#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]

Cry Wolf, Bleed Red || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol's work behind the scenes on a case he was mysteriously handed months ago finally comes to fruition. He travels to London, information asked of him in hand (or, rather, hidden but nearby) and allows his curiosity to finally pull him toward the person in question. Little does he know that he already knows then, and he's possibly bit off more than he can chew. Then again, when hasn't he?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Guns, Improper Medical Treatments, Errol’s Shady Military Shit (i.e. Special Forces) Mentioned, Death 

[BACKDATED JULY 19TH, 2021] @professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL: 

He never thought he'd be back in London so soon. 

There was a certain hunger in this city, just a Bart away from the town he had put roots down in for the last two years, the town he had never thought that he would stay in for more than a few months nor find people to care about within it. But that wasn't what this was. This was something else entirely, a maneuvering, a life-sized game of chess and shadows. 

The life Errol had lived by the hand of a state and had thought he'd put to bed with a medical discharge and its night terrors. This case had deemed it otherwise, however, and so here he was, rucksack in hand and information at the ready. 

It seemed someone wanted to kill this mysterious shadow he'd been tracking and they couldn't have that, now, could they? Regardless of what the man might or might not be involved in, Errol could cite plausible deniability. He'd grown particularly fond of the shadowy bastard, after all. Or, as much as one could without knowing their face.

The sheriff had made the appropriate arrangements to get himself to the city, the flash drive of information he held in hand a culmination of every skill he possessed. It had been damn hard to unravel, but it had been done, in the end. 

And the results were alarming enough that he walked, dressed in civilian garb, knife and handgun hidden on his person, to a predetermined meeting to discuss it. 

RATIGAN: 

It went without being said that he did not want to be here.  

Usually he wouldn’t— his involvement in things like this were slim to none. That was the benefit of where he sat at the head of the table, there were so many people working under him that he rarely had to lift a finger let alone carry out a job himself. Obviously the circumstances for him to be here, in person, had to be special. 

Or, as it was, dire. 

This situation had blown itself out of proportion. He had only anticipated a slight ripple in the pond when he had sent the head sheriff on the case. The man he had wanted arrested and put on display for his wrongdoings had more to him than Ratigan previously thought. And what was worse, the sheriff had been quite good at his job. So good that he had uncovered the plot against him faster than Ratigan had and if he hadn’t been so angry at the notion that someone had been working against all he had built, he would have been highly offended by this. He could deal with that and all it implied later, for now he had information to obtain. Ever since the slip up last year that had resulted in the getting bitten Ratigan’s paranoia for things like this had grown substantially. And with the promise of an attempt to overtake his empire he knew he couldn’t trust anyone else to oversee the workings of this plot. While he would not face the sheriff in person, he would be there to make sure the information was obtained. 

They had been tracking the sheriff’s movements as he moved about the city— and this late night stroll was no exception. They had already gone through the room the man was staying in looking for the evidence he had collected, only to come up empty handed. Unfortunately he was smart enough to know the safest place for it would be on his person. 

“Where’s he going?” Fidget asked from the driver’s seat. The rest of the crew that had been assembled would be close behind, their wardrobe had needed an upgrade for this change of plans. 

“Seeing as he is not in uniform, I think our sheriff is trying to infiltrate the enemy’s line undercover,” he sighed, annoyed by this turn of events. It had made all of this needlessly complicated. “And yet he has not informed anyone else of his intentions.” 

“...what’s that mean?” 

“It means we’ll be playing his back up.” 

ERROL: 

At the back of his mind, waking down the street, the sheriff was running over the list of information he had. Of course, it wasn't on him, not really. That would have been stupid. But, then again, so would leaving it just lying around so anyone could waltz into his room and find it. 

(He would be surprised if they hadn't done so already, actually. He hadn't been gone long, but there would have been time in between. It would have been what he'd done.) 

No, the flash drive was safe and hidden somewhere no one would think it to be, a trick he'd learned during his stint pretending not to exist for twenty years. Hiding in plain sight was easy. Acting like a civilian was easy, too, but Errol still felt eyes watching him with every step he'd taken. 

There was a certain feeling one had to recognizing they had a tail. It started at the base of the spine, the pit of your stomach, a bit of a tingling as it raised the hairs on your arms, the back of your neck. Skin stippling with the gooseflesh that dotted your flesh. An alarm that rang off in your head, telling you there was someone there but that if you acted normal, acted ordinary they wouldn't know. 

This notion flashed through his brain in only a few seconds. It was easy to pick out from his other, more inane, thoughts. The sheriff thought about how he should have worn full Kevlar, how there was a nagging sense that things were going to go poorly, but that he knew if he was to be searched a vest would have given him away. Errol had been undercover before. He knew how it worked. 

It still didn't make the feeling go away. 

Errol ducked into the closest coffee shop, the smell of it detectable a mile away and where he had been heading this whole time. He wove in between customers, snagging bits and bobs as he went by, a genteel smile on his face as he pocketed money, fake stumbled into someone and took a scarf to cover his face and neck, a dark beanie hat he shoved over his curls.

He was in and out of the area in about a minute, parts of himself concealed that had not been previously, pilfered coffee in hand. The back door made little noise as it swung on its hinge, his boots making more noise as trash and alley goo squelched beneath them. 

He was at the mouth of the alley, turning back onto the main street, when a solid impact to the ridge of his shoulder had him spun into the bricks, startling him. Automatically, he glanced up. No sniper in sight, but then if there were, they weren't a good one. They'd missed his head, if that had been the target. Errol had stumbled but he hadn't fallen, a glancing ricochet of a bullet off his shoulder strong enough to move him, so he rolled his arm and kept moving, weaving seamlessly back into the crowd with a grimace on his face and the smell of blood in his nostrils. 

They wanted him alone, but the safest place was amidst people.

A trap, however, was never ideal. Not unless it was his, and the gun at his hip said it would be. 

RATIGAN: 

“What’s he doin’ now?” Fidget leaned over to get a peak at the screen while they were stopped at a red light. 

If there was one thing that Ratigan did not miss it was the population of the city and all that accompanied it— traffic being among the top 10 behind all the other environmental determinants and housing crises it perpetuated. 

“Gettin’ coffee?” The driver cackled, head tilting back slightly as he let out his amusement. Ratigan simply rolled his eyes at the sound and leaned against the arm rest so that he could rub at his temple. He knew by now what he was getting into when being alone with Fidget and yet there he was, making the mistake all over again. (Yet another reason he would resent the sheriff for his actions after this.) 

This was why he did not miss being a part of the field work. He could remember the days when he would sit for hours on end in the dark listening to the conversations of that of his mark or between people who would soon lead him to where he needed to go. The inane, unintelligible nature of them. Back then when he had nothing but himself and the lone weapon the family would lend to him upon giving him his instructions. How different it was now, with a whole team and technology his brain had not even fathomed into existence back then. 

Of course, his insides were all the same— filled with black like tar of vitriol. He would always be that creature that roamed the shadows of the world like a wraith, observing the people around him in an attempt to mirror their movements and expressions. All in the hope that in the few moments he did step out into the light, it would be enough to convince those that saw him that he was derived from the same beginnings. 

“I don’t get it,” Fidget started up again, making Ratigan breath in deeply, preparing for what was to come. “Why can’t we just take him out? Why all this chasing?” 

“Because, Fidget, there’s no point in that.” Even if it would have been more fun compared to this absolute mess. “Despite his superiors' lack of interest, he is still law enforcement.” 

“Suddenly we care about Scotland Yard?”

“No, but should he die they will be informed and all will be lost to that failed organization of so called investigators.” He glanced up and rolled his eyes again at Figet’s confused stare. “If he dies now someone else will take over this case and since an officer died while investigating it there will be more interest, as well as all that he has already managed to dig up. I have no doubt our half will be untraceable but the people targeting the sheriff are not so careful, and I do not intend to let the police get involved. These people are mine to deal with. The police will just get in my way and they do not deserve prolonged hope of life.”

