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*Three Weeks To Christmas*
Sanji wakes to swearing and raised voices moving through the hall.
He scrambles out of bed, getting twisted in his covers and all but spilling out of it onto the floor of his little bedroom in the Baratie’s living quarters. The other cooks will tease him for sleeping in late, not that it isn’t early still. The gulls are doing their morning squawking but their noise is nothing compared to the shouting and banging coming from the dining room.
The Baratie is a noisy ship. Noisy in a different way than the Orbit ever was. But Sanji has become something of a noisy kid. He rushes to pull on his chef uniform and wash up in the bathroom before scuttling off towards the source of it all.
It sounds like they’re decorating out here, which is odd because the Baratie was finished months ago. Enough successful dinner services and positive reviews (about the food at least) have allowed the floating restaurant to build something of a name for itself. Sanji huffs, frustrated. Zeff opened the damn place with him at his side, so if they’re making any decor changes, it’s only fair that they involve Sanji in the decision making. It shouldn’t matter that he’s the youngest here, that he’s only nine. It doesn’t mean that the other cooks opinions should get priority over his, that they can treat him like a child. He was here first!
He’s ready to tell them all just that when he’s stopped short by the mess in the dining room. It’s been completely rearranged. The tables have all been pushed aside to make room for a huge pine tree in the middle of the floor. The woodsy smell is different, filling the air as Patty and Carne fuss with the branches.
“Fucking- move that over there!” Patty snaps, gesturing with his hand how he wants Carne to position the thing. His eyes narrow into something murderous when Carne laughs directly into his face.
Tiny pine needles are scattered all over the ground. Sanji scowls. He’s still fighting for his place inside the kitchen, adamant about his place as a chef and not as wait staff. He shouldn’t have to wait tables and tidy up after customers just because the old geezer says he isn’t tall enough to reach the countertops without a foot stall. And like hell if they think he’ll be the one tidying up this giant mess that they’ve created. Why have they brought a tree inside the restaurant anyway? It doesn’t make any sense at all.
“What is that.”
“Ah, little brat!” Carne greets him. Sanji can hardly see his face through the mass of pine needles. “Make yourself useful and tell us if the tree looks straight from where you’re standing.”
“Why is there a tree in the dining area?” Sanji asks flatly. “The crap-geezers gonna shit himself when he sees what you’ve done to the place.”
Patty and Carne share a look, snickering. Irritation prickles over Sanji like a rash.
“It was the boss’s idea you little twerp,” Patty says. “And where else exactly d’you think it’s gonna go? You want the customers to see the tree while they’re eating, don’tcha?”
Sanji blinks at him slowly. “Why?”
The rustling branches still as the cooks’ stop, Patty and Carne leaning back and free of all the greenery to eye each other again suspiciously. Sanji hates it when they do that, like they’re both in on a little secret that they then decide he’s not old enough or allowed to know.
“What?!”
“Because Christmas is in three weeks,” Patty says, like it’s obvious. “And it’s a Christmas tree.”
Sanji stares at him, then at the tree, as if they’ve both insulted him. He knows what Christmas is. Obviously. Once a year, a religious celebration where people are supposed to be generous and nicer and spend time with their loved ones. When Sanji’s mother had been alive, he would sneak into her hospital room on Christmas Day and she would hug him tight and tell him that she loved him. She did that every time she saw him though, when she was strong enough. No one in Germa ever treated him any differently just because of the time of year, and there had never been any special trees or other decorations to distinguish the time apart from anything else. Some of the soldiers would drink and sing Christmas carols. Sanji knows a few of those. Songs about being merry or snow, though North Blue was cold and it often snowed, or songs about the birth of a religious figure.
“What’s a stupid tree got to do with Christmas?”
Patty and Carne share that look again and Sanji clenches his teeth. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?!”
Patty backs up as Carne focuses back on the tree, straightening it up as best he can. Other cooks and waiters are bustling around them, some helping with the decor change while others work on prepping the front of house for opening. Sanji watches them string leafy garlands around the restaurant entrance and wind something golden and sparkly up the handrail of their spiral staircase. It’s all very pretty. Out of place in a room where the head chef frequently punts his bad-mouthed cooks or spoiled patrons out onto their asses or into the sea, though.
