crab boiled in pepsi max

You're sitting in your usual spot: two seats to the left of where Luffy usually sits. Usually it's Zoro or Robin bumping elbows with you, but everyone's left by now. It's just you and the chef, who's somehow whistling a soft tune with a cigarette in his mouth. It's not even lit; he probably just likes having something in his mouth while he works. 

"Want me to help?"

Sanji immediately cuts you off before you can even finish the word "help." He shoots you a sweet smile, "No need, beautiful!"

You eye the stack of dirty dishes, "You sure?"

Sanji turns back to the sink and pours more soap onto the dish scrub. Suds cover the sky blue gloves as he works. You stand up anyway.

You scoot Sanji over with a bump of your hip, and he makes the cutest startled sound as he's forced to step aside. "You already cooked all the food, it's not fair you have to do the dishes, too."

Usually someone from the crew stays to help clean up, but this time Sanji insisted he do it himself. You'd stayed behind to drink some after-dinner espresso.

Sanji sighs, and reaches into the cupboard below the sink to pull out a pair of yellow gloves. "Here," he hands them to you. You wave him away.

"Don't need 'em."

Sanji frowns. 

"Yes you do."

You snort, "I've washed dishes before, I'll be fine." But Sanji makes a noise of disapproval–also cute–and holds open a glove for you to slip your hand into. You stare.

"I said I'm fi–"

"Mellorine," he interrupts you again, "You should wear protection."

You laugh out loud, "Oh yeah? That's pretty good life advice in general," and let him pull the glove onto your hand. Immediately blood rushes to your face, overtaking you with embarrassed heat. You'd meant it as a joke, but the physical action of him slipping rubber around you is incredibly intimate. You hold out your other hand.

Sanji fits it around you, tugging at it into place. It's a little big for your hands; there's a bit of room at the ends of the fingers. But they're sturdy enough to do the job.

You silently take your place next to him, and start helping with dishes.

****

After you both finish the chore, Sanji sighs. He tilts his head back, and then side to side. You tug off the gloves and leave them on the side of the sink to dry. Sanji follows suit.

His hands are

wow.

Graceful and elegant, with dexterous fingers like a piano player's. But they're fucking wrecked.

He's got a bandage around his left middle finger, red burn marks on his knuckles, and his cuticles are all dry and cracked. The one on his right ring finger is bleeding. There's dark spots on his index and middle fingers from holding his cigarettes. His thumb tip is burned, too.

"Sanji, what the hell?" You reach for his hands, gently cradling them as you turn them back and forth. Sanji lets you.

"Cook's hands," he shrugs, "That's why I wear gloves to wash dishes. I didn't use to, so my hands were always cracked and bleeding. Dish soap is harsh," he explains. A small drip of scarlet leaks from his nose. Usually, you'd retract your hands and leave Sanji to his over-the-top flirtation. But at this moment, he feels vulnerable. His hands are intimate. Your hands are intimate.

There's a couple breaths where neither of you say anything.

His skin is soft besides the cuts and callouses. His fingers are long and deft. He's got a silver skull-and-crossbones ring on the thumb with the burn. You trace the reddened skin with the tip of your own thumb. You barely brush it, but Sanji inhales sharply. You jump back.

"Sorry!" You rush to get the first aid kit in the top left cupboard. "You should really have a bandage on that," you frown over your shoulder. You're embarrassed so you're taking it out on him. Truth is, that tiny brush of thumb tips sent something through you that you would really like to not have to analyze. Sanji is sweet, he's nice, he's charming. He's strong in battle and hopelessly misguided about chivalry. He's hotheaded and can turn on a dime. 

He's…

reliable.

Sacrifices his hands to cook, because that's what he loves to do. Feeds the hungry, even his enemies. Will always jump in the way of danger to save someone he loves (or is a lady). He leapt in front of Vivi after she got shot on Drum Island, no second thoughts, only action. He'd leap in front of a bullet for any one of his friends. 

And his hands are strong.

Soft in places and rough in others.

Scarred, nicked, burned.

You'd really like to touch them again.

"My apologies, mon cherie," Sanji mumbles as you unwrap the bandage. It's a little one that comes in a paper sleeve. His nosebleed has stopped, but his cheeks are rosy.

You dab a bit of antibiotic ointment on the small burn, then lightly wrap the bandage around his thumb. Again, it's simple and normal and intimate and sparks and

"All better!" You hear yourself say, feel yourself smile. Sanji stares at his now-bandaged thumb, then up at you. His one visible blue eye is softer than usual.

"Thank you."

He doesn't add a pet name, doesn't swoon over any honorifics. Just plain Sanji. Just plain you.

"You're welcome."

He gives you his own smile, then turns to pick up a dish towel. He runs it over the lip of the sink, the faucet, the handle. Drying all the splashes.

"If you want, I have some lotion," you pipe up, nerves flaring as he turns over his shoulder, "Unscented. I can give hand massages, too," you don't know why you said that, but it is technically true. You used to give them to your friends in school.

Sanji sniffs once, hard.

You don't see any red, but that's probably because the blood is being held back by sheer willpower. 

"I would love that, y/n."