Fidget nodded slowly. After a moment he asked, “What’s he doin’ now?” 

ERROL: 

There was something like single mindedness that could narrow a man's focus down into pinpoints, the tunnel vision of pain or fear of the smell of his own blood sending him off to do something stupid. Errol couldn't afford that feeling. 

He breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose, kept his shoulder as protected as he could, edging through a small crowd of people. Tried not to flinch when something whizzed past his good ear and struck the concrete in a small spray of dust. Another miss again but this time more purposeful, an indication that whoever was herding him didn't care that other people were involved. 

Hell, they probably barely cared that he was police. It would be more trouble for them in the long run if they killed him, he knew, but he wouldn't put it past them. This group wasn't exactly smart, they were just ruthless. Or, well, what amounted to their version of it anyway. 

The car that had been following him wasn't their handiwork, though. It was a bit too subtle, save for the fact that he'd seen it too often to be coincidental. He glanced toward it, briefly, with a smile as he stepped off the curb and jogged across the street, switching sides to the less populated areas. Errol's left hand rested on the gun settled at his hip, jaw clenching as he jarred his shoulder. The knife was already hooked around his thumb, the handle curled into his palm. 

RATIGAN:

Ratigan had taken his eyes off the tablet for a moment when one of the other members of the crew had sent him the text that they had hit a slight delay but would be on their way soon. He cursed silently to himself. 

The police really were just a bunch of pests, weren’t they? Ironic that them holding up these people would only put one of their own in danger. Normally this would have delighted Ratigan but knowing what could be lost and what was at stake only made him frown. 

Ever since the sheriff had uncovered more than was expected in this investigation anger had begun to simmer under his skin. All that kept him from getting lost to it and putting his fist through any given surface was that he had been trained not to— but it was a near thing. This was not how his plans were supposed to go. He was careful, thought through every perceivable outcome thoroughly before making his move and planning accordingly. It was why his systems worked so sufficiently, why those who had entered into his game rarely complained of how things worked since they did not have to pay attention to the system they were working with. It was simply there to make sure their world moved along smoothly and without those in it having to worry about the semantics. 

But, as this whole affair had shown, not everyone enjoyed the efficiency. Wanting to revert back to the ways things used to be run. That thought alone made him want to smash his fist through the window beside his ear. (Given the extra strength from the bite, he knew his fist would go through the bulletproof glass.) 

When he looked back, the dot had gone off course— this time he cursed aloud. 

ERROL: 

The silence of this side of the street was unnerving, enough to make any normal person turn on their heel and stride back into the crowds. Errol wasn't most people, certainly wasn't normal, and he breathed calmly when most people would have started panicking. 

That first scuffle of sound further down made the famous words of Admiral Ackbar ( it's a trap! ) ring in his ears. He hated the feeling that coursed through his veins, the adrenaline of it all. He didn't have anyone to back him up, save for the car that had been following, quite obviously, behind. But even they were too far away right now. Both Dublin and Delilah were back in Swynlake. 

He felt the loss of the dogs keenly when he was rushed from his left side, a large beast of a man all but hooking his hands under Errol's arms and throwing him into the wall across from him. Probably done to try to get rid of his weapons, or maybe just to be a tit, but the slag certainly didn't expect for him to clamber to his feet, snarl in his face, and cut his belly open. 

Served him right, Errol thought, watching as he slumped to the dirty floor, and kept moving. He limped more visibly this time, the impact he'd sustained cracking his head against the brickwork and wrenching his hip. Everything else was sore, pounding with an ache he hadn't felt in ages. The thought crossed his mind that this was what they'd wanted, to get him into a secluded area before trying to pick him off. It made frustration well up in his chest. 

He'd been so worried about someone else being hurt, had reverted back to that mindset, that Errol had forgotten what was at stake here. Namely, whose life would be taken if he didn't play his hand expertly. Like a chess match, and one that he was currently losing. 

The sheriff took his own advice and turned back the way he'd come, picked his way carefully toward the more populated areas. He wasn't quite back at the street yet when a loud banging sound from behind him made him heave a sigh and  adjust his grip on the tactical handle curled in his grip. The blade was slick with blood and gore. He'd need to clean all of his weapons later, make them shine again. 

A slight grimace curled around his mouth when he turned and noticed not one but four men blocking the only other exit. Errol should have kept walking, could have, but the people that streamed past the alley entrance had no clue what violence was about to be wrought a few feet away. He really shouldn't make them aware of it. That was when people, more than himself, got hurt. 

He made the first move, not waiting for his assailants to attack first. Every movement was economical, purposeful and forceful, and the surprise on each of their faces as he came closer, drove them back through the doorway of the building off to the side, and dispatched them neatly one by one was almost amusing. 

Unlike their boss, they hadn't done their homework. It was clear they'd had no idea what he was capable of, even injured.  

It was almost laughable. 

The blade of his knife cut through throats and tendons, his free hand helping block attacks that came to close, snapped arms like toothpicks when they came at him. The gun at his hip stayed where it was; bullets went through buildings. He didn't need to shoot someone walking outside. 

The men in the room, most now crumpled dead to the floor, had no such qualms. Handguns lay scattered around them, quickly dispatched and removed from the equation. One of them had hit their mark ( clearly they weren't taught how to shoot ) and exited through his side. Another caught his leg, tearing into the meat of his thigh. He'd stumbled, but kept moving. He could worry about it later.

When all was said and done, the engagement lasted for only a short while. Blood covered Errol's hands, clothes and face. His chest heaved from the exertion of the fighting, but he still stood on his own two feet, if a bit less stable now. 

The next three came a few moments later, or so he thought. This time, he had his gun in hand, stance shifted to keep his balance from wavering. If he could see his own face, he wouldn't recognize it. 

He had survived, but the part of him that would have been sickened was nowhere to be found in his eyes. 

RATIGAN: 

In the time it took for the sheriff to be corralled the crew had finally bypassed the delay and were moving in on the location within their assigned groups. The first few had been able to navigate to where Ratigan had relayed the location. The description of the carnage was not his priority, the bodies could be taken care of later. He wanted to know where the sheriff had run off to and whether or not he was still able to give them the answers he needed. 

This organization (if that’s really what they were calling themselves) had only been the instigators. The top of the pyramid. What he needed were the names of everyone that had been willing to place themselves underneath to hold them up. He could find them, but that could take time— something that he was not willing to give them to reorganize. Or run. 

He let out a frustrated noise and cut off Himari, assigned leader of this particular operation, before she could finish describing the injuries the men had sustained. “Does anyone have eyes on him?” 

Only static replied. He sighed, hitting his head back against the headrest. “Pull over.”

“But boss we don’t even—”

“Fidget.” Ratigan’s voice fell into a low warning. “Pull over.” 

The driver didn’t need to be told a third time. 

Ratigan stepped out of the car and onto the busy sidewalk they had pulled up beside. “We’ll need to follow on foot.” 

Fidget gave a short nod, reaching forward to turn off the ignition. He checked his person to make sure he had his weapons on him before stepping out to join Ratigan on the sidewalk. The two made an odd pair standing next to one another, one short and shifty as he glared at everyone who passed by who eyed him oddly while the other stood in an elegant line as he buttoned his suit’s jacket with no concern for anyone else. 

“I’ll be with you shortly,” Ratigan said, turning to find Fidget looking up at him from under his well worn jaxon cap. He received a confused lift of an eyebrow. 

“Where’re you gonna be?” 

“I’ve just said I’ll be joining you soon.” 

“But—”

“Trust me, Fidget.” Ratigan smiled, the sound of it evident in his voice. “Go help the others, you’ll know when I’ve arrived.” 

He began down the pavement in the opposite direction of where his people had entered the building. Fidget watched him as he went only when he blinked, the man had disappeared among the various figures. (He hated it when he did that.) 