“You put up a Christmas tree so that Santa has a place to leave the presents if you’ve been good this year.” Patty says. “If you haven’t made the nice list, you get nothing but a lump of coal.”
“Sounds like crap to me,” Sanji says.
“No, really.” Great, now Carne’s joining in on the wind up. “He’s this magic guy that flies all over the world to give presents to the kids who’ve been good in the year. Everyone knows about Santa Claus. Don’t we?”
The other cooks all agree, some nodding while others mumble affirmations. Sanji squints. They must think he’s really stupid to fall for a trick like that. A magic guy? A nice list? What, does that mean there’s a not-nice list as well? Please. Just because he’s nine years old it doesn’t mean that he’s gullible enough to believe such a ridiculous and obviously made up story. It doesn’t help anything that he can see Carne holding in his laughter either, turning back towards the big dumb tree as if he’ll be able to hide it.
“That’s not just crap,” Sanji decides, “it’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”
“Careful Santa don’t hear you talking like that,” Patty smirks. “That’ll put you on the naughty list for sure.”
“I reckon that’s it,” Carne pipes up again, and Sanji sticks his tongue out meanly when he laughs again and says, “Santa doesn’t give gifts to snotty little shits which is probably why you’ve never heard of him.”
Sanji flips them both off and turns away, stomping down the hall. How idiotic must those ex-pirates be, thinking they can make him believe in such a thing. He scowls all the way to Zeff’s office, the door cracked open enough to see the old geezer sitting behind his desk, combing over paperwork. Sanji lets himself right in, slamming the door shut with a firm kick.
“Oi. Crap geezer.”
Zeff grunts, eyes fixed on his work.
“Patty and Carne are trying to trick me again.”
Zeff sighs. “It’s barely six in the morning, eggplant. Too early to start your whining.”
“I’m not whining,” he snaps petulantly. “They’ve dragged an old tree inside the restaurant and it’s messing the place up.”
“Aye. The Christmas tree.”
Sanji stares at him as if he’s gone mad.
Zeff sits back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and strokes his moustache. “You bitchin’ cause you don’t know what a Christmas tree is?”
“I do too!” Sanji’s ears are burning. Never mind that he just learned what it is all of five minutes ago. He’s not sure what to say without contradicting himself. It’s something of a constant struggle that he faces, always trying to prove that he’s old enough to be taken seriously. Little snags like this hold him back. He feels like this is a vital step he’s missed out on somewhere along the line, and the resulting teasing at his expense has made him feel more like a child than he has since he first ventured out onto the seas alone.
Zeff looks bored, waiting for Sanji to continue griping, and when no further complaints come hissing out of him like a spitting flame, he leans forward and sighs again. “What’s the problem then?”
“Patty and Carne,” he starts, aware now of how much it does sound like he’s whining, which he’s not, “are trying to trick me by saying the tree is for Santa to leave presents under. Which I know is a lie. But they won’t tell me what the tree is actually for.”
Zeff frowns, more so than his normal face anyway, and grumbles something under his breath. “I had a few of the cooks go out and buy that tree this morning,” he says. “Thought it’d look good for the customers. This is a restaurant I’m running, eggplant. Not an information booth.”
“Oh.” Sanji can understand that reasoning well enough. It’s purely decorative, like going all out with the hearts and the roses on Valentine’s Day. It makes sense why he’d never seen a tree when he was living on the Orbit. Being a cruise ship, they would dock at its base-island so that the majority of the staff could spend the holiday with their families. Those who didn’t have families or didn’t care to celebrate would hole up together on board for a few days until the ship was ready to sail again. That was where Sanji had fit in. He’d never given it much thought before.
“Anything else you wanna stick your nose in?”
The kitchen, Sanji thinks but doesn’t say. There’ll be no faster way to ensure that he’s not allowed to cook today than to outright ask for the old man’s permission. It doesn’t make any sense to Sanji either, as it’s not like he’s never cooked in a kitchen before. He’s pretty sure it’s another rule that Zeff has made up, no different than all the things that Patty and Carne have made up to mess with him.
