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It was early morning—no longer Christmas Eve, except in spirit—when Zeff ever so slowly opened the door to Sanji’s quarters. He couldn’t remember if this particular door creaked or not, but it was a safe bet something might stir the little eggplant awake. For all his personality and size, Zeff wasn’t prone to subtle movements, and possessing one good leg certainly didn’t help. He tried to move carefully, watching his step, a wrapped gift secure in one hand.
Despite his best efforts, the fact was Sanji had never been a sound sleeper. The slight knocking of Zeff’s peg leg on the floorboards made his eyes flutter open and land on the looming silhouette before him. Sanji gasped, startled, but quickly registered the familiar presence and relaxed beneath his blankets.
“Zeff?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing an eye sleepily.
Zeff pulled back from the nightstand.
“No, it’s, uh—” He tried to strike a pose, arms outstretched. “It’s Santa!” He put on an ambiguous accent: something deeper than his own voice, and aimed for jolly.
Judging by the way Sanji blinked blearily at him, he didn't succeed. Still waking up, he took in the red robe (missing Santa’s white fringe), the quintessential hat, the fluffy white beard secured by straps over his ears. Confusion scrunched Sanji’s features, then he scoffed.
“You didn’t even hide your mustache, you big dummy.”
The peg leg lashed out, Zeff bonking him on the head with it. “Don’t call Santa a dummy, you ungrateful brat!”
Sanji’s hands flew to his head, shielding it. “Ow! Hey—!” He glared, indignant. “Pretty sure Santa doesn’t beat up kids! And I don’t believe in him, anyway! What do you think I am, five?”
Zeff muttered darkly to himself. “Couldn’t let an old man have this, could you?” So much for the magic of Christmas. He took the hat off— “Fine.” And plopped it on Sanji’s head. The boy straightened it, staring at him quizzically. “Merry Christmas from Red Leg Santa, you miserable little eggplant.”
“Huh?” Looking around now for the context, Sanji’s eyes landed on his nightstand, noticing the present sitting there for the first time. His hands lifted away from the hat. “Oh...”
He didn’t move.
A hint of amusement reached Zeff’s eyes, watching his reaction. “Don’t ‘oh’ me.” He gestured at the box. “It was gonna be a surprise for the morning, but you might as well open it now.”
Sanji eyed him, his mouth ajar. Clearly something was not computing, but finally, he leaned forward and grabbed the present, bringing it over into his lap. It even said ‘From Santa, To Sanji’ in Zeff’s busy handwriting, but the boy didn’t comment on the ridiculousness this time.
He undid the red satin bow on top, letting it fall loose, and gingerly opened the matching red wrapping, finding where the folds were taped down. He pulled its contents from the sheath, revealing a slim wooden box. He found the latch in front, undid it, and lifted the lid.
Sanji froze, his intake of breath the only sound in the room.
Inside, a black velvet inlay held a set of three brand new kitchen knives. Sanji recognized them instantly: a nikari knife, chef knife, and santoku knife. All were stainless steel with dark rosewood handles, the perfect size for his small hands.
You would think Zeff had gifted the boy more than just utilitarian items, based on the way his face glowed with appreciation. He looked up at Zeff, eyes big as saucers.
“Really?” he asked in disbelief.
Zeff put his hands on his waist, the smile finally materializing, crooked and proud. “You’re gonna be my sous chef, aren’t you?” Sanji’s mouth trembled at the rhetorical question. “It’s past time you had your own set.” The boy had more than earned it in hours spent chopping and dicing and scarring his fingertips. Zeff had noticed how he always took excellent care of the knives at Baratie, keeping the flats unsmudged and the edges sharp.
Sanji looked down at his present, overcome with emotion. Zeff couldn’t know how the gesture flooded the young cook with gratitude.
And shame.
Tears welled up in Sanji’s eyes, leaking down his cheeks before he could stop them. He sniffed.
“Th—thank you,” he said, wiping the tears away and making sure to look Zeff in the eye.
Zeff’s smile softened an inch, his eyes crinkling back at him. Then he huffed. “Don’t thank me. I’m just making sure you have what you need to keep the line running smooth.”
His gaze falling to his lap, Sanji set the box aside and suddenly sprung to his feet, racing over and tackling Zeff around the middle in a fierce hug.
The old man stilled, not sure for a moment what to do (or when he was last hugged), but then he chuckled under his breath, setting a hand on the Santa hat that had managed to hang on. “There, there. You don’t need to make a whole show of it.” Sanji just looked up at him with a tear-streaked face, his lips pressed firmly together in an attempt to stem the flow.
“Get back to bed now,” Zeff told him, not unkindly. “You can try ‘em out in the morning when we make cream stew for Christmas.”
Sanji nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He released his hold on Zeff and stepped back, took the box, and returned it to his nightstand, moving the wrapping paper and ribbon to the floor. He took the Santa hat off and turned to Zeff, uncertain.
Zeff smirked and lifted a hand, palm out. “Keep it,” he said. “I’m sure it looks better on you anyway.”
Sanji smiled and folded it in thirds, laying it lovingly atop his present. After pulling his blankets back and settling in, he mumbled, “Sorry I called you a big dummy.”
“No, you’re not,” Zeff replied fondly. He made for the door, looking back as he took the handle. “‘Night, little eggplant.” And left his young sous chef to stir in restless excitement until dreams returned.