Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

„Ready... Set... Go!“

The wooden barrier in front of Clara was lifted in an instant, revealing a narrow track. Her little feet jumped at the sudden change and she almost tripped over herself starting to run, but managed to stay on track, just barely. The whole thing had only just begun, and already she was falling behind. Clara cursed under her breath. Although it was a long standing tradition in her family and most of the other rats – especially Raterina – treasured these races and seemed to take great pleasure in them, Clara dreamed of something more, something meaningful.

“Great race, Clara! You scored even better than last time! If you keep training like that you'll be scoring wins in no time!” her best friend Notkin greeted her. That was quite the generous assessment of him considering last time was one where she barely even made it to the finish line due to being pushed to the side by the crowd of rats.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, “But to be honest... these aren't really my thing.”

“What? But how could they not be?” he asked, his tone somewhere between shocked and accusing.

Clara looked down. Her ears sloped as she held her tail in her hands. “I don't know. Don't you ever feel like you were made for something... bigger?”

“Not really, I mean we're pretty tiny, all things considered,” he shrugged, “Like what?”

“Like the act of creation! Taking plain ingredients and transforming them into something truly transcendent. Pure divinity.”

“You mean food? But we already have plenty right here.”

Notkin gestured to the pile of supplies they had scavenged and put together for everyone. Instinctively, Clara wrinkled her nose. Sure, everything she saw in front of her was perfectly edible for a rat – old cheese, burnt toast, even a few moldy strawberries – but they were all pretty... distasteful.

“This is the kind of food we survive on – I want to cook food we will thrive on!”

When Notkin still looked confused, Clara looked around. Several other rats were not so subtly looking in their direction. She lowered her voice. “Meet me later, when everyone's asleep. I've got something to show you.”

Sneaking past Raterina was easy enough. She was the leader of their clan and generally kept a strict hold on her followers. Clara she she would never approve of what they were doing here. Raterina was of the belief that all humans were creatures of evil and sin and should be punished for their crimes. If Clara suggested that there was anything admirable about them, anything worth learning from, she knew, Raterina would never have listened. But the older rat was a heavy sleeper and Clara never had any trouble evading her in the past. Even together with Notkin it was an easy feat.

The two friends travelled along the town, past the warehouses where they lived into the center of it. Finally, Clara stopped on a rooftop.

“Are we there yet?” Notkin asks her.

“Yes, look!” Clara pointed to the building opposite of them. From here, they had a perfect view. A flat, wide building, clearly constructed for sturdiness and longevity as well as aesthetics. In the center of it, there was a huge sign of a bald man in an apron, holding a kitchen knife. Although most other rats couldn't read, Clara had taught herself how to. And so, after a few moments, she read the sign out loud to Notkin.

“The Lump – Big Vlad's Food Emporium,” she read, giving Notkin a huge grin,” It's the best restaurant in Town-on-Gorkhon. They're most famous for their steaks, but they serve all kinds of different dishes!”

“Hm... it looks well-protected. Are you sure we won't get caught if we sneak in?”

“To be unseen is to remain unexpected. As long we we keep this in mind, no door nor guard can hold us.”

Notkin blinked at her.

“I've done it plenty of times. Come on! We'll be fine!”

Chapter Text

From the back the place looked much less fancy and intimidating to Bad Grief. These back entrances in city alleyways, he was familiar with. That, he could do. Standing in front of the metal door, Grief could almost forget about that whole star business.

He knocked.

Not even a second passed as the door was opened in his face. Bad Grief stepped back to avoid the impact and did his best to make the slight stumble look natural. In front of him stood a short, thin man who looked to be in his mid-forties. He had severe cheekbones, bushy eyebrows and was examining him with an expression that could only be described as calculating.

“Ah, finally. We've been expecting you. I'm your boss – Sous Chef Saburov. Late on the first day – you know I expected better from you of all people.”

Bad Grief glanced at his clock and frowned. “I thought I was supposed to arrive at six.”

“Everyone in the industry knows that you always arrive half an hour early to prepare the kitchen! Don't you know anything about how this works?” Before Grief could give any kind of intelligent reply, the other man simply continued on. “No matter. Come in, we need to get you up to speed. Here, put this on!”

As he was dragged inside, the man – Saburov – handed him an apron and a white chef's hat. Quickly, he scrambled to put it on. As soon as he tied the last knot, he was pushed forward, not even giving him time to take in his surroundings.

“Here!” Saburov exclaimed, “Chef Rubin will show you how things work around here. Now get to it! Oh, and welcome to our humble kitchen!”

