Work Text:
The lights at the Fairfield Asylum were dim and flickering, sporadically lighting a can of beans held optimistically over a small and furtive cooking fire, constructed from sheets and one hidden lighter. The would-be chef struggled to stir the can, and as they scurried down from the pill bottle serving as a stool, their tiny claws clicked along the side.
Remy from Ratatouille scampered towards the pile of salt and pepper packets snuck in from the cafeteria, grabbing from each as well as a leaf of lettuce scrounged from the cafeteria. The soup was not going to be flawless, but passion and craft dictated that it at least consist of multiple ingredients. Tearing open the packets, Remy heaved the contents over the edge of the can, along with the single, wilting leaf.
Remy looked to the ceiling, where stars would be if he were outdoors. “I’ll find you, Linguini. I promise.”
But alas, this was a promise that the rat could not keep. The beans that sustained him were running low, and it was all Remy could do to not start gnawing on his own tail. He had to get out, but how? The only thing going in and out of the asylum was food for the patients. That was the answer. Escape is just like cooking; all you need is beef. Remy just might reunite with his lover Linguini after all.
He remembered when he first met Linguini outside the restaurant. Not long after he gave him the cheese (if you know what I mean), they walked together to the public park, to find a gas station.
“You still hungry?” Linguini asked that day, as they browsed the Paris gas station aisle, “I buy these crumble cookies every time I come here.”
If only he could eat them now, his stomach and heart would both be full, Linguini would be with him, and he would feel alive again.
The asylum walls felt like a cage, nothing like Linguini’s loving arms. If only they were together, Linguini made a very poggers baked bean, after all.
He remembered the day he and Linguini separated. It was a dark, stormy night, but otherwise pleasant all things considered. People are so judgemental of dark stormy nights— they always think something bad’s gonna happen because all those storytellers start their horror with that. So inconsiderate.
It was legitimately a bad night though. So maybe people are kinda right.
Remy was home from a long and tiresome day at his small cubicle office job, not in the mood to cook, but Linguini had insisted. And he would do anything for Linguini.
But that night, as Remy cooked the two of them mouthwatering beans, a fire had started and burned their home to the ground.
Linguini would never forgive him after that— after Remy’s carelessness.
But something other than guilt still gnawed at the rat’s heart, like a happy customer on a fresh pasta conchiglie. As they stood in the wreckage, the home they had built going up in flames, Remy made a heart-wrenching decision.
A rat always has a way out. Not so for a human.
Remy stood poised next to the hole of the tiny tunnel that could save him. But there were tears in his rat eyes as he looked back at Linguini, frozen by his love for the other chef. Would their combined dish ever sing with flavor again? Would Remy ever feel Linguini’s (permanently tousled but gorgeous) hair in his claws again? He felt it slipping away from him.
Linguini wasn’t facing him. He was looking out the window of their burning home.
“You have to go now, okay, Remy?”
“But I can’t leave you-”
“I’ll be okay. Find me in the future, little chef.”
Remy remembered the gut-turning feeling of Linguini gently nudging him into the hole, and blocking the entrance. He scratched and scratched, but nothing could help. He had to go.
The tunnel led to the asylum. But what tunnel could lead him to the love of his life?