#ch: ratigan

[godscobhhq]

Ratigan from The Great Mouse Detective

Name: Vincent Ratigan Age: 45+ Profession: UTP Pronouns: UTP FC suggestions: Alan Cumming, David Tennant, Andrew Scott Availability: Open

Biography UTP

Notable character information: After facing off against their most hated foe, Ratigan has become one of the fiercest crime bosses in town. But for some reason, he never gets treated like one...

[thebigdeepcheatsy]

HEYO I GOT THE "goes feral ala Ratigan" PART RIGHT SO FAR!

Predicting three of the Gorosei’s demises

Saturn - Goes completely feral ala Ratigan, tries to kill Kuma on pure instinct and/or attempts to scurry away and frantically shouts for his killer to get/stay away from him or to stop

V. Nusjoro - Gives Zoro begrudging respect for actually besting him

Warcury - Bemoans over failing Imu and begs to be forgiven OR despairs over being betrayed by Imu

[hngrylikethewoolf]

London Calling || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol and Ratigan have a discussion in the middle of a crowded London café. 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None that I can think of

Backdated:  July 25, 2021

@professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

Errol was a werewolf. 

No, the irony of that statement was not lost on him. 

The first thing he'd done upon being bitten and treated was limp his way back to his hotel, blood burning in his veins, a fever hanging over him, and passing out in the rented room, clunky gauze and bandages catching the blood that sluggishly seeped from the closing wounds. He had been explicit when they worked on him, told them to wear proper gear, didn't care that he wasn't their boss, he took the pitch of Ratigan's voice and used it to his sluggish, half-advantage. He burned everything when he awoke, a new sense of being shifting around in his chest, a secondary something there that hadn't been before. 

He had been debriefed about Shifters, knew of them from his work overseas and from a former Army Ranger he'd befriended that had been bitten by a lone wolf during a mission, at least a decade ago now, maybe more. They still kept in contact, and he was the first person Errol had called, the beast shifting around in his chest, testing out the cage. They needed to learn how to work together while he figured out his next steps. 

The conversation he had with his friend helped, if anything, to calm the tidal wave of emotions he could feel tugging at him. The wolf was with him now. Panicking about it would make the transition all that more difficult. 

Errol had also just been shot, had a man digging around in the meat of his thigh to close an artery that would have killed him if not for the help of the bite. It was still there, still healing, but it wasn't deadly. He deserved a few days of recuperation, to wrap his head around it all. 

Pedram Ratigan was a werewolf. 

Somehow that information didn't surprise him as much as it should. It had saved his life, after all. The other information he had received that day was telling, but it made no difference to him at this moment. Pieces of things he'd observed, things that now made more sense, he would keep tucked away. Could examine later, once he had a more firm grasp on his wolf and the place they now had in the world. 

Errol had information to hand over, after all. He had no time to wonder, though he wanted to. He'd barely scratched the surface of who Ratigan could potentially be. He would focus on what he knew, what they both were now, and go from there. 

That started in a nondescript café at the heart of the city, surrounded by people in a way that created the perfect veil of anonymity. Errol had a feeling they would need it. 

RATIGAN: 

Clean up of the situation had been taken care of. Bodies disposed, blood mopped, evidence picked up. Had anyone entered the warehouse they would never have known of the violence that had taken place there. 

The ambulance had been left elsewhere, also cleansed of any evidence linking back to the three people who had been inside it last. 

One would think that was the worst part of it, the clean up. Having to make sure that nothing had been left behind for even the smallest chance of being caught. Ratigan had shared the same sentiment as soon as he realized he was now somewhere in the system. Back when he’d been nothing there had been no fear, no need to wipe his prints or panic when his blood had been left behind. There had been no way to find him, no place to follow his growing trail back to. 

It had been a flaw in the system and Ratigan had used it on his campaign to the head of the table. Anyone within his network would have access to cleaners. (They had quickly become, without a doubt, the biggest source of income.) 

But there were still loose threads to deal with— one of them being the sheriff. 

Ratigan had returned to a safe house and contacted Fidget who had not done as he was told. The sheriff had walked free and was roaming the streets of London. All that work and now he was having to rely on word alone that he would be given what he wanted. 

He met where the sheriff wanted but planned ahead— best not to leave anything to chance when he did not have to. He was already seated at a table when the sheriff arrived, a cup of tea sitting in front of him. His attention was on the crossword puzzle of the newspaper he was leaning over. It wasn’t until the other man was seated that he spoke. 

“Fine choice, this place.” His tone was light and conversational. It matched the tables around them along with the clinking spoons against the sides of mugs, fingers striking keyboards, creaking furniture as someone shifted in their seat. “Do you have the information you promised me?” 

ERROL: 

The fact Ratigan was already there when Errol showed up wasn't surprising. 

The sheriff took a second to reorient himself, eyes scanning the coffee shop as he unwound his scarf from his throat, considering all the exits and number of bodies in a matter of moments. All the noises and all the smells swirled around, heightened by the wolf. It was a tinge uncomfortable, having to adjust to it, but Errol barely let a flicker of it cross his face. A slight widening of the nostrils, a tilt to his head, but nothing more. 

He still had a job to do though and, now, a debt to repay. 

Errol sat casually, mindful of his leg, smiling like they were having a grand time, and nodded his head with a little laugh. "Mmm, aye. I do." An arm slung across the back of the chair beside him, and he shifted sideways, allowing himself to see the door in his peripheral vision. A gun sat, a heavy weight, just above his left hip. Where no one else but Ratigan could see; if he was looking--which he was,  Errol already knew--then he would catch it. Gauze and bandaging wrapped around his thigh beneath his clothes, unnoticeable but a necessary addition until his leg entirely healed. 

There were still people that were trying to kill the bastard, after all. And Errol never liked to leave anything to chance, especially when it came to someone's life, especially when it was someone that he knew. 

At this close a proximity to the other man, the scent of his cologne was sharp in Errol's nose, both familiar and foreign. It was distinctly Ratigan, and it made the wolf perk up its head, interested for the first time all morning. The sheriff bit the inside of his cheek, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as the beast stretched, waking. He breathed in deep to calm himself but it just pulled the scent further into his lungs. It made the wolf whine, and Errol grit his teeth, acknowledging it with a barely-there shift in his seat, a ploy to get more comfortable. 

See, they'd reached a bit of an understanding back in his hotel room, over these last three or so days. Errol knew he had him now and the wolf knew he was attached. They couldn't change it, could merely work around it, and they would. First, Errol just needed him to calm the fuck down about the person across from him. The pressure in his chest, now, was uncomfortable, a testing of bonds and an attempt to move closer. If Errol moved any closer, he'd be vaulting the table and sitting on the man. 

Just another werewolf, perhaps? Or the insane, but possible, notion that Pedram had been the one to bite him? 

Instead of saying any of that, Errol leaned down and pulled a folder from the old Army kit he'd slung to the floor upon arrival. He aligned it on the table, neat, straight corners, before pushing that and two others with it across the table. His smile turned crooked, almost amused. 

"'S t' extra I told ye about. It's all on the drive, too, but I wrote t' access information down. Figure ye'd want proof 'fore I jus' gave ye a drive." 

The wolf tested its bonds, found them to be solid, and Errol shifted in his seat again, ignoring the discomfort, focus never wavering from Ratigan's face. 

RATIGAN: 

He placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. All of this was so tedious and annoying. He did not want to be there but of course there would have been such a great tantrum thrown had it not been him the information had been passed off to. At this point he knew that the sheriff did the things he did simply to spite Ratigan because, well, he must have nothing better to do being a police officer. It’s just what they did. 

