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The night-mist rose up from the Thames like the dead on judgment day: thick and implacable and pale, smelling of rot and filling its few living onlookers with a sense of still, certain despair. The men and women who worked the waterside felt the familiar, inevitable chill and ache of it. They knew it as one might know the pain of advanced age, or sadness of long duration. Basil didn’t live here, didn’t see the docks every day, his pattern of labor being rather more varied--a luxury he felt when he did visit, and forgot the texture of when he didn’t. The intermittent nature of Basil’s exposure made coming here in some ways harsher for him. The retching-stench and the damp cold and the misery, unstaled by custom, rubbed his bright nerves raw every time. He knew it was a comparatively lovely problem, and still he hated it.
And he hated, hated waiting. Basil had a busy mind and restless hands and no patience for fools or much of anything else--his hands were only steady enough to control his delicate chemistry equipment when he was engaged, arrested by some thought that fully demanded his focus. Tonight he had a problem to address. He was here at the docks to watch the unloading of what he suspected to be contraband. To note the quantities, the principals, the direction in which the boxes left.
Unfortunately he was quite literally waiting for his ship to come in, and no man could precisely predict how time and tide would play out on a long voyage. He’d waited two hours so far. While he still believed the shipment would arrive tonight, rather than risking arriving in daylight when the docks were full, or hovering suspiciously in harbor or in the channel and waiting for a full day, Basil was also bored. He’d done all the thinking he could with the available evidence, and his problem was not complex enough to fascinate him in the absence of new developments. He wished he could have brought a book, but he was dressed as a dockhand, loitering in wait for some night work--and dockhands did not tend to loiter with novels.
For another half an hour, Basil smoked his pipe, sulked and seethed. His whole body sagged in relief when he spotted the dull glimmer of a gaslight faintly illuminating the heavy dark, then suffusing it, and then, at last, piercing it. Having been obscured by the fog as it came in, the Leviathan bulk of the human ship reared suddenly before Basil, looming up and up, pulling in slowly. It always seemed as though the ships were going to crash into the pier and drive straight on, cleaving impossibly through London. Every safe mooring looked like a miracle. Basil tapped the filthy wall beside him with anxious anticipation as he watched the ship, sitting at anchor, load and lower its human and mouse-sized boats.
For the next hour and a half of trips back and forth, he stored the details of the rodent freight operation in his mind. Tonnage and weight and what was probably silver, silk, porcelain and tea, and what was probably Turkish and Indian opium, re-routed through Niuzhuang. The rodents had their cargo of contraband, and the human sailors theirs. Human smugglers weren’t Basil’s affair. Rodent society survived by operating under a strict understanding that it was forbidden to meddle too directly in human affairs. The deplorable conduct of Her Mousely Majesty’s navy in the ongoing opium conflicts in China Basil could do little about, given that it was as legal as it was scandalously immoral. But Opium usage was controlled and restricted in rodent Britain due to the Opium Act of ‘78, and the more aggressive legislation it had inaugurated. Smuggling and opium trafficking enslaved the poor and resulted in the needless loss of life. Smuggling Basil could stop. He’d tracked the drug back to its source, and now he had enough information to proceed.
The rodent sailors themselves were probably ignorant of or apathetic about the smuggling operation. This wasn’t their affair. If the mouse captain had chosen to load their goods, whatever those might be, onto and to travel with a discreet human smuggling ship, that was his business. Basil suspected the culprit in affair was a corrupt customs official, one Reginald Whiskers by name. Watching how Whiskers processed this shipment, how it flowed through the supply chain, would provide Basil with evidence he needed to conclude the case. Basil planned to watch the mice disperse, to make sure he didn’t miss anything important, and then to go home and get some sleep.
One of the rodent sailors caught Basil’s eye, just for a moment. A large man--Mongolian and Russian, by his looks. Far too large. A rat of that extraction, then. Basil’s eyes widened. Feeling Basil’s gaze on him, the sailor looked up, broke off from his shipmates and walked over. Basil blanched, but tried to hide it. His heart beat slightly faster, and he shot back into the alley. He’d not intended to speak to the sailors, and though he was confident that he didn’t look entirely out of place here, the fewer opportunities there were to give himself away, the better.
