains adamantly seated, and Doflamingo recalls the demands from Law to not vacate the theater until the post-credits scene had concluded. He sighs and checks his phone for any missed calls or messages during the showing.
The soft conversation of other movie goers rises around them.
Sanji keeps his eyes on the screen, feeling overexposed now that the only thing to watch is the name of the key grip drifting slowly upward followed by their team. Not even a funny one. What a waste.
Ichiji never lets them leave before the post credits and Sanji’s gotten really good at spotting the odd names out while he waits. Tony “Tony” Chopper, best boy. He shrugs and adds it to his mental list. Not bad.
Doflamingo remains seated.
“Well,” Sanji starts, keeping his voice low, “I can hardly wait to go home and analyze the deeper themes.”
The dry delivery sends a chuckle from Doflamingo’s chest. “I worry the depth is shallow at best,” he says with an amused grin. “But if you manage to find anything worth noting, let me know. I’m sure it’d be revelatory.”
Doflamingo’s laughter is infectious. Sanji snickers in turn and feels his cheeks heat up, the sound of the man’s pleased chuckle settling into his bones. “I assume Freud would say it was really all about the hidden desire to kill his dad,” Sanji jokes, the giggle dying in his throat when he realizes what he just said and to whom.
With a huff, Doflamingo adds, “And the film would be better for it—“
The credits end, and the screen comes to life with the characters once more. A shadowy figure emerges, an excited whisper makes its rounds through the crowd. For those who know the comics, this guy is a big deal. He reaches for his phone and the screen goes dark. The lights raise.
Sanji throws his arms up over his head and presses his back away from the seat in an exaggerated stretch. Reiju is already standing. Back to reality, he guesses.
Doflamingo's eyes skate over Sanji, then flash forward again as the young ones in front of him stand. The quiet company will have to suffice for the evening. No time to bond and endear Sanji to him even further. He rises to lead the way out for his family, casting a smile down at the lost little bird he must leave behind. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sanji."
Dellinger escapes Baby's hold and is hanging off Doflamingo's wrist, mouth running a mile a minute as he highlights his favorite scenes. Doflamingo smiles and nods along, gesturing for Baby and Sugar to lead the way out while he follows behind, only briefly glancing back at Sanji as he does before he's gone.
Sanji watches Doflamingo leave surrounded by his excitable brood, then steps into the aisle, falling in line behind Niji, following silently after his siblings as they head for the exit.
𓁼
Sanji cracks one eye open, finding only fabric in his field of vision, his cheek pressed hard into his pillowcase.
He must've fallen asleep the moment he opened his AP government textbook. He rolls from his stomach to his back, splaying his limbs out wide across his bed and groaning into the stretch. He wipes a thin line of drool from the corner of his mouth and sits, scrubbing a hand through the back of his hair.
The clock on his nightstand reads 3:13. He's been out for over two hours. So much for using his half-day off school to his advantage.
He planned to make solid progress on his homework for the week in order to free up his weekend, along with potentially taking a dip in the pool without any of his brothers around to bother him.
Sanji has less than an hour left to do everything he wanted to do today. Nothing he set out to do is getting done. Not now.
His stomach growls.
That's one thing he can take care of. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and drops his feet to the floor with a thump, rising and stretching again for good measure.
His neck cracks loudly and he yawns, shuffling forward and into his slippers, pulling his door open and heading for the stairs.
Sanji’s slippers slap noisily on the glossy dark wood as he sets foot on the first floor. He rounds the corner heading into the hallway and glances down to the left. His father's office door is shut. Good. He takes a right, making his way towards the kitchen.
"...show undeniable proof of the increasing success rate, and the side effects are simply a—"
Judge is cut off by his cell vibrating insistently on his desk. Doflamingo can't see the screen from the protective coating, but he knows his business partner well enough that it's likely his lead scientist.
"Need a moment?" he offers preemptively. He'd rather like a break himself. Judge is prone to inflating his own ego in his shareholder reports and it turns a boring afternoon into a battle of self-control. At least without Queen—Judge’s other, louder business partner—present, he doesn't also need ear plugs to make it through the day. Judge nods, beginning to speak, but Doflamingo waves him off and stands. "I'll take a stroll and stretch my legs. We'll continue when I return?"
