( a concerning thing for a chef: the sound of someone, early in the morning, rooting around in his kitchen, with the distinct impression of not wanting to be heard. far be it from bee to show up uninvited, but today is a special enough occasion that she thinks the oversight in manners could be overlooked in favor of this. this, of course, being a slanted, three-tier cake that seemingly popped up out of nowhere. it's unbecoming in a way that only childlike earnestness can hope to achieve — the color of the cake just a little too brown, peaking through the shellacked yellow frosting that's just a little too melty, making the whole creation structurally questionable. bee is not saved from the mania either, a thick streak of frosting in her hair almost like she used it to gel her hair back — body otherwise a tapestry of little sugary smudges, from her face to her arms, which support a piping bag currently decorating the cake with little blue swirls in several different shades.
it's not especially traditional for writing to be on any cake in the six duchies, if only because mostly older generation bakers don't know how to read or write. so, she didn't think about addressing it — but there is a smudgy painting made on the cake's face with frosting, a bunny curled up on its back, a red heart painted on its chest. along the sides of the cake, and what she's currently piping, are little decorative bees at random places.
yes, the kitchen is a mess. and yes, she does expect to get cuffed for it. but bee has a friend, and that friend has a birthday, so this is the most important thing that has ever and will ever happen to her. )
[ the first time anyone celebrated sanji's birthday had been disastrous. patty had sussed it out of him when he was turning twelve, and sanji had thought nothing of it, having spent far too many birthdays without a birthday to expect one now — but then he'd walked into the kitchen for breakfast prep, and everyone at the baratie jumped out and started singing behind an enormous, flaming cake, and sanji had felt his soul leave his body. he'd been so spooked that he'd instantly burst into uncontrollable sobs, much to zeff's horror, and then when reality scratched the surface and he realized it was his birthday they were all celebrating, he'd been even more inconsolable.
it hadn't been the last birthday of his they'd celebrated together, just the worst one. but after that, zeff learned quickly of sanji's intolerance to surprises, and it had been (relatively) smooth sailing from then on. to this day, sanji doesn't put much importance on his birthday anyway, telling no one, not even nami and zoro, and he's glad for it because he wakes up like every other day as of late — with bile in his throat and an urgent need to piss.
the sun is barely up as he hangs over the toilet, hacking up the little he'd been able to stomach the night before. whatever's happening to his body, he's not a fucking fan. straightening, he plucks his crisp shirt from where it's hanging on the back of the door, pulling it on and cuffing the sleeves, then dragging his trousers up and notching the belt. he looks almost normal, if not for the velveteen ears drooping into his hair. thanks to his renewed connection with nami, his antlers are hidden away because he's tired of hearing zoro complain about the constant threat of losing an eye in his sleep.
speaking of eyes. he brushes his hair down over the gray one, and then hears a noise from the kitchen. his gaze narrows, and then he's striding out, ready to pin an intruder to the wall with his foot, but the sight that greets him is far more horrifying. he's twelve again, facing a room of rambunctious cooks and a flaming cake — except the cake is almost certainly going to sink in the next five minutes, if it's lucky.
normally, he'd start with what she did right (a lot, actually — it's still functionally cake), and then go into why it's about to topple. but his eyes prickle hotly, and something sticky clogs his throat, and his mood tilts far, far to the left.
he slams a hand down on the counter, rattling sugary bowls and sticky spoons. the cake, to its credit, stands tall. ]
( admittedly, while she knew eventually she would be caught and while that is the point of a surprise, bee hadn't considered sanji would be more than passably angry at her wrecking of his kitchen. she isn't going to make him clean it — maybe that's why his eyes are all wet? when people feel intense emotions that they don't bother to hide, it's like they all reach out to bee and slap her, demanding acknowledgement. it had dulled before, when she first came to this village — now it's like the power of the skill is making up for lost time, multiplied tenfold by the intense expression of sanji's emotive eyes. overtime, she's gotten better at looking him in his face when he speaks, but now she steps off the chair she was using to bring herself to a height with the counter, moving to put her back to a wall, and staring at sanji's knees with a dozen eyes. expectantly awaiting her beating. )
It is your birthday. One's second of the third.
( which she heard in a dream, sort of. just not her own, and not the kind that needs to be written down.
apparently lady nettle, bee's some three decades older sister and skillmistress at buckkeep, is quite a skilled dreamwalker. it isn't a talent bee thought she had, and not one she could easily replicate, but something about sanji's dream had dragged her into it, maybe thanks to all of his blood she had drunken lately, like his dream wanted her to acknowledge it. so, she did. it didn't seem like a bad dream exactly, but tense, which she figured was because he didn't know how to tell anyone it was his birthday. now it seems like an invasion she can't exactly admit to, without him getting even more angry, so she keeps her gaze downcast and her mouth sealed, fingers belatedly untying the apron around her waist. )
Are you going to kick me? ( it seems unthinkable to her that sanji would, but maybe if she made him angry enough. along with the skill comes the ghost of a wolf who lives inside her, who reminds her do not seek out trouble, little cub and if he lunges, use your teeth which bee already knows she won't. it had been satisfying to rip out a chunk of dwalia — it wouldn't feel good to do to sanji. embarrassing herself, she reverts back to the child she once was, and makes a whining humming sound in the back of her throat, like sanji's displeasure has wounded her. ) I will clean up your kitchen. I apologize for the mess.
[ the realization hits him suddenly, that bee is sanji cowering against the wall, and sanji is his father. not zeff (not that zeff would be altogether better, because he'd still kick sanji in the head), but judge vinsmoke, berating him for having the audacity to dirty his hands with servants' work in the kitchen, for wanting to serve food to someone at all. princes don't serve others. neither should a princess, which is what bee really is.
he is, truly, destined to be the worst parent to whatever is kicking around inside of him, because of what he has to go on. a man who faked his death and locked him in a dungeon. and zeff, who he'd die for, but still wouldn't subject bee to. the urge to cry intensifies, but he can't, because he's a man and bee's a kid, and that's not the way things are supposed to go. he also shouldn't have something kicking against his bladder at all hours of the day, but shit happens. ]
You'd die if I kicked you. [ bee's so small, and he can break bones with his legs. the thought repulses him, and his throat grows even tighter that she would ask. ] I don't fight women. Keep your apron on.