What could the fellow want? Basil cursed himself. Some part of him was always on the alert for sightings of his nemesis, and this meant that he could be distracted by similar-looking men at the most inconvenient times.
The sailor rounded the corner and looked Basil over. “How much?” the man asked in workmanlike English.
Basil gave him an evaluative look in turn, jutting his chin up defensively. “Depends on what you’re after.” Ambiguous enough not to arouse suspicion, clipped enough not to betray his education and class, or to confuse a man who might know little of the language.
The sailor looked around the alley, seeming to rule something out. “Mouth or hands.”
And Basil suddenly realized that his peacoat and jumper, snug against the insinuating fog, were slightly too fine. That he had been betrayed by too-nice a fabric, too-shapley a cut. That his body was too lean, his age too ambiguous, his position--waiting in the alley, glancing searchingly at the new-comers--far too suggestive of a different form of dockyard labor. He could sneer and say he wasn’t that kind of girl, mate, but that wasn’t what it looked like, and though the man had a reasonable cast about his eyes, there was a chance the situation could go decidedly South if he gave the sailor trouble. Basil could defend himself very capably, but it would attract attention and could possibly reveal his identity and spoil his operations. He could quote a ludicrously high price, but there was no surer way of being spoken of in every bar sailors congregated, with an exact description, and jeered at for thinking too highly of his wares. The description would get around, and might interfere with the work Basil had in hand.
In a different situation, the mechanics of his decision would have been different--but Basil had manually pleasured other boys in school and university, and he considered it no great hardship. True he’d been celibate, barring a very few exceptions, since then, but the idea in no way disgusted him. He cared about solving this case and maintaining his cover far more than he cared about his dignity. He should have simply walked off when the sailor headed his way, but it was too late now. And there was something about the rat that appealed to Basil, something about the anonymity of the encounter that soothed and interested him. It had been some time. He could have a few minutes’ illicit thrill, and there would be no consequences. No one would know.
Basil didn’t know the going rates, so he deflected, asking what they’d been in the sailors’ various ports of call. “We like to know how the competition gets on abroad,” he explained, rapidly calculating the equivalent of the quoted sum in sterling and settling on a sixpence for his handiwork.
“Steep,” the sailor observed. “For a clasp.” But not, Basil noted from his reaction, ludicrously so. Dock-workers marked up their wares because sailors were tired and hard-up, and, as much in as their bodies, these bunters dealt in convenience. They were far from the brothels of Soho and Whitechapel, and the dock was nigh deserted at this hour. There weren’t exactly many competitors.
“I’m worth it,” Basil said confidently, giving the sailor a smile. They were shadowed in the alley, having slipped further back, and Basil was confident that they couldn’t be seen from the street. There were a few windows above them, but they were dark at this hour. Apparently no one was lodging at the unpromising pub on their left tonight, or if they were, they’d turned in long ago.
The sailor brought out his money--a thin purse, he’d yet to be paid for the journey. From the jangle of mismatched currency that remained, he drew forth the necessary sum--something of a mercy, as Basil couldn’t have given change and his wallet didn’t look anything like appropriate for his assumed station.
Slipping the sixpence into his pocket, Basil pulled the other man in against him, putting a hand on the man’s left shoulder as he freed the man’s cock with his right. “There you are,” Basil murmured, running his hand down the other man’s long, thin member. Basil stared at it, feeling his cheeks heat with excitement and some embarrassment. “You know I’ve never had a rat before.”
“You are either lying, or you are new,” his companion said with good humor, and Basil chuckled and wrapped his fingers around him, dragging from base to tip and swirling the head in his hand. The length was impressive. Was that unique to this man, or something common to rats generally?
Swallowing, Basil began to pump. He felt reluctant to look at the sailor’s face--it felt better to concentrate on the bulk of the other man’s body, to imagine a cock like this one filling his mouth, his arse.