“You had breakfast yet?”
Sanji shakes his head no.
Zeff nods, looking back at his stack of paperwork. “There’s breakfast made in the kitchen, eggplant. Go and fill your boots.”
Sanji’s stomach starts to gurgle at the mention of food. He is hungry, he realises now that Zeff has brought attention to it. He spins around to head into the kitchen when Zeff speaks again, words making him freeze in his tracks.
“And by the way, brat. They ain’t lying. Santa Claus is plenty real.”
*Two Weeks To Christmas*
The restaurant does look nice when the decorations are finally finished, Sanji has to admit.
That sparkly golden thing the cooks had wrapped around the staircase is called tinsel, and it’s been strung strategically throughout the tree and across the dining room. Twinkling lights accompany most of the greenery, up the stairs and around all the doors, and everything is paired with that pine smell and pretty baubles and stars, ribbons and holly berries. The tree, Sanji thinks, looks like it’s full of fireflies. Giant flower heads have been tied to the ends of some of the branches, offset with more ribbons and more baubles that catch the light and glimmer during dinner service. It’s all very pretty. Sanji does feel a little excited about the season every time he sees it all, not that he’d admit that to anyone who would listen.
Zeff and Carne had taken the supply boat out to dock at the closest island and to stock up the fridges. Sanji went with them. He’s surprised to see similar decor hung up all over the place almost as soon as they arrive and as they move inland.
“Right.” Zeff has written a list long enough to reach his peg leg. Sanji overheard him telling Patty about a festive-themed dessert that he wanted to add to the menu not long before they left. Overheard being the key word, as they still won’t let him get involved in the kitchen. “Key stuff is at the top of the list. Get as much as you can, meet back at the dock in three.”
“Aye boss,” Carne says. He glances at Sanji and smirks mischievously. “You coming with me or owner Zeff, little brat?”
“Neither, bastard.” Sanji makes a rude gesture with his hand and turns away from both of the older chefs. “I can do it by myself.”
Carne does it back, sticking up his fingers childishly, and Zeff chastises them both with a swift wooden kick in the ass.
“Grow up, both of ya,” Zeff snaps. Sanji glares daggers between them, rubbing the sore spot and expecting Zeff to argue with him at any moment. Instead, he shrugs. Sanji can’t believe it. It seems like everyone’s always protesting the decisions that he makes, questioning him no matter what he says as if his opinions can’t be trusted. But Zeff is trusting him to fetch supplies all on his own! It’s the biggest breakthrough that Sanji’s had since they opened up shop. It’s not being allowed to cook, nowhere close, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Zeff tears off the bottom of the list and hands it to Sanji, grumbling about spending money wisely and getting the right stuff and blah blah blah. How hard can it be to follow a stupid list? “If you ain’t back at this dock in three I’ll hunt you down and boot you back to the Baratie myself. Am I clear?”
“Yes, old geezer,” Sanji says shortly, as if exasperated. In truth, he’s so happy that he feels warm inside. Maybe it’s the spirit of the holiday that’s made the stick up Zeff’s ass a little shorter than usual. Sanji doesn’t know the reason, but he’s not about to question it. He takes the berri Zeff offers him and scurries off inland before he can change his mind.
The stuff on the list isn’t hard to find and frankly there’s not that much on it, something that Sanji doesn’t mind. It gives him more time to explore the coastal town. He clutches the bag of goods close as he shuffles through, the temperature dropping slowly as the sun starts to set early. The Christmas lights flicker on all at once. He stops in the street to look at a window painted to look like it’s covered in snow and wonders how he could have gone so long without knowing about all these little details that apparently come with the Christmas season.
The window belongs to a little bookstore, he notices. It makes him think about what else he doesn’t know from growing up in a place where everything came second to science and physical training.
The door chimes when he pushes it open, and it’s warm inside. A smiling older lady greets him when she spots him, looking behind Sanji if she’s expecting someone else.
“Are you here on your own, littlun?”
“M’not a kid,” Sanji sulks, unable to keep the pout off his face.