The looming subject of what had taken place in the last moments of their previous encounter was ever present but Ratigan didn’t care whatsoever. It did not concern him whether the sheriff was taking well to his new normal or whatever (no doubt ridiculous) questions were at the ready to be asked should he give some sort of sign of acknowledgement. He refused. Whatever the sheriff was looking for he would not find it. 

“Thank you,” he said politely and even smiled. Finally. At least this massive headache will have been worth something in the end. Ratigan placed the files at the edge of the table. Seconds later the waitress passed by, picking them up. Neither acknowledged the other as she breezed by. 

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, we should address the elephant in the room, shall we?” He reached for the cup of tea to take a sip. There was no rush in his movements, he was the picture of leisure. “I fully intend to return to Swynlake and continue my life there. You’ve proven yourself to be— puerile when it comes to some of your choices in how you go about things. I implore you, sheriff, to not continue this trend as far as your knowledge of me goes. You are only alive now because I allowed it. I can just as easily change my mind should you get the idea that I am someone you can ruin.” 

He shrugged. “But then, where would the fun in that be? If you attempt to take away what is important to me then rest assured I shall do the same to you. The only difference being that I will be able to rebuild— the same cannot be said for you. Or your family.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan was smiling. Wasn't that a terrifying thought, given the circumstances? It was a nice one, though. Errol couldn't help but glance toward it, a brow ticking upward just as the edge of his mouth curled, rueful. 

It wasn't pleasant, but he thought it could be. Ratigan had a nice smile. 

Errol dipped his head in acknowledgement, eyes following the waitress for a moment as she tucked the folders beneath an arm. The Irishman snorted, amused. Of course Ratigan had people here. Errol would have too, if he could. He settled in to listen instead, head tilting to the side in curiosity. 

A bark of laughter escaped when Ratigan started threatening, a delighted little sound that curled around his eyes and lit up his smile. He knew the man was deadly serious, and something dark and dangerous and ugly flickered in the sheriff's gaze once his family was mentioned, but the amusement still clung to him, a shroud. 

"Ah, luv, ye dunne 'ave tah worry. Ye might fink 'm stupid, but I ain't. 'Ve got no reason tah say shite. What hurts ye, hurts me. 'S cute ye fink I might, though. Threatin' a diff'rent man's family might nah've ended yer way, but I like ye." He leaned forward, wide, sharp smile on his face, studying Ratigan's own. "So 'm jus' gonna tell ye once. They're mine. Leave 'em be."

He doubted the man took him seriously, but he should. Errol saw in him much of what had driven himself, still did. 

Ratigan was right about one thing, though. Errol was only alive because he'd allowed it, because he had needed the information Errol had. A moment later, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing out a flash drive. He tsked, tongue clicking against the backs of his front teeth as the wolf squirmed, pushing the drive close across the table. "That'd be t' rest. It's got t' information fer everyone 'at came tah t' extraction an' yer mutineers." 

Errol grinned, sweet as pie. He had a copy of all the information. 

RATIGAN: 

He sighed, an eyebrow raising because no, he did not think this man was stupid, he knew this man was stupid. The evidence stacked against him was substantial and nothing he said would prove otherwise.

The laughter almost made him want to do something more to prove his point, that nothing about this was funny or amusing or some sort of game the sheriff seemed to believe the world was. 

“Please, sheriff, no pet names. We are in public and I think we are past the need to make me blush.” And perhaps that may have sounded different to the average eavesdropper but here it was another threat. This, above all else, irked Ratigan more than anything else— it was as if the man thought there was some sort of rapport between them, like he was allowed to address him as anything other than his name. Even the wolf recoiled against it, his emotions so heavy that it was pulled away from the excitement of the newcomer in order to protect what was important above all else. 

He gave a nod of understanding, as if he understood the concept of family on a personal level instead of just an observational one. “I do think that’s rather the point. They’re your family, and if you want them off the table then I suggest you do not partake in this game.” 

Ratigan reached for the flashdrive, placing it in his own pocket. 

“I will give you the opportunity to leave it be. This is no longer your concern, and to be honest it never was. If I were you, I would forget any of this has happened and return to your life as it was.” His fingers laced together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “This is more than I would ever give someone of your—” His eyes flickered over the man, disgust coming and going over his expression but never leaving his voice, “—profession. Do not be ungrateful.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan sighed and raised a brow and Errol followed the movement, mirroring it with one of his own. He'd leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed across the other at the knee, arm slack across the back of the chair beside him, a picture of repose. 

See, what no one else understood, Ratigan included, was that Errol had no reason to be afraid of him, not personally. Yes, he threatened his family, and the sheriff believed him when he said that he'd harm them if he thought it necessary, but Errol never had any intention of making it so. He knew the professor thought he was stupid, he claimed he did. 

But, then, that begged the question of why he had been used in the first place. Errol almost wanted to ask, except he knew it would do him no good. 

He focused on the droll looking the other man gave him when he asked not to be called by a pet name, that they were 'past the need to make him blush.' A few choice thoughts skittered across his mind, then, each of them worse than the last. Mirth colored his eyes for a second before it disappeared. As he had before, Errol dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement. 

"Noted, sir." There, should stroke his ego well enough. He dutifully kept away from the always-endearing moniker of "professor." While that was equally as neutral territory, it gave something away. The former did not. If he could hedge a bet, however, Ratigan wouldn't like that one, either. 

Refraining from saying anything smart or rolling his eyes at the heavy-handed threat, Errol reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet and a pocket knife, the latter of which he showed to the other man before setting it on the table, engraving up. He continued to exude nonchalance as he thumbed through a few bills, the Elvira winking up at him from the table. 

Perhaps such threats worked on his underlings, but Errol had dealt with people at Ratigan's caliber, and worse, for two decades. Granted, they were far less intelligent, but they were no less driven or full of themselves. 

This wasn't a game, even if Ratigan thought he believed it to be.

The quip about his profession did earn a grin and another nod. He understood. Hell, Errol often felt the same. It was why he'd clawed his way to the top in such a short time. If anyone could call a decade or so short. He didn't like being forced to take orders, orders he would disobey or orders that might not be entirely ethical in the sense of the job (his own personal ethics notwithstanding) so it'd made sense to become what he had. 

If you could become the head, you didn't have to cut yourself off at the neck. Had people who could protect you if someone tried.

Cocking his head to the side, Errol's eyes assessed Ratigan's face, his voice suddenly, deathly serious. "It was never a game. What I did 'fore all o' this...ye say anyfin' an' yer dead. 'S t' same fing 'ere, more or less." 

He flicked the pocket knife toward the other man, then, and nodded at it. 

"'Ere's yer promise. Type 'at intah t' military database an' ye get yerself a bit o' an easier access tah me redacted files." 

RATIGAN: 

Ratigan’s temper was running thin. This man had no idea what he was talking about— he had only had eyes on this for so long. Ratigan had been at this for years. This was not even a scratch at the surface, it was barely a brush of a finger against it. There was nothing that could be said here that would be able to convince Ratigan that this man, the same one who had gone into a situation with no back up, no plan, and every intention of dying with the way he had been trying to fight his way out of the corner he had basically walked himself into and sat there, waiting to see what would happen and then continued to press his back against the walls as he was attacked, knew what he was talking about. 

He gave the knife a brief glance as that was all it was good for. 

“That’s very generous of you, sheriff,  but if you think that I don’t already know everything that the government has on you then I think that says enough about your role here.” 

It had taken longer than Ratigan had been happy with, but he had been able to find the files the sheriff thought were protected. The government may have had the best in the business, recruiting those from criminal backgrounds in order to fight back against those wanting their information, but Ratigan had better. 