The first team consisted of three people, all dressed in police uniforms and they had arrived at the scene in the car to match. The second and third groups would do the same, all dressed as some form of local law enforcement because who would question the presence of police at a crime scene where one of their own was in harm’s way? 

They moved in silence, following the silent hand signals of Himari as they made their way toward the sounds of fighting. The closer they got the easier it was to make out the groans of pain and bullets sounding off despite being suppressed by silencers under all the yelling. Along the way they took out the men that had been loading their weapons to join in against what appeared to be a one man army.  

When they had reached the nearest hallway the two other groups had announced that they were in position. (One had taken out the set of snipers, the others had taken care of those that were waiting around the perimeter of the block.) 

Himari stepped forward to look into the room, eyes roaming the men inside until she could see the figure they were there for. She pulled back, relaying his position to the other members of the team so that they wouldn’t take him out by mistake, and then gave the final signal. 

With that they all stepped inside and took their shots. The rest of the men that had been gaining their ground on the sheriff were taken out within the span of a few seconds. Everyone entered the room, guns trained on their marks and checking over the bodies to collect the weapons and ensure that they wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. 

Fidget, having joined the secondary team, approached the sheriff alongside Himari. They shared a glance with one another that communicated their concern for him. (Not because they cared for his life, but they feared what would become of them should their boss not get the outcome he desired from this.) Fidget flicked his head forward for Himari to take this one. She rolled her eyes at him— he had always been a scaredy cat. Especially when staring down a man covered in blood surrounded by a trail of bodies. 

“Sheriff Woolf,” she said softly, holding her hands up as she approached with measured steps. “We’re here to help you. Please lower your weapon so we can do so.” 

Somewhere outside the distant roar of sirens had everyone looking up in alarm.

ERROL: 

The sheriff panted, winded by his own injuries, and finally laid the last gun down to rest, dismantled where he stood with a few deft movements of his hand. He'd kept away from windows, knowing snipers lay beyond (though based upon their shooting, he highly doubted their ability to hit anything vital). 

The last body had fallen, but it wasn't by his own doing. As it stood, however, there were about ten or so bodies sprawled at his feet, all incapacitated by a tactical knife, a snapped neck, or their own weapon. The kills had been clean, efficient, and would have made any normal person's stomach roll. To Errol, it had just been another brush with death, the training from the SRR put to use when he needed it. Looking at the carnage, Errol was fairly certain the bastard had it out for him after he'd been cheated twice before. 

The team that moved in toward him, however, were not familiar. They had also been late, and he leaned against the wall at his back to keep himself from swaying as he studied them. Fatigue was finally taking over, the adrenaline running its course, and the pain in his leg was no longer a dull throb, but he still had information to give. 

Stripping the scrap from his neck while two of the team spoke in hushed tones, Errol made a makeshift tourniquet just above his wound. The sluggishness of his movement upward suggested he had lost a fair amount of blood, more than he had believed. 

The sound of the siren was a relief, made his shoulders inch downward from their defensive position, but he still bared his teeth at the woman when she came closer and raised his knife. 

"While I appreciate t' assistance, I ain't sayin' shite tah any o' ye. T' information 've got 's fer yer boss. No one else." He turned his gaze to rake through the crowd of people clustered around the room on instinct, a sardonic laugh pulled from his chest as he spied one of the men on his list of information. Errol pointed toward him, a smirk on his face. "An' 'at rat bastard 's why. Wouldna trust 'im if I was ye, luv, he'd stab ye in t' back fer a few extra pounds." 

Errol didn't like bastards like him. His commanding officer, the one who hadn't died, had been one of them. The contempt was palpable in his gaze, a hatred there that was more than just about the information he had. Two of the other team grabbed the one he'd pointed out by the arms and dragged him out the back of the building half of them had come through, unconcerned with the fact that he was struggling. 

Good. 

Errol did another sweep of the room, then, and found no one else he'd memorized the names and faces of plus all the information he'd gathered (legally and...not so legally) on them. It was only then that he put his knife back into its place on his person. 

Nodding toward the exit, Errol spoke not to the woman who had come toward him but the lad in the jaxom cap, a slight grin on his face. "Show me where yer boss is, eh, lad? He'll want t' information 've got, an' yer t' only one that didna travel wif t' rest o' 'em." 

It was as he took his next, limping steps, that Errol sagged a bit, tiredness and blood loss finally, and firmly, grabbing hold. 

"Lad," he called, motioning for him to hurry up, as best he could, anyhow. Errol had noticed the prosthetic the moment he'd walked through the door. When the younger man finally edged closer, Errol dropped his voice so he could speak, the words serious. "Yer boss isna jus' dealing with a mutiny, like he thought. They're tryin' tah kill 'im."

RATIGAN: 

Fidget blinked at the man, eyes wide from both fear and general shock at being addressed. How had this guy known who he was? Or that he worked right under the boss? How had he pulled all this off on his own? How was he standing and talking right now when he looked like he had stepped right out of a scene in some horror movie? 

Just who the hell was he?

Himari stepped back over to them before he could even process what he had just been told.

“Sorry to interrupt but there will be enough time for this later, we’ve got to move.” She turned her dark eyes onto Fidget. “The boss isn’t answering. Do you know where he is?”

“Uh, no. No, he disappeared.” He made a motion with his hand and blew on it, as if trying to depict smoke. 

 Her jaw clenched a few times before she spoke again. “Did he say anything to you before that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, he uh— he said that he would meet us here! Yeah!” Fidget smiled up at her, proud of himself for remembering but she only rolled her eyes. 

“What’s going on?” Landon, sturdy both in build and on any job, came over to join the commotion. “What’re we doing? We moving him out of here or what?” 

“Yes.” Himari leaned in closer, “I just don’t know how far he’ll make it.” 

Landon eyed the man they had come here for in the first place from over her shoulder. The sheriff already looked like he was a few inches in the ground; maybe the information he had was better left with him. All this trouble for one man, and what for? Because he couldn’t keep a secret? It wasn’t like they could leave him alive after all this anyway. They could just explain to the boss that they hadn’t gotten there in time— that it had been too late. His fingers curled, arm lifting slightly so his thumb brushed against his weapon holster. 

“H, we’ve got an ambulance pulling up outside. What do you want us to do?” Mandy, who was posted outside, asked, voice coming over the comm. It made everyone pause. 

Landon and Himari shared a look before she reached up to press a finger to the talk button.

“Confirm if they’re real or not. If it’s more of these guys deal with them but secure the vehicle. If they’re the real deal, keep them out there.” She turned to address the sheriff. “Can you walk?”  

“Uh, H?” Mandy interrupted. 

“I told you—”

“I know, but H—”

“What?” Himari snapped, annoyed at the unusual backtalk. But no one had to answer as the door was shoved open. 

A man, dressed in the green paramedic uniform complete with the fluorescent green night jacket, came through the door pushing a stretcher with a medical bag on top. He paused when everyone in the room holding a weapon aimed them at him, raising his hands and looking rather annoyed when someone shined their flashlight right in his face. 

“While I appreciate everyone’s professionalism, we don’t have time for this.” 

ERROL: 

The sheriff's eyes flickered between the young man in front of him, the woman who thought she ran the joint, and the man with the itchy trigger finger. The last one is who he focused on, squaring his shoulders and baring his teeth in a slight snarl at the man, his own hand edging toward the gun at his hip. 

Errol might have looked like hell, but he was a stubborn bastard. The only thing that would kill him would be something on his own terms. This? Wasn't it. 

"Aye, I can walk. But keep t' whelp away from me." 

Staring Landon in the eye and lifting his chin, snarl still in place, the radio chirped that there was an ambulance pulling up outside, giving them all pause. Errol, however, just waited. There was no need to panic, not to him anyway. It gave him a good chance to watch the way this team operated, anyhow. 