[ he remembers an earlier argument, that bee's not yet a woman, just a shitty little kid. he doesn't know what bee is actually going to grow up into anymore, with all her eyes and her wings. but whatever it is, she'll remain firmly in the category of people he won't fight.
his eyes drop to the colorfully decorated cake. it's sunken in the middle, and lopsided. most likely, she opened the oven too many times during baking, a mistake only made out of childish excitement. ]
I didn't tell you when my birthday was. [ his mouth tightens in that annoyingly pathetic way it does when he's about to cry, and he starts gathering bowls and spoons to take to the sink, stacking them in neatly dirtied piles with his back to bee. ] Celebrations are for shitty little kids. When's yours?
( she hums, discontent — the sound of a wounded bird putting pressure on a leg, and not knowing where the pain comes from, only that it's there and vibrant and real, unsure why sanji is so displeased with her. well. not so displeased — he said he wouldn't hit her, which is more than she's ever gotten from the servants, so she'll take the win where she can, retying the apron around her, extra string from the belt knotted around her front. she warbles, wondering. sanji has his back to her, like he can't look at her — a little like how bee can't look at him sometimes, when his feelings are too loud. she hesitates. then steps up next to him, taking the cake and the plate she put it on and moving it from his reach, to the dining table. she knows sanji isn't one to waste food, but she'd never forgive him if he took his anger out on her cake.
then again, it is as ugly thing, so maybe it would be better served in the garbage. frowning, bee stares at it critically, trying to find the misstep. maybe it was presumptuous to put bees next to bunnies. it wouldn't be surprising to hear sanji only tolerates her, although that wouldn't stop it from hurting. then again, bee is nothing but one big ball of hurt, convinced no one who has ever been has ever loved her, so maybe it is nothing but poetic justice, for a child as intolerable as her. she doesn't know. )
I was born in the midwinter, the 20th of December. ( near enough to the longest night of the year. she stares at sanji's back hopefully, digging her teeth into her lips before continuing on. ) My mother was pregnant for two and a half years. I remember being in her stomach.
( she's learned, this isn't entirely usual for children to remember — most can't remember their first days alive, but bee remembers it all, every gasp to the ghastly sight of her, every promise she wouldn't live another hour, even an assassination attempt on her part, asleep in her baby's bassinet. )
I had a dream which told me your birthday. I saw a small mouse with a crown of flowers, daffodils and primroses, who was born from a cat who eats little mice when they aren't fast enough. And the mouse said, "I won't get any older, so I won't change, so I will always be quick, and one step ahead." I saw the mouse with a huge feast of fruits, having outsmarted the cat, to say it's birthday would be everyday but the one day it was, which was March the 2nd. But the mouse did not look happy, to be perched among oranges and limes and be without any other mice to share it with. ( she pauses, taking a deep breath. ) Did I misinterpret? Dreams are so sly, so sneaky, sometimes. They can mean so many things. I thought it meant you wanted to be celebrated, to share food with ... um, well, to share with people, I suppose. I thought you would like it.
[ two and a half years. sanji has learned not to be surprised by anything that comes out of bee's mouth, but that's alarming in a way that it wouldn't have been a few weeks ago, because it wouldn't have been relevant to him. it's very relevant now, all things considered. he's chosen not to keep track of everything that's happening, mostly because everything is shitty, and he's discovered that zoro watches him like a goddamn hawk anyway, so if anything else happens to him, the idiot swordsman is sure to let him know.
all sanji wants to do is cook, and even that is getting cumbersome. he needs bee's help more than ever now, because he tires easily, and his back feels eighty years older. something shifts inside of him, and he ignores that, too.
a little mouse. oranges and limes. sanji is not an idiot. he throws a mixing bowl into the sink and wipes his eyes, thinking of the little mouse his father threw from his window when he'd found sanji had cooked a meal for it and made it his friend. ]
Yeah, you misinterpreted.
[ it's complicated to put into words. he doesn't want zoro or nami or bee fussing over him now, when he prefers to be the one presenting them with their favorite dishes. what he wants is impossible. what he wants is to go back in time, when he was five and six and seven, and give himself a birthday that wasn't full of tears and terror and pain. he wants to be the man he is now for the shitty little kid he used to be. impossible.
he leans against the counter, gripping a dishcloth. the cake has moved and so has bee, hovering near the dining table like sanji's the big bad wolf. like he's the mouse-eating cat. ]
You're the mouse. [ sanji swallows back the tightness in his throat, plucking two silver forks from the drawer and moving to the table. maybe it doesn't have to be impossible after all. he made the mistake once of giving up on the all blue. he doesn't intend to do it again. ] If you cut that cake, it'll fall apart.
[ he pulls the bench out and gestures for bee to sit, holding out a fork for her. then he pulls out his lighter and one of his clove-scented cigarettes, because he doesn't have birthday candles, sticking it into the corner of his mouth and scraping out a flame. ]
You're not going to like it. [ he blows out a stream of smoke, then offers her the cigarette. ] Take a little breath. It'll burn your throat otherwise.
( she says, defensively. not that she knows anything about it. still, it's hard to doubt when looking at the thing — an unsightly pile of too much frosting and not enough patience, caving in, slanting sideways. she hates it, and wishes it was better. she hates herself too, for much the same reasons.
hesitating, bee eventually settles on the bench, moving with an effort to seem unbothered, to tug the cake in a tactical position away from sanji like he might forget about it if it isn't immediately next to him. most bets are off when he offers his cigarette though, bee's many eyes wide and imploring as if she's been given some kind of treasure. she accepts it, initially holding the stem of it with the pointer fingers and thumbs of both her hands, before holding it how she's seen sanji do it, between two fingers. bee might've scented the smoke off the stable hand workers in withywoods before, but her core memories of cigarettes are all from sanji — this, then, is some kind of generous sharing, bee thinks. like opening a door and letting her in.
she tries to follow instructions, but very predictably fails at it, almost immediately erupting in a coughing fit. the hand with the cigarette juts out towards sanji to take back, while she coughs into the elbow of her opposite arm, tongue licking at the cloth of her shirtsleeve to get rid of the taste. )
Bleh! You do that for fun?
( she actually has no idea why he does it, or what would ever lead anyone to do something so awful. it's actually — kind of funny, how absolutely terrible it is, and eventually her coughs turn into the turkey gobble that is synonyms with bee's happy laughter. )
Do I look like you?
