Title: Ratatouille: Réécrit
Characters/Pairings: Linguini x Colette, eventual Human!Remy x Linguini
Summary: One had the potential, but not the skill. The other had the skill, but not the passion. They both had the vision, and all it took was a little love to make it come true. Eventual Human!Remy x Linguini.
Rating: T / R-15
WARNINGS: Human!Remy, eventual gay couple (with highly slashable moments along the way), non-graphic making out and implied sex towards the end
Disclaimer (if needed): I DO NOT OWN RATATOUILLE. Disney & Pixar are the GLORIOUS GENIUSES that do.
NOTE (READ BEFORE STARTING): This story is basically just the entire movie (plus a little more), but with Remy as a human. The original plot is slightly doctored in order to take into account the impossibility of some moments in the movie if Remy were no longer a rat, but nonetheless, I tried to stay as close to the original as possible (You know…except for the Remy x Linguini part?) If that doesn't bother you, then please do enjoy. :)
NOTE 2: I wrote this because I got inspired by this request on the Disney Kink Meme, minus the smut (very funny, since that's all that OP asked for XD) -remove the spaces-: http :/ / disney-kink . livejournal. com / 361 . html ? thread = 1613417
The world during summer was a wonderful, beautiful thing. The endless blue sky contrasted with the green pastures below, which seemed to be even more vivid during the season of the sun more than anything else. Of the sun itself, the star (both literally and poetically) of the day, was shining, bright and warm.
Perhaps even too warm.
Which was why under the sweltering heat of the midday sun, two brothers were just sitting in front of a small, rather ancient television in their simple little repair shop, watching daytime soaps-one of them devouring (there was no other word for it) the ham sandwich in his left hand and holding a can of soda in his right, the other simply sitting with his hands on his knees, leaning forward.
I worry about my brother sometimes.
He inhaled, almost instinctively noting the usual smells—sweat and motor oil. His nose scrunched up in protest, though, as it picked up on a particularly unfamiliar and rancid scent, which was coming from…right next to him.
Okay, I worry about my brother a lot.
"Emile," he said, peering at the disgusting monstrosity his brother was eating. "How old is that sandwich?"
The plumper of the two of them tore his eyes away from the black-and-white picture on the TV (Hey, they had no reason to replace it, since it wasn't broken yet) long enough to glance down at the topic of the conversation before gluing his eyes back to the TV set. "Dunno…'bout a few days, maybe?"
He made a face, thinking: Typical.
Yes, I worry about Emile a lot. And it's mostly because of his…eating habits.
Emile is the sort of guy who doesn't really mind what it is, as long as it's possible to chew and swallow it. I suppose for some people, that would be kind of a plus—him not being a picky eater and all. To tell you the truth, I'm actually a little surprised that he's never been hospitalized for stomach problems, given the amount of crap he eats from god-knows-where and god-knows-when. Of course, this little 'victory' of sorts is always, always, always attributed to the Dubois Stomach of Steel.
Which, unfortunately, I didn't inherit.
Don't get me wrong—I'm not resentful or anything. In fact, I'm pretty glad that I hadn't gotten it. Just imagine what kind of things I'd be eating now if I had…old pizza; cans of soda, syrupy from days of being left open; other unmentionables…TAKEAWAYS, INSTANT MEALS (God forbid)…
Ughhh, I shudder at even the thought.
Getting back to Emile…Well, I can't really blame him for having that kind of attitude towards food. It sort of…runs in the family, so to speak. I guess you can even consider it a side-effect of the Dubois Stomach of Steel. Since my clan can generally withstand things that go beyond the gastronomic capabilities of a normal person, we don't really see the need to care about what we eat. (Or something. I don't know. I never really understood it whenever Dad tried to explain to my younger self the more delicate and psychological aspect of the Stomach of Steel. And I've long since given up trying to understand it.)
The two of them looked to where the voice came from. At the entrance to the garage, there was a middle-aged man, one who was in undeniably good shape, dismounting from his ancient (but not ancient-looking) Harley-Davidson.
"Hey, Dad!" Emile called back before taking another bite of his sandwich.
This is my dad.
A few facts about my dad: He's almost 50, but doesn't look it because of how well-built he is. He can bench press up to 200 pounds when he's in a bad mood. He goes through a pack of smokes in less time than it takes me to puff one cigarette (the rather absurd feeling of shame at being so slow was what made me pledge to never smoke ever again in the first place, actually).
Oh, and he's the guy whose stomach I didn't inherit.