“Thanks, boss...” he mumbled. But Saburov had already disappeared again. Instead, he was faced with an enormous man, staring down at him. For some reason, he already looked angry at him.

“So you are Grigory Filin,” his voice was deep and smooth.

“Bad Grief.”

“What?”

“That's my D.J. name.”

The giant wrinkled his nose at him, almost as though he was smelling something rancid. And alright, maybe this exact introduction wasn't the best thing to go with when he was trying to stand out in a professional environment. At the same time... he also couldn't deny that it was important to him. The name was part of his identity.

“Do you want me to call you that?” Rubin asked.

“I- yes.”

“Alright, Bad Grief. Here's what you need to know. This kitchen is a well-oiled machine, every single chef must work together in perfect sync to ensure that all meals that go through that door are absolutely flawless. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“There are six other chefs in here,”Rubin stepped to the side of him so that he could point them out to him. The first person he saw as he followed Rubin's faze was another large man, this one even taller than Rubin himself – something Grief wouldn't have thought possible just a moment earlier – who was sharpening a large knife. “This is Chef Oyun, he's our expert when it comes to any kind of steak. He could serve you up a perfect medium rare in his sleep.”

The next person he pointed out was a middle-aged woman with a blonde pixie cut. She didn't notice the sudden attention as she was carefully scrutinizing a glass full of an unfamiliar liquid. “Chef Luyicheva used to be a successful scientist in the Capital before she quit and came to work here. No recipes are more precise than hers.”

For the next person, Rubin stepped even closet to him and lowered his voice. Grief could feel the man's apron brushing against his arm. “Don't cross, Chef Ravel,” Rubin whispered. In response, Grief only revised a brow and turned to see who he even meant. It was a small woman with her dark hair tied up in a loose bun. Just from the way she was standing, he could tell that there was a lot of tension pent up in her shoulders. At the moment, she was occupied by stretching out a piece of dough with a rolling pin. “She's hiding from the government. We have no idea what she's wanted for. Every time someone asks her, she tells a different story.”

Apparently, even Rubin's whisper wasn't enough to escape Chef Ravel's keen ears because as soon as he finished speaking the woman's head turned toward them in a jolt.

“I personally assassinated a military General,” she said, her voice deadpan, her arms still in the motion of rolling out the dough. Before he could react, she had already turned away from them again.

There was an awkward pause before Rubin simply continued with his introductions.

“Nobody knows herbs and spices better than Chef Aspity. It's more than just education and knowledge that they use but an intimate understanding of combination of flavors. They are a true auteur when it comes to spice mixes.”

Grief smiles, a weight of relief lifting from his shoulders at hearing how easily and naturally the introduction had come from his lips. The person in question – Chef Aspity – was a small person with deep, brown skin and short hair. They were holding a mortar and pestle, in the process of grinding down some sort of seed.

“You won't get a better specialist on desserts than Conditeur Angel. She's a master of her craft,” it was another blonde woman. At the moment she was piping what looked like buttercream on top of an array of perfectly arranged cupcakes. “However, you should be careful never to sneak up on her or touch her without permission.”

Bad Grief nodded, still trying to sort out all of the new names and faces in his head. Then, Rubin's stance shifted. He looked down at him, his arms crossed.

“And then, there's me. I worked and studied for years under the watchful eye of my mentor – the famous chef Isidor Burakh and transferred here after his death with the highest recommendation. I dedicated my life to perfecting this craft. And you...” he narrowed his eyes at him. Bad Grief gulped, “Have you ever made a beef ragout?”

“Of course!” he lied.

“Good,” Rubin grunted, “Get started, then.”

Chapter Text

This, Clara decided, was just too painful to witness. This poor fool had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and it showed. She winced to herself even at the way he was cutting the meat and attempted to measure it. At least the man had enough sense to add the proper amount of oil in the process without burning himself. However, the last straw for her came when he reached for the spiced.

Absolutely not. 

"What are you doing?" Notkin hissed at her. Clara paid him no heed as she ran past, right up to that big idiot's cooking station. She had a singular purpose: to save this poor ragout of the evil clutches of that foul villain!

The little rat was so focused on this task, in fact, that she failed to notice her surroundings at all, or really pay attention to anything other than the dish itself, smelling and cutting and stirring whenever that failed chef's back was turned. And so, when out of nowhere, she was grabbed and picked up by her tail, just as she was in the process of adding the perfect amount of olive oil, there was truly no way for her to anticipate it. 

"What the fuck?" the man squealed. Clara struggled in his grip, trying to raise her head high enough to defend herself. 