( a silly question, which bee only realizes after the fact, because bee doesn't look like anyone. not her father or her mother, not other little girls, not even other humans, anymore. still, the question comes out with a desperate twinge of hopefulness she doesn't intend to be there — like being comparable to sanji might be the the single greatest thing anyone could give her. even if she is a little mad he didn't like her cake. )
[ it cracks through some of his casing, taking back the cigarette to watch her hack and complain, which is exactly what he'd done at his first drag, with zeff staring on disapprovingly. he'd been so desperate to prove a point — that he was a man, not some stupid child — that he'd been determined to like it, determined to not give a single shit about zeff's warnings of dulling his sense of taste. addiction had gotten him quickly, easier than breathing. ]
It's how I relax. [ which means he should never, ever be stressed. ] You shouldn't pick up the habit.
[ carefully, he sinks his fork into a rounded corner of the cake, slicing off a neat mouthful. the taste of spun sugar and frosting settles on his tongue, melting away. it doesn't matter to him if the cake topples. he'll eat every last crumb no matter what. he remembers the first time he ever attempted a cake, and it was far worse than this one. ]
We have the same eyes. [ he takes another bite, his empty stomach suddenly ravenous. ] Even if we didn't, who else is gonna look like me? You're the only one.
[ the uncertainty of what lies in his future — specifically, what lies inside of him — notwithstanding. he hasn't had that discussion with bee, or anyone, because thinking about it makes the space behind his eyeballs throb. he's eaten a third of the cake before he even realizes it, turning the plate toward bee. ]
You have any dreams about — [ a faltering pause, when he can't decide how to ask. ] The future?
( hesitating a moment, eventually the corners of bee's mouth curve up in a smile, the muscles in her cheeks unused to moving in such a way, but his acceptance of her is a gift and her smile is the gift she offers in return. privately, she thinks sanji more represents the queen mother kettricken, tall and fair-haired and blue-eyed, but the only memory bee has of her is her pitying look to bee's too large bassinet, not insisting on officially adding her to the royal bloodline and accepting her role as princess, because. well, no one thought bee would live more than a few days, and after her years of life, had never bothered to check back in. she prefers sanji to be her kin, wholly — even if bee knows who she actually resembles, and doesn't much care for the comparison.
in any case, she watches him owlishly while he eats, waiting to see disapproval or disgust on his face, and instead finding herself shyly happy that he seems to like his cake. it's orange flavored, sprinkled with lime zest, a recipe she uncomfortably asked someone in market for, her eyes on their feet, trying not to enunciate her words too oddly. well worth the social effort now to see sanji eat it. her own fork dips into the softer insides sanji unveiled, happily eating the sweet cake — more of a luxury at home than it seems to be here.
at his question, bee perks, staring at him and then pointedly away, as if lying. her several eyes swivel back to him, throat bobbing on a swallow. ) Yes. I only dream of the future.
( the wolf in her is displeased by her offering of information. bee frowns, eyes drooping to the cake, fork scooping up a frosting bee and buzzing it around in a lazy spiral. she's really not used to adults taking her dreams seriously. she's never had to explain them before, because no one, except for villains, have ever wanted to know. )
They are not to be trusted, in how you hope they would be. Mostly, the dreams are there to look back on when something happens, to say, "yes, maybe I did see that coming." Or maybe it hadn't happened yet, and you will say it again when the next thing happens. It is very imprecise. ( blinking back to him, she eats the bee with a babyish suck. ) But I do dream of you often. Or, what I imagine to be you. Sometimes in the shape of a mouse or a fox. Once, you were like a blue ribbon, with one frayed edge, and one whole side — once, too, I saw you like a knife with gilded handle so fine, it looked to be from something of a different age entirely. Once, I saw you like a seed, with a curling sprout from your shell with three dangling drops of dew, and only one fell. ( rambling, she frowns, setting her fork down and gesturing with her hands, like grabbing the words out from the space in front of her, wrestling with herself, before sighing and looking at sanji rather pitifully, hands pressing flat on the table ) I know what it is you want to know, but I do not have much to tell you. If I do not speak my dreams, I get very sick, so I started to write them down in the dirt because I had no paper fine enough to house them, and no one could read them. Like this. ( she writes invisible words on the table with the tip of one food dye colored finger, there and then gone. ) I do not want my dreams to be used to change the world. I could speak them to you, but ... they are tricky, like sifting your fingers through silt and hoping for gold. You might find nothing. You might find something not meant for you, nor what grows inside you. You see? What if I speak a dream and the dream hurt you? Then you would hate me.
( a put upon sigh — the most stressed, responsible nine year old there ever was. ) Maybe I do have something to tell you. If ... if you promise to believe me. And not doubt. And not tell anyone! It is a secret.
[ bee's descriptions all start to run together, slipping through his fingers as he tries to piece them into a finished puzzle. a mouse. a fox. a knife. none of it makes sense, only the seed with the dew drops sends his throat tightening again, like something instinctive within him knows what that means, but he can't voice it or even think about it. there's a lot, lately, that he can't think about, all his changes rushing at him at once.
the best change, at least, is that he can taste bee's cake, zesty and sweet. it's the most he's eaten at once in days, his gratitude softening his edges. he hates skipping meals, not because of a sense of gluttony, but because he's never been able to shake the feeling of not knowing when he might have to go without again. ]
Dreams can't hurt you. [ he forces himself to say it, and to look like he believes it. ] You said it yourself — you can't even trust them. They're one step away from not being real, if you decide they aren't. They're only exactly what you want them to be.
[ he lifts a corner of bee's apron and wipes a smear of frosting from her mouth, then pushes an unruly lock of hair from her cheek. the urge to take her into his lap can be chalked up to all the havoc being wreaked inside his body. ]
What kind of secret? [ he scoops off another forkful of cake, and this time brings it to bee's lips, his other hand lifting his cigarette to his lips for a drag. ] Is it the kind that's gonna piss me off?
( she's learned to listen to sanji when he speaks, to take his word for gospel, because he doesn't like to repeat himself and bee likes the praise for a job well done. thoughtful. dreams can't hurt you, perhaps even when they're true and awful, because they only show what is destined to be, already written in the fabric of the universe. bee gets impressions sometimes, of a dream that is sure to happen versus a dream that is only likely to happen — and sometimes too, a dream so farfetched it seems as impossible as all the rest. what does it mean for a prophet to see the future? a good, potential ending. the steps unfolded to make it come true. being one step away from not being real, means they're also one step away from being the truth.
but, she does like the sentiment. they're only exactly what you want them to be. sanji is very wise, which isn't surprising. )
Mm. ( she shakes her head no, a little happy to be babied but not shameless enough to admit it. leaning forward, she bites off the offering bit of cake with a contemplative air, before shrugging her shoulders, unsure. ) Well, maybe. There is much that pisses you off.