Judge is already answering the call by the time he makes it to the door, letting it click shut behind him. He glances down both ends of the hallway, tucks a hand in his pocket, and resigns himself to wandering the Vinsmoke estate until Judge's call has concluded.
For all the vastness of their wealth, the home is barren of life.
Doflamingo rounds another corner during his lap of the mansion, finally coming across another human. Ruffled blonde hair with unruly strands defying gravity, a bright pink shirt with a panda logo—Doskoi, Doflamingo remembers the name absently—athletic shorts, and house slippers: Sanji in his natural habitat, without the veneer and glamor of Judge’s parties layered over him.
It’s been some time since he’s seen the little Vinsmoke. He’s not made use of Doflamingo’s contact information since, and their most recent run-in at the theater was a blip compared to the lengthy amount of time they spent when he first came to Doflamingo’s home.
Judge’s call will take some time yet, Doflamingo would guess. The minutiae of sciences are admittedly beyond him, but he does know the time that’s needed to examine the variables.
Perhaps while he waits, he can detangle more of the curious web of details that surrounds this son of Judge.
“Playing hooky?” he asks with a coy grin when Sanji notices him.
Sanji tenses instinctually, relaxing after belatedly processing the question as well as the person asking it of him.
“Mr. Donquixote,” he says, heat rushing to his cheeks. He glances down at his shirt and back up to Doflamingo’s face. “It’s not what it looks like,” he protests, kicking his own ass internally for saying something so inane.
“I mean…” he clears his throat and tries fruitlessly to smooth down the more unruly hairs at the side of his head. “We got out at noon today. And you? Are you missing a fascinating lecture on dangerous drug interactions?”
"Something like that. One of your father's scientists called during our meeting. It seemed urgent, so I'm busying myself until he's through," Doflamingo says, waving his hand in the vague direction of Judge's office. "Call it my lunch break," he tacks on with a wink.
Sanji's stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, so long as he enjoys being embarrassed. Which he doesn't. He grimaces.
"I'm on my way to the kitchen. If you'd like I can find you something to eat?" He tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. An invitation of sorts, though he's certain Doflamingo won't take it. "I don't think our chef is in just yet..."
"If it wouldn't be an imposition." Doflamingo’s lips curl as he says, "I would appreciate the escape."
Sanji grins. “This way.”
He turns and heads down the hall, the sound of Doflamingo’s footsteps keeping pace behind him as he cuts through the formal dining room and into the back entrance to the kitchen. Sure enough, it’s deserted. Too early for Zeff to be in doing prep work for dinner.
“You can sit if you want,” Sanji says absently, gesturing to the row of stools at the kitchen island. He ducks into the fridge and surveys the contents.
Not much, but it’ll do. He piles produce into his left arm one handed, tucking his finds into his chest, a semblance of a recipe surfacing in his head.
He turns and kicks the door shut with a slippered heel, arranging everything meticulously on the counter in front of him.
Eggs, brie, spring onions, mushrooms, a bag of rocket. He slips into the pantry to retrieve a loaf of bread and deposits it beside the rest, then turns and stands on his toes, opening the overhead cabinets nearest the stove, pulling down three stainless steel bowls. Sanji selects a knife from the top drawer of the island and inspects it carefully, laying it to the side of the butcher’s block.
Doflamingo watches with interest at the shift in demeanor as Sanji moves from fridge to counter, pantry to cabinets. At the island, with a knife in hand as he inspects it, he's stationary long enough for Doflamingo to take in his expression. Thoughtful and intentional blues skate across both sides of the blade and the handle, lips pursed in thought. It matures him, how seriously he's focusing on the task at hand.
Sanji has never mentioned it before; he wonders where this confidence comes from. It doesn't strike him as the same kind of half-cocked posturing that he's seen in moments when Sanji puffs out his chest indignantly.
No, this feels more instinctive. Learned still, but natural. He moves to take a seat at the counter.
The scraping of wood on wood reminds Sanji that he’s not alone. He glances up at his company. “Want an omelet?”
Doflamingo huffs. "Sounds delicious."
“Okay,” Sanji says. He washes his hands, smothering a yawn into his shoulder before shutting off the tap and drying his hands on a nearby dish towel.