With the other information he'd gleaned--that their boss had disappeared but that he'd said he would meet them, that they intended to move Errol himself somewhere, but wouldn't say where--Errol figured the boss was here. Besides, the people walking around outside wouldn't have heard anything, let alone sent an ambulance. How could they? He'd not used his gun, every other one had silencers attached to their barrels.

 If he had learned one thing during his time working both undercover and for the government it was that no one paid attention to the world around them. Certainly, not when something was right underneath their noses. 

So, unlike the rest of the people milling about, Errol didn't raise a weapon when a man walked through the door. He cocked a brow and crossed his arms across his chest, shifting so he kept a bit of the weight off his leg. When the man, pushing a stretcher and its accompanying medical equipment, stepped into the room and raised his hands and head, a snort escaped from the sheriff, amused and chagrined at the sight of a familiar face.

The woman who appeared to be leading this little operation glanced at him from the corner of her eye but Errol didn't pay her any mind. Instead, a lopsided grin broke across the sheriff's face and he started laughing, quietly, to himself.  

While he was surprised, the information he had gathered made more sense now and all the pieces of before fell into place around it. Certainly the fact that he'd been given the investigation. He knew the man they were trying to kill, after all. 

"Ye know, I should be surprised an', yet, I ain't," he mused, unfolding his arms to run a hand down his face, pulling a face when it came away bloody. "But I s'pose it makes sense, really." He had, fleetingly, of course thought something of Ratigan, but those thoughts were neither fit for present company nor along the lines of 'international criminal.' More...WitSec for a crime he'd witnessed, maybe a turncoat to his organization, but not that Pedram Ratigan was running the bloody show. He waved a hand to indicate the entire scene, jumpsuit and all, grin still firmly in place. "That ambulance fer lil' ol' me?" 

RATIGAN:

“Stand down!” Himari motioned her hand in the silent command as well and everyone followed direction, though that did not stop them from looking at the man with curiosity. Many of them would not connect the dots because it was not their job to do so. For now they would just believe that someone had called in the paramedics on their payroll to come help with the extraction. 

Ratigan continued to push the stretcher across the room until he was standing with Fidget, Himari, and Landon. The smell of fresh death was rank as it clung to the back of his throat— and the most prominent smell belonged to that of the sheriff, his own blood having seemed to spill out in vast quantities. There was too much of it covering him for Ratigan to be able to tell where his injuries were but the tourniquet was telling enough. 

“Do be quiet, sheriff, unless you’d like another hole through that thick skull of yours.” His tone was controlled yet anyone could hear how close to the edge it was. He was in no mood for the man’s games. In fact, he was quite angry with him. For all the marks he had gotten on his professional career he had been stupid enough to get himself caught up in this and had nearly died in the process.

“Boss, where—” 

“Marasete gomennasai.” Ratigan turned and looked at Himari pointedly. Her eyes wandered around to their audience for a moment before she returned to him, understanding. They spoke for a moment to one another in Japanese, fast paced and with little to no animation. The conversation ended with a nod of agreement from both parties and she turned away, motioning for Landon to follow her as they went to address the rest of the crew. 

“Uh, boss? What’s with the get up?” Fidget raised an eyebrow as Ratigan approached where himself and the sheriff were still standing. Ratigan ignored him, his glare focused on the metaphorical thorn in his side in the shape of a blood stained police officer.

“I’ll give you a choice, though you’ve not earned the right to it. You will come with us willingly to tend to your wounds. Or, you refuse and this ends here.” Again, the room’s weapons took aim. Only this time they were pointed at the man they had come here to save. Ratigan’s eyebrows lifted. “Judging by the blood on your trousers, I would say time is not on your side.” 

ERROL: 

Dramatic entrance aside, Errol would give his whole performance a 7/10. 

You know, purely because he knew him. Bedside manner could do with a little work, though.

And it appeared that Ratigan’s people barely knew who he was, if the guns a moment ago were anything to go by. Errol looked to have been correct in his assumption, too, that the lad worked closely with him, as Ratigan maneuvered the stretcher to where he, the woman and the other two men were clustered. 

Ohhh and he knew Japanese. How quaint. 

The tone Ratigan projected, while controlled, was one that held an undercurrent of...oh was that an emotion? Directed at little ol’ him? Oh, Errol was flattered, really. He couldn’t even argue with the snip at his stubbornness, either. It was true enough. It was part of why he’d been dinged during basic training, why he and his second commanding officer had often butted heads. There was nothing different here, except he didn’t hate the man that was currently glowering at him. 

The sheriff tossed off a jaunty salute in reply, smile still firmly in place while he waited for Ratigan to finish his hush-hush conversation. There was a bit of relief, however, when the woman took the little whelp away. Meant one less person who clearly didn’t care if he died or not. No matter what Ratigan might say on the matter, or how he may affect an air of not giving a shite, Errol had information about the people he’d been asked to find. 

He had a lot of information, and all of it was pertinent to the other man and his survival. 

Errol chuckled again and answered the man in the jaxom cap, not waiting for Ratigan to do so because he had a hunch that he would not. “‘e stole t’ ambulance, lad. Frankly, ‘m impressed. Ain’t easy.” 

And, yes, he knew from personal experience. 

Ratigan started speaking, saying how Errol didn’t have a right to a choice and the sheriff’s brows mirrored the man’s across from him, hiking up into the curls at his hairline. He didn’t flinch when some...ten? Ten, odd guns pointed at him. Instead he laughed, nothing more than a huff of breath. “I ‘appen tah like those odds,” he mumbled, rolling his stinging left shoulder back, “but aye, yer right. Bullet nicked me femoral artery, I fink. ‘S been bleedin’ fer a lil' while. Tourniquet slowed it down, though. But, I, ah, also know who’s tryin’ tah kill ye so--” The emphasis on kill shouldn’t have been lost on the man. After all, Ratigan wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Errol had been tasked with finding the men willing to start a mutiny, but he had uncovered something that appeared to run far deeper than the surface appeared to show.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders, pointedly ignoring the guns pointed at him from all sides and the twinge in his leg. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, watching Ratigan’s face the whole while. Finally, after another moment, he smirked and nodded. 

“Ye brought clamps, aye? ‘M gonna need 'em. An’ another pair o’ ‘ands.” 

RATIGAN:

(The sheriff was, unfortunately, correct in his deductions. Still, he had to run through the scenario for his own benefit.)

Had the sheriff not been an advantage in this tiresome game then Ratigan would not have cared what happened to him. He would have left him at the mercy of the people standing around this room, all of whom did not like law enforcement, and been on his way. 

The option was still there. It was tempting, too. The rage that boiled just below the surface of his skin, made the wolf grow agitated. It clawed at his ribs, the bars of its cage. Whenever it wanted out his chest would ache against its efforts, but the pain did nothing to tempt him into letting it free. It was the concentrated anger that enticed him. That black tar that consumed and spilled into every part of him, the heart, the soul, the mind. It all was placed on this one man who was threatening everything he had worked for. After all Ratigan had undergone to obtain what he knew was rightfully his. 

He wanted violence, so deep was this rage, so heavy his vindication. The wolf could have made it easy. 

His mind cleared rapidly after that. Ratigan regained awareness of the situation and knew he could not do that.

To run an organization such as the one he had helped to build, one could not move with only the next ten minutes in mind. It was why so many failed in this line of work— it was why the Shrivani’s had. They had seen a boy kill a man and did not stop to think how that could be the beginning of their end. 

No one here was aware of what he was, not really. Neither wolf nor a killer. To his network he was just a very smart man who had made his way to the top with clever words and letting other people pull the trigger for him. They did not know he had been dipped in blood, no inch of him untainted. He would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. If he chose to expose himself now, over such a man, he would never forgive himself for such a mistake. 

As for the sheriff— Ratigan did not have the time to waste on digging up everything while he was being buried in the ground. He would just need to find relief from the mad grief in bringing the people who thought killing him would be a move made without negative consequences. 

