Pour L'Amour

For Love

"Head cook! Head cook!"

Sanji looked up from the white wine sauce he was preparing and glared at his employee. "I'm busy. This sauce takes very delicate preparation."

"Someone has collapsed in front of the restaurant!"

Sanji took a long drag and let the cigarette smoke stream out in frustration. "Another half-starved sailor, eh? Have the busboys bring him to the back and I'll fix some soup for the poor bastard."

"No, head cook. He's injured. Badly! And he was calling specifically for you. He's scary! No one wants to get near him, not with those swords."

Sanji jolted slightly. "Swords? Three of them?"

"Aye. Please come, head cook. We don't know what..."

Sanji raced past the apprentice. "Get the sauce off the burner and don't stop stirring it," he called back without slowing down.

Sanji ran out to the front of his floating restaurant, Pour L'amour de All Blue, known affectionately by his loyal patrons as simply Pour L'amour. A tiny boat had crashed into the massive restaurant, drawing a small crowd of worried diners. His crew of pirate-turned-cooks had dragged the sole occupant onto the wooden sundeck. Sanji only needed to see the shock of green hair to know who it was.

"Marimo!" he gasped softly.

Already, blood was pooling on the deck. Eventually, someone was going to recognize the world's greatest swordsman. Sanji instantly put on the grinning facade he had perfected in order to calm a crowd of diners even in the midst of a pirate attack.

"Ah, the poor starved soul," he cried out, jolting the crowd. "Everyone, please return to your seats. It seems we have discovered another hungry sailor, and as is the primary rule of Pour L'amour, I take in all customers, be they rich or poor, East Blue or South Blue, Marine or the Pirate King himself. Please, the smell of blood does nasty things to one's palate. Let your humble host deal with this man. Shoo-shoo now," he laughed. "None shall starve on my watch. A free glass of wine all around for your troubles."

"Ahh, Head Cook Sanji is generous as always. No wonder he is the world's greatest chef," a few said, and women lauded how brave he was to take in even such a wild looking man.

Once the crowd was gone, Sanji fell to his knees beside the wounded man. He wore an opened shirt, revealing an old but still nasty scar across his chest. One eye was marred by a slash. His green hair had grown long, down to his shoulders, and he had a ragged green goatee that was beginning to turn into a full beard with over a week's worth of growth. He had picked up more scars over the seven years since he and Sanji sailed on their epic adventure across Grand Line. In addition to the three sheaths on his belt, he carried around a huge sword, almost taller than himself, the greatest sword in the world, Yoru. He rarely used that sword, but he wore it like a trophy, for that was precisely what it was, handed over to him the day he defeated "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk and claimed the title of strongest swordsman in the world.

"Marimo!" he called out. "Hey, you bastard, wake up already. You're always sleeping."

Slowly, Zoro opened his good eye. "Shitty Cook." He managed a weak smile before coughs rattled out. Sanji could hear blood gurgling in his lungs.

"Don't talk. Don't move. We have a doctor on board."

"Shut up and listen," Zoro hissed between gritted teeth. "They got him. Luffy..." He began to cough again, and blood bubbled out of his lips.

Sanji's eyes widened. "He's been capture? After all this time?"

Zoro gasped for air and gave a nod. "He'll be executed in a week."