Mixed Up (ZoSan)

Fight to Live

When the dinner rush that Sanji had struggled miserably through was finally over, he found that he was far from relieved. The stress that'd built up while he was working hadn't found an outlet, and had condensed itself into one of the worst headaches he'd ever endured. He found himself wishing he'd saved his last cigarette, for he certainly felt he needed it now more than ever.

To make matters worse, the other chefs he'd been working with wouldn't shut up about his poor performance, and no matter how many times he argued that it wasn't his fault, honest, it's Saturday- no one would hear him out. They laughed at him behind his back, and a few of the bolder ones laughed about him to his face. The sultry, older chefs mumbled to one another about how he was making pathetic excuses for himself, and wondered why Zeff hadn't fired him yet, when, as luck should have it, Zeff appeared in the kitchen.

All movement ceased as the cleanup process was paused to focus on what he had to say, for it wasn't often that he came around when the kitchen was closed. Retired now, he didn't have a whole lot to do but yell and fight with his staff, and everyone wanted to know who he was about to lay into.

Zeff eyed all his employees evenly before his eyes rested on Sanji, who groaned inwardly when the rest of his coworkers began to sneer and jeer.

"You," he said gruffly. "Follow me."

Sanji felt his coworkers had jinxed him as he put the plates he'd been washing aside. Shit, he really wasn't in the mood to get chewed out. He ignored the low 'oooooh's of trouble and snickering that followed after him as he left with Zeff, but elbowed a few of the more obnoxious chefs roughly when he passed.

He told himself he wasn't nervous, but as he walked through the now empty restaurant to the back rooms where Zeff's office was, he found his fingers twitching anxiously, trying to reach for a cigarette he didn't have.

"What's this about, old man?" he asked as they walked, but Zeff didn't answer, and Sanji tried his best to ignore the weird palpitations in his chest.

Zeff's office was dark when they entered, but neither of them turned on the light. There was a low, dark glow that came in through the back window, and with what little light it provided, illuminated the aging features of the restaurant's owner. He'd turned to give Sanji a knowing, even stare, and Sanji could feel the disappointment emanating from it when Zeff turned away and went to take a seat behind his desk.

He didn't ask Sanji to sit.

"What happened today?" he asked sternly, and his voice left no room to cut around the question. His eyes, heavy and tired with age, bore into Sanji, who felt that his voice sounded deeper and more foreboding in the dark.

He felt dread begin to curdle in his stomach as he met Zeff's judgmental gaze and knew that nothing he said would be enough to excuse his poor performance. He cleared his throat and attempted to present himself with more confidence than he felt, but knew, ultimately, that it would be futile.

"It's Saturday," he offered, and even he could hear how lame he sounded. Christ, what he wouldn't give to have a cigarette right now. "Saturdays are my bad days. You know that; everyone knows that."

Zeff said nothing for a while, but ended up looking away and sighing.

"I don't care what goddamned day it is, your cooking was twice as shitty as it usually is-"

"My cooking isn't shitty," Sanji countered angrily, bristling slightly.

"...and if it keeps up, I can't keep having you around," he finished bluntly, and the look on his face was very serious.

'Shit,' he thought to himself, and not even his momentary rage could wash out the cold dread that seemed to begin to consume him.

"It's not-" he began, but faltered when Zeff looked at him again, and Sanji could see that he wasn't meeting the level of expectations he held as his son, or head chef. The lines on his face appeared deep and cavernous in the dark, and almost seemed to threaten to swallow Sanji whole. "It's just been an off day. I'll be better tomorrow," he finished saying, ignoring the way his fingers tapped against his leg and curled them into his palm.