Ratigan blinked in the span at which his decision had been made, expression unchanged. He did not say anything to the sheriff or anyone else before turning away and back to the exit. There was no need to. 

Fidget moved forward with the stretcher toward the sheriff, giving it a pat to indicate to the man to get on. “We gotta go.” 

ERROL:

Used, quite frankly, to these small bits in time of waiting for people to decide what to do with him, Errol's patience held out well enough. It was tired and it was frayed at the edges, but it held. Besides, it gave him an opportunity to study that look on Ratigan’s face, the one that hinted at some deep, boiling anger. 

For a man that clearly held himself to a higher check in standard, probably claimed he was emotionless, Errol saw quite a lot of it in the few seconds he had to search it out. And he didn't say a word, just as Ratigan himself didn't say anything before he blinked, turned, and walked back the way he had come. 

Errol's shoulders fell a fractional inch and his chest ached with the force of holding himself still, keeping himself in check when his heart beat thrummed and fluttered in the wound at his thigh and blood had begun to dry across his entire body. 

The lad with the cap on moved forward with the stretcher and Errol couldn't help the small smile that curled one side of his mouth upward. He nodded his thanks to him as he leveled himself up onto the stretcher, eyes darting toward the rest of the assembled teams. 

When their boss had turned, their guns had lowered, but there were still some whose guns had taken a split second too long to do so. While their faces weren't familiar, not like the man he'd picked out before, it was something to consider. 

Yes, he was quite aware that they probably hated his profession but he didn't give two fucks about that. They had no idea why he had done the things he had, why he worked the way he worked. What he had seen or lost or why he didn't sleep at night. 

"Thank ye," he murmured, glancing down to his leg with a sigh.

 The tourniquet helped, but it was not a proof-all solution. If this had been like what had happened before, back in Afghanistan, he could have stopped the bleeding in the field. But he couldn't. He needed tools, a pair of steady hands that weren't his own….

"Lad, yer gonna need tah get me intah t' otharcarr. Now. I'll talk tah yer boss while I fix meself up, right as rain." He proffered a smile, voice leaning a bit further into the 'calm and collected and everything was okay' persona. 

He was calm, but he was starting to feel the cold, and that terrified him. 

RATIGAN: 

Once the sheriff had situated himself onto the stretcher Fidget turned it around and began to follow after Ratigan. Their path had been cleared of the people that had been dropped, but the wheels still had to roll through the pools of blood that had been left in their wake.

When she was done telling everyone else where they were supposed to go from here, Himari joined Fidget in the effort to get the man out to the awaiting ambulance. They did not look at one another or share any words as they rolled him through the corridor and out into the back alley. 

The arrival of their boss in person had been a surprise, but more so than that had been the way in which he conducted himself. Normally he was much more upbeat than he had been tonight, words as if they were lyrics to a song in the way they were said on his smile. When put in front of an audience he would capture everyone’s attention, even when he was in a foul mood. His annoyance was well known in relation to the tolerance of something not going to plan, but it was always telegraphed in louder ways. Slammed doors and barked orders, as if he knew that these were the only ways people would clearly understand that he was angry with them. 

Tonight there had been none of that. Everything he had done was quiet. His silence scared them more so than when he was shouting at them— it meant that there was something wrong, not just a misstep that could be corrected. 

He was waiting for them beside the ambulance, the lights and sirens having been turned off. Again, he said nothing. It set the tone for the two of them, that there was no time for anything else but the work. 

Fidget stepped aside to let Ratigan and Himari get the stretcher into the cabin of the ambulance and he went around to the front to get himself acquainted with the driver’s seat. 

Himari stayed behind in the alley and shut the doors on them. She clapped her hand against the side of the vehicle for Fidget’s benefit and they were off. They needed to get to one of the doctor’s the network had within the city— the only problem was that they were all just out of reach of the time limit they were working with given the sheriff’s condition. As always, time was the enemy that no one could touch. 

“As hard as this may be for you, sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from any of your usual need of having to be the funniest person in the room.” Ratigan sat beside the stretcher, pulling on a pair of gloves and grabbing the scissors from the supplies. He leaned forward, over the stretcher to get at the fabric of the man’s blood soaked trousers. 

ERROL: 

The silence around him was almost deafening, but Errol didn’t let it penetrate. He focused on his breathing, instead, about keeping his heart rate steady, calm. If he could do that, it would slow the blood flow, would hopefully keep him alive for long enough that he could repair the damage done to himself. He let himself be wheeled after Ratigan, gaze fixed on the back of the other man’s head. Something familiar to anchor himself when his head would start swimming from the blood loss or the nausea would hit. 

It was, unfortunately, a dance he’d done before. Didn’t mean he liked the familiarity of it, but he was quiet the entire time he was being loaded into the back of the ambulance, barely looking at the woman or Ratigan before the doors were closed. Errol only turned his head when he heard the telltale clap of a palm against the side of the ambulance’s back paneling and felt the slight lurch of the vehicle as they started driving. 

Beside him, Ratigan was pulling on gloves, some quip about finding it in himself not to be the funniest person in the room. He snorted, quietly amused, but nodded. He’d be good, though, really, that wasn’t why he did any of what he did. Not that Ratigan would know that, but his bravado, his lines and his sarcasm were all a way for him to compartmentalize, to get done what needed to be done. 

“Mm ain’t ‘ard,” he disagreed, nudging his leg to the side so the other man could get at the inseam of his bloodied trouser leg. “Yer jus’ sore ‘cause I did me job. Long list o’ people ye pissed off. Ain’t jus’ a mutiny, either. ‘S more ‘put a bullet in yer ‘ead an’ call it a day.’” He lapsed into something like silence for a while after that, face pinching slightly when the cloth stuck to the skin around his wound was pulled away. It gave a lovely view of the scars that already existed there and Errol huffed a laugh and leaned his head back from where he'd angled it to give Ratigan room to do whatever he was going to do. After a moment he tilted his face to look Ratigan in the eye. “If ye gimme a needle an’ suturing thread I can take care o’ t’ wound on me shoulder. Eventually gotta patch up me side, too, but ‘s a through-an’-through.” 

He just wanted to be useful, really. Needed his hands to be busy or else his head would start spiralling, he’d start cataloguing the injuries, the blood he’d lost, how many quarts he would need, if they had blood for transfusions (even though he’d done all of that within a split second of being in the rig and cataloguing all of the equipment at their disposal) but that wasn’t the path he needed to go down in the back of an ambulance with a halfway irate man holding a sharp pair of surgical scissors so close to his soft bits. 

Ironically, though, not the first time he’d been in a situation like this one. 

“Ye know...ye could’ve jus’ asked instead o’ all t’ bloody cloak an’ dagger shite. Like I said. All o’ this--'' he gestured minutely with the hand furthest from where Ratigan was working, indicating the encounter as a whole “--ain’t a surprise. 'S jus' a bit different, mutiny an' murder." 

And he'd done both, himself, so the slight shrug of a shoulder was nonchalant. 

RATIGAN: 

Ratigan highly doubted that. In situations like these people were always looking for some sort of release. From the pain. From their current reality. From the possibilities of what that reality may be for them. Many people turned to humor. Laughter like an air bubble that brought them back to the surface before they were inevitably dragged under once more. As he had learned, the sheriff enjoyed pressing the people around him— it was his form of coming up for air against the heaviness. Someone else may have appreciated it, someone else may have even joined him in such a method, but he was here with a man who had never learned to stop for air should he need it. He had always kept his head down until the weight was cut and allowed it to sink itself.  

“If that is why you believe I’m angry then you are more self absorbed than I originally believed.” Ratigan threw the fabric out of the way and turned, digging into a drawer to pull out the IV needle and tubing that led to a bag of saline that would need to be pushed through this man’s system. 