All that to say, Ratigan was not very impressed by what he had seen. Again, his dog’s record outshone him. If anything, it irked Ratigan all the more. Police were bad but the military was worse, in his opinion. 

“Enough of— whatever this was supposed to be.” He gestured to the knife with a flippant hand, eyes widening briefly with perfectly placed annoyance. “What is it that you want?”

Because surely he must have wanted something. Everyone did. Otherwise he would not have shown up. (Even if it was something as simple as to sate his naïve curiosity.) 

ERROL: 

Errol's grin was triumphant this time, self-satisfaction evident. He'd managed to get the confirmation he wanted. It did not surprise him. As he had quickly started to learn, Ratigan was well-prepared for everything. He didn't take things at face value, yet he tried to make it seem like he did. He was contradictory yet made it seem like all his ducks were in a row. 

It was fascinating and strange and something that Errol wanted to poke and prod at and toe the line of until he found it all out, even now. Saddled with a new burden and threatened, nearly killed. He had been truthful before when he said he liked the other man. For all his prickly, sharp outer edges, Errol did like him. 

A small sigh escaped and Errol tapped his knuckles against the tabletop, chewing on his lip, trying to think of a way to get the other man to understand. He didn't know if he ever could, to explain why the knife was important. Why it meant something, the one sliver of a show of loyalty, of acknowledgement that he could give. 

Maybe it was playing with fire, but Errol had never minded being burned. With the way things were shaping up now, he was very aware of the fact he couldn't stay in the job he was in, had already begun to spin the yarn that would allow him to leave it behind. It had been something he had been considering but this last nail had formed his coffin, driving the point home. 

Errol heard the annoyance and flicked his gaze up to Ratigan's face, brows lifting toward his hairline, a silent question. Does this bug you so much, just having a conversation?

Even if the conversation was layered, laced with threat and code and whatever other secrecy he could pack in then bubble wrap it from the outside world, it was still, to Errol at least, a decent one. He had always been comfortable in hostile situations, though. 

He didn't turn his smile charming, like he would with anyone else. Didn't try to coat his words with honeyed pleasantries or spin a yarn. No, Ratigan was too direct, so Errol needed to be, too. 

"Wanted tah talk tah ye. Wasna lyin' when I said I liked ye, before." Threats and all, actually, but that was neither here nor there, and something Errol could keep tucked very, very far away. "An' if ye fink I was givin' information about yer life tah someone else, ye woulda been wrong. 'S why I insisted, 'cause 'S important." To me, to you, whomever you want to believe. "Fer what 'S worth, anyway." 

He still hadn't figured out how to explain the knife. It sat in the middle of the table, heavy. Errol wasn't going to take it back now, though. He knew Ratigan didn't think he was smart. Knew he believed he had gone into that alleyway and warehouse without a plan, backup, or a care. Except he had been wrong. Though he hadn't been one hundred percent certain, Errol had known the person he needed the information would have kept track of him, possibly would have followed him, and he had been right.

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't a soldier anymore, that he couldn't just waltz into a hostile zone and expect to make it out mostly alive because people had his six. He wasn't that man, not entirely, not anymore, but he could also never make it go away. He'd done it for too long. 

"An' I wanted tah know how long ye've dealt wif --" he paused, wasn't going to say it. Errol was very aware of the secret they were both hiding now, what it did to people. But he was curious about the way the wolf was acting, curious to know if it was because Ratigan was another wolf or because they somehow knew. "I figure ye ain't gonna say anyfin', ain't gonna 'elp, an' I ain't askin'. Jus' that. No details, I don't wanna know how it 'appened or why or where, jus' that." 

Errol could say more, could mention wolfsbane or ask about shifts, but he knew no answers would come. Yet, this asking, it was easier, somehow. It wasn't curiosity (though it almost certainly was, he'd already shown more than enough of his hand, but that had been a calculated risk). His body language was calm, nothing defensive about it, all of himself open, head tilting to show neck, even, but a stare that was unwavering. 

RATIGAN: 

Curiosity it was then. 

Well, wasn’t that rather disappointing? Unsurprising, but with the display he had given so far Ratigan had thought that maybe— but no. He was just like all the rest.

And just like all the rest, he was going to try to appeal to what humanity he may have thought was within Ratigan. Perhaps he thought this because he had seen Ratigan as the university professor and the volunteer theater director and the everyday, normal citizen who lived in Swynlake. That was only a part that he played, the cover he had been giving the most time to. (There were countless others, but this was the one he lived most every day dedicated to.) Whoever the sheriff deemed to like was not real, only a costume he wore to fit in among the rest of them. He wanted to speak to him as if he was still that man, he could see it in his body language, showing Ratigan his vulnerability in the hopes he would be rewarded with the same.

The problem with this approach was that Ratigan did not have any humanity left to communicate with. There was no empathy or sympathy or emotion that could be tugged upon to be given any sort of opening. All of that had been purged from his person until he had become what the family had needed him to be. A weapon— unperfect but efficient. His brain, built to learn quickly and at the whole, had taken this in after it had been taught what would happen should it disobey and there the lessons had stayed through the years as it had led to his survival thus far.

Everyone always wanted something, and this man thought he was owed the answer to a personal question. Simple as it was, as easy as Ratigan could have lied, he didn’t want to put in the effort of it. As much as this man may have been truthful in his word to keep from asking any more questions Ratigan knew better. If he was curious enough to ask this question, one that had an inherent selfish wish behind it, then an answer may embolden him to ask another, may lead him to believe that Ratigan wanted to converse. He did not. He did not want this man to know anything about himself that could potentially help him in the future nor did he care to hear about whatever it was the sheriff wanted to say. People had a tendency to spit out the things they wanted people to listen to instead of what Ratigan wanted to hear. It was easier to find that information elsewhere so that he did not have to endure the torture of conversation.

“That is worth nothing to me.” He didn’t care for favors or pity or the like and that is what that seemed the sheriff was presenting, acting as if Ratigan should be so flattered at a gift like that. He didn’t need it. Even if the sheriff had been feeding information neither Ratigan or the network needed the help of someone like him. “And you would be correct. I promised you your life and you have it. You can expect nothing more from me— you may consider it a birthday gift.” 

He lifted his cup of tea to his mouth to drain the remainder of it. The ceramic touched back down against the table top before he pushed his chair back from the table, turning in it as he prepared to stand. “Thank you for wasting my time, sheriff, as always.”

Ratigan smiled and did stand then, buttoning his suit’s jacket. Before he left he reached over to pick his pen back up but left the newspaper behind, the crossword finished. True to his word, he offered nothing more to the sheriff and left the cafe. There was still work to be done. 

[professor-lungri]

trade off || sherigan

@professorofcrimeratigan

Tossing his spectacles on his desk and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Shere sighed as he clicked print on the finalized syllabus he'd been working on editing all afternoon at his colleague's request. The machine behind him clicked to life and spat out the requisite ten or so pages, and the man stood, glancing at the clock, as he gathered them up and stapled them.

Pedram should still be in his office, and he'd been expecting him anyway, so once he'd thumbed through to make sure they'd printed off correctly, Shere ambled down the corridor until he came to the history professor's door.

Rapping two knuckles against the door frame, he peeked his head in with a small smile. "Hullo, Pedram. I've the final syllabus for the course on modernism and Magicks you wanted to look over, if you've a minute?"

[phenyxsnest]

Ratigan returned for luncheon, tea, and supper. He stayed after supper, blithely ignoring how tense the room was.

Or, Basil suspected, he was enjoying how tense it was. Part of his 'game'.

