Mixed Up (ZoSan)

Enterlude

Swearing under his breath, Sanji swore that this sort of thing was just his luck. Saturdays always were a particularly hard day for him.

He didn't mind being scheduled to work on weekends because the full-time pay was nice, but for whatever reason, he always, always, always had a hard time getting them started; be it via unintentionally oversleeping, or plain old forgetting to set his alarm, it seemed- to Sanji, at least- that Saturdays were out to ruin him.

He had never in his history of working at the Baratie been able to make it into work on a Saturday on time. There was always some delay that set him back, and when this pattern had been noticed by the scheduling staff, they'd tried to accommodate for his lateness by scheduling his shifts at slightly altered times in hopes that it'd allow him to come in on time, but even then, he was inevitably late.

Nobody could figure out why.

So it came as no surprise to him, then, that as per his weekly routine, this Saturday decided to thwart him by giving him car troubles.

Twenty minutes before his shift started, Sanji was sat struggling to start his car.

The engine gagged and rolled over with every attempt to get it to start, and in the afternoon's cold sun, Sanji cursed whatever deity it was that ruled over Saturdays. He considered begging for its forgiveness as he hopped out of the drivers seat and walked around to pop the hood, but decided to curse the lord instead as he stared forlornly down at the dead battery.

Scowling, he let the hood slam shut; no amount of poking and prodding could revive the dead. Sanji growled and turned the collar of his coat up against the chill winter wind as he dropped himself to sit on the hood of his car, wondering about what he ought to do. Twisting his face into an irritable expression, he considered his options.

Option one had him running after the city bus to try and catch a ride, though he didn't know its schedule, nor its fare, and honestly didn't want to be seen running like a fool for the public transport. Option two was to call up a friend and have them come round to give his car a jump, but the only people he knew with a car were either already at work or lived too far away for them to be of any timely use.

He shivered as the wind blew by and scowled. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he watched his breath solidify in the air, encouraging his need for a cigarette.

He dug one of his chilled hands into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew his pack. Tapping the pack to pop one out, he took it and began tamping it on the back of his hand before sticking it in his mouth. After he'd put it between his lips, he put his pack away again and cupped his hands around the cigarette to bring it to light.

Inhaling and shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, he considered that option three was to just call in sick and take the day off. With this realization, Sanji sighed as he drew in another breath of smoke, and exhaled through his nose.

He really didn't want to have to call in sick; he genuinely enjoyed working at the Baratie, and he knew that, being the head-chef, the quality of the food served would slip if he didn't show up. And beyond that, he didn't trust his subordinates as far as he could throw them (which, admittedly, was pretty far) to run the kitchen properly.

If he called in sick today, the Baratie would be in shambles by tomorrow.

Grumbling angrily to himself about all the responsibilities he'd accumulated in his young age, he cast his gaze skywards and narrowed his eyes at where he thought the lord of Saturdays was seated on the grandest cloud, undoubtedly laughing at him.

'O' great, merciful lord of the weekend,' he thought, squinting and baring his teeth. 'Fuck you.'

As he blew a smoke ring in the direction of heaven (and then inserted his middle finger through it), option four presented itself to him.