A/N Here's another short one. I hope I can come up with something longer for my next fic, I feel like I'm cheating you guys by not giving you much to read. Well, I hope everyone enjoys it. Please review, I don't care whether it's flames or criticism, I just like hearing from readers.

Disclaimer: Boy, these get old. You'd think we'd all know by now that nobody owns anything.

It had long since fallen quiet in the tiny flat. It was dark as well, save for the flickering television and glow of the city from the window around the corner. Remy, the little chef, sat thoughtfully upon the chest of Alfredo Linguini, watching the human mutter in his sleep. It was taking some getting used to, the hanging out with humans thing. Every time that face turned toward him, the little rat had to fight down his instints to run. Seeing as it had been bred into him through generations of scavenging, it wasn't easy. This guy, though, this Linguini...it was different with him. It was getting easier. They were in this thing together.

Perhaps that's what was bothering Remy, keeping him perched silently on the gently moving chest. He had wanted this for so long...it was his chance to show his ability...somehow.

Remy frowned at himself. They would have to find a way to make this work. How could he cook through Linguini when there was virtually no communication between the two of them? He couldn't very well sit in plain sight, directing Linguini.

Giving a frustrated sigh, Remy turned and contemplated the television at the human's feet. A few minutes passed, but he soon managed to reduce the volume until it was barely audible. He didn't turn it off, though he probably should have. He knew these things require money to work. By the look of the little flat, Linguini didn't have much. Stil, he had left it on for himself, so he must not have minded.

Satisfied with the quiet that settled over the place, Remy began to make his way back across Linguini's legs, heading toward an arm that hung to the floor. As he was passing close to the boy's face he paused, looking up at it thoughtfully.

"Good grief, how old is this guy?" he wondered aloud. It had suddenly occured to him, now that he was really looking, how young he looked. Maybe he just had one of those "boyish faces" they talk about in books. Remy wasn't all that familiar with the life stages of humans, but the boy didn't look old enough to be on his own...maybe in his early twenties.

He had said he really needed this job at Gusteau's. He was depending on Remy to help him, to keep him in that kitchen. What if he let him down? Sure, he had fixed the soup, but could he do something like that again?

Was it a gift or was it just luck? He was a good cook, but that didn't mean that the customers would like it again.

No, surely that couldn't be it. He couldn't let doubt get into his head. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't let Linguini down.

Pushing all of that from his mind, Remy reached out, patting the boy gently on the cheek. Lunguini mumbled and a faint smile appeared on his face. Allowing himself a small grin, the rat continue down his sleeve to the floor.

He tried not to think about it anymore, but that little bit of doubt nagged at him all the way across the room, following after him as he picked his way around the floor and scaled the table next to the window. He worried a little that this feeling wouldn't leave him, but as he curled into his oven mitt and turned to the window, he saw Paris spread before him.

Not another thing troubled him all through the night.