Basil closed his eyes and let the smells and sounds of the dock fade into the background. “Lick my neck,” he instructed, a touch breathily, not knowing that prostitutes typically didn’t encourage their clients to take that sort of additional, unnecessary liberty. Surprised, the sailor did so, and was rewarded with Basil’s pinched moan and his hand unsteadily speeding up. That thick, sinuous, obscene tongue rats had was so very suggestive, so wicked, so very like--
Ratigan’s name popped into Basil’s consciousness, igniting a sudden surge of lust that twisted at his stomach. He gasped, his grip tightening involuntarily. (The sailor groaned appreciatively. The little mouse had been right--such a display was something out of the ordinary way. Most whores of this class never bothered to seem particularly interested. Many wouldn’t even have known how to go about shaming it.)
Basil felt agitated because he truly hadn’t understood what about the sailor had intrigued him and why until now, but he was also simultaneously hard, and flooded with want. The very idea of the brutal, clever rat that this man reminded him of deftly flipping Basil against the alley wall and fucking him, cooing viciously into his ear--Basil bit his lip around an ‘nngh’ sound, pumping faster, enjoying the feel and swell of the cock in his hand, the power of doing this well. God, if he could do this to Ratigan, could make his whole great body shake, could force him to make sounds like these--the sailor was close, and, headily, Basil surged forward and nuzzled the man’s neck.
“Come on,” Basil half-whimpered, fervently, “come on, for me.” God if he would--Basil bit the sailor’s neck savagely, and with a shocked hiss (what sound would he make?) the rat came into Basil’s hand.
Basil drew back and wiped his hand off on a handkerchief. Concentrating hard on the information about the ship’s route he could deduce from the sailor’s clothing and general condition, he willed his erection down. After some moments, he felt he could trust himself to manage the walk home. His expression spread into a lazy, satisfied smile of triumph.
“All right?” he asked the sailor, who was still breathing hard.
“Very,” the sailor managed. “I had not heard your people were particularly friendly. Yet you certainly know how to welcome a sailor to port!”
Basil enjoyed being complimented on his many and various skills, and took this with good grace. He was distracted enough to let something of his own way of speaking slip through his assumed character. “Well, I did say I was worth the money, old boy.”
They parted, Basil whistling as he went. Unbeknownst to him, a round, serious publican in the shabby inn on the corner watched him walk past the window. A flicker of recognition blossomed into certainly, and the publican knew it was time to pay a visit to his benefactor.
***
In a plush den across town, Ratigan pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the smoke, consideringly. “Now you’re absolutely certain that it was Basil?”
“Looked just like that picture you gave me,” the publican retorted shortly. He was a steady man, not giving to undue excitation. Ratigan gave all his informants a newsprint image of the man he most wanted them to keep an eye out for, and they knew all about Basil of Baker Street’s propensity for disguise. Thus Ratigan had heard many delightful, amusing, and (when they interfered with his own designs) flat-out vexatious stories of Basil’s adventures. It was with some fondness that he waited to hear what this report entailed.
According to the publican, Basil had passed by an hour before midnight. He’d been dressed as a dock hand, and the publican had thought he looked somehow familiar. Hours later the publican had glanced up to see him again. His clothes--his disguise--had been somewhat rumpled, and in that condition had looked somehow less fit for the part. Basil had been smirking exactly like he did in his cut-out photograph, and suddenly his identity had been obvious.
“And have you any notion as to what his business might have been?” Ratigan kicked up his heels over the arm of his chair. He fondled his cigarette holder, a contented expression on his face. Basil was always so industrious! It was a pleasure to watch him work, or to follow his career via intermediaries when more direct surveillance was impossible. Oh, Ratigan felt bound to say that Basil was a second-rate detective, and of course he could be maddening and pompous, but Ratigan was truly grateful to have such an ingenious nemesis. Basil’s interest in his work was a mark of respect. It came from the finest mind Ratigan had ever known, beside his own. Ratigan was duly touched by the compliment. Coming to learn Basil like a delicate system or a rich branch of philosophical logic, testing himself against the mouse and sparring with him were the most enjoyable elements of Ratigan’s work. Their years’ of rivalry had been the most rewarding period of his career--of his life.
The publican interrupted his reverie. “I don’t know what he was doing for the first hours, but I heard a noise and happened to look out the back window not long before I saw him go. There he was, same hat and all, seeing to a sailor in the alley, bold as brass. Mind you, he cleaned up after himself...”
