Special Soup
Hi OP_300. You probably don't remember me but I wrote you a thing.
Title: Chicken Soup
Rating: G
Media: fic
Pairing/Characters: Zeff and Sanji
Word Count: 285
Prompt: Special
“Mama’s Special Soup.”
That’s what the brat had called the recipe, reciting it to himself on that rock. Said he had lost the paper it was written on in the storm, and he didn’t want to forget it. So he repeated it to himself dutifully every few hours.
Where’d he learn it? “Mom taught it to me.” Zeff had grunted and asked no more questions about it.
The recipe was written down now, tucked away in one of the many recipe books in the Baratie’s kitchen. In the hustle and bustle of those opening weeks, it had stayed there, all but forgotten.
But tonight… tonight was going to be a bad night. Zeff could always tell. The eggplant would get withdrawn, would overstuff himself at meals, would steal away food again, to put in his hiding place.
And at about midnight, he would come into the kitchen, half crazed and looking for something, anything, to calm the phantom gnawing in his stomach.
“What are you doing up, eggplant?”
He stopped in the doorway, looking guilty. “I was, uh… just going to do inventory for tomorrow?”
“Like hell you were.” He ladled out a bowl of the soup he had simmering and set it at the end of the counter. The kid didn’t move from the door, and he snapped impatiently, “Well?”
He skittered over and climbed on the stool, took a bite. His eyes lit up instantly, and not just because it was delicious.
“This is…”
“Chicken, carrots, celery, onions, and a little dash of spices from North Blue. Did I get all the ingredients, eggplant?”
“Yeah.” His lips turned up around his spoon. “All of them.”
It wasn’t such a bad night after all.
Title: Chicken Soup
Rating: G
Media: fic
Pairing/Characters: Zeff and Sanji
Word Count: 285
Prompt: Special
“Mama’s Special Soup.”
That’s what the brat had called the recipe, reciting it to himself on that rock. Said he had lost the paper it was written on in the storm, and he didn’t want to forget it. So he repeated it to himself dutifully every few hours.
Where’d he learn it? “Mom taught it to me.” Zeff had grunted and asked no more questions about it.
The recipe was written down now, tucked away in one of the many recipe books in the Baratie’s kitchen. In the hustle and bustle of those opening weeks, it had stayed there, all but forgotten.
But tonight… tonight was going to be a bad night. Zeff could always tell. The eggplant would get withdrawn, would overstuff himself at meals, would steal away food again, to put in his hiding place.
And at about midnight, he would come into the kitchen, half crazed and looking for something, anything, to calm the phantom gnawing in his stomach.
“What are you doing up, eggplant?”
He stopped in the doorway, looking guilty. “I was, uh… just going to do inventory for tomorrow?”
“Like hell you were.” He ladled out a bowl of the soup he had simmering and set it at the end of the counter. The kid didn’t move from the door, and he snapped impatiently, “Well?”
He skittered over and climbed on the stool, took a bite. His eyes lit up instantly, and not just because it was delicious.
“This is…”
“Chicken, carrots, celery, onions, and a little dash of spices from North Blue. Did I get all the ingredients, eggplant?”
“Yeah.” His lips turned up around his spoon. “All of them.”
It wasn’t such a bad night after all.