Outside there was a loud honk and the vehicle they were in gave a sudden jerk as it veered to the side sharply. 

“Fidget!” he yelled, having to push himself up from where he had fallen back against the seating.

“S-sorry, boss! Not my fault!”

Rolling his eyes, Ratigan returned to what he was doing. He applied the IV to the back of the man’s hand, and placed it on the hook beside the stretcher. “You’ve lost too much blood to be trusted with anything regarding your health.” 

Not that he would have trusted the man with it even if he had not been shot and bleeding everywhere. “Focus on staying awake. How about telling me where it is you’ve hidden the information you’ve almost died for?” 

ERROL: 

"Nah," Errol drawled, smirking. "Ye jus' like ev'ryfing jus' so." He tilted his head to get a look at the other man's face, ready to push or concede the point depending upon the tick in his jaw. It was a slight little thing, just like the flare in his nostrils when he'd walked into the room and smelled all the blood, but it was there. 

That was about as much of a tell as Errol had ever gotten, and he learned to read the little things for what they were. 

The sheriff was about to comment about the saline bag, offer up his arm even, but the vehicle lurched and he jerked to the side, jarring the bullet wounds under his ribs and throwing his shoulder into one of the cabinets. 

A curse ripped from Errol's mouth as he pressed a hand to his side, grumbling under his breath as he drew back his shirt carefully with a sigh, relieved when he saw the wounds hadn't started bleeding again. He'd been able to wrap them a bit with a section of the scarf while people had been speaking, but they would need to be cleaned and dressed properly. 

A noise of offense was pulled out from the depths of Errol's chest at the other man's words and he offered his hand for the IV with a furrow between his brows. "Who d'ye fink fixed me leg t' first time?" It was an ugly scar, and he knew it too. But that was what he got when he only had gunpowder and his mate's matchbook to cauterize the wound. Then, the tone became curious, brow curling vaguely upward. "'d'ye even know 'ow tah clamp off an artery?" 

Ah. Yes, Ratigan should hear all of that shouldn't he. 

"Ain't wif me, if 'at's what yer wonderin'. Drive's hidden at t' hotel, but 's got a fail safe. Memorized all t' names an' faces, though. One o' 'em was at t' extraction."

RATIGAN: 

Did Pedram Ratigan know how to clamp an artery? 

What reason would he have to know such a thing? Or any first aid for that matter. He had certainly never been a soldier at war nor had he trained in the medical field. As far as anyone knew (disregarding the detective back in Iran), he did not like to get his hands dirty. No one knew the reason for that, either, though. They simply thought it had something to do with his nice suits and the conceited attitude. 

He did not mind this— it was better than the truth. 

He did not answer with words, instead proving his use by actions alone as the point was not to explain or prove himself to any capacity. What did it matter where or how he had learned it? It didn’t. The sheriff already knew more about him than Ratigan cared to acknowledge. 

His touch was not gentle or as precise as that of a surgeon, the only thing he knew was efficiency. Using the tools available to him within the cabin, he cut an incision to the sheriff’s leg for better access to the real cause for concern. He pushed past the muscle to find the severed artery and placed the forceps’ ratchet to the second click centimeters above the separation to stop the bleeding, and did the same for the other side. 

While he did this his mind was elsewhere— on the drive that was hidden in that hotel they had checked over. All this time wasted on one man when he could have just bought that hotel and torn it apart brick by brick instead. 

“Tell me where it is.” He looked up at the sheriff, gaze steady. “Tell me and be done with this. It has nothing to do with you, it never did. You gain nothing from the information, only from giving it to me and keeping out of it.” 

ERROL: 

Right. Because he totally didn't think he was going to die the moment he gave the information over. 

Errol would have said that, or something to that effect, but he was robbed of any ability to say much of anything when Ratigan sliced into the meat of his thigh, deftly twisted past the muscle and clamped the artery down within a matter of, perhaps, a minute. Errol bit into the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something nasty, though the 'bastard' that slipped out when he pressed the heel of his other leg into the base of the stretcher to stop it from twisting away was well-earned. 

Breathing rapidly through his nose to keep both his heart rate down, because he knew that wouldn't help, and his mind from the pain, Errol glared balefully from beneath a fringe of curls. "Right. So ye answered me question 'en. Good tah know. Better than usin' a lighter an' gunpowder," he grumbled, tapping the ugly knot of scar tissue higher up on his leg absentmindedly with his free hand. 

A distraction from the renewed pain in his leg. 

He was quiet for a moment, mulling over the words he wanted to say and how he wanted to say them. Because, really, it did mean something, particularly that he knew the person these men were trying to kill. Shifted a few things about in his head, so to speak. Thankfully he was still coherent enough, despite his blood loss, to remember everything. His vision blurred a little at the edges but when he turned and held Ratigan's gaze, it was clear and it was steady. 

Errol held up his pointer finger on the opposite hand, indicating a list. "Ain't said anythin' 'cause if ye havena found t' drive by now it might nah have yer information anymore, since it was time-sensitive. Also 'cause I fully expected tah be shot after I gave ye t' information," he murmured, gaze steady as ever. He knew the measure of this game, after all. 

"If it does, the key is faolchú. Erases itself if ye get t' password wrong so make sure ye spell it right. If ye need me tah write it down, I can. Know ye can barely understand me normally." Yes he was taking the piss with that last comment, but he was right. He held up his second finger, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth upward. "I didna say anythin' before 'cause I knew whoever asked me tah show up wasna who I'd been workin' fer. Messages sounded off. 'Ad tah know it was t' real fing."

As he had said before, Ratigan or the correspondences that had come from him through whoever had relayed his desires, had a particular way of wording his messages. Straight, to the point. Efficient. That hadn't been the case when he had been called to London, but he'd gone anyway, knowing that something would come of it either way.

He held a third finger up, switching to Farsi, his normal accent all but disappearing to make room for the new language. He had a hunch the man driving the rig wouldn't understand anything they said using it, anyway. "You've got a lot of people trying to kill you. The information is coded in triplicate. 'M sure you'll figure it out quick like but t' key to get it started is a chara, no space."

You know: speak friend and enter. 

Then, he rattled off a handful of names, their information, and the positions they held within Ratigan's organization. Hell, he even had some of their banking information. "There's more than them, about four times that number actually, but they're all on there. I can tell ye, too, if need be. Names, positions, banking information, etcetera." 

RATIGAN: 

Well, at least the sheriff had the foresight about one thing, that his life was only as valuable as the information he could provide. 

“Very presumptuous of you to believe that they are trying to kill me.” He turned, grabbing gauze from the supplies. For all the sheriff knew he could have just been the leader of this branch, another cog in the machine. 

Why did he have to be so careful about this when he had been the complete opposite before regarding the people that had been trying to kill him? Had he been under Ratigan’s crosshairs they would not be having this conversation right now. And yet, had he been less careful with a drive rather than his own life, they would also not be having this conversation. Ratigan would have left him to his own devices and not had to intervene on the order to kill the sheriff. 

It seemed as though this man, despite not even knowing of Ratigan’s involvement, would always deliberately make his life that much harder than it ever needed to be. 

“Then why go at all? If you knew they were not a part of your team of officers, why show your face? And why go alone? Why put yourself in such a position?” In truth, he didn’t care to know the man’s train of thought. The questions were more accusatory, a way in which he could convey his irritation. 

The more the sheriff spoke, the angrier he became. Four times that number of people who had been trying to turn over the table? After all he had done in the name of organized crime? And why? Because they thought they could do better? 

He grit his teeth and let out a slow breath through his nose to keep the anger repressed. It would not do to blow up in the back of an ambulance with a man who had everything he needed being held together by clothing accessories. 

“Very well.” Ratigan nodded to him. “Continue. In exchange, I will ensure you survive the night.” 