Ratigan choked on his cigarette, coughed and wheezed. “What?” he demanded in a decidedly uncivil tone. The publican took a judicious step back.
“A rat, by the look of him. One of the sailors off the Chinese clipper.”
“Basil?” Shock had stripped Ratigan of his intelligence. Ratigan leaned back in his chair, staring at nothing in particular in disbelief. The cigarette dropped from his limp grip into the ashtray on the table beside him, but Ratigan didn't notice. The publican didn’t feel it necessary to respond to his query. After a moment Ratigan found the wherewithal to continue. He leaned forward, intent. “Seeing to someone? You’re certain that what you saw was what it appeared to be?” This might all be a mistake! Why, Basil might have been--might have--
“I can recognize trade when I see it,” the publican snorted. “The sailor was tonguing his neck, I saw that much. Far as I know that’s not part of your standard buying and selling of information. Though why a man with his money would have to earn on the side--maybe he’s in it for the thrill? Who knows what toffs get up to?”
“His neck? What precisely did they do?” Ratigan had surged out of his chair and was pacing, his hands behind his back.
“Couldn’t tell you that, guv’nor. Not the right angle for it. Didn’t see the whole thing.”
Ratigan spun to face the publican, coming too close, pushing his face into the other man’s. His eyes were large and intense, and his voice harsh. “Yet you’re certain it was a rat he was with?” He felt consumed by a strange desperation to make his informant crack under pressure.
“Easy enough to spot,” the publican said blankly, letting it go unsaid that identifying Ratigan himself presented him with no more of a challenge.
Ratigan pulled back. He controlled his tone. “Is there anything else?” he asked, light, urbane and dangerous.
Unruffled, the publican shook his head.
Ratigan considered for a moment. “Try not to let this go any further, hm? I might find it useful to be the only one who knows about our dear friend Basil’s... proclivities.”
Ratigan dropped into his chair and into thought.
From Ratigan, ‘try not to’ was essentially a death threat. The publican shrugged. He had a healthy fear of the man in charge of the underworld, and he wasn’t particularly interested in sharing the information anyway.
“I’ll see myself out.”
“What?” Distracted, Ratigan glanced back up at him, seemingly annoyed that he was still there. “Yes, yes. I owe you a favor for a good turn. And remember, not a soul!”
The publican nodded and was gone. Ratigan thanked the god he didn’t believe in that the informant who’d witnessed this was a taciturn man, hardly given to dining out on anecdotes. It then occurred to Ratigan that he’d no particular reason to want this information to be kept secret--and yet he did, he violently, viscerally did. He slumped down in his throne-like chair and thought.
Had Basil done this before? Did Basil do this often? If so, surely Ratigan should be celebrating the fact that Basil had a dangerous peccadillo that could easily get him killed (prostitution was seldom a terribly safe profession), thus rendering Ratigan’s own extra-legal activities infinitely easier to pursue. Brilliant nemesis or no, Ratigan did want Basil out of the way, didn’t he? Surely that was what his efforts aimed at? Instead Ratigan felt hot, restless. Ilicit sex was an idiotic weakness. Beneath his opponent. Should Basil die of it, his death would be hollow, meaningless. Pathetic. That was hardly the victory Ratigan had hoped for.
But perhaps, as Ratigan suspected, Basil had simply been following up on the opium smuggling operation that Ratigan himself had noticed. Clever Basil had tracked the ring to its source. Perhaps an opportunity to gain information while undercover had arisen. Basil could hardly have resisted such a chance, such a challenge. For some reason specific to this night, this operation (this seemed far more likely to Ratigan than the prospect of a string of illicit encounters he’d somehow failed to find out about) Basil had allowed (encouraged, Ratigan’s mind suggested nastily) some ruffian off a boat to… to enjoy him. Ratigan threw a hand over his suddenly pounding heart and squeezed at his chest.
What exactly had they done together? It didn’t matter, of course, and yet no, it absolutely did. Ratigan’s tongue felt heavy and senseless in his mouth when he thought of some anonymous rat licking Basil’s neck. That wasn’t the compact, sensible exchange of trade at its basic, industrial level. It was too sensuous, too fond. What else had gone on? What else had Basil let this complete stranger do to him? Had the man touched him? (Ratigan could feel his blood beginning to boil in his veins.) He must have done, but how precisely? Had he mapped the planes of Basil’s expressive face with large, rough, calloused sailors’ hands, had he run them through and over Basil’s soft, neat, wheat-colored fur? Had they fucked? There in the alley, like savage beasts?