( scooching down the bench with a few effort-ridden tugs, bee fits herself under sanji's spread arm, leaning into his side. she keeps her eyes focused on the table, where she places the pointer fingers of each hand along the rough edge. )
Most people have this many parents. I have this many. ( one of her middle fingers joins the count. wolf father painfully nips at her soul, and she figures telling sanji she has a fourth parent who is a wolf who is a ghost who lives inside her mind might be a bridge too far. the hand with only the pointer finger bends and unfurls repeatedly, to draw attention. ) My mother, Molly, the most wonderful and beautiful woman who ever lived. And my father, FitzChivalry Farseer. ( her other pointer finger scrunches, up and down. he doesn't get as lofty an introduction, because bee is usually quite angry with him and also a little guilty, for starting to think of both shanks and sanji as more parental figures for her. ) They are Buck, through and through. Dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes, tall and built. When I was born, many assumed I was a bastard, that my mother was unfaithful, because I look so very unlike my father, Fitz. I look almost nothing like him.
( mostly, her curls are their only connected feature. her middle finger catches on the edge of the table, the last in the trio. ) My second father, though. I look exactly like him, as he is a White, like me. My two fathers ... ( she stretches her fingers out, before they twist together, the motion of a lying child tucking their hand behind their back. ) Mixed, soulwise. As if my father Fitz was blue, and my father Fool was red, and they became purple together. When it came time to put a baby in my mother, there was only Fitz. In fact, I have only barely met the other man, and he never met my mother.
( she looks up to sanji, her earlike wings flicking back, as if dejected. )
I hope the point of the story is, sometimes children are born in strange circumstances beyond understanding. But they ...
( could be like bee? she's not sure it's a good thing, if sanji will think it's a good thing. forgetting to end the sentence, she tosses her head into him, puppyish and boneless, slumping against his side. glad he isn't angry with her. glad he likes the cake. glad to not feel so alone, sitting beside him, the kitchen smelling like baked cake and the scent of sanji's clove cigarettes. )
[ even if following bee's story is like meandering through the forest without a clue of the direction — which is how he assumes zoro has spent his whole life traveling — he understands the sentiment. she's a sharp child, and even if sanji hasn't spoken to her about why he's harder on her now, why her lessons have taken a faster pace, why she does more of the things he does, she knows. she knows just like he does, just like nami does, just like zoro does. just like everyone does, even if he's avoided saying it. ]
I don't even know what's gonna come out of me.
[ he takes a long drag, bee warm against his side. she isn't as bony as when they first met, not since sanji started feeding her, but her wings and plethora of eyes will always make her look strange to everyone else. sanji doesn't see anything out of the ordinary when he looks at her. just another annoying, shitty kid he has to take care of.
thinking too deeply about bee's two fathers and one mother makes something curl up in his chest, something fragile and gossamer, and then he's pulling bee into his lap, pressing his nose into the top of her hair and holding her like she's a rag doll. his breath soaks her unruly locks as he remembers only distantly the feeling of his mother's arms, the sound of her voice, the soft bell of her laugh. so much has happened in the space of her dying until now, so many bad memories to push out all the good ones of her. ]
Tell me your good memories about your dad. [ he hugs her even tighter, turning his head just slightly so smoke can escape the corner of his mouth. ] The one you know best.
( bee has half a mind to remind sanji she isn't a little baby anymore, but she bites her tongue and tucks into him instead, toeing off her shoes on the opposite side of the bench. why? well, bee has been starved of affection long enough to know there's nothing more fleeting than the presence of someone in your life. she knows what's going to come out of sanji — something small and vulnerable and innocent, waiting to be loved. she knows sanji too. that the call to love something willing and needy is too great to overlook. bee knows it's a nasty, evil thing inside her that makes her hate something that might take sanji away from her, much as she knows she can't very well insist a parent abandon their young just because hers had. the reality of it is, she has no real staked claim on sanji. she has a father — has three, even. sanji is allowed to make his own family, and he's allowed to love them more.
the cuddle is, then, a marker of inevitability. like the world works in cycles, so do people — people always leave her, and so it is probably the last time. bee will treasure it. )
Mm.
( tiny hands lay over sanji's, head thumped back on his chest. she tries to tilt her head back far enough to look at him, but the angle isn't right, so she looks down at his ringed fingers instead, twisting one of them about his knuckle. )
I was born to Withywoods Manor, the place of my youth. It is an old, old castle — much of it I had never seen, as it was closed off, without use. Anyway, once my Da showed me a secret passage in his study, like a den for a bear cub. He gave it to me, to make my own, to watch him while he worked in solitude. It was the best gift I have ever been given. ( she turns her lips up awkwardly in a smile. ) After Ma died, I do believe my father struggled with me. He did not know what he was meant to do, I think, and neglected me for awhile. But when he realized his mistake, he took it upon himself to treat me like a little princess! Ma never would have spoiled me so. We went to market in Oaksbywater for Winterfest, and he bought me all manner of things I never asked for — hot chestnuts and a new saddle for my horse, Prissy, with little bees carved on the flaps, and a leather belt and a bracelet and a cake. He even let me buy gifts for my lady's maid, Careful, and our steward, Revel. Best of all was the seashell seller, as I had never been to the sea before, nor seen something so beautiful. That was the best day I have ever had, truly.
( not because of the gifts, really, but because she was rich with her father's sometimes wayward and unfocused affection. at least — until he left her. fumbling, she reaches into the pocket of her overalls at the center of her chest, and pulls out a handkerchief (this time embroidered with a fox) tied at the crosswise corners, a bounty sitting in the pouch it made. she sets it on the table in front of them, before sinking back into sanji's hug. )
You have probably seen a lot of seashells. I did not consider that. Shanks helped me find them — I was not sure what you would like for your birthday. ( quietly, ) Are all your memories of your father awful?