He kept his paws to himself – mostly – which was Basil's main fear at the moment. Ratigan had always been a little unpredictable, but this was new. Ratigan hadn't been...been handsy since their great falling out that had lead to one openly following his chosen path rather than keeping up his veneer of respectability.

Basil had spent part of the time he'd had alone to try and get to his Inverness and the tools within, but he couldn't reach. Not with paw, leg, or tail. Eventually he'd had to give up as his leg protested the attempts, too painful to continue.

But he'd tried. He'd tried until he ran out of ideas, until he could feel in his leg that to try more was to risk making his wound worse. Pain and fear were clouding his thinking, and it was maddening to be less than logical.

He'd try and run if he got the chance, but until then, he had little choice but to lie and rest – and leave himself open to Ratigan's mercy.

[hngrylikethewoolf]

Twenty Questions || Machiavellian

@professorofcrimeratigan

Errol hadn't expected to be called into the University for something today, let alone something like a theft report. Granted, he hadn't know what had been taken until he got there. In fact, if he had known, he might have offered the friendly working advice of "retrace your steps and see where it was placed."

Instead, he was going office to office in the history department, taking statements and asking routine questions. Thus, far no other faculty had witnessed their colleagues' wallet stolen from their office but, then again, Errol was beginning to suspect he was here for no reason. It was why he pasted on his friendliest working smile at the next door, forgoing looking at the name plate.

There was a working relationship here that needed to be maintained, and it started with not butchering professor's names. The door opened after a few moments and Errol came back to the present, so to speak, ready with his introduction. Instead, he paused, raising a brow at the sight of a somewhat familiar face. They'd dealt with a drunken student and a surprise car in a quad a few weeks back.

"'Ello again, professor."

[hngrylikethewoolf]

the polar express || machiavellian

@professorofcrimeratigan

The day had been a long one in the Next Town Over, but it had been well worth it, if it meant Errol had the money to send to his mum for the holiday season. Sure, he knew that she was a grown woman, that she was better off now than they had been when he was a wee one, but there was something that kept urging him to send the money. Eventually, Eilis stopped trying to send it back and just took it as a sign that her son was trying to help, even if he was a country or two away. 

That being said, he was bone tired from the work he’d taken in the city, a manual labor job that left him sore and aching but in the way that made him feel accomplished, even if he felt like sprawling across the seats and taking a nap on the train. He was dressed semi-casually, now that he was out of work clothing, and bundled for the winter. 

If there was one weather he hated, it was the cold. While he could tolerate it, and had done so for many years, it brought along far too many memories of too little food, a silent house, and no central heating in wet Irish winters. That being said, he’d tugged off his gloves and laid them over a jean-clad knee, hat shoved in his jacket pocket as he ruffled a hand through unruly curls. 

Checking his watch, Errol surmised they would be arriving back in Swynlake shortly, which was good because he wanted to faceplant into his couch. 

And, then, the train came to a sliding, squealing halt. 

Raising his head with a small groan, Errol glanced out the window, getting ready to stand and ask the conductor why they’d stopped when he saw the answer: there was snow flurries beginning to form. Ice, no doubt, was on the tracks further ahead. Glancing around the train car, the Irishman wanted to catalog who was here with him, not that he hadn’t done this before, but his eyes widened in surprise, all the same, when he recognized a familiar face, though he said nothing, as that was when the doors opened and the conductor announced they would be stuck for the time being while the tracks were cleared.

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

Ratigan was sometimes very taxing, but Errol wasn't going to say that aloud, and certainly not here, where any manner of people could see. No, the only way you'd be able to notice any discomfort at all from the mam was if he'd said it. Otherwise, he looked as -- what was the expression? Oh, yes! As cool as a cucumber, whatever that meant.

Eyes flickering over to Ratigan's face when he heard the change in his voice, Errol did not stop the grin that lifted the corner of his mouth from showing his teeth in a real, albeit partial, grin. This was meant to be an easy conversation, after all, a routine check that had been done for Ratigan's own health and safety.

Errol had tried to give the other man an out, tried to make him play along, and he hadn't. This entire, tedious thing had Ratigan's doing. Errol would have thought he'd have done it on purpose, if he didn't know just how much the man hated being around people, especially Errol himself. The masses were beneath him. There were only so many social niceties that could be withstood, after.

This was why one of the sheriff's brows climbed higher, briefly, surprise coloring his eyes for a split second. He knew why Ratigan was asking, but he hadn't thought he would, almost half expected him to leave the place entirely. But, at the back of his mind, Errol remembered the heaving of the other wolf's sides in such a small place and wondered if it extended to the man, too.

"Yer welcome. Ah, ye can come. S'pose it won't 'urt. Gives a reason tah see ye walkin' an' talkin'."

Bumper Cars || Errol + Ratigan

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan

The corner of Errol’s lip curled upward, as though he were responding to the other man’s attempt at laughter. It didn’t reach his eyes, nor was it amused, but anyone looking at them would see it and think so. He didn’t know Ratigan, not really. Certainly not enough to say that they shared any sense of comraderie.

They were both something someone else hated, though, and that was as scant a reminder as Errol needed.

“Well, luck seems tah’ve been on yer side, fortunate fer yah,” he said, voice pitched so it wouldn’t carry between them to the other emergency service workers milling around.

The happier lilt to Ratigan’s laugh made a brow twitch toward his hairline, hitching the corner of his mouth further by a fraction. It made sense that Ratigan could act so well, but sometimes it was surprising. But only for a moment. His eyes tracked the flippant movement of Ratigan’s hand for a moment before tracking back to his face.

“Right so no injuries. Good tah know.” He thought that was a loud of shite, but he wasn’t about to say that out in broad daylight. “Bad posture can be fixed, though, so I dunna fink ye’ve got anyfin’ tah worry about. Lemme see if I can grab some papers tah discharge ye from t’ otharcharr. Ah - ambulance.”

There was something satisfying about watching the sheriff having to play while backed into a corner— thought Ratigan would not have guessed that he would have been smart enough to realize that he needed to instead of blathering on about things he didn’t understand in front of people who would surely pass that information along to the local gossip ring. He was not impressed by any means as that was the bare minimum to be expected. (Even children could keep secrets.) 

“Yes— it must have been luck.” He repeated this from before but smiled this time, like this was something funny and yet comforting to hear. As if he were one of those people who really believed that things like that existed in the world and it had chosen to shine upon him for the time being. 

“Thank you very much, sheriff, I appreciate your help immensly.” Finally. That was all he had to do when he arrived. None of this other, time wasting, nonsense. No one would have been any wiser had he forgone this portion— Ratigan had said he was fine and the sheriff knew why. Instead of making a big to-do over it he could have acted like anyone else with a badge and gotten everything cleaned up as soon as possible, out of the public eye. 

“Should I wait here? Or follow?” 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

Contrary, probably, to what the ponce in front of him may have believed, Dublin was well behaved for her age, despite her usual greeting. Her training was rigid, just like Delilah's had been, and it was largely in part because Errol spent the time with her to do so. It was why he brought her to the station, desensitized her to the presence of other people so that she may know who her handler was and whom to listen to when, or if, the time was needed for it.

No, she was not a bomb dog or a drug sniffing dog, but Errol wanted her to have good manners, and this was part of the training he knew best.

Errol knew, as well, or had a hunch, that Ratigan understood him. For a moment, he considered answering the other man in Russian, pushing the envelope again, just like he always did. Instead, he grinned, wide and wolfish and knowing, and whistled for Dublin to quit her fooling about by the door. She glanced at him over her shoulder, tongue still lolling, before dropping down to all fours and padding to lay beside Delilah. The older dog had glanced at Ratigan, sneezed, and then placed her hand back on her paws; like her father, Delilah had deemed him to be non-threatening.