Not just a proper little woman or another man, oh no, that wouldn’t have been so vexing. Basil had taken a rat. In the teeth of his prim disdain of Ratigan himself, of his nature and his body, despite having gone years without much of anything in the way of liaisons Ratigan could sniff out, Basil had degraded himself with some hulking low-life rat, right there in a fucking alley, and it hadn’t been him.
Ratigan blinked slowly, running the conclusion through his mind. It hadn’t been him. He gave a barking, nasty laugh. Fury and lust choked it off. How dare someone else touch Basil and how dare Basil permit it and how dare Basil take someone so like him and, God in heaven, the very thought of Basil on his knees in an alley, wrapping his lips around a cock, a rat’s cock, Ratigan’s own cock, his own private whore--Ratigan had never known it was possibly to have an erection, to feel violently ill and to be consumed with murderous wrath all at the same time. Only Basil could have managed to do this to him. And how very stupid he himself had been, not to properly understand why until now.
He’d have to do something about all this--if only (he fought to quell the rising rage that the thought introduced, but still shredded his gloves by releasing his claws unthinkingly) to stop it from happening again.
By all accounts Basil had been up all night (another spike of hot anger), and Ratigan himself was in a dressing gown, having been roused from sleep to hear something to his (dis)advantage. As much as he wanted to charge over, shake Basil from sleep, and give him… oh,what he wanted to give Basil ranged from a substantial piece of his mind to a good slap to a thorough seeing-to, he really couldn’t say, but he certainly owed Basil something--Well, the situation called for rather more delicacy than that. Ratigan needed to master his surging, conflicted emotions, and he needed something resembling a plan.
***
All in all, Basil had had an excellent day. Returning home from the docks, buzzing with the private thrill of his encounter, he’d plucked his portrait of Ratigan from the mantlepiece en route as he continued on into his own room. He’d made an occasion of it and taken down the silk chinoiserie box he kept in the top compartment of his wardrobe. It contained a fine Japanese antiquity he’d purchased from a most respectable dealer.
The beautiful carved-jade phallus saw irregular use. Basil treated sexual gratification like a pleasant, regular element of physical upkeep--like excellent food. He rarely indulged in more extravagant interludes, but enjoyed them immensely when he took the time. He wasn’t sexually frustrated per se--after all, he found his own ministrations more effective than those of the boys at school had ever been. He’d purposely chosen never to be in a romantic relationship because such a liaison might inconvenience and embarrass him. This particular form of pleasure was, after all, still frowned on by the law and good society. Besides, he was far too busy. Yet he had to admit, he was rather interested in exploring the opportunities for companionship and sexual gratification that a partner might be able to provide. Still, asking someone to take on the risks and dubious rewards of being his other half, of subjecting themselves to his schedule and the inherent dangers and his own obsessive, mercurial nature, had seemed unfair to the few men Basil had been attracted to since the busier days of university.
He was not pleased with himself for being immensely attracted to Ratigan, in a way that made the memory of his schoolboy crushes seem vague and stupid. He was even less pleased with himself for concealing the information from himself. Surely he valued the truth, however ugly? Besides, he could understand how it had happened. It wasn’t precisely creatio ex nihilo. Ratigan was an absolute genius. Ratigan was larger than life--talking to him was like being swept up in a mad, brilliant Drury Lane melodrama. Ratigan dressed very well and had excellent arms, if you liked that sort of thing, and you could tell he would be a ludicrously good fuck. Basil had observed these pieces of information before, he simply hadn’t consciously made the obvious deduction about their effect on him.
It felt like his mind had played a rotten trick on him, allowing the attraction to build unsuspected until it became an inconvenient, undismissable mass. Still, now that he knew about it, he simply had to recognize and deal with the situation constructively. It certainly wouldn’t stop him from grappling with Ratigan at every turn--pitting his strength and wits against the other man--mm. Grappling. Now, imagine Ratigan saying ‘grappling’--the way the word would ripple in his mouth. Excellent word.