“Ah. Of course not. My apologies, young man,” the lady says, and Sanji perks up immediately. “What can I help you with today?”
Sanji’s face heats up. “Do you have any…” he has to look away, asking her sheepishly, “…books about Santa?”
The woman smiles wide. “As a matter of fact, we do have a few in the kids section.”
Sanji stalks off after that, though he does thank her, as it’s only polite to thank a lady once she’s helped you. He tells himself that it doesn’t mean he’s childish for snooping around among the children’s books, that it makes sense for what he’s looking for to be here as Patty and Carne had said that Santa visited children during this time of year. He does find a few books pretty quickly. He’s not sure how he feels about each of them confirming what he’s been told so far.
Santa Claus, or Father Christmas. Wears a red suit in all of the pictures and is known to fly around each of the seas on a flying reindeer and give gifts to children who have behaved well that year.
Sanji supposes, what with all the different devil fruit abilities on the loose in the Grand Line, that a man who can fly around the world in a single night isn’t the craziest thing he’s ever heard of. Sanji’s never had a Christmas present before. Maybe Santa was never able to find him? He’s always lived on things that were constantly moving; Germa being a floating kingdom and the Orbit hopping from island to island. Or, he theorises, maybe the tree is the problem, point being that nowhere he’s ever been has ever had one.
There is one other reason he can think of, though it’s one that douses that warm feeling inside of him like a fire being snuffed out. Maybe the reason why Sanji has never received anything before is because - no different from when he lived in Germa - he’s simply never made the cut.
A few days pass. Sanji tries not to dwell on it. Patty keeps riling him up, encouraged by the rest of the cooks as they plough through the week’s bookings and nightly dinners. They’re getting busier as the season progresses and the customer’s seem to love what they’ve done with the place. The festive croquembouche is a hit.
Every day it’s “Have you written your Christmas list yet, Sanji?” Or “Careful how you speak to me, little brat, Santa’s listening,” or even “If you don’t get out of the kitchen and back on tables right now, I’m gonna write to Santa and tell him that you’re misbehaving.”
“How would you even plan to do that, shithead,” Sanji barks back. “Besides, I told you already that I don’t believe in Santa. So that’s not gonna stop me.”
“If you don’t get your ass back in that dining room and take some people’s orders, it won’t be Santa you’ve gotta worry about,” Zeff threatens cooly. His tone of voice shuts Patty up finally, though it doesn’t wipe the grin off his face.
*One Week To Christmas*
Sanji’s in his room after closing, sitting at the desk by the window with his chin in his hand, peering out over the water. He can hear the other cooks passing through the halls, heading for bed. Another day of playing waiter has frustrated him enough that he can’t be bothered for Patty and Carne’s teasing, and he excused himself after dinner early to skulk back to his room and get away from it all.
He’s feeling really sorry for himself when a banging on his door startles him.
“What?”
“Eggplant,” a gruff voice. It’s Zeff. Sanji rolls his eyes, settling back into his chair.
“Go away.”
It’s quiet for a moment, the floorboards creaking under the old man’s weight. “Suit yourself, brat. Figured you’d fancy helping me in the kitchen but if you’d rather throw a tantrum then you can just stay in there.”
Sanji all but flies out of his seat, swinging open the door and looking right up at Zeff, whose face appears as smug as it’s deep creases can manage.
“I wasn’t throwing a tantrum,” he says. “And even if I was, Patty throws tantrums all the time and you never kick him out of the kitchen.”
Zeff peers down at him through the stiff plaits of his moustache. “Patty has grown-up tantrums. He doesn’t get in the way.”
“I’m basically a grown up.”
“Fuck sake,” Zeff snorts. “You’re about as much a grown up as I am the next King of the Pirates.” Amused eyes flicker behind him then, to the crumpled paper abandoned on his desk. “What’s that?”
Sanji’s face flames beet red. “Nothing.”
Zeff quirks a brow. “Looks like somethin.”
Sanji pushes at the old geezer until he backs up enough to shut his door behind him. He hopes Zeff doesn’t question him further. It isn’t often that Zeff offhandedly invites him to help, and he doesn’t want to ruin this opportunity by arguing with him over what he was doing in an effort to prove his maturity.