"Bad Grief? What is this?"

In one dizzying motion, Clara was suddenly enveloped by darkness. Her little heart started racing as she scratched and struggled against her captor. To no avail. 

"Nothing, Chef! Just the ragout, Chef!"

Now, she perked up again, stopping her attack almost on instinct. This was the moment she's been waiting for. Clara had to hear for herself just what she was capable of creating.

"This is..." a pause, an intake of breath, her captor's hand sweating against her fur, "Wait here."

Footsteps. The shuffling of cloth. The grip around her body tightened ever so slightly. Moments stretched out into infinity. 

"So this is what you brought me here for? Hm, I sure hope you aren't wasting my time, Rubin."

That was a voice Clara couldn't immediately place. It sounded older and had a somewhat rougher edge to it. Moments passed as there was even more shuffling. 

"This..." there was another pregnant pause. Clara was just as nervous as the person who was holding her. "Dear God - This is marvelous!"

"Right?", the other, deeper voice chimed in again, "It's the most delicious beef ragout I have ever tasted in my life!"

"R-really?"

The man holding her finally loosened his grip on her body. Immediately, Clara slipped away, ran down the back of the man's leg, and rushed to hide between two of the counters, still close enough to listen in on the conversation.

Chapter Text

There was an overwhelming and nauseating buzzing permeating Bad Grief's head - and not in a good way. What - and he couldn't stress this enough - the ever-loving fuck was going on in this kitchen? Was he high? Was he dreaming? Was he going completely fucking insane? Did a fucking rat really just prepare the best ragout this... master chef ever tasted for him?

The rat! Shit!

Frantically, he started tapping his pockets. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It was gone! What was he gonna do now? He didn't know how to cook! He was completely fucked! Or maybe this was a fever dream, after all...

If there was one upside to this complete rollercoaster of a day, it was that he wasn't expected to make anything else for the rest of the day. Apparently, this one test of aptitude was enough for now. But Grief wasn't stupid, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself afloat on one miracle ragout alone - one that he had absolutely no idea how to recreate - not without help, at least...

This was completely crazy, but it was also his only choice. Even with this decision made, however, he still couldn't believe that he was actually doing this as he crouched outside the kitchen's back entrance, looking for tiny paw prints. 

"Hey, um... Chef rat?" he whispered out loud, feeling more stupid with every syllable. What if someone saw him out there? How the fuck was he going to explain what he was doing? He shook his head. He was buried too deeply in this already to back out now. Though there was no immediate reaction, he decided to try again. "Mr. Rat Cook? Uh... Sir Rat?"

"I'm a girl, actually."

Grief whirled around, his heart racing. The voice was small, squeaky, and once his eyes adjusted - indeed, there it was. A small rat. 

"You- you can talk?"

It - she - rolled her eyes at him. "I can also cook."

"Right..." he was tasting the word on his lips, still grappling with the fact that this was actually happening. 

"Better than you, by the way. Honestly, have you ever held a knife before in your life? How did they even let you into the kitchen?"

"You - you made the ragout, right?"

The rat raised a brow at him and gave him a look. Great, a small rodent was sassing him and treating him like he was stupid. Bad Grief guessed this was just his life now.

"Yes, obviously," she replied. 

"Can you teach me how you did it?"

The rat frowned. "And then what? You're just going to get rid of me? I think not," she crossed her front paws, "Besides, even if I taught you one recipe, that's still not going to make you survive that kitchen. You're a terrible cook, you know that, right?"

He winced. It was true, but...

"You can't just come in there and cook for me! You'll be caught, and then we'll both be thrown out!"

"But I need to cook! It's my calling!" she exclaimed, "And I'm good at it! I can cook gourmet food, just let me!"

"But you're a fucking rat!"

This time, she didn't reply, but the impact of his words was written clearly on her face. The poor thing looked just about ready to cry. Before he could say anything more, however, she already started running.

"Wait!" he used after her, panicking, "Wait, I'm sorry! Please!" he was rubbing out of breath now, "We can figure something out. Please. I apologize. Come back!"

The rat paused. Grief let out a breath of relief and let his arms rest on his knees. 

"You have to promise me," she finally said. 

"I promise. You'll get to cook and I'll protect you. We'll figure out a way to keep you out of sight, little Chef."

Now he gave her a small smile. On an impulse, he crouched down and held out his pinky finger so it was on eye level with her. "My name is Bad Grief."

The rat scrutinized him for a moment before she actually reached out to take his finger in her little paw. 

"I'm Clara."

And they shook on it.