Errol knew it irked Ratigan, that he wasn't frightened by him. It was rather amusing.

Rather than rising to the bait of the jab at his age, Errol raised a brow, grin flexing into something sharper about the edges. He answered in Farsi, instead, accent smoothing out to something richer. "Mm, even if he did not feel anything, it still warranted the same reaction." He studied Ratigan's face openly, unconcerned, before turning and walking to a cabinet across from the table where his chess set sat. He rifled through it for a few momemts, tugging more papers to sign from its belly. "As you say, I have dealt with this before, many times. If there had been internal hemorrhaging, it would have posed a greater issue. And neither of us would've smelled it. Have a seat, or stand by the desk, mess about with the chess pieces. The paperwork is almost all sorted."

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan​

Ratigan did not sit, as Errol had gestured for him to do. Errol hadn’t expected him to. In fact, if he had he’d probably have looked at the man like he’d grown a second head. He also knew that he probably shouldn’t have said what he had but he did and while Ratigan was the only one who’d heard him, Ratigan was also the person who could get him in trouble for it. 

As far as Errol was concerned, he didn’t give two shites what Ratigan claimed to have heard him say. He could very easily fire back with his own information, but Errol refused to stoop to that level, even if it was what Ratigan wanted, though Errol waiting about for him to decide whether he was done acting like a ponce was never going to happen, because Ratigan was never going to stop being a tosser. 

He’d resigned himself to that fact and found that, despite it all, he supposed that he didn’t mind it all that much. 

Not pausing in his stride as he opened his office doors, the sheriff shifted his weight to his back foot, grunting with the added weight as Dublin came flying into his arms in her typical greeting, tail wagging so hard it was spinning in a circle. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, chuckling when she licked beneath his chin and on his neck, “because not everyone would let you do that.” Hefting her weight around a bit so she was balanced more comfortably in his arms, Errol moved further into his office before he set her down, expecting her to join Delilah on the beds set on the other side of the office. 

Instead, she gave a little woof, tail wagging, and trotted toward the door. Errol turned his head, brow hiking up his forehead as he watched Linny, feathery tail swishing, to greet their half-welcomed guest at the door. 

“He might not want to pet you, little one,” Errol warned, shaking his head fondly as he gathered up the papers, shuffled them into order, and paper clipped them together. “He has a cat.” Dublin went undeterred, however, and sat back on her hindlegs when Ratigan came into view, tail still wagging and tongue lolling from her mouth. It was an interesting sight; usually she wasn’t so…friendly with people, took her time to get to know them, but Errol supposed if he was letting Ratigan back here, then maybe she figured it was okay. 

“Professor -” the tone was formal, almost sickly-sweet, and overtly professional “ - me new girl, Dublin. Dublin, ‘s Professor Ratigan. Ye already know Delilah. An’ ‘m so sorry -” again, the tone was professional, but there was a hint of something seemingly Errol about it, too, that edge that prodded and poked until he got a reaction “ - fer what I said, ‘bout yer friend, but it was dumb, inebriation or nae. Coulda ‘urt ‘imself, an’ ‘en yer night wif me jus’ got twice as long. ‘e’s lucky ‘it was jus’ a bit o’ bruisin’.” 

It was amazing (in the most negative sense of the word) what went on inside of this station. He had not expected anything professional, obviously, as he never did with law enforcement— but still. Perhaps he could have understood the first dog inside its walls as she was well behaved and probably had more experience than those with a badge. But the second, who looked to be so new to this world that it probably didn’t know what winter was yet, was here no doubt due to the sheriff just doing whatever he so desired. 

Despite the change in language, Ratigan had understood every word. Language had come easy to him, like most things, but he had worked to gather as many as he could in order to be able to expand the network as far as it could reach without stretching thin. Far be it from him to keep them stagnant in the realms of those who only spoke English when there was so much more that could be offered when allowing all those acceptable to the insides. 

He did not act like he understood, though, but he knew the sheriff would know. Which was why he took he has a cat as an insult. Ratigan had never understood the dog person vs. cat person debate and probably never would— but what he could say was that while everyone thought cat people were insufferable, it was quite the other way around. 

Ratigan peered down at the other dog. Dublin. (How original. The Irishman must have really been pleased with himself for that one.) He remained just outside the door to the office, caught in the game of observation with the dog. His hand raised to give a slight wave before he looked up as the sheriff spoke again. 

“Still. I am sure you have seen your fair share of people in his position, whether on the job or out having a night of fun— at least, you knew what that was like.” He smiled, as if this was a joke instead of the insult it was meant to be as he jabbed at his age. “He meant nothing by it and will no doubt be full of remorse come the morning and hangover with it.” 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

Well, now, it seemed he'd been right. He loved it when he was right.

Errol snorted indelicately and shook his head. "You'd be surprised," he muttered, referring to what Ratigan had said about his being a police officer so, of course, he should notice many things. But that was where Ratigan was wrong. Errol had met many men and women who hadn't an observant bone in their body, and it was their own detriment, but never Errol's.

He prided himself on that fact, though he kept it fairly well hidden. Small comments like these ones, something he said lightly or in jest, those usually slid beneath the radar. Except something in his gut told him that would not be the case here, with Ratigan, and perhaps never had been.

A small smirk curled the corner of his mouth upward. He'd considered the ramifications. They didn't really hold that highly but, then again, he hadn't processed all the data he'd been handed yet. And handed it he had, straight on a silver platter.

It was with this thought in mind that he gave his goodbyes to the other man, telephone on his desk ringing not a moment later. His day had begun and he'd started it well.

The laughter that rang our from his office when he'd realized he'd been beat, well, that was only fair. It had been his challenge, after all.

hngrylikethewoolf​:

Rather than be annoyed at the impromptu anatomy lesson, Errol listened intently, even if he didn’t appear to be. While his hands stayed busy laying smooth the sling and the cuff of the fabric on his shirt, eyes downcast to the way his hands moved, his head cocked, listening. It was not that another person hadn’t explained why he should take care of himself or the many broken parts of his body, just that Ratigan spoke very rarely or, rather, rarely in a sense outside of the ways they had interacted on the train or at the university. In Errol’s experience, when someone who was careful with their words spoke, it meant you should listen. Besides, he had no problem listening to someone like Ratigan. He figured that, maybe, he would learn something (either about the man or his ideals).

Finally glancing up when the last strap was is place and Errol’s arm was effectively immobilized, the sheriff nodded his head. A small smile curled the edge of his mouth upward before moving closer to the professor again. He studied the board for a moment to see what moves he had missed before responding. His voice was quieter than normal, perhaps a bit of truth coloring the words as they rolled off his tongue. “Ah, well yer right. ’M nah neglectin’ me health. Nothin’ ever healed poorly but ’s ‘ard tah remember I ain’t a soldier sometimes.”

Don’t mistake him, he had people who looked after him, people who cared whether he was hurt, but he’d still been a weapon and a tool, an Irishman in the Queen’s army. He was in the shape they needed him to be to fight and no higher. Such is the life, he supposed. Glancing up and over at Ratigan’s face, eyes roving over the look on his face before a brow ticked upward, Errol grinned back at the sheepish touch, the surprise of it still novel and, perhaps, a bit played upon. Errol saw it and then filed it away, content to let it be, for now.

“Mm, an’ I’d like tah play properly tah mine. But aye–” a pause, a swero across the face and down to the clothing, a slight smirk before he moves his next piece on the board – “I notice a lot o’ fings.”

His eyes didn’t stray to the chess board as the sheriff moved his piece into place, he merely kept his eyes on the man’s face as he spoke, like any other polite person did when holding a conversation. Ratigan nodded like he understood (or cared) what the implications of those words meant— until the last sentence.  