Basil thoroughly lubricated the jade phallus and teased himself with it, then slowly, persistently nudged it into himself. It wasn’t much in the way of preparation, but the dildo was small and hard. He hissed and trembled, but he could tolerate it, at his own speed. The way it hurt reminded Basil of Ratigan, and his eyes unfocused and swam as he began to fuck himself with the device while rubbing his stiff cock against the sheets. Then he remembered he should be quiet, so as not to disturb Mrs Judson, so his low moans became almost inaudible whimpers.
In the safety of his mind, he could enjoy the ill-advised fixation. He could blend the memory of the sailor’s bulk with the memory of a struggle with Ratigan himself, and with the sound of Ratigan’s voice and the picture of his supercilious grin in the frame on the shelf. Ratigan need never know, even if the thought of him watching pitched Basil over the edge and saw him biting his free hand to stifle a cry.
His climax was enjoyable, but a trifle disappointing. Basil knew himself to be clever and inventive, but not in quite the ways Ratigan was. Ratigan constantly managed to surprise Basil with his skills and cunning, and it seemed too much to believe that he would lack those attributes in the bedroom. Imagining fucking Ratigan could only ever be a pale reflection of fucking Ratigan--which made Ratigan both worthy of being the object of Basil’s fantasies and a particularly frustrating inspirational object.
Fortunately, Basil knew that he could trust himself to give little away in person. He could rationally separate components of himself, spitting disdain while defeating the crime lord and then going home to enjoy the idea of that defeat playing out very differently. He had always thought Ratigan needed a good spanking...
It was a pity, Basil thought as he cleaned and packed away the supplies, that Ratigan’s very criminality, the realm of artistry that Basil had near-daily cause to appreciate his achievements in, rendered him the least suitable man in London.
***
Basil slept hard. In the morning, he traced the contraband. In the afternoon, he stealthily examined the custom agents’ books. In the evening, he saw the custom agent taken into custody, and Basil returned home pleased with himself. It was Mrs Judson’s night off, and her sister was having a party to celebrate her daughter’s engagement, so Lord only knew when she would be back. She’d return well and truly in her cups, no doubt--Mrs Judson’s family were a convivial lot that believed in hearty drams, especially when they'd been provided with an excuse to commemorate something. But she’d left dinner warm in the oven.
Basil enjoyed his pie, and was thinking about treating himself to another celebratory imaginary round of rat and mouse when he heard the door quietly swing open. It might be Mrs Judson, back for something--but she usually called out when she came in. And those were not her footsteps. No, they were far heavier. One set of footsteps. Someone, alone, had picked the lock and entered.
Basil grabbed a poker from beside the kitchen fire and, holding it lightly in one hand like a sword, approached the door that separated the kitchen from the hall leading onto the living room. He supposed he could wait in the kitchen and ambush whoever had entered, but that presumed that they’d come for him rather than any of the sensitive documents or valuables he had on the premises (though a thief would have to be a fool, desperate or utterly bold to rob a renowned, well-connected detective who lived in a well-policed neighborhood).
Mindful that someone might well be lurking unseen to the side of the entrance, Basil swung open the door to the living room. He stumbled on seeing Ratigan himself standing at the fireplace, with one of Basil’s own thin swords in hand. Basil’s poker would give him blunt strength in a contest between the two weapons, but Ratigan had reach, and his weapon had the more dangerous edge. If anything they were mismatched, armed with weapons that would have better suited one another.
“My dear Basil,” Ratigan said smoothly, tossing the sword, which looked like a child’s toy in his massive hand (why hadn’t he brought a pistol?), and catching it idly. “I hear you had a most interesting evening last night.”
Basil narrowed his eyes. “Ratigan. I don’t remember inviting you to call. I trust you refer to my efforts to bring down that foul opium ring?”
If Ratigan had been at all implicated in or impacted by the business, Basil had utterly missed it. But Ratigan looked cool, calm. He was wearing his best suit--the sleekest true-black, the double-breasted one that made his chest look even broader than usual. His rich watch-chain shone, having obviously been recently polished. Ratigan always took care with his appearance, but surely even he wouldn’t carefully polish a watch chain, or even remember to have a minion do it, after suffering a severe upheaval in his fortunes.