He bunches up the onions and slices them thin and even, taking care to separate the whites from the greens, then he starts in on the mushrooms, wiping them first with a damp paper towel to rid them of any residual dirt, then removing the stems, slicing them uniformly and tossing them into a waiting bowl.
The eggs he’ll whisk next, but he might as well get a pan started on the heat. Maybe two. He nods to himself, reasonably confident he can tend to both his and Doflamingo’s omelets at the same time.
Sanji turns to flick on the front two burners and selects two medium-sized pans. When he turns back to the counter, Doflamingo’s eyes are on him.
He begins cracking the eggs, one by one over two bowls until there are three in each, then opens the drawer again to find a whisk.
“Anything you don’t want in yours?”
"I'm not picky," Doflamingo sets his chin on his fist. Each eggshell cracks, perfect yolks dropping without a shell fragment in sight. "I trust the chef's taste."
As Sanji's whisking begins in earnest, Doflamingo watches the expert motions of his wrist and indulges his earlier curiosity. "Do you cook often?"
“When I can,” Sanji replies, focused on the task at hand.
He separates the rind from the brie and tears the soft cheese into pieces with his fingers. He adds a little butter to each waiting pan, watching it sizzle and spread before pouring the eggs in.
Doflamingo watches silently as Sanji works, attention trained on his movements, the concentration in his features. His brows furrow every so often right before taking a new action, like he's considering his order of operations. The tip of his tongue peeks through pursed lips as he focuses on the more precarious tasks: chopping, pouring, and now minding the stove top as the eggs begin to cook in the pans.
Comfortable in the space, but not lax. Confident, but not showboating.
Sanji selects a serrated knife from the drawer and slices two pieces of bread, whole grain and fresh baked that morning. He puts them in the toaster, then divides the mushrooms and whites of the onions into the cooking eggs. He waits until they’re almost cooked through to add the cheese, folding each in half gently with his spatula before turning to open the bag of rocket, grabbing a handful and arranging the greens at the side of each plate.
“Something green for each meal or Zeff says we won’t get any taller… though I guess you don’t have to worry about that.” He laughs lightly and turns, twisting both knobs to the off position and sliding each omelet from its respective plan onto a plate. The toast pops up a moment later.
The comment pulls Doflamingo's attention from the cowlick at the back of Sanji's head—missed earlier in his attempts to tidy his bedhead.
"Zeff is your chef, I presume?" Doflamingo notes aloud. Charming that even without the man present, Sanji abides by his rules; the unspoken respect is as apparent in this as it has been in his treatment of the kitchen's appliances and tools.
“Yeah, he’s been with us for ages,” Sanji says, balancing a plate on his left palm and setting the other on his forearm above it. He grabs two forks and two napkins on his way around the island, depositing everything in front of Doflamingo briefly before moving his own portion to the side. He pulls out the barstool next to him and sits.
“Well,” he glances at Doflamingo out of the corner of his eye, his fork held aloft with the perfect bite, “I’m sure it can’t compare to anything that comes out of your own kitchen, but," he risks a small smile, "mangez-vous, s’il vous plait. Enjoy your breakfast for lunch escape.”
He passes the tines behind his teeth and chews, delighted with the balance in his impromptu dish. He keeps his eyes on his plate, afraid to look at Doflamingo as he eats. He likes his cooking, but it could just be that he cooks to his own taste. What if Doflamingo thinks it’s bland? Or boring? Or pedestrian?
He’s not sure he could bear it.
"Buen provecho," Doflamingo responds with a glance, fork in hand as he cuts his first bite.
The dish is simple, but that doesn't detract from the appearance. Golden eggs with a sprig of green; the brie oozes from the fold, just enough to tease that something more is under the surface. The flavor does not disappoint—all the ingredients blend in harmony, perfect for a home-cooked meal. Doflamingo slows himself to savor it, even as he loads his fork again.
"You have a talent, Sanji. This is delicious." The quality cements it in Doflamingo's mind: this skill is beyond cooking when Sanji is hungry and the staff is gone. "You say you don't do this often?" he asks before his next bite, a slightly bigger portion than the one before it.