[ it's hard to tell, from bee's sweetly meandering story, what exactly the deal with her father was. sanji understands being unwanted — it's not that. or not exactly that, at least not in the way sanji knows it. there's love there, and a desire to be loved, along with what he thinks might be a fundamental lack of knowledge on how to raise a child, much less a child like bee.
he might have that in common with her father. after all, his memories of his mother are fading, and everything he learned from zeff, he learned in the same way someone might suffer a traumatic brain injury. he doesn't want his child to turn out to be a shithead like him.
if whatever is inside of him is even... that. he feels more like a freak than anything else, with nothing in this world making sense except for hunger and pain on most days. but then there are the days with nami’s smile and zoro’s warmth — and this. bee, pressed so soft and tight against him that he feels like she’s been his all along. ]
Will you go to the town over with me? A day for just the two of us. [ it’s not anyone’s fault that he feels suffocated by all the careful attention to his health. he just isn’t used to it. ] We can shop for our own chestnuts and jewelry and sweets. And it’s warm enough to look for more shells. We’ll fill up a jar with our best ones.
[ he sifts through the handkerchief, fingering a shell bleached the pale color of bee’s hair. that’s two presents, the cake and the shells. it’s more than he’d ever gotten for too many lonely years of his life. ]
You can learn things even from awful people. [ so, yes — every single memory of his father is awful. the worst part is that they’re etched more starkly in his mind than the hazy ones he has left of his mother. ] I might’ve never discovered my dream if not for him. The All Blue, a place full of exotic fish and plants and spices. A chef’s paradise. I’ll cook you something grand when I get there.
[ he hopes that she’s there with him when he finds it. his cheek rests against her hair as he idly blows smoke, his mismatched eyes half-lidded. ]
You didn’t tell anyone else about my birthday, did you? [ he can’t imagine having to go through more than once today. ] I don’t want Nami or Zoro to know. I like that it’s just our secret.
( it's apparent to bee, as apparent to anyone else who spends time with bee, that the real north of her heart is placed in people who want to spend time with her. she sees the bi-lines, all the connective pieces of tissue to make her who she is — she used to sit in the tress of withywood manor, behind thick walls of stone and inside the secret tunnels of the house, to spy on the other children having fun and playing with each other. children with pink, rosy cheeks, children who didn't need to be taught to laugh — normal kids who weren't difficult to love, who instinctively hated her. the largest parts of bee's life thus far have taken place on the outside of a door, looking in through the window pane. anyone wanting her around for any amount of time is a gift, she's learned. loneliness is more her enemy than dwalia.
leaning back, she shifts in sanji's lap, fumbling around until she's sitting across him, feet tucked into his thigh, knees resting against his chest. she looks up at him for a long while, colorless, pale eyes blinking. )
I will go with you.
( she tries to say it without any inclination of emotion, which isn't hard for her. once he knows she wants it, it'll be all too easy to break her heart.
not that it's a hard thing to do — sanji already knows she loves him, privately thinking his buck name would be a very suitable prince lovely. because he wants it, he gives it, he has it. love pours out of sanji like blood pours from a slain beast. nuzzling under his chin, bee lazily fists a hand in the front of his shirt, letting her eyes fall closed. she woke up early for the cake, and is very notably very cranky first thing in the morning. )
Your dream ... ( she commits the all blue to memory, deciding she'll look for it in her coming dreams. blue is a color that she associates with sanji — blue and yellow. it makes it more of a challenge, and that makes it fun. ) Why did you decide to become a chef in the beginning of all things, Da?
( she doesn't notice her slip up, too tired to check herself. if she did, she'd probably run away, somewhere where no one could find her, where she could be loathsome, hateful daughter in peace. as it is, she just frowns, shaking her head. )
I did not say. ( it's clear from her tone of voice that she thinks his birthday is something everyone should know, that all should celebrate. ) But I always keep your secrets. You can trust Bee.
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it's not especially traditional for writing to be on any cake in the six duchies, if only because mostly older generation bakers don't know how to read or write. so, she didn't think about addressing it — but there is a smudgy painting made on the cake's face with frosting, a bunny curled up on its back, a red heart painted on its chest. along the sides of the cake, and what she's currently piping, are little decorative bees at random places.
yes, the kitchen is a mess. and yes, she does expect to get cuffed for it. but bee has a friend, and that friend has a birthday, so this is the most important thing that has ever and will ever happen to her. )
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it hadn't been the last birthday of his they'd celebrated together, just the worst one. but after that, zeff learned quickly of sanji's intolerance to surprises, and it had been (relatively) smooth sailing from then on. to this day, sanji doesn't put much importance on his birthday anyway, telling no one, not even nami and zoro, and he's glad for it because he wakes up like every other day as of late — with bile in his throat and an urgent need to piss.
the sun is barely up as he hangs over the toilet, hacking up the little he'd been able to stomach the night before. whatever's happening to his body, he's not a fucking fan. straightening, he plucks his crisp shirt from where it's hanging on the back of the door, pulling it on and cuffing the sleeves, then dragging his trousers up and notching the belt. he looks almost normal, if not for the velveteen ears drooping into his hair. thanks to his renewed connection with nami, his antlers are hidden away because he's tired of hearing zoro complain about the constant threat of losing an eye in his sleep.
speaking of eyes. he brushes his hair down over the gray one, and then hears a noise from the kitchen. his gaze narrows, and then he's striding out, ready to pin an intruder to the wall with his foot, but the sight that greets him is far more horrifying. he's twelve again, facing a room of rambunctious cooks and a flaming cake — except the cake is almost certainly going to sink in the next five minutes, if it's lucky.
normally, he'd start with what she did right (a lot, actually — it's still functionally cake), and then go into why it's about to topple. but his eyes prickle hotly, and something sticky clogs his throat, and his mood tilts far, far to the left.
he slams a hand down on the counter, rattling sugary bowls and sticky spoons. the cake, to its credit, stands tall. ]
What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?
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It is your birthday. One's second of the third.