Ratigan smiled. “You know, I did suspect that was what you were doing in the docks--how charming! Oh, I do look forward to reading about your exploits in the papers. But I’m afraid,” his expression went over all mock-solicitous, “that’s not why I decided to pay you a visit.” He twirled the sword, and Basil tried to keep his eyes from being drawn to the bright arc. A moment of distraction was all Ratigan would need to charge.
Ratigan sounded right, but some quality of his expression perplexed Basil. His smile was bigger than usual, and tight around the edges. He was trying too hard, which was unlike him. Ratigan was never nervous, not really. He was ecstatic or pleased or wry or furious, and his fury was controlled or desperately un-. But tonight he was tense, and if something made Ratigan tense it was dangerous indeed. Basil felt almost worried. What was the man hiding?
Otherwise, Basil was proud of himself for successfully compartmentalizing this dangerous encounter and the far different encounter he’d had with the idea of the man last night. His cheeks were hot and his blood was up, but that was nothing out of the ordinary--which might itself be a problem, Basil realized wryly.
Ratigan had clearly been waiting for Basil to ask him the obvious follow-up question--he sounded quite irritated when he had to supply, unsolicited, “I’ve come because I heard a nasty little rumor that you’d changed your line of work. I wondered if I’d have to start looking for a replacement nemesis. Now that you’ve--” he paused, examined a glove, “found a new niche, as it were.”
Basil blinked. His chest pounded, but he ignored it to respond in even, unimpressed tones. “Leaving aside the question of how you know, I wouldn’t worry overmuch about that. It was a rather limited run--a one-time performance, in fact. I imagine Scotland Yard itself would look on the indiscretion with leniency, provided I explained the circumstances. There’s not a soul in London who doesn’t know that I would do whatever it takes to unravel a case. If you’ve come to try and embarrass me, you’ve missed your mark, and with a degree of ineptitude that strikes me as most unlike you. Feeling out of sorts, Professor?”
For some reason, Basil’s lack of embarrassment made Ratigan’s lip curl in an angry sneer. He calmed himself, smoothing back his already-neat hair to cover the lapse. “Oh I’m quite well, thank you. And come now, Basil, when have I ever been judgmental about activity outside the bounds of the law?”
Ratigan crept closer as he spoke, causing Basil to tighten his hand on the iron. Ratigan’s voice was still dangerously sweet, and he tucked the hand holding the sword under his elbow while gesturing airily with his left hand. “No, I was simply surprised when, after all ofyour less than generous comments on the subject, I heard you’d offered your services to a common rat.” His voice worked its way down into a growled rasp.
Basil stiffened, his grip on the poker slackening for an instant. That was all Ratigan needed. He dropped the sword, lunged forward and grabbed the poker's free end. Basil clung on to his side, determined not to be disarmed. Counting on this, Ratigan pulled the tool hard, using the mouse’s dogged hold and tenacious strength against him. He gathered Basil to him and clenched a hand on the back of the mouse’s neck. The punishing grip made Basil’s eyes go wide, and his body instinctively dropped limp in Ratigan’s grip.
Basil raised his arm to punch Ratigan, and Ratigan caught it with his free hand, prising open the fingers. Ratigan dropped the bar (it landed on a chair--Basil could almost have reached it), smoothly drew something from his pocket, and then pressed two shillings (Basil could tell by the shape and weight) into Basil’s palm, and closed Basil’s fingers around them. “That is, if you’re in the market,” he sneered.
“Two shillings?” Basil knew it was beside the point, but his mind snagged on the sum. His expression went over all baffled. “That’s ludicrous. I only charged sixpence.”