ERROL:

“Not if ‘m right it isn’t,” he shot back, eyes following the other man’s movements as he reached for the gauze to pack the wound with. Which would also hurt like a bitch, but he wasn’t surprised by that, not in the slightest. Everything hurts now. His entire body was throbbing, both in the way his heart beat in every open wound and the variety of injuries he had sustained. 

Sure, Ratigan could have just been the leader of a particular section of people but that didn't seem like his style. He didn't seem like the type to play second fiddle. Didn't seem the type, much like Errol himself, to like authority when he could be it. 

The questions the other man raised were good ones, and they deserved a decent answer, but the only one he could give at that moment was a small shrug of his good shoulder. "Curiosity, probably. And figuring if they were dumb enough to think I'd give them the information, that I would be followed by the person who actually needed it." 

It didn’t take a genius to recognize that he would have someone following him. Someone who would want the information more than the other, who had a reason behind it that kept them there. The comment about knowing if it was one of his officers or not made the Irishman snort and he laughed, quietly, for a moment before tilting his head to watch Ratigan’s face, speaking normally for a moment. “Didna tell anyone else. None o’ me officers knew anyfin’ an’ fer good reason. ‘S less people tah protect if ‘s jus’ me. An’ I did it because my client’s a bit of a ponce, a bit of a bastard, but ‘e’s t’ kinda bastard I like.”

He could hear the growing anger boiling just beneath the man’s genteel tone, the flash of it in his eyes, and Errol smirked slightly to himself, brows twitching as he shifted around to straighten his leg ever so slightly. His knee was starting to stiffen and he knew if he did not move it, the joint would lock up and it would make moving around later a pain in the ass. Errol dropped his head back with a thump and a sigh, a hand settling across his stomach as he waited to have the gauze shoved into his leg. 

“Yes sir,” he muttered, poking a bit at the man just because he could, mouth curling around the familiar, lilting tones of Farsi once more. “Your biggest problem’s a bloke named Bartholomew. Nasty little bastard thinks he’s got it in him to run an entire organization from the ground up.” Errol rolled his eyes, clear distaste for the man stark on his face. “But he’s got people who agree with him, a lot of them, and they won’t be easy to just...get rid of. They’re everywhere, top down.” Errol paused for a moment and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, the ceiling and Ratigan’s face swimming a bit. 

“D’ye ‘ave any transfusion bags? Fink ‘m gonna need ‘em. Any’ll do, ‘m a universal donor.” And then, to himself as he glanced behind the other man to try and catch a glimpse of any, he said, “‘Course, direct transfusion could work in a pinch, too, ‘cept yer Muslim. ‘M nah gonna ask ye tah do that.” 

No, he hadn’t realized that little factoid had slipped out, but he didn’t care even if it had. Despite what others might think of the religion, Errol had been around and actively participated in portions of it off and on for the twenty years that he’d been stationed in Islamic countries.

RATIGAN: 

It was not often Ratigan made mistakes. They were few and far between. Yet, only a year ago he had made several that had nearly cost him his life. Perhaps that is where this had all started, in that warehouse when someone had thought they’d gotten the best of him. Back then there had been a line of them that he had traced back as if he had been carrying a spool of thread with him all along. 

Here, he had only made the one— misjudging the motivations of the sheriff. A single dismissal and it was costing more than he would have liked.

Judging by the shade of the man’s skin and the disorientation he was fighting to hide, the blood loss was significant, as it should have been given his wounds. It was a miracle he had not bled out as soon as his artery had been hit. (Or perhaps just stubborn willpower.) Ratigan did not care whether he lived or died by any moral standard, his life meant nothing to him. In fact, it would have been easier if he did die. His body could be used to frame the people he was going up against and everyone knew that the loss of one of their own would light a flame under that of Scotland Yard. 

“I’m afraid there are none, and I cannot give my blood for reasons that are not tied to my religion.” It did anger him to think this man knew anything about him but it wasn’t as if he had done anything to hide it from his cover in Swynlake. But, despite what people may think, it was fine to donate blood so long as one did not collect any sort of reward in return and did not cause harm to themselves by doing so.

It was clear to Ratigan that unless they got this man to their medical facilities he would not survive. They were too far out to make it before he would be passed saving. But he needed those names the sheriff claimed to have wrapped up inside that head of his. They only needed just that much more time. 

“Thank you for the advice, sheriff. I am sure the time you’ve spent on this has made you such an expert, I will be sure to pass along your valuable advice.” His tone was polite and proper, but perhaps that is what made the facetious point of it all the more biting. “What are the rest of the names?” 

ERROL: 

Errol hummed his acknowledgement, tapping his index finger against his good thigh (or, rather, the thigh currently not housing a few clamps) and screwed his brow together, forehead wrinkling as he shifted a bit. His leg was falling asleep. "'S fine. Figure we're almost where yer wantin' tah take me any'ow." 

The sheriff listened to the other man speak and snorted, despite himself, amused at the tone that would have normally made him bite back his own sarcastic retort, a lopsided grin taking over his face, more unguarded than it normally would be in a situation like this. He almost wanted to tell him to quit being such a prick, that he was telling him. Didn't he see his hand, the tapping? Except, his voice wouldn't work, words wouldn't come, and Errol knew he needed to fix that. Right now. Even though he was wavering, fading into the edges of black around his eyes, Errol was still gritting his teeth and swinging back around, wrenching his eyes open and shifting forward, allowing the pinch in his leg, while painful, to wrench himself from the darkness of unconsciousness. 

"Yer a genius," he mumbled, words slurring a bit despite how confident they were, and it was a fact because he was, Errol knew that, "ye'll figure it out. Jus' watch, 'cause 've been tellin' ye." 

If anyone could figure out some sloppy Morse code in the back of a stolen ambulance by a man who'd lost more than a few quarts of his own blood, it was Pedram. 

RATIGAN: 

The Morse code, while juvenile and annoying beyond belief, was noticed. It was also a testament to how much longer this man had if he had already given up on the effort of speech— seeing as it was all he ever did. 

“Unless you are taken to a medical professional there is nowhere that I can take you that could save you. For all that I am, a surgeon I am not.” He glanced down at the open wound, knowing very well that there was nothing he could do to fix it. 

It would take some sort of miracle to do such a thing with the amount of time that had passed already and the amount of blood that had no doubt been lost. It was already astounding that the man’s heart was still beating now. There was only so far his beliefs would stretch outside his logic.

Silence followed this as he focused on the code the man was giving out. It was only so much information that could come across. There was not enough time. Wouldn’t be enough time unless he survived and there was nothing that could keep him among the living that Ratigan had within the cab of the ambulance. He sat back, tearing off his gloves in frustration, throwing them away. His mind cleared to work over the problem at hand, the sound of the traffic faded and he closed his eyes against the overhead lights. 

The man was dying. Ratigan needed him alive, unfortunately, if he was to get the information. 

He was overlooking something. But what was it? What—?

Inside, the wolf whined. 

Ratigan’s eyes opened and slid over to the sheriff.

“You are dying.” A fact. “If I make sure you live, do I have your word you will give me everything you can remember?” 

ERROL: 

Errol could speak but he was starting to tire, a fuzziness about his vision that made the back of the ambulance and it's equipment almost grey, like the color had been leached out of the world. Slowly, and then all at once, the blackness would descend, and he, for the first time in a long while, feared it. This time did not feel like any other, like any other of his 'almost-but-not-quites.' Rather, this was the 'not quite yet' that had been hanging above his head like a scythe ever since he was a lad. 

He'd cheated death one too many times. This would be his last, unless they figured something out. 

A bark of bitter laughter escaped, and it almost sounded more like a punch to the gut or a cough. If he'd chanced a look downward he would have seen a grayish pallor hanging over his skin, from blood loss and death's gaze both. "I know," he mumbled, sighing through his nose when he shifted to glance upward at the other man's face (neck, chin, jaw, half of a cheek but not the eyes) with a little grin. "Feels like it did, t' last time. Was in a coma fer...weeks. 'S when they took me dog." 