If he didn’t know any better, he would say that had been a challenge.

He didn’t appreciate this but what had he really expected. He was speaking to a man in a position of power who had a history of working in a chain of command. It was no surprise he acted like he did. Still, Ratigan couldn’t help the itch of annoyance that prickled against his skin.

“I’d hope so, being a police officer and all.” He smiled, tone forming to match the light hearted mood that had settled within the conversation. A small huff left him before he bowed his head briefly. “Well, now that you’re settled, I should be on my way. It was lovely to meet you—“ he said this to the dog, “—and I hope you keep yourself out of anymore trouble until you’ve healed, sheriff.” 

Before he left, he reached forward to place his rook into position. Check mate. (Ratigan was never one who accepted being bested, no matter how small the matter.) He turned and exited the office then the building, a plan already working itself out in his mind. 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

Errol refrained from rolling his eyes. Really, he should get a gold star for the restraint. Instead, Errol hummed his acknowledgement, waiting until the other man was done speaking before giving his answer.

"Most o' t' fabric we got from t' priest in town. It wasna an expense beside some time an' conversation." Father Tucker was, after all, a very nice man. Jolly and talkative, he'd been all too eager to help when Errol had come sniffing around the church to ask about how he should, technically, frame out the cassock.

Now all that really needed to be done was to put the pieces he had together and size them to Ratigan's frame. From the look of things, though, that wouldn't be happening.

"All ye need is tah get fitted, really. Or if yer shy, I can fit it tah a mannequin an' get it approved by ye. Ain't makin' a cassock 'cause t' Father gave me a spare. If i hand ye t' collars, ye wanna try 'em an' see which fits best?"

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan​

That won’t be necessary. Errol stopped, maybe a foot or two away, and turned on a dime, brow cocked as he rounded about to look the other man in the face. If he had to tilt his head up a bit, well, he paid it no mind. He was well aware of the height many people had on him, no less so here when the professor was staring at him with that haughty, holier than though neutrality that kind of made him want to poke and prod and see what cracked. 

There was a reason, after all, why he and his former commanding officer had never got along. However, where Errol had never liked that bastard Toye, he appeared to like Ratigan. 

A small smile curled around his mouth when the professor pulled a small, white paper from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it over. Errol stepped closer and took it, flicking it open with a thumb and stepping out of the other man’s space again in the same movement. Though he had only been around the other a handful of times, it was evident to the sheriff that Ratigan was far more comfortable with an armlength between himself and other people. Errol could respect that, and he did, quietly looking over the numbers before flicking his gaze back toward the other man. 

He pocketed the piece of paper with a nod. He wouldn’t need to look at them again, and he could tell they were accurate from the sweep he’d done down the professor’s body. 

“Aye, ‘ve thought ‘bout it,” he said, voice it’s usual, calm quiet. He leaned back on his heels, hands going into the back pockets of his Chinos. “T’ typical black fer t’ clerical clothing, red or purple silk fer t’ stole. I ain’t makin’ ye a cassock but yer gonna need tah get fitted fer a clerical collar, tab or otherwise. Other vestments dunna need tah be fitted since they’re outerwear, but ‘s usually silks an’ cottons, etcetera.” 

Ratigan squinted at the other man throughout his description. That all seemed rather expensive considering what sort of production they were putting on. This was local, not the West End. It wasn’t as if the priest’s costume would need to be that extravagant— even if he was the one who was going to be wearing it. The point of him taking the roll was because it was so small. It was for participation points. 

“Are you sure all of that needs to be made?” He shrugged. “You could find something cheap that could altered after, elsewhere. We’re in Europe, I’m sure they’re around every corner. There’s no need to waste time on this when the other costume’s will need more attention.” 

Which was true. From what he had done in research the show’s enjoyment was not found in the plot or storytelling. That was all an afterthought to everything else and the costumes played a large roll to this. 

But, for the most part, he did not want to spend any more time getting fitted for the costume than he had to. Last year had been a nightmare— another appeal as to why he had gone for Father Alexandrios, it didn’t require make up or fur. 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

The corner of Errol's lip curled upward, as though he were responding to the other man's attempt at laughter. It didn't reach his eyes, nor was it amused, but anyone looking at them would see it and think so. He didn't know Ratigan, not really. Certainly not enough to say that they shared any sense of comraderie.

They were both something someone else hated, though, and that was as scant a reminder as Errol needed.

"Well, luck seems tah've been on yer side, fortunate fer yah," he said, voice pitched so it wouldn't carry between them to the other emergency service workers milling around.

The happier lilt to Ratigan's laugh made a brow twitch toward his hairline, hitching the corner of his mouth further by a fraction. It made sense that Ratigan could act so well, but sometimes it was surprising. But only for a moment. His eyes tracked the flippant movement of Ratigan's hand for a moment before tracking back to his face.

"Right so no injuries. Good tah know." He thought that was a loud of shite, but he wasn't about to say that out in broad daylight. "Bad posture can be fixed, though, so I dunna fink ye've got anyfin' tah worry about. Lemme see if I can grab some papers tah discharge ye from t' otharcharr. Ah - ambulance."

Bumper Cars || Errol + Ratigan

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan​

Ratigan did as he was told, and it irritated him. Immensely. 

It wasn’t normal. There was no sharpness, no back talk, no threats of bodily harm toward him or his family. It was rather odd, though Errol knew why that was. In fact, Ratigan seemed rather used to it all, bored in that way people who had been chronic visitors at one time or another were. 

It piqued Errol’s curiosity as much as it did his ire, though the only indication of that was a slight flare to his nostrils, a shift in his stance before resettling. It also made him wonder what had been done, what he could surmise from such scant information. Errol resisted that curiosity, wadded it up and shoved it into another corner of his brain. 

He was working. He was a professional. 

“Mm, good tah ‘ear. Ye were prob’ly lucky, seein’ as ‘ow ‘ard t’ driver claims tah’ve hitcha.” They both knew he wasn’t lucky. This wasn’t luck. “Any other fings we should know about, might be cause fer concern? Previous injuries, all o’ ‘at.” Errol said it with borderline bored professionalism, mirroring Ratigan’s own compliance back at him. If he wouldn’t take the way out that Errol’d offered, then he’d be subjected to the whole schpeil.  

He hated to think that the sheriff thought that they shared something, by any means of the word. They didn’t— not a single thing. That was probably what made him dislike the man as intensely as he did, the way he thought they were somehow now on the same side simply because he had stumbled into Ratigan’s territories by being an embarrassing fool. Like they were now in some sort of secret club that somehow put them on the same level as one another. 

As if he knew Ratigan better, somehow, because of it. He did not. No one did. They only knew of what he had laid on top to disguise it after all these years.  

“Yes. Luck.” He gave a little chuckle to punctuate this, making it sound a bit nervous, as if he had been scared of what had just happened to him but was trying very hard to hide it for the sake of those around him. 

“No, no, nothing like that!” His laughter turned happier then, as if the sheriff was pulling him out of the spiral of thinking about what could have happened. Ratigan shook his head, hand waving flippantly. “The most I suffer from is bad posture I’m afraid— but that’s from my own doing, now isn’t it?” 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

Errol carefully kept his irritation locked away, placed into three same little play area the wolf resided in within himself. He imagined, for a moment, the wolf tearing it into pieces before filing that away, too. It would do him no good to show emotion to a man who would only use it to his own advantage. Errol had been offering him an out, a courtesy, but Ratigan wanted to play a game. Errol would let him.