( which she heard in a dream, sort of. just not her own, and not the kind that needs to be written down.
apparently lady nettle, bee's some three decades older sister and skillmistress at buckkeep, is quite a skilled dreamwalker. it isn't a talent bee thought she had, and not one she could easily replicate, but something about sanji's dream had dragged her into it, maybe thanks to all of his blood she had drunken lately, like his dream wanted her to acknowledge it. so, she did. it didn't seem like a bad dream exactly, but tense, which she figured was because he didn't know how to tell anyone it was his birthday. now it seems like an invasion she can't exactly admit to, without him getting even more angry, so she keeps her gaze downcast and her mouth sealed, fingers belatedly untying the apron around her waist. )
Are you going to kick me? ( it seems unthinkable to her that sanji would, but maybe if she made him angry enough. along with the skill comes the ghost of a wolf who lives inside her, who reminds her do not seek out trouble, little cub and if he lunges, use your teeth which bee already knows she won't. it had been satisfying to rip out a chunk of dwalia — it wouldn't feel good to do to sanji. embarrassing herself, she reverts back to the child she once was, and makes a whining humming sound in the back of her throat, like sanji's displeasure has wounded her. ) I will clean up your kitchen. I apologize for the mess.
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he is, truly, destined to be the worst parent to whatever is kicking around inside of him, because of what he has to go on. a man who faked his death and locked him in a dungeon. and zeff, who he'd die for, but still wouldn't subject bee to. the urge to cry intensifies, but he can't, because he's a man and bee's a kid, and that's not the way things are supposed to go. he also shouldn't have something kicking against his bladder at all hours of the day, but shit happens. ]
You'd die if I kicked you. [ bee's so small, and he can break bones with his legs. the thought repulses him, and his throat grows even tighter that she would ask. ] I don't fight women. Keep your apron on.
[ he remembers an earlier argument, that bee's not yet a woman, just a shitty little kid. he doesn't know what bee is actually going to grow up into anymore, with all her eyes and her wings. but whatever it is, she'll remain firmly in the category of people he won't fight.
his eyes drop to the colorfully decorated cake. it's sunken in the middle, and lopsided. most likely, she opened the oven too many times during baking, a mistake only made out of childish excitement. ]
I didn't tell you when my birthday was. [ his mouth tightens in that annoyingly pathetic way it does when he's about to cry, and he starts gathering bowls and spoons to take to the sink, stacking them in neatly dirtied piles with his back to bee. ] Celebrations are for shitty little kids. When's yours?
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then again, it is as ugly thing, so maybe it would be better served in the garbage. frowning, bee stares at it critically, trying to find the misstep. maybe it was presumptuous to put bees next to bunnies. it wouldn't be surprising to hear sanji only tolerates her, although that wouldn't stop it from hurting. then again, bee is nothing but one big ball of hurt, convinced no one who has ever been has ever loved her, so maybe it is nothing but poetic justice, for a child as intolerable as her. she doesn't know. )
I was born in the midwinter, the 20th of December. ( near enough to the longest night of the year. she stares at sanji's back hopefully, digging her teeth into her lips before continuing on. ) My mother was pregnant for two and a half years. I remember being in her stomach.
( she's learned, this isn't entirely usual for children to remember — most can't remember their first days alive, but bee remembers it all, every gasp to the ghastly sight of her, every promise she wouldn't live another hour, even an assassination attempt on her part, asleep in her baby's bassinet. )
I had a dream which told me your birthday. I saw a small mouse with a crown of flowers, daffodils and primroses, who was born from a cat who eats little mice when they aren't fast enough. And the mouse said, "I won't get any older, so I won't change, so I will always be quick, and one step ahead." I saw the mouse with a huge feast of fruits, having outsmarted the cat, to say it's birthday would be everyday but the one day it was, which was March the 2nd. But the mouse did not look happy, to be perched among oranges and limes and be without any other mice to share it with. ( she pauses, taking a deep breath. ) Did I misinterpret? Dreams are so sly, so sneaky, sometimes. They can mean so many things. I thought it meant you wanted to be celebrated, to share food with ... um, well, to share with people, I suppose. I thought you would like it.
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all sanji wants to do is cook, and even that is getting cumbersome. he needs bee's help more than ever now, because he tires easily, and his back feels eighty years older. something shifts inside of him, and he ignores that, too.
a little mouse. oranges and limes. sanji is not an idiot. he throws a mixing bowl into the sink and wipes his eyes, thinking of the little mouse his father threw from his window when he'd found sanji had cooked a meal for it and made it his friend. ]
Yeah, you misinterpreted.
[ it's complicated to put into words. he doesn't want zoro or nami or bee fussing over him now, when he prefers to be the one presenting them with their favorite dishes. what he wants is impossible. what he wants is to go back in time, when he was five and six and seven, and give himself a birthday that wasn't full of tears and terror and pain. he wants to be the man he is now for the shitty little kid he used to be. impossible.
he leans against the counter, gripping a dishcloth. the cake has moved and so has bee, hovering near the dining table like sanji's the big bad wolf. like he's the mouse-eating cat. ]
You're the mouse. [ sanji swallows back the tightness in his throat, plucking two silver forks from the drawer and moving to the table. maybe it doesn't have to be impossible after all. he made the mistake once of giving up on the all blue. he doesn't intend to do it again. ] If you cut that cake, it'll fall apart.
[ he pulls the bench out and gestures for bee to sit, holding out a fork for her. then he pulls out his lighter and one of his clove-scented cigarettes, because he doesn't have birthday candles, sticking it into the corner of his mouth and scraping out a flame. ]
You're not going to like it. [ he blows out a stream of smoke, then offers her the cigarette. ] Take a little breath. It'll burn your throat otherwise.
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( she says, defensively. not that she knows anything about it. still, it's hard to doubt when looking at the thing — an unsightly pile of too much frosting and not enough patience, caving in, slanting sideways. she hates it, and wishes it was better. she hates herself too, for much the same reasons.
hesitating, bee eventually settles on the bench, moving with an effort to seem unbothered, to tug the cake in a tactical position away from sanji like he might forget about it if it isn't immediately next to him. most bets are off when he offers his cigarette though, bee's many eyes wide and imploring as if she's been given some kind of treasure. she accepts it, initially holding the stem of it with the pointer fingers and thumbs of both her hands, before holding it how she's seen sanji do it, between two fingers. bee might've scented the smoke off the stable hand workers in withywoods before, but her core memories of cigarettes are all from sanji — this, then, is some kind of generous sharing, bee thinks. like opening a door and letting her in.
she tries to follow instructions, but very predictably fails at it, almost immediately erupting in a coughing fit. the hand with the cigarette juts out towards sanji to take back, while she coughs into the elbow of her opposite arm, tongue licking at the cloth of her shirtsleeve to get rid of the taste. )
Bleh! You do that for fun?