"Thanks," Sanji replies, a brief, satisfied smile flitting across his face. He finishes chewing and turns in his seat to look at Doflamingo, confident enough in his response to watch him take his next bite.
"I... come in when I can," Sanji says, repeating his earlier answer, preparing to choose his next words carefully. "If it's not too busy in here. Or if I'm not needed elsewhere. It's something I enjoy doing when I can sneak away. Zeff taught me some of the basics, and sometimes he lets me—" he stops. He's getting carried away.
There’s a hesitance about this subject that doesn’t align with Sanji’s clear enjoyment of the craft and comfort in the space. Doflamingo hums as he rolls those words over in his mind.
…when I can sneak away.
Sneak away from whom? His father? Siblings? It’s likely that Judge doesn’t take kindly to his son accompanying the help. And where are the other Vinsmoke children, Doflamingo wonders. Wouldn’t they be running amuck at home from the early release Sanji mentioned? It’d be odd for Judge to meet with him if that were the case, but Sanji’s the only one in the mansion currently aside from Doflamingo and Judge.
Sanji’s split lip comes to mind, suddenly and insistently. Suspicions and assumptions simmer under the surface, but Doflamingo maintains his expression. Sanji had said he could handle it then. Perhaps because he has had no other options except to handle it alone.
It doesn’t have to be that way anymore, but more groundwork needs to be laid before Sanji divulges his secrets.
“He lets you…?” Doflamingo prompts in between bites as Sanji trails off. Best to keep strengthening their bond. Fill in the gaps where his own father is lacking.
"Help out," Sanji finishes lamely. He takes a large bite of his toast, busying himself with chewing so as not to let anything further slip.
The look Doflamingo levels Sanji with is pointed. A raised, expectant brow. “So you enjoy it.” He isn’t asking. “You would seek this out if given free reign with your time.”
He swallows. The overlarge bite sits heavy in his chest. "If I could, yes."
Doflamingo hums and eats quietly for a moment, staring pensively at the kitchen ahead, then back to Sanji at irregular intervals, lost in thought all the while. After some time he sets down his fork.
“When I was a boy, I wanted to be a king,” he starts with a wry smile. “The kind in children’s stories that offered grand favors to noble knights and made sound judgments for the greater good of their people. My father had other plans.”
He pauses to meet Sanji’s curious gaze before continuing. “Some zealot sold him on the idea of ridding his earthly possessions, his title, his birthright for enlightenment. He meant well, I’m sure. But intentions mean little when his actions lost us our home and estranged us from our extended family. He dragged us—my mother, Rosinante, and myself—into this delusion without thought or care for our dreams. We spent months at a time hungry and homeless, chained to the consequences of my father’s actions.”
The bitterness in his voice spills over, and it’s only in the silence of cutting himself short that Doflamingo hears the aggressive drumming of his fingers on the counter top. Irritating, how deep his hatred for his father runs even to this day. He sets his palm flat on the counter to ground himself and breathes deep.
“By the time I reached adulthood, I had mountains to overcome just to accomplish a fraction of what I wanted. But eventually, I did it. Achieved the power and wealth equivalent of kings,” his smile returns, as contagious as ever when he thinks of his success in the face of adversity. “And now, unlike my father, I can ensure the family I’ve built can lead happier lives with me than they did without: they know I always provide them shelter and a meal, even if they stumble as they chase their own ambitions. They are free to decide their futures for themselves.”
Within reason, he adds absently in his mind, pausing for a moment. Letting Sanji absorb his words before he takes the time to meet his eyes with intention, gesturing to their near-emptied plates as he speaks. “If this is what you want to do, you will do it.” His hand rests on Sanji’s shoulder. “No matter how far you feel from that reality now.”
The drumming of Doflamingo’s fingertips echo in Sanji's ears long after he’s finished speaking. The beat sounds like a declaration. He watches the man’s hand, restive now and still beside his plate. Long tan fingers splay out on the pale granite. The other palm sits heavy and warm, reassuring on Sanji’s shoulder.
In the restless motion earlier—so innocuous one could miss it—Sanji thinks he sees. He understands. Doflamingo is no stranger to oppression. He’s been where Sanji is, and he made it out the other side, stronger and better off for it.