"Well, professor," he began, a faux smile crossing his face to mirror Ratigan's own. "If ye ain't refusin' t' field tests, 'M jus' gonna run frough 'em, quick like. Pardon me if I gotta get a lil' close." Posture easy and movement deliberately slower than normal, though not so abnormal they drew attention, Errol pulled his pen light back out of his pocket.

Gesturing for Ratigan to stand straighter again, he held up a finger, voice conversation as he stepped within grabbing distance. "Look 'ere, follow me finger wif jus' yer eyes." Errol moved his pointer first to one side and then the other, up and then down. He watched Ratigan's pupils, noting that they dilated -- as he'd suspected they would -- at the proper rate. He completed the test again for the other eye. Then, he gave a warning, explaining what he was doing quietly, and shone the pen light into both eyes.

Though he was certainly aware Ratigan was smart enough to know what these tests were, the explanations were not for him. Many normal people didn't know what these exams did. Testing pupil reaction time a tracking were both common procedures to ensure a victim hadn't encountered trauma to the head. With the information Errol had been given, it was the logical sequence of events.

"Yer reactions're good," he said, loud enough so the emergency worker walking behind them could hear. "Yer lucky, professor. T' driver wasna goin' fast. If 'e had been ye might've had more damage." Errol placed the pen light back into his pocket and stepped back again and to the side. "Now, witnesses said ye fell hard on yer hip an' shoulder. Can ye rotate th' joint for me, forward an' backward? Any pain when ye do it, say so. Any pain in yer hip, now yer standin'?"

Bumper Cars || Errol + Ratigan

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan​

Errol could feel Ratigan’s eyes tracking him as he urged the crowd to back away, to give them room to work, told one woman sternly (but professionally) that she was too close to the scene and that she needed to move behind the line he’d cordoned off. She’d strayed too close to Ratigan, the tourist’s car, and the other two people in it. Errol didn’t want the headache of dealing with a curious onlooker, an irrate professor who, if he was remembering their ambulance ride correctly, might not enjoy enclosed spaces (not that he’d ever say it aloud, nor mention it. Errol liked his balls where they were, and he liked breathing just as much).

Besides, it wasn’t untrue. She shouldn’t be that close to what was becoming, unfortunately, an active scene. Errol didn’t want it to be. Didn’t want Ratigan involved, didn’t want to be involved, but this was the job and these were the roles they had, so Errol moved the tourist away from the car with gentle words, a comforting smile for the kid as she stared at him, Ratigan, and her da from her spot in the backseat. 

Performing a quick field test while he waited for the crew to unload their kits, Errol determined that the tourist was certainly off his head with worry and potentially concussed, trying to maneuver around Errol to get at Ratigan. He kept him at bay easily, kept him far enough away and himself between the pair. The EMT took him and the girl away a few moment’s later, exchanged a few words with hmi, and Errol’s smile faltered once they were out of sight. 

He sighed, then, and turned to Ratigan, hands going into his pockets as he hiked both of his brows, taking the other man in, almost warily. “’m nah gonna perform a test, but yer gonna say I did when they walk over ‘ere tah ask. ‘e said ye hit yer shoulder an’ yer hip when ye fell, maybe yer ‘ead. Does any o’ it still ‘urt?” 

These were questions he had to ask, not questions he wanted to ask. Not really. 

Errol knew Ratigan wouldn’t like any of the questioning, most definitely didn’t even want him here, but he couldn’t walk off when someone’d told him another person had been run into by a car. In Swynlake, Ratigan wasn’t a werewolf with quick healing; he was a professor, human, and Errol was the first person who’d gotten to the scene. 

In order to get them both out of this situation without putting Ratigan into the back of an ambulance they’d need to think quick like.

Ratigan looked up from where he had been focusing on his phone’s unfortunate demise when the sheriff turned his way. His eyebrows arched, expression open and curious like anyone would be in a situation like his— just a simple man who was in the middle of a situation that had gotten a bit out of hand because it was true. For all intensive purposes, Professor Pedram Ratigan was a simple man. So long as he was within Swynlake he was not going to let that persona come down. 

It was almost funny that the sheriff thought he could think that Ratigan would crack simply because he knew, if it weren’t so aggravating. (This, at least, the wolf could agree on as it grew defensive once again in the presence of the other werewolf.) And if he thought just because he had been allowed to live with the knowledge meant that they could somehow work together—? 

Well, Ratigan had already determined that the man was lacking as far as intelligence went. It was actually not all that surprising. Disappointing, really, considering he wore a badge and was still going around pretending like he cared to uphold what it was supposedly meant to be for. 

His brow creased upward in confused concern, eyes shifting sideways for a moment before darting back to the sheriff. “I’m— sorry? I don’t know what you mean, sheriff? I’ll gladly take the test! I’m not harmed, which is what I told the poor gentleman that hit me. To be honest, it was no doubt my fault. I practically walked into the car myself.” 

He held up the phone, shoulders hunching with guilt. “I wasn’t paying attention, you see.” A sheepish smile crossed his face as he tucked it back into his pocket and used his free hands to motion to the man. “Whatever you need to do or ask, I’ll answer.” 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

"Yer stallin' yer movements, Ratigan," Errol commented, glancing over with a small grin, before moving a chess piece and capturing one of Ratigan's knights, setting it off to the side so it didn't get knocked off the table. While he hadn't been surprised, per say, that a 'quiet' historian might be able to play chess (sounded like a pastime they'd enjoy, after all), it did surprise him that it took him the time it did to choose his piece.

There was an ever-so-slight hesitancy around the movement, like he'd already made his decision but stalled it for Errol's (or everyone else's) benefit.

Truly fascinating, and something to put away to examine later.

At the mere mention of how long Errol had had Delilah, a larger grin took over his face, stance relaxing into something not so formal, nothing like his usual mockery of parade rest. The quip about Ratigan’s cat allowing him the use of his things was not so shockingly close to his own experience. "Ah, fink 's almost eight years now. She's older 'en that, though. Officially, anyway. Trained 'er when she was a pup, had 'er a year or two in t' service. She got retired out after I did. They tried tah give 'er tah another handler."

There were many things he'd hated about that period of time, especially the fact that it had been done while he couldn't fight against it. That transfer had been one of the most painful experiences of his life, second only to the accident that had put him in the coma they hadn't known he'd wake up from.

"Del's me girl," he said with a shrug, as though it answered almost every question. Usually, it did. "Saved me life a time or two, figure best I can do fer 'er is treat 'er like she deserves. Eats better than I do, most weeks, runs to house t' rest o' t' time."

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan​

Straightening his collar until it sat crisp against his collarbones, Errol unbuttoned the two buttons at the top and fixed the wristwatch he’d strapped to the inside of his left wrist. He rolled his shoulder experimentally and winced when his ribs pulled. Delilah, her head peeking out over the top of the desk, woofed at him in canine disapproval. The sheriff shook his head and laughed before swiping the sling off his desk. “Pushy, Del, pushy but fine. I’ll put t’ bloody fing back on.” 

Glancing up when Ratigan spoke, Errol nodded his head as he maneuvered toward the small side table. “Ahh, sits on all yer shite, right? This one,” he said, nodding his chin toward the German Shepherd, “uses me hoodies as a bloody blanket.” 

He walked around the desk, patted Delilah on the head, and swiped the paperwork that had been left for him by Shera. Hip cocked where it rest against the side of the table, He glanced over the missive in his left hand and then maneuvered his own piece on the board with his right, swiping the one Ratigan had just moved. 

Ratigan had always found the remedial conversations between people to be so fascinating. When he had been younger (not a child, never a child) he had never partaken in one. Now, it sounded strange even to him but it was true. Slowly, as he grew and was given his various jobs to do outside of the home, he had been met with society but he had only entered upon coming here to Swynlake. 