( she actually has no idea why he does it, or what would ever lead anyone to do something so awful. it's actually — kind of funny, how absolutely terrible it is, and eventually her coughs turn into the turkey gobble that is synonyms with bee's happy laughter. )
Do I look like you?
( a silly question, which bee only realizes after the fact, because bee doesn't look like anyone. not her father or her mother, not other little girls, not even other humans, anymore. still, the question comes out with a desperate twinge of hopefulness she doesn't intend to be there — like being comparable to sanji might be the the single greatest thing anyone could give her. even if she is a little mad he didn't like her cake. )
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It's how I relax. [ which means he should never, ever be stressed. ] You shouldn't pick up the habit.
[ carefully, he sinks his fork into a rounded corner of the cake, slicing off a neat mouthful. the taste of spun sugar and frosting settles on his tongue, melting away. it doesn't matter to him if the cake topples. he'll eat every last crumb no matter what. he remembers the first time he ever attempted a cake, and it was far worse than this one. ]
We have the same eyes. [ he takes another bite, his empty stomach suddenly ravenous. ] Even if we didn't, who else is gonna look like me? You're the only one.
[ the uncertainty of what lies in his future — specifically, what lies inside of him — notwithstanding. he hasn't had that discussion with bee, or anyone, because thinking about it makes the space behind his eyeballs throb. he's eaten a third of the cake before he even realizes it, turning the plate toward bee. ]
You have any dreams about — [ a faltering pause, when he can't decide how to ask. ] The future?
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in any case, she watches him owlishly while he eats, waiting to see disapproval or disgust on his face, and instead finding herself shyly happy that he seems to like his cake. it's orange flavored, sprinkled with lime zest, a recipe she uncomfortably asked someone in market for, her eyes on their feet, trying not to enunciate her words too oddly. well worth the social effort now to see sanji eat it. her own fork dips into the softer insides sanji unveiled, happily eating the sweet cake — more of a luxury at home than it seems to be here.
at his question, bee perks, staring at him and then pointedly away, as if lying. her several eyes swivel back to him, throat bobbing on a swallow. ) Yes. I only dream of the future.
( the wolf in her is displeased by her offering of information. bee frowns, eyes drooping to the cake, fork scooping up a frosting bee and buzzing it around in a lazy spiral. she's really not used to adults taking her dreams seriously. she's never had to explain them before, because no one, except for villains, have ever wanted to know. )
They are not to be trusted, in how you hope they would be. Mostly, the dreams are there to look back on when something happens, to say, "yes, maybe I did see that coming." Or maybe it hadn't happened yet, and you will say it again when the next thing happens. It is very imprecise. ( blinking back to him, she eats the bee with a babyish suck. ) But I do dream of you often. Or, what I imagine to be you. Sometimes in the shape of a mouse or a fox. Once, you were like a blue ribbon, with one frayed edge, and one whole side — once, too, I saw you like a knife with gilded handle so fine, it looked to be from something of a different age entirely. Once, I saw you like a seed, with a curling sprout from your shell with three dangling drops of dew, and only one fell. ( rambling, she frowns, setting her fork down and gesturing with her hands, like grabbing the words out from the space in front of her, wrestling with herself, before sighing and looking at sanji rather pitifully, hands pressing flat on the table ) I know what it is you want to know, but I do not have much to tell you. If I do not speak my dreams, I get very sick, so I started to write them down in the dirt because I had no paper fine enough to house them, and no one could read them. Like this. ( she writes invisible words on the table with the tip of one food dye colored finger, there and then gone. ) I do not want my dreams to be used to change the world. I could speak them to you, but ... they are tricky, like sifting your fingers through silt and hoping for gold. You might find nothing. You might find something not meant for you, nor what grows inside you. You see? What if I speak a dream and the dream hurt you? Then you would hate me.
( a put upon sigh — the most stressed, responsible nine year old there ever was. ) Maybe I do have something to tell you. If ... if you promise to believe me. And not doubt. And not tell anyone! It is a secret.
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the best change, at least, is that he can taste bee's cake, zesty and sweet. it's the most he's eaten at once in days, his gratitude softening his edges. he hates skipping meals, not because of a sense of gluttony, but because he's never been able to shake the feeling of not knowing when he might have to go without again. ]
Dreams can't hurt you. [ he forces himself to say it, and to look like he believes it. ] You said it yourself — you can't even trust them. They're one step away from not being real, if you decide they aren't. They're only exactly what you want them to be.
[ he lifts a corner of bee's apron and wipes a smear of frosting from her mouth, then pushes an unruly lock of hair from her cheek. the urge to take her into his lap can be chalked up to all the havoc being wreaked inside his body. ]
What kind of secret? [ he scoops off another forkful of cake, and this time brings it to bee's lips, his other hand lifting his cigarette to his lips for a drag. ] Is it the kind that's gonna piss me off?
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but, she does like the sentiment. they're only exactly what you want them to be. sanji is very wise, which isn't surprising. )
Mm. ( she shakes her head no, a little happy to be babied but not shameless enough to admit it. leaning forward, she bites off the offering bit of cake with a contemplative air, before shrugging her shoulders, unsure. ) Well, maybe. There is much that pisses you off.
( scooching down the bench with a few effort-ridden tugs, bee fits herself under sanji's spread arm, leaning into his side. she keeps her eyes focused on the table, where she places the pointer fingers of each hand along the rough edge. )
Most people have this many parents. I have this many. ( one of her middle fingers joins the count. wolf father painfully nips at her soul, and she figures telling sanji she has a fourth parent who is a wolf who is a ghost who lives inside her mind might be a bridge too far. the hand with only the pointer finger bends and unfurls repeatedly, to draw attention. ) My mother, Molly, the most wonderful and beautiful woman who ever lived. And my father, FitzChivalry Farseer. ( her other pointer finger scrunches, up and down. he doesn't get as lofty an introduction, because bee is usually quite angry with him and also a little guilty, for starting to think of both shanks and sanji as more parental figures for her. ) They are Buck, through and through. Dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes, tall and built. When I was born, many assumed I was a bastard, that my mother was unfaithful, because I look so very unlike my father, Fitz. I look almost nothing like him.
( mostly, her curls are their only connected feature. her middle finger catches on the edge of the table, the last in the trio. ) My second father, though. I look exactly like him, as he is a White, like me. My two fathers ... ( she stretches her fingers out, before they twist together, the motion of a lying child tucking their hand behind their back. ) Mixed, soulwise. As if my father Fitz was blue, and my father Fool was red, and they became purple together. When it came time to put a baby in my mother, there was only Fitz. In fact, I have only barely met the other man, and he never met my mother.