“What are we making? Let’s go.”
Zeff, thankfully, doesn’t pry. “Don’t know when the kitchen will next be free like this. Thought we’d do a batch of Christmas cookies while we’ve got the time.”
“Oh.” Sanji’s curly brows narrow. “But there’s no cookies on the menu?”
“They ain’t for the menu, eggplant,” Zeff grumbles. “They’re for Santa.”
Sanji stops, making little fists at his sides. So Zeff’s in on it now too? “I told you all already. I don’t believe in Santa.”
Zeff sniffs as they come into the kitchen, lights humming to life. The Christmas lights in the dining room have been left on for the night, and while there’s no one inside to appreciate them, Sanji can see their warm glow through the kitchen doors’ porthole. “Well, if you’re right and no one comes on Christmas Eve, we’ll have cookies to eat in the morning,” he says plainly. Sanji blinks at him, watching as Zeff fetches his apron and tosses a random one at Sanji that’s miles too big for him. He needs to loop the strings around his waist a few times before he can tie it closed. Sanji might be imagining it but Zeff seems to have softened a little bit with the holiday in a way that he never expected. Not that he’s not still a grouchy old bastard. It’s just. Different. It reminds him that for all that they’ve opened up this restaurant together and trauma bonded over their time on the rock, Sanji hasn’t actually known the ex-pirate for that long. It feels like longer. The Baratie feels like more of a constant than the Orbit ever did.
“Right. Ingredients.”
Sanji gets the butter, then flour and the cinnamon out of the pantry. He nearly sweeps a shelf trying to reach the brown sugar, and that’s something that he won’t mention to Zeff, unwilling to tell him anything that might reinforce the stupid idea that Sanji is too small or too untrustworthy to be allowed in the kitchen. Zeff has grabbed most of the equipment by the time he comes back. They mix the butter and the sugar, add some eggs and some honey, and fold the flour into the wet mixture. It’s an easy enough recipe to follow. They roll out the dough and cut it into stars and candy canes and other seasonal shapes.
It’s been a quiet endeavour, this impromptu baking session. Sanji can’t still be mad about the kitchen when he’s in it now, and Zeff hasn’t had too much to say either. It’s given Sanji time to mull it over.
“Why?”
“I ain’t a mind reader, eggplant,” Zeff scoffs, slotting the tray of cookies into the oven. Ten minutes and the smell of cinnamon and baked sugar will flood the kitchen. “Why what?”
“Why are we making cookies for Santa?”
Zeff shrugs in that way he does. Sanji has noticed that he does it whenever he asks him questions that he can’t be bothered to give him a reply to (parring him off, as Zeff calls it) or if he doesn’t have an immediate answer. It’s a different kind of honesty, one that’s harsh but sometimes refreshing. You’re such an old man, shouldn’t you know everything? Sanji had mocked him after the first few times. Know more than you, Zeff had quipped back, and Sanji had scuttled off before he had the chance to reinforce that lesson with a newly familiar kick.
“So he can eat ‘em,” Zeff says. “Reckon flying all over the place is hungry work, and no one leaves Baratie hungry, do they?”
Sanji nods gravely, eyes on the closed door of the oven. “No.”
“You gotta leave a drink out for him too,” Zeff tells him. “Something to go with the cookies. Think a glass of red will do nicely.”
Sanji frowns. None of the stories he had read in the bookstore had mentioned that part. “Red wine?”
“Aye. I know just the one too.” Zeff is twisting his moustache again. “Déesse. Got a few bottles when we stocked up the other day.”
Sanji makes a face. “That’s the wine that you like, geezer.”
“Think Santa can’t like it too? It’s a good wine. That magic bastard should be grateful he gets the chance to try something so gourmet.”
The cookies finish baking shortly after. They ice them together, and Zeff tells Sanji to choose a few to refrigerate for Santa, wanting to wrap the others and leave them out for the staff.
Sanji takes one, the biscuit soft, the icing sweet.
“Good?”
