Archive of Our Own

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Everyone knew the kid was weird. They all had their own theories about why.

Some insisted kids are just like that.

Others said he had to be under some sort of curse.

More thought he must be some sort of faerie.

The most common theory was that he was a changeling, but even that group was split.

Some of them weaved a tragic tale about a poor child being given just enough time to adopt his twin's face before being abandoned by his human parents, at which point the boss found the poor thing and took pity.

And the rest claimed that Owner Zeff had once had a son who had ended up with a fae twin, only for the human to die tragically young.

They'd probably never know the whole truth, the kid certainly wasn't talking.

Regardless they all agreed on one thing. The kid was weird, but he was theirs.

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The kid didn't bleed.

They'd all seen it, he'd been cutting carrots when his knife slipped, and his index finger came clean off.

There was no blood, there was no cries of pain, he simply stared at the severed finger with an unnervingly blank expression. 

Someone worked up the nerve to ask him if he was okay, if that hurt him.

He'd nodded slowly “hurts a lot...” he'd said quietly, expression still blank. 

No one knew what to do. Especially when their weird kid popped the severed finger in his mouth and went back to work like nothing was wrong at all.

A week later someone else cut their hand while chopping vegetables and swore up a storm while the kid watched, an intense curiosity on his face.

The next time he had a cut he swore and screamed just the same.

One day the kid came up to them with a burnt hand, charred black on the palm, asking if he should scream about this injury too. 

“You don't need my permission kid.” someone said, and with a nod, their little sous chef ran back to the stove and started to scream once more.

Probably best not to tell Zeff about that one. It was back to normal within the hour.

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The kid was a scrawny little thing.

He often refused food, which made them worry even more.

They all knew he and the boss went through something awful together, when the first of them were hired Chef Zeff looked just as thin and sickly. But it had been a long time since then, and the kid still looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over. 

He had an awful habit of refusing meals and snacks with a guilty expression, it didn't take long to figure out he was worried about everyone else running out.

The only meals he would consistently eat were breakfasts with the boss. Zeff insisted and the kid would always eventually relent. 

Aside from the mornings, the closest any of the chefs ever got to seeing the kid eating was when they caught him chewing on the ends of wooden spoons as he worked.

They couldn't exactly judge, Carne had accidentally chewed off the end of a pen last week.

But stranger still were the days when he wasn't so scrawny. 

He'd arrive on the floor some mornings looking plump and healthy, clothes no longer sagging, looking quite proud of himself.

But as the day went on their strange strange kid would grow thinner and thinner, until he was their familiar little twig again.

“Kids his age have high metabolisms” someone reasoned. “They're just like this sometimes.”

Best not to think too hard when it came to the kid. 

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The kid had an awful habit of disappearing sometimes.

It had been a simple little mistake. No one realized the kid was still in the freezer, and someone closed the propped open door as they walked by.

It wasn't long before they heard the door handle rattling, followed by screaming, and frantic banging on the door.

The door was jammed shut.

It took half a dozen of them to pry it open, the cries growing quieter and quieter as they went.

The poor thing begged and pleaded, “I'll be good! I'll do better! Just don't leave me alone!” He cried, screams fading into sobs, into sniffles, into nothing. 

They all feared the worst.

The door finally swung open, making a loud BANG as it collided with the wall. But the kid, their little twig, was nowhere to be seen. A far cry from the frozen body they'd been expecting to find, but certainly just as concerning.

They tore the place apart, searching every nook and cranny for their boy.

The commotion eventually attracted Owner Zeff, and before anyone could explain themselves, he scanned the shelves, eyes landing on a single crate, then he picked it up and walked away.

“He'll turn up eventually!” He shouted back at them as he left “Just get back to work!”

Sure enough, he reappeared the next day, good as new, if not a little stiff.

They were all more careful around the freezer after that.

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The kid was pretty weird about being touched.

If you attempted to pat his shoulder or pick him up or anything like that he'd dodge it every single time, and give you a real earful about it too.

There was always a split second where he looked afraid, before he burst into insults and swears.

Naturally they assumed the kid was afraid of being hit. They all knew by now he'd come from somewhere terrible, it'd explain a lot about their poor little twig. So they stopped pushing the issue.

That is, until they found an exception.

Whenever Chef Zeff ruffled his hair, the kid would absolutely melt.

In fact, the kid seemed to seek that sort of affection out, headbutting him like a cat until the boss relented, or shoving his little head under a free hand to get the headpats he craved.

Needless to say the other chefs were endlessly jealous. 

It drove them all wild until one day Patty ruffled his hair to congratulate him on a particularly well done tray of pastries, and he practically turned into a puddle.

After that they realized the kid would accept a headpat from anyone, not just the boss, as long as you didn't draw attention to it out loud, he was a proud little thing after all. 

As the years went on and their little sous chef became not so little anymore, he never quite grew out of that little quirk. He still turned to mush whenever someone ruffled his hair, only now he found the whole ordeal so embarrassing he shouted at anyone who tried.

But even then, there were still those rare nights when he'd come stumbling down the stairs on poker night, heading to the kitchen to cook away a lingering nightmare. And on those nights they'd soon find him with his head buried in Zeff's shoulder, a comforting hand on his head.

They all pretended not to hear the muffled “thanks dad”.