( she looks up to sanji, her earlike wings flicking back, as if dejected. )
I hope the point of the story is, sometimes children are born in strange circumstances beyond understanding. But they ...
( could be like bee? she's not sure it's a good thing, if sanji will think it's a good thing. forgetting to end the sentence, she tosses her head into him, puppyish and boneless, slumping against his side. glad he isn't angry with her. glad he likes the cake. glad to not feel so alone, sitting beside him, the kitchen smelling like baked cake and the scent of sanji's clove cigarettes. )
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I don't even know what's gonna come out of me.
[ he takes a long drag, bee warm against his side. she isn't as bony as when they first met, not since sanji started feeding her, but her wings and plethora of eyes will always make her look strange to everyone else. sanji doesn't see anything out of the ordinary when he looks at her. just another annoying, shitty kid he has to take care of.
thinking too deeply about bee's two fathers and one mother makes something curl up in his chest, something fragile and gossamer, and then he's pulling bee into his lap, pressing his nose into the top of her hair and holding her like she's a rag doll. his breath soaks her unruly locks as he remembers only distantly the feeling of his mother's arms, the sound of her voice, the soft bell of her laugh. so much has happened in the space of her dying until now, so many bad memories to push out all the good ones of her. ]
Tell me your good memories about your dad. [ he hugs her even tighter, turning his head just slightly so smoke can escape the corner of his mouth. ] The one you know best.
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the cuddle is, then, a marker of inevitability. like the world works in cycles, so do people — people always leave her, and so it is probably the last time. bee will treasure it. )
Mm.
( tiny hands lay over sanji's, head thumped back on his chest. she tries to tilt her head back far enough to look at him, but the angle isn't right, so she looks down at his ringed fingers instead, twisting one of them about his knuckle. )
I was born to Withywoods Manor, the place of my youth. It is an old, old castle — much of it I had never seen, as it was closed off, without use. Anyway, once my Da showed me a secret passage in his study, like a den for a bear cub. He gave it to me, to make my own, to watch him while he worked in solitude. It was the best gift I have ever been given. ( she turns her lips up awkwardly in a smile. ) After Ma died, I do believe my father struggled with me. He did not know what he was meant to do, I think, and neglected me for awhile. But when he realized his mistake, he took it upon himself to treat me like a little princess! Ma never would have spoiled me so. We went to market in Oaksbywater for Winterfest, and he bought me all manner of things I never asked for — hot chestnuts and a new saddle for my horse, Prissy, with little bees carved on the flaps, and a leather belt and a bracelet and a cake. He even let me buy gifts for my lady's maid, Careful, and our steward, Revel. Best of all was the seashell seller, as I had never been to the sea before, nor seen something so beautiful. That was the best day I have ever had, truly.
( not because of the gifts, really, but because she was rich with her father's sometimes wayward and unfocused affection. at least — until he left her. fumbling, she reaches into the pocket of her overalls at the center of her chest, and pulls out a handkerchief (this time embroidered with a fox) tied at the crosswise corners, a bounty sitting in the pouch it made. she sets it on the table in front of them, before sinking back into sanji's hug. )
You have probably seen a lot of seashells. I did not consider that. Shanks helped me find them — I was not sure what you would like for your birthday. ( quietly, ) Are all your memories of your father awful?
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he might have that in common with her father. after all, his memories of his mother are fading, and everything he learned from zeff, he learned in the same way someone might suffer a traumatic brain injury. he doesn't want his child to turn out to be a shithead like him.
if whatever is inside of him is even... that. he feels more like a freak than anything else, with nothing in this world making sense except for hunger and pain on most days. but then there are the days with nami’s smile and zoro’s warmth — and this. bee, pressed so soft and tight against him that he feels like she’s been his all along. ]
Will you go to the town over with me? A day for just the two of us. [ it’s not anyone’s fault that he feels suffocated by all the careful attention to his health. he just isn’t used to it. ] We can shop for our own chestnuts and jewelry and sweets. And it’s warm enough to look for more shells. We’ll fill up a jar with our best ones.
[ he sifts through the handkerchief, fingering a shell bleached the pale color of bee’s hair. that’s two presents, the cake and the shells. it’s more than he’d ever gotten for too many lonely years of his life. ]
You can learn things even from awful people. [ so, yes — every single memory of his father is awful. the worst part is that they’re etched more starkly in his mind than the hazy ones he has left of his mother. ] I might’ve never discovered my dream if not for him. The All Blue, a place full of exotic fish and plants and spices. A chef’s paradise. I’ll cook you something grand when I get there.
[ he hopes that she’s there with him when he finds it. his cheek rests against her hair as he idly blows smoke, his mismatched eyes half-lidded. ]
You didn’t tell anyone else about my birthday, did you? [ he can’t imagine having to go through more than once today. ] I don’t want Nami or Zoro to know. I like that it’s just our secret.
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leaning back, she shifts in sanji's lap, fumbling around until she's sitting across him, feet tucked into his thigh, knees resting against his chest. she looks up at him for a long while, colorless, pale eyes blinking. )
I will go with you.
( she tries to say it without any inclination of emotion, which isn't hard for her. once he knows she wants it, it'll be all too easy to break her heart.
not that it's a hard thing to do — sanji already knows she loves him, privately thinking his buck name would be a very suitable prince lovely. because he wants it, he gives it, he has it. love pours out of sanji like blood pours from a slain beast. nuzzling under his chin, bee lazily fists a hand in the front of his shirt, letting her eyes fall closed. she woke up early for the cake, and is very notably very cranky first thing in the morning. )
Your dream ... ( she commits the all blue to memory, deciding she'll look for it in her coming dreams. blue is a color that she associates with sanji — blue and yellow. it makes it more of a challenge, and that makes it fun. ) Why did you decide to become a chef in the beginning of all things, Da?
( she doesn't notice her slip up, too tired to check herself. if she did, she'd probably run away, somewhere where no one could find her, where she could be loathsome, hateful daughter in peace. as it is, she just frowns, shaking her head. )
I did not say. ( it's clear from her tone of voice that she thinks his birthday is something everyone should know, that all should celebrate. ) But I always keep your secrets. You can trust Bee.