And his belief that Sanji could do the same for himself is… liberating.
“I will do it,” he says with a nod of his head.
With the knowledge of Sanji's passion filed away in his mind, Doflamingo squeezes his shoulder. "Of course, you will," he says with a smile, gently chucking under his chin before returning to the remains of his meal, content with the reception of his lesson.
Sanji lowers his eyes, savoring the lingering warmth of Doflamingo's touch, more than a little embarrassed by his bold claim.
To share that part of him just then—it felt like giving something precious away. Painful and poignant. Though he supposes he was ready enough to part with it. He let the man into the kitchen after all.
The sound of someone clearing their throat chases the metallic clink of Doflamingo's fork against his clean plate. Zeff stands in the open doorway, pristine chef's jacket slung over his shoulder, a knife roll tucked under his arm.
"Good afternoon," he says, addressing only Doflamingo.
"Ah," Doflamingo says with a wide smile, standing and offering his hand for the chef to shake, "You must be Zeff. I've heard wonderful things—it's a shame this is our first meeting when I've had the pleasure of enjoying your exemplary dishes for so many years."
"Mr. Donquixote, if I'm not mistaken," Zeff responds. Sanji watches as he shakes Doflamingo's hand, then steps back. He inclines his head. "Your kind words are much appreciated."
Zeff's grasp is firm, unrepresentative of the age he wears on his face.
"You know, I was quite surprised when I heard Judge had poached you from Baratie," Doflamingo comments idly. "Had I known you were open to offers of employment, I would have sent one my—" a ringtone echoes off the hard surfaces of the kitchen "—ah, excuse me." Doflamingo reaches for it, seeing Judge's name on the screen.
He gives the phone a jaunty wave in the air, excusing himself, "Seems my lunch break is over. Zeff, lovely to finally meet you. Sanji, my compliments. The omelet was delicious."
The phone is at his ear as he departs, casting only one final look toward Sanji before confirming to Judge that he's en route back to his office.
“Eggplant,” Zeff grumbles in the silence that follows. He pushes past Sanji, depositing his jacket and knives on the counter before grabbing both plates, turning to survey the kitchen door through which the other man took his leave moments before.
“He said I had talent.” Sanji smiles slightly, trailing Zeff to the sink.
The chef turns on the tap and thrusts Sanji’s plate underneath, grabbing the sponge from the caddy at his elbow and running it over the surface quickly and thoroughly, scrubbing away the lingering bits of brie.
Sanji locates a clean towel and waits quietly, the unease in the recently peaceful kitchen growing by the minute.
Aside from his knives, Zeff doesn’t do the washing up.
Not that he can’t, clearly. But the chef allocates his time towards more important things, letting his team handle the rest of the minutiae surrounding his work.
“That's an easy thing to say,” Zeff responds gruffly, after a beat. He passes the dish to Sanji and starts in on Doflamingo’s plate. “Less so to be well-intentioned about it.”
Sanji bristles, running the towel over the surface of the plate before setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. “I suppose my food couldn’t possibly impress anyone,” he says bitterly.
Zeff looks up then, taking Sanji’s glare head on. “Is that what I said?”
Dutifully, Sanji shakes his head. Zeff hands over Doflamingo’s plate.
Slower this time, with more reverence than necessary, Sanji runs his towel over the porcelain, making sure every bit of it is dry before turning the thing over in his hands and attending to the underside. He stacks it gently on top of his own.
“Kid…” Zeff starts and stalls, looks like he has plenty more left to say. “I don’t know the man, but—”
“Then do you think it’s wise to talk about any of my father’s associates when you have no knowledge of them personally,” Sanji asks coolly.
“Don’t you worry about what I shouldn’t say,” Zeff fires back. He tugs the towel out of Sanji’s hands and wraps both forks in it, running his fingers quickly over the material. The silverware clinks quietly together in his grip. “I’m talking about adults in general, alright? Shit, most kids, kid. Not everyone is as kind as you are.”
“I’m not—”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sanji Vinsmoke,” Zeff says. He thrusts the towel into Sanji’s chest and turns on his heel, disappearing into the pantry. His voice filters through the cracked door. “Busy evening ahead. If you’re intent on not taking direction, clear out, wouldja?”