He nods. Just because it was simple to make doesn’t mean it can’t taste really good.
“Not long left til Christmas,” Zeff remarks after they’ve tidied up, dishes done and kitchen officially closed for the evening. “You asked for anything?”
Sanji wilts, partly in embarrassment. It feels a little strange to admit despite recently learning about Santa’s existence and his adamance that he doesn’t believe in the guy. “No.”
Zeff harrumphs. “First kid I’ve ever heard of not to want for something.”
Sanji’s leg comes up quick, the sole of his shoe slamming into Zeff’s back hard, just the way he taught him. Zeff barely moves beyond readjusting his balance, whipping around to pin him with a pissed off stare. Sanji isn’t afraid of him though, and he’s getting pissed off himself. How many times does he need to tell the shit-geezer? “I’m not a kid!”
“You’re a little brat, is what you are. A pain in my ass.”
“Too bad.” Sanji twists his face up, as mocking as he can. “You need me here to help you run the place.”
“What I need is a cook who will do as they’re told, not a little brat pushing me into an early retirement. I swear, sometimes I wish I never came across your shitty little cruise ship in the first place.”
Sanji’s retort dies on his tongue, as does his steps, stopping just outside his bedroom door. Ouch. Zeff, as dense and hard headed as the man can be, seems as surprised by his own words as Sanji feels about his reaction to them.
“Do you mean that?” Sanji can’t help but ask him. He doesn’t intend for his voice to sound so small.
Zeff sighs, scrubbing at his face with weathered hands. “No, eggplant. I didn’t mean that at all.”
It’s awkward then. They stand in the hallway in almost silence, the ship creaking as the waves rock them, unable to meet the others eyes. A horrible writhing coldness had slithered into the gaps inside of him, but it’s gone now, replaced by something he’s never felt before. Something warm and heavy and as cloying as dripping molasses.
“Right.” It’s Zeff who breaks it. “I’m going to bed before Christmas actually comes early. Go to sleep, Sanji. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right.” Sanji nods. “Okay then.”
He goes into his room, standing there with his back against the door, trying to process the stifling way that he’s feeling. What is this? It’s uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity but not bad, just… new. Zeff took back what he said and Sanji finds that he doesn’t feel bad in himself at all.
He waits until he’s sure that everyone has fallen asleep before plodding to the bathroom to wash up for the night, noticing that there’s flour on his face and in his hair somehow too.
He heads back to his room and climbs into bed, getting comfy. The sea is calm. He looks back to his desk, to the crumpled paper he left sitting there when Zeff knocked. There is something that Sanji wants. It isn’t something that he can ask for, and he doesn’t want it just for Christmas. He wants it forever. It isn’t something that he thinks Santa will be able to bring him.
*Christmas Day*
Zeff isn’t a panicking sort of man.
It’s early. Later than normal - there’s no lunch service today, but dinner is booked out and he’s expecting them to be swamped - but still early. Sanji has yet to come out of his bedroom. Zeff is dressed in his chef whites, as are the other cooks, and he’d told the eggplant last night that Santa wouldn’t come at all if he didn’t go to sleep and stay asleep right away.
“If he’s even real,” Sanji had said, as if he had it all figured out, “how am I supposed to know that he came if I don’t see him for myself?”
“No one sees him, idiot,” Patty had said. “That’s the whole point of the thing.”
“You’ll know he’s come if in the morning the cookies and the wine are gone,” Carne had told him. Sanji hadn’t look convinced, though he’d gone to bed all the same. Zeff had made sure the little shit was well asleep before creeping into the dining room with the two stooges to clear the plate and down the wine himself.
And he isn’t panicked, just unsure of how the boy is going to react to the gift waiting for him when he gets up.
“He never wrote a list?” Patty confirms. Zeff nods. “Shit. Guess he really didn’t believe me.”
“Don’t matter,” Carne says. “Just means we don’t have to keep playing along with this shit for the next few years.”
The door groans open then, a mess of blond hair poking through it, rubbing at his tired eyes. He looks like a kid for all of two seconds before he notices the three of them crowded in the hallway, immediately on the defence.
“Guess who visited last night, little brat?”
