La Humain-atouille

By: GyreGimble

(Ratatouille is © Disney and Pixar.)

(A/N: I loved how Ratatouille wasn't a classic fairytale and didn't have any big bursts of Bibbity-bobbity-boo magic. But, I wondered, what if it did? Hence, this story. And yes, it's not a very original title. I know that.)

A secret gets harder to keep, the bigger it gets.

And when you're the head chef of France's most popular bistro who just happens to be an animal, it's very, very hard to keep a secret.

We get people constantly asking to meet the chef who prepared their fantastic meal, and Linguini has to sit there, fumbling an apology.

"No, I-I-I'm sorry,madame, but the head chef doesn't like to be seen; i-i-it's complicated?"

And the person would give a slight, "Oh." And leave. Sure we see them again, but never with the same bright looks on their faces.

The only customer who knows is Anton Ego, of course. He's kept it a tight-lipped secret, and the man is much too prideful to back down on a promise. He is actually quite friendly to me; if he comes for dinner; he will wait until everyone leaves and head into the kitchen, saying a few polite words to me about the meal, or occasionally the weather.

I can only nod or shake my head. He doesn't understand me. I'd love to talk to him, to get into a deep debate about cooking.

I'm tired of having to point and squeak to be able to get something. I'm tired of having to use my paws to climb up a pot. A pot! It takes forever to make even soup!

I'm tired of being called "Little Chef". Though the nickname was cute and appropriate at first, it annoys on occasion. My name is Remy! I want to scream at the red-haired man, REHM-EE!

Alright, I'll admit it.

Now that my life dream of being a chef has completed now comes the dream I know I'll never win.

I want to be a human.

It's impossible, I know.

(Well, that's what they said about the chef thing, but at least I wasn't changing myspecies, was I?)

It's just a small thought in the back of my head, whispering softly at night when I lay by the now-very-spacious-window-since-Linguini-and-Colette-moved-into-a-bigger-apartment. It'll suddenly pop up as I contemplate what really big goal I could do. It's no fun just planning the next day's menu. I want to think about long-term dreams. And it'll suddenly say, "You want to be a human." In that deep voice I know too well.

"No, I don't." I say, faintly, and shut my eyes as if that would turn off my brain.

"You're just saying that because you're afraid that it won't come true."

"Because it won't. It's impossible."

And that's the end of those discussions.

It nagged me on and on, but only at night, I noticed. During the day, my mind was occupied with the culinary creations I was now famous for. (In the papers, I am called Le Chef de Mystère – an impressive sounding title, but so unfulfilling of the praise I crave) After a hard day's work, my mind too exhausted to hold back the ridiculous, wanders aimlessly. I would think of my family, sitting happily in their home in the basement of La Ratatouille, and what Emile and Dad were doing tonight. They were quite nocturnal, unlike I, who was slowly adjusting to Linguini's schedule.

I couldn't tell them.

Dad was, though impressed with my job, still a proud rat. He wouldn't want his son wishing he were a human. Emile, always the kindly sort, would probably listen, but end up confused. All he wanted was the simple things in life; some food and a warm home were all that was needed to please him. Wanting to be another species? That idea was in another dimension in his mind.

So, I kept it to myself, since no one else was there to talk to. I think that if I had said it to someone else – anyone, even if they were human – it wouldn't have been as bottled up as it ended up being. The nagging in the back of my head grew louder and louder, and I was admitting that I did want what it said, but it wouldn't stop! What did it want?

The night that it was screaming in my head, bouncing around my small skull and echoing, I shot up, threw my makeshift pillow of a cotton ball to the ground, and huffed. There was no way I was going to sleep like this.

I looked out at the Parisian sky, not even the perfect view would lessen the racket going on in my head.

Then, I saw it. A small, faint glimmer, a bit right from the Eiffel Tower's shadow. It trailed down from the heavens, dim but visible. A shooting star.

"Make a wish." My head said, remembering one of human's odd traditions. Wouldn't hurt, would it?

I closed my eyes, but kept them focused on the star from my eyelids.

"I wish I were a human."

One, two, three.

I opened my eyes.

I was still a rat.

Big surprise.

But… the voice was gone. No more screaming.

That was all it took?

Smiling a little, I went back into my bed, now regretting throwing the pillow down so far, but I knew I'd still get a good night's rest regardless.