Here he had learned that when people asked alright? or how’re you today? they didn’t actually want the full answer— especially not the cashier at the grocery store. 

“As I’ve learned, they are in fact her things, I just paid for them and am allowed to use them from time to time.” Felicia had quickly become the ruler of his domain and the only being he did not feel was overstepping. “How long have you had her?” 

While he had not planned to continue the game of chess, when the sheriff played his turn he felt compelled to continue. Having already anticipated the play, he moved his own piece to the one the sheriff had left vulnerable. He waited several minutes, after both the sheriff had spoken and he had replied, to take his turn— couldn’t be perceived as too smart after all. Pedram Ratigan was just a quiet liberal arts professer, after all. 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

The moment the bag was taken by the other man, Errol shifted away, knowing that he had already stepped far to close into the other man's personal space. Free hand shifting to ruffle at Delilah's ears, the small smile on his face turned lopsided as he laughed at himself, shaking his head (almost as if to clear it).

Ratigan said he wouldn't have offered otherwise, and the sheriff arched a brow, recognizing that it was, possibly, not entirely the truth but letting it slide anyway. He nodded his way down the street, indicating the direction he was going.

"Jus' tah t' station. Poppin' in fer a few hours." The sheriff paused, hand stilling on top of Delilah's head, and he sighed, shrugging his good shoulder almost a bit sheepishly. "Get restless when 'm stuck at home. Mind starts goin' an' I 'ad tah get Del 'ere outta t' house, anyway."

At the sound of her nickname, the German Shepherd gave a little whuff and a wiggle toward the man in front of him, which earned a chuckle from Errol. He toyed with the bent over flap on her ear for a moment before he spoke. "Speakin' of: Delilah, Ratigan. Doctor Ratigan, meet me girl, Del. Seems tah like ye."

And it was true. Usually, if she didn't, there would be a piece of ruff standing straight up on her neck, her ears back and stare gone into a laser-like quality. He had seen it before. But this was just curiosity. Her owner liked the man, so she wanted to see who he was.

Plus, the proffered paw should have been clue enough.

Shaking his head, Errol nudged the bags he still hand more firmly into hand and started walking again once the pair had made their introductions, Delilah walking between them. Despite the stiffness in his leg he was able to keep up easily enough. Besides, it would do him some good to walk a bit.

"Thank ye, again. Woulda tried tah manage on me own if ye hadna come along."

Unhelpful Assistant || Errol + Ratigan

hngrylikethewoolf​:

@professorofcrimeratigan

Despite the fact his left arm was in a sling, his ribs were wrapped, and he had a beauty of a bruise yellowing across the side of his temple and down his cheekbone, he was still attempting to run errands before sitting in for a shift at the station. Errol never had been decent at following medical orders, truth be told, and there was an itchy, antsy energy that brewed beneath his skin every time he was forced to convalesce. 

Needless to say, the moment he was released back into his own hands, the high sheriff was taping up his own ribs, wrapping his shoulder, and popping sunglasses on over his tender face and shrugging into civilian clothing as easily as he could, a go-bag packed with his work clothes and Delilah’s spare water bowl, leash, blanket and a toy. Normally, juggling all of this would be no problem, but having an arm and ribs that twinged every time you moved made dodging men wider than himself as he stepped out of Chapter Three that much harder. As it was, he was able to put up his good forearm and brace it against the other man’s chest and shift his leg so he didn’t collide with the door, but the movement made him suck in a breath through his teeth and squirm uncomfortably as he hastily stepped away, hand running through his hair as he glanced up.

Delilah, waiting at his feet, stood to attention with her ears pricked, eyes boring intently into Ratigan’s face. “Beruhigen.” Glancing up at him, the German Shepherd cocked her head before relaxing her stance and sitting when she was commanded to. The surprise on his face was evident but it was a bit too raw, too sudden, to sneak it away. He flashed a small, brief smile a moment later, however, and juggled the bag around so it was slung off his fingertips. 

“Uh, this one, if ‘s nah too much, dunno where yer headed but…it’d be appreciated. Normally, it wouldna be an issue but, well–” he nodded toward the sling on his left side with a wrinkled nose. “–been told I gotta wear this fer a week.” 

What had actually been said was that it would be needed for a minimum of a week, but he wasn’t going to be sharing that information.  

There was a saying that after a while a dog owner began to look like their dog., He didn’t say it or pay any attention to it due to the fact that it was ridiculous and had more to do with one’s own perception than reality, but it seemed that the sheriff had taken it to the next level with his own. Either they had sustained similar injuries while in the army or — he wouldn’t entertain another thought because they were all equally unlikely. 

Obviously the dog had been in some sort of training that went above and beyond the normal puppy classes since they responded to German, the technique used to keep the chances of them getting confused during times of high stimulus. With the sheriff’s own background, it was not hard to connect that they had both been in the service. They stared at one another and he could feel the wolf inside him want to reach forward but he held himself back firmly. If he had nothing else, it was control. 

When the sheriff spoke he returned his attention to the man, glancing over him. Again, it was not hard to tell what had happened to him. An altercation on the job most likely. The way he referred to his sling said that he did not enjoy rest and would most likely prolong injuries due to recklessness. (See: leg.) 

“Of course. I wouldn’t have offered if I was needed elsewhere.” Ratigan gathered what he had been told to take out of the sheriff’s grasp and into his own. “The question now is where are you headed?” 

[hngrylikethewoolf]

@professorofcrimeratigan

See, Errol hadnt participated in the last few plays. He had been busy, galavanting all across merry old England, but this year he had a bit of downtime. Just a bit, you see, and it meant he could lend some of the services he had picked up as a lad to the crew company.

Miss Triton had been kind enough not to look at him funny when he told her he was proficient with a pincushion, so to speak, and had waved him away to make the rounds for initial costume fittings. This was easy, something he could do in his sleep. His mam had taught him how to measure by eye and all the rest of the skills a seamstress and a tailor needed, but he was polite enough not to say it aloud. Errol didn't mind running through the motions with certain people, making himself friendly enough while he did it.

That didn't mean he couldn't have a bit of fun every now and again, though, and Errol figured this might be the perfect person to try it on, albeit very lightly of course, as he had done since their initial meeting.

Glancing up from a set of emails he'd been clearing from his inbox, because he was, in fact, still available by telephone by the county office, Errol smiled back at the professor as he came into view. "'at'd be correct," he confirmed, sliding his cellphone into the back pocket of his Chinos. "But I ain't on duty, nah really. Ye can call me by me name," he said, voice almost-teasing. He was almost certain the other man was incapable of not using a title, his own or someone else's, but a bit of good natured prodding never hurt anyone.

"'Ve got a lil' station set up if ye jus' follow me. Gotta grab yer measurements an' all o' 'at fun shite."

Pins And Needles|| Errol + Ratigan

Ratigan had never had the intention of becoming the summer musical’s director and yet— it seemed his need to be in control of everything at any given moment won out in the end. When Mrs. Robinson stepped back, focusing solely on the musical aspect, he knew he wouldn’t be able to take direction from anyone else, no matter how small his role. 

So he had put his name forward to volunteer for the role and they had made the unfortunate mistake of putting him in the position. For the most part it was only delegation he was in charge of and making sure everything that needed to get done did. It just helped that the title seemed to give him more power than need be. 

Today he was going to use that to his advantage as far as his own costuming went. When he was pointed to who had been given that role by the Triton girl in charge of costume and make-up, he nearly rolled his eyes. 

“Hello, sheriff.” He smiled at the man when his attention turn to Ratigan. “I’m told you’ll be taking care of Father Alex’s costume?” 

@hngrylikethewoolf