There was something angry in that, something brutally, visibly wrong there. He hated the thought of someone that wasn't family taking Delilah and, now, Dublin, too. Someone he did not trust and fuck he might have just learned perhaps one of the biggest secrets of the other man's life, but he trusted Ratigan enough to be here, dying, in this ambulance with him. Trusted him enough to try to fix what he could not, he would trust him with his dogs, too, if he knew the man would take them (he wouldn't, but Errol was okay with that). 

"'S unfortunate ye ain't, luv," he mumbled, allowing the moniker to slip rather than the real first name like it wanted as he shrugged a shoulder, trying to sit upward a bit more. The world tilted and he groaned, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the stretcher he was laid along, cursing beneath his breath. 

Errol watched in placid fascination as Ratigan stripped off his bloody gloves and threw them across the ambulance, every line in his body radiating frustration. It was clear it was about the information he was not getting now because there just wasn't enough time, never enough time, but Errol wondered why there was such a large upwelling of it. 

The sheriff waited, patient in the face of his own death, for Ratigan's eyes to open again and slide back to his face. Both brows raised up into his hairline, intrigue and confusion sliding together in his gaze before the edge of his lip curled, showing teeth. Despite his acceptance of death, he was a stubborn bastard. If Ratigan could think of a way to fix all of this, then Errol would take it. 

"Cross me 'eart. Everyfin' 've got an' then some. 'S yers." Despite the tone, the false-joviality of the attitude, there was a deep seriousness that said he meant every word. 

RATIGAN: 

As soon as the permission was given Ratigan put the plan into motion. The behavioral straitjacket of control and posturing was locked into place once more as he leaned forward to clap his hand against the wall between the cabin and front seats of the ambulance. 

Fidget startled but turned his head to glance through the little viewing window. The pair exchanged words, the driver confused at first but once consoled with an unwavering gaze simply nodded his head in understanding. He would do as he was told, like always. 

It didn’t take him long, the instructions had been simple. (Whatever happens, whatever you hear, do not stop driving until you’ve taken the sheriff to the doctor. I will contact you tomorrow, Ratigan had told him. Fidget had no reason to think he wouldn’t.) 

This was a bad idea, of this he had no doubt. When desperation entered into a situation there never seemed to be any other kind. All he had was this if he wanted to right the wrongs. He would be inflicting great harm to a man, changing the course of the sheriff’s life just as it had done to Ratigan, to anyone who had been inflicted by this magic. But he had no choice— he was not dead yet and if he waited too much longer the infection wouldn’t be able to save him anymore than a hospital could. He was out of options. 

The wolf whined again, pacing and clawing, looking for its way out. 

For once, Ratigan let it. 

It took no more than an intake of breath— where once there was a man there was now a wolf. 

The wolf was distracted by everything all at once. The smell of blood made it whine in the back of its throat. The enclosed space made it start to pant, it hated the man’s basement where it had only been allowed out, but this was smaller. Too small. It felt caged and threatened and it wanted out. It hated it here, it didn’t feel stable, every time it tried to move the floor would shift as the ambulance rocked against its weight. The wolf barked and the sound of it bounced against the too close walls.  

Then, the wolf noticed that there was something else in the cage with it. 

The smell of blood and sweat made its eyes snap to the man laying there. It knew just by looking at the figure that he posed no threat. One slash of its paw across his throat and he would be dead. It bared its teeth, growling, ready to— that was when the man’s thoughts met the wolf’s. 

The man’s were different, he wanted this one alive for reasons that were complicated and had been calculated down into something that was less to do with emotion and more to do with business. The wolf was not like the man in that regard. While it did hold his intelligence, its thought process was more base.

It barked again, a warning shout before it reached. The wolf sunk its teeth into one of the man’s biceps. (One of the only places not injured, easily hidden by clothing for the scarring that would be left behind.) The flesh caved easily around its teeth and it thought, briefly, about just pulling back while its jaws were still locked. It would be easy. Just as easy as it would to go for somewhere softer next. It could feel those thoughts from the man inside, from the days when he had known only blood and death and darkness. It could be like that, perhaps that was the connection it needed to— 

The wolf released the man’s arm, the fur around its mouth now matted with his blood, and barked again. The walls were too close. It could feel Ratigan’s fear of enclosed spaces now boiling to the surface, too. They were together on this— it needed out. 

Its eyes roamed the steel cage until it spotted the windows at the back of the space. It waited until the constant movement of the box to come to a stop. (Fidget pressed on the brakes, adhering to a stop sign.) 

It lunged. 

The doors to the ambulance popped open and the wolf stopped only long enough to sniff the night air before running off. 

ERROL: 

There was something like dread, or finality, in Ratigan's eyes. Errol could see it. Maybe not dread, then, but a knowing. The kind of knowing that Errol hadn't yet picked the thread of yet and run with, the kind that was still forming, sluggishly, at the back of his mind. Perhaps, if he had been more aware, if he had not lost so much blood, he'd have been quicker on the uptake. 

He heard every word exchanged between the man in the cab and the one beside him; as drowsy as he looked, his mind was still sharp, was still taking in and processing information. The weight of the ambulance shifted as the driver started driving again, just as he had been instructed, not stopping unless it was warranted. They needn't draw attention to themselves, after all. 

That one was loyal, perhaps unconditionally so. Good. Maybe he could help Ratigan fix his problems if Errol couldn't. 

(And maybe Errol shouldn't have been glad for that, given the divide between law and lawlessness that veiled them, but Errol understood what it was like, having a foot between both right and wrong, doing what he could to survive and skating just beneath the surface of the law to do it. It was not something he forgot, never probably could. He didn't blame the man). 

Ratigan turned to him and he breathed and in one second to the next Errol was no longer staring at the face of a man but the face of a large, snarling, wolf. 

Somehow, the second shoe had dropped a long time ago and only seconds ago, at the same time. Errol was not surprised. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he ever would have been. 

The wolf growled and barked, the sound echoing off the too-small walls. The body language was apprehensive, put off by the instability of the ambulance cab and the smells that surrounded the beast. If Errol had been of any other mind, he might have been able to speak with it like he did his dogs, to get it (Ratigan) to understand he was no threat. 

Though, when it paused, considering in that all too human way a beast had when it burst forth from its first skin, Errol figured it already knew that. Errol had seen it, once, a long time ago. 

He didn't have much time left, he knew that. But he did recognize when an animal was about to lunge, the coiling of the body and the way their head angled to grab hold, to grab for the softest flesh it could reach. 

Usually the throat, normally, if given half the chance. Ratigan had every one. 

The wolf took a chunk from his left arm, the scarred one, and Errol was almost grateful. It would be easier to hide amidst the mass of damage already done. Would look like any other mark done to him in the first attack. Easily believable that it was another. 

His own blood running down his arm, a burning sensation radiating from the wound, was what he was left with when the wolf backed away. Errol's eyes tracked it, alert but tired, and watched as its great big body bounded against the ambulance doors and out into the street, letting the night in. There were no sounds of cars honking frantically at the wolf loping into traffic. There wouldn't have been. Where they had gone, the streets were nearly deserted. Errol chuckled half-heartedly, glancing at his arm, and pulled his hand into a fist against the stretcher.  The thumping, throbbing ache was still there but it had slowed, spreading out into a fire instead. 

The sheriff sighed and dropped his head back against the wall once he fixed  himself more firmly upright. He knew what this was, what had been done. He knew how this had changed everything but, in the back of his mind, Errol was already past caring, even while his blood burned. 

Just like every other time life had dealt him a shitty hand, Errol would slip a new card into the deck and make it his own. It was the one way he knew how to survive. 

When Fidget finally stopped and opened the ambulance doors and wheeled him into the makeshift hospital, Errol didn't tell him anything, suggesting only that he would see his boss tomorrow, just like Ratigan had said. 

[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?”