Alliances, Crêpes aux Fraises, et Aliments Chinoises

A/N: I never thought I'd do this, but…after a year of being completely in love with the film, here's my first Ratatouille fanfic! I hope it proves an enjoyable read. Linguini x Colette

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Cheap Chinese take-out – that's the smell of depression.

Go ahead and laugh, but the smell of Chinese food, in my mind, is synonymous with dire circumstances, with an angry and confused humanity, with desperation. Tonight, Alfredo has resorted to buying Chinese food instead of letting me cook.

His excuse: Colette just ordered him out of her life.

To this moment, I'm not quite sure what happened. Two hours ago, we were at Colette's apartment in Aubervilliers, where we moved in last week, at her invitation. I was in the living room, burrowed in an electric blanket on the sofa, half-heartedly watching some kitschy crime drama on TV when Alfredo and Colette started yelling at each other in the hallway. Naturally, I was startled by their bulldozer-loud voices. But the fact that they were arguing didn't surprise me; they'd been doing that ever since we moved in. So I ignored them – it was probably just another dispute about Colette's precious thermostat, or the fact that the words "clothes hanger" and "clean floor" mean nothing whatever to Alfredo.

Ignoring them didn't work when they came blundering into the living room, though. I crouched further into the blanket, trying not to be obvious. If Colette was mad at Alfredo, that didn't mean I was safe.

"At least I went to college!" Colette shouted.

"Yeah, well at least I – " Alfredo paused, obviously scrambling for something really crushing to say, only managing, " – at least I'm not a woman and have to make a big fuss and stuff because men are better than her at everything!"

I didn't think it was a terribly sharp comeback, but Colette clearly thought so. She stepped up and slapped Alfredo across the face, hard enough that I covered my ears, and that he toppled and hit the sofa on the way down to the carpet.

"Get out!" Colette screamed. "Right now, get out! And if you ever darken my door again, we'll see just how sorry you'll be, p'tit connard!"

Without a word, Alfredo snatched me up and tucked me into his pocket, grabbing his keys with the other hand. Colette screamed us out of the apartment, and I watched her from Alfredo's pocket at we left. Her face was red and her fists were clenched, but there were tears in her eyes. Tears? Oh, make up your mind; are you angry or sad?

We took the metro back to our old apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine. I guess we'll be moving back in here. Not that I really mind; it's a nice place. It's not that super-upscale apartment that Alfredo brought us to when he inherited Gusteau's. We kind of had to downgrade when the restaurant closed. But it's spacious, clean, and comfortable – with a big kitchen to boot. Is this good enough for Alfredo? No, he has to mope because Colette isn't around.

I don't mean to sound so callous. Alfredo really is attached to Colette, and I can respect that. Plus, Colette is my friend, and I hope that this tiff between her and Alfredo won't turn our friendship sour. But…really, she's always yelling at him and slapping him. What makes him keep coming back for more? He's never struck me as a glutton for punishment.

But hey, who am I to talk? I'm just an innocent observer, here. What does a rat know about human feelings?

Alfredo brings in a couple boxes of that disgusting take-out, and then kind of slumps at the island counter, arms on the counter, and head in arms. Poor guy is exhausted. He currently reminds me of an abandoned child I saw at a bus stop once, and the blue jeans and two-sizes-too-big black sweater enhance that image. I crawl up and nudge his hand with my nose.

He looks up, eyes bleary. "Oh, um – sorry. Go ahead, Little Chef, I – I'm not really that hungry."

And I'm not hungry for that particular food, but, unlike Alfredo, I realize that I have to eat. I climb onto one of the boxes, open it, and begin munching on a wonton. It smells like chicken and crab boiled in week-old dishwater.

The silence is awkward, its sour edge only neutralized by the mild hum of the refrigerator and the even quieter hum of the metro outside. Thankfully, Alfredo starts talking before I have to try and make him.