Sanji drops his hands and looks up at them. There’s still some innocence in him, Zeff sees it in the way his eyes narrow, unsure if he should get his hopes up. He doesn’t know what the boy went through before they ended up together. Frankly, Zeff doesn’t care to know. There’s nothing anyone can change about the past but he infers that it hasn’t always been good from the way that Sanji reacts to things, always so quick to defend himself. Life isn’t kind, not to a lot of people, and it doesn’t discriminate when it comes to cheeky little shits like the one that came bitching and swearing into his life.
“Go in the dining room,” Patty says. “See for yourself.”
Hesitantly, Sanji creeps out.
He walks through the kitchen, hears Zeff and Patty and Carne following behind him. The floor is cold and the main lights have been turned on in both the kitchen and the front of house. The doors are already fixed open. He sees the tree, though there aren’t any presents under it, and on the table closest to it he sees a plate speckled with cookie crumbs and the empty glass of red wine. There’s a closed box there too, though it isn’t wrapped. It’s plain white, like a large shoebox.
“Huh,” he says. Patty and Carne snicker to each other behind him.
“You never wrote a list, looks like,” Zeff says. “Santa wouldn’t have known what to get you.”
Sanji approaches the box curiously, eager to pull off the lid and see what’s inside. It doesn’t matter that it’s not from Santa. It’s the first present that he’s ever received! He hooks his fingers under the lid and lifts it off, gasping at what he sees sitting there, just for him.
It’s a chefs apron. It’s clean and new and he lifts it out of the box and sees that it’s been customised to his size, that he won’t have to tie the waist over and over again to make it fit.
“Thought it was about time you had a proper one,” Zeff says stiffly. Sanji can’t take his eyes off it. There’s even a little embroidery on the waist, a real one like what all the other chefs have on theirs. Eggplant, it says in small, cursive thread. Sanji scoffs, but it’s a happy sound.
“Course it’s about time,” Sanji says. He’s gonna be ten in a few months, and there’s still so much to learn! “Been telling you that forever crap-geezer.”
Patty comes to stand beside him, giant hand ruffling his hair to the point that he can no longer see through it. Sanji kicks up a fuss and swerves away, still holding his new apron close, unfazed by all the teasing due to his happy mood. “Bad luck about Santa though, brat. Seems you really screwed it by not writing a Christmas list.”
“I did write a list,” he says.
The pause that follows is as loaded as a canon. “What?”
“Are you stupid? I wrote a list, I just never told you bozos what was on it. It was the only way to find out for sure if you were lying or not.”
Sanji folds his apron carefully, placing it neatly back in the box while Patty and Carne gape at each other. He laughs then, it feels good to have the upper hand for once. To be the one to have put that look on their faces for a change.
“So?” Zeff is standing with his arms folded, face grumpy as always. “What did you find out?”
Sanji picks up his box, turning his back on the tree to face them. They’re waiting so expectantly. He can’t help but to smile.
“Well?”
Sanji sticks his tongue out childishly. “I’m not telling you!”
“Hey!” Patty squawks, flipping him off as Sanji laughs and passes them to go back to his bedroom. He needs to get ready for the day to start, eager to be the first one in the kitchen. They’re gonna be busy!
Zeff gives both Patty and Carne a shove down the hallway with his foot. “Quit yapping and start getting ready for the dinner service. We’re gonna be rushed off our feet today and I ain’t got time for whining.“
Sanji shuts his door, leaving the sound of the scuffling behind him. He sets the box on his desk and pulls the apron out again, laying it on his bed before pulling out the rest of his clothes to get ready for the day. There must be some magic to the season after all. He’s got exactly what he wants without even asking for it, his Christmas list abandoned and crumpled in the waste bin by his desk chair. He had written a single word on it before he started to feel stupid and had thrown it away. Who could have guessed that it would turn out not to matter after all.
This time last year, Sanji was sat in the empty dining room of the Orbit, playing card games and talking shit and waiting for Christmas to come to an end. His situation now couldn’t be more different.
The Baratie is unconventional and imperfect. But so is he. And it’s the only real family that he’s ever had.