He never seems to understand this important little tidbit about me, of course, and it inevitably leads up to a lot of fights centering on my inability to stomach what I seriously do consider is garbage. Take for example the other day, when he, on a rare instance, brought me and Emile lunch:
"Here, eat up," was the only thing he said as Dad tossed a plastic bag toward us (or rather, our general direction). I swiftly caught it, having better motor skills than Emile.
When it came to food, though, Emile always seemed to move a lot faster. He yanked the plastic bag toward himself and peered inside. He grinned and grabbed one of the plastic containers of food and the root beer, knowing that I hated the stuff. "Thanks, Dad!"
I, on the other hand, wasn't as happy to discover what our food was. "Convenience store food, Dad? Seriously?" I didn't mean to sound so rude, but…I guess it just came out that way.
My dad glared at me and opened his mouth to say something rude in return, but my brother, ever the master at reading the atmosphere and desperate amateur at keeping the peace, suggested, "If you don't want it, I'll eat it!"
"Yeah," my dad agreed. "Emile can eat your share and you can starve." He turned around swiftly and left, leaving dust clouds and the diminishing roar of his beloved motorcycle behind.
"Well," Emile commented as he popped his can open. "That went well."
I couldn't help but roll my eyes.
So you see, in my family, I'm kind of the odd-man-out. What makes it worse is that it's not limited to only my immediate family. If it were, I could handle that. But no, I'm very much aware that all my aunts, uncles, and cousins don't need to mind what they eat either.
It makes me miss Mom.
Django made his way towards his sons, avoiding without fail all of the random car parts and tools and vehicles along the way, very much used to the cramped space. "What the hell are you guys doing? There's work to be done!"
"Give us a break, Dad," Remy reasoned out, to which Emile (rather unhelpfully) added:
"Which is exactly what we're doing!"
"It's ridiculously hot right now, and we don't really feel like doing work in this condition."
Django huffed and crossed his arms. "That doesn't change the fact that there's still around half a dozen cars to work on, based on what I just passed by." He looked over his shoulder at the cars with open hoods in order to prove his point. "So tell me, boys, when exactly do you two intend to get off your asses and start working again?"
Remy made a vague gesture with his hand. "When the car washers get back from their lunch break, or something. It's under control, Dad."
The twitch of Django's eyebrow didn't go unnoticed. It was obvious that he was getting pissed. "'It's under control,' huh, Remy? Then why don't you explain to me why the car washers are still on break…AT 2:30 PM?"
Remy's eyes widened as his heart dropped into his stomach. "It's 2:30 already?" He turned to his brother. "Emile, why didn't you tell me?"
"I-I thought you knew!" The other answered, mid-bite.
He faced his father again. "Dad, we're sorry! We didn't know…W-We didn't realize—" He started to ramble out an apology and a haphazard explanation, but Django put his hand up, signaling for him to stop.
"We'll talk about this later, at home. For now, get back to work." He dug into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Someone tipped me off that Tom and his crew's slacking off by the creek. I'll go get them." He took a long drag. "But this will be the last time."
"Yes, Dad…" His two sons simultaneously replied.
Remy hung his head low out of embarrassment and shame, knowing that his dad trusted him with being the more responsible one, and he had failed him.
"See you later, boys." Django bid his farewell as he exited the garage with steady but heavy footsteps. He seated himself on his motorcycle and took off.
Remy sighed and scratched the nape of his neck before moving to snap the top half of his overalls, which had been hanging around his waist during his way-too-long break, back into place.
Emile switched off the TV as he downed the rest of his soda. He crushed the can and belched loudly promptly after. "I think," he started, "we should fire Tom and his friends. They keep on slacking off and it makes us look like the bad guys."
The black-haired man turned to him and answered, "Agh, I wish we could, Emile, but…Aunt Ethel practically begged Dad and us to ignore Tom's…behavioral problems. Besides, he's our cousin. We have to give him a chance, at least just for that."
Emile shrugged. "Just sayin'."
Remy sighed and put his face in his hands, but then remembered what they were supposed to be doing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his utility gloves. "Alright," he said, "I guess we should get this over with."
I'm Remy Dubois. I belong to a gigantic clan (Hello, my dad is the eldest out of fifteen) of mechanics. I'm not good at all the heavy lifting and stuff, but I have a very good eye for detail, which makes me the most suitable to deal with foreign cars, not that we get them very often around these parts—'these parts,' meaning the countryside.
My five senses are more…sensitive than those of the average human, which means that I can't stay inside the repair shop a lot if I want to prevent myself from throwing up all the time because of all the funky smells. This, combined with my normal stomach…Well, let's just say that I don't think that this kind of lifestyle is suited for me.
And I hate it.
Uh...Review? 8D Constructive criticism is welcome, but I don't like bullies. :(