"I – I'm sorry about all this, Little Chef. This moving thing, twice in the week, I…I know it's kind of weird, I just…what am I going to do? I don't know why I had to blow up over there; she probably would have still hated me even if…"

With a very heavy sigh, he pulls a ring out of his pocket (not the one I came home in) and sets it on the table.

"I was…I was going to ask her today…"

Alfredo trails off, gets out of his chair, and walks over to the window without even telling me what he was going to ask. I swallow a mouthful of wonton and examine the ring. It's a silver band, and there's a small, sparkling gem the color of an overripe strawberry, surrounded by seven, tiny white gems, and…oh, so exquisitely shiny…it's all I can do to leave that gorgeous thing alone.

"Do you like it?"

I nod emphatically, but Alfredo is staring out the window at Rue Montrosier.

"It was my mother's. I – I thought Colette would like it. She likes rubies, and…I think that's a ruby. I'm not sure."

Well, that's Colette's loss. What a ring! If you watched it sparkle long enough, you'd probably go blind. Why Alfredo would want to give it to her though, to anyone, is beyond me. I go back to my wonton. It tastes about like it smells.

Come on, Linguini, keep talking. I'm not a mind reader.

He looks sadly at me. "I love her, Little Chef. I don't know if – would – would you understand?"

I shrug as compassionately as I can. Sure, I had a fling or two when I was a younger rat, but…love is pretty much a mystery to me. Not affection, I understand affection. It's how I feel about him, and Colette, and Emile, and the whole family…even my dad. But love? Love is a human thing. The best way I can think to describe what humans call love is obsession. And obsession is not healthy. How can you look after yourself when you're obsessed with somebody else?

Without me around to make him, Alfredo probably wouldn't eat.

Anyway. I'm thinking Alfredo wanted to give the ring to Colette because he's obsessed with – because he loves her. That's very thoughtful, but wouldn't that be wrong, unless she loved with him, too? Judging from the look on her face when we left her apartment, Colette does not love Alfredo. You don't scream at people you love – do you?

While I've been trying to sort this out, Alfredo has been mumbling as he stares out the window, something to the effect of, "Why do I even bother?"

Suddenly, his back straightens up as he slams a fist down on the windowsill. "What am I saying?!" he snaps. "I can't just…just give up, just like that, not after all this time, not after everything we've put into this…"

Alfredo swirls away from the window, marches over to the table, and snatches the ring back up. He holds it high, and we watch it sparkle under the fluorescent ceiling light.

"This is ridiculous! I mean, am I a man or a mouse?" He glances down at me. "No offense."

I shrug again: none taken.

Alfredo jams the ring back into his pocket, looking ready to go out and storm the Bastille. "I love Colette, Little Chef. I want to – I want to spend the rest of my life with her. And I'm willing to go back there and risk everything on that."

I nod: Okay, you do that. At least he's not moping anymore. Who knows? When he gets home, he might even eat.

Alfredo grabs his keys and turns toward the door. "Do you want to come with me or just stay here?"

So, he's going to go give the ring to Colette anyway? That's crazy. But I find myself appreciating his tenacity, without which we would never have gotten this far. With a nod, I cross the table and dive into his pocket – not the one with the ring. As much as I admire that ring, I'm going to try and respect it as a gift for Colette.

"Okay," Alfredo says, "let's do this!"

He fumbles in his other pocket for his orange metro card – it's missing.

"What-the…" he mumbles, checking all his other pants pockets (nearly squashing me in the process) and running to check his coat pockets. "My orange card – where is my orange card?!" He begins a panicky babbling session. "Oh, no, I must have dropped when I went to get dinner! No! Have you seen my orange card, Little Chef?! No, no, no, no! I can't buy another one until next Friday, it's gotta be here somewhere, what am I gonna do, I'm so stupid, stupid, stupid…"

I sigh. Looks like we'll be walking to Colette's apartment.

At least I won't have to finish that wonton.