“You charged what?” For some reason this seemed a final insult to Ratigan, whose mouth gaped incredulously even as his face went red through his fur with fury. He grip tightened, his eyes bulged and he nearly doubled over (Basil was briefly alarmed that he might be having some form of coronary arrest.). Ratigan actually choked with rage. Basil, the thwarter of his best-laid plans, his shining opponent, his own darling Basil, had sold himself for such a pathetically inadequate sum--the price of a decent dinner. It was too much for the heart to bear. “Why you blithering little--”
Ratigan dropped his head towards Basil. Basil opened his mouth to demand to know what Ratigan was doing, and then it was very clear what he was doing. Ratigan was, indisputably, shoving his tongue into Basil’s mouth. Determined not to be outdone, Basil kissed him back with fierce eagerness. The coins cut into Basil’s tight-clenched palm as he pressed his fists against Ratigan’s lapel. Basil made a small keening noise, and a shudder went through Ratigan’s whole body. He drew back slightly. “What did you do?” he panted. “You and that--”
“Rat?” Basil breathed huskily, and his heart juddered at the way Ratigan’s eyes flashed. “Rather quaintly, he called it a ‘clasp’.”
Ratigan was obviously familiar with the term. He wrenched Basil’s palm open, the very one that had cradled another man the night before. The coins spilled on the floor, and Ratigan kissed Basil’s palm frantically, like a love-sick beau. Basil gasped, shivered. Basil thought about wrenching the iron back and smacking Ratigan ‘round the head with it, but he noticed a bit of paper in Ratigan’s pocket. The little he could read of it led him to some obvious inferences, and the whole architecture of a plan blossomed in his mind. He wanted to chuckle with glee, but that might spoil everything. Better to keep his opponent off balance--and he suspected he knew how.
“And was that all?” Ratigan seemed relieved, almost sick with it.
Something about the power he clearly had over Ratigan put the devil in Basil. He couldn’t quite help himself. “Oh, with him, yes.”
“With him?” Ratigan’s head shot up, and his expression was more murderous than Basil had ever seen it. Basil remembered what he was dealing with, how dangerous the man caressing him was. Still he couldn’t stop.
“Of course there’s been no one recently, but naturally you’re a few years too late to catch my debut.” Basil had wondered whether Ratigan would even care, but the hitch in his breathing made it very clear that he did.
“Who else has touched you, precious?” Ratigan’s tone was excessively tender and vicious. Basil loved it. Ratigan’s entire attention was on him. It felt like a palpable weight. Basil loved the intensity of Ratigan’s reactions, gloried in his own ability to provoke them. That heady, flattering jealousy, and oh, the prospect of what he could needle Ratigan into doing--and so easily! Clearly Ratigan himself almost enjoyed the way Basil twisted the knife. He only got visibly harder the angrier and more jealous Basil made him. Tonight it seemed he was in the mood to be told he couldn’t have Basil, that he was beneath him, and to thoroughly prove the reverse.
Basil used his free hand to tap his chin, considering. “So many young men at university. I don’t know that even I could make you a list--which is odd because in the general way of things, I’ve rather a good memory. Amusing, isn’t it?”
“Exceedingly,” Ratigan hissed. “And who was the first of them?”
“Oh,” Basil laughed. “That wasn’t at university, my good fellow! I was fourteen--the older boys did fag you hard at Harrow. An upperclassman named Marcus Whitby, if I recall correctly. A bulky sixteen year old--very thorough. Of course you never went to public school, did you?” He looked Ratigan up and down with calculated assessment. His tone dropped low, patronizing. “Not really the right class for it, I suppose.”
Ratigan looked ready to explode.
“Mm,” Basil smiled and, deliberately, squirmed in Ratigan’s grip, pushing himself in closer. “Now are you imagining snapping their necks, or being in Marcus Whitby’s place?”
Starled, Ratigan looked at Basil, and then laughed, low and strained. “Basil, dearest, are you deliberately tormenting me?”
“Oh yes,” Basil freely admitted. “ But then you make it so easy.”
Basil’s nastiness seemed to utterly charm Ratigan, who released his neck and sank to his knees before him. “What a terror you are,” Ratigan cooed appreciatively, starting to unbutton Basil’s trousers.
“Well, you can take it.” Basil pulled lightly at Ratigan’s hair. “I do hate to correct you, but typically, when money’s exchanged, doesn’t that imply that the recipient will be providing certain services?”
Ratigan sneered. “You’re showing your upbringing, pet. You’ve such narrow, inadequate notions about what pleasures I might think worth having. It’s very typical of public-school-bred boys. One has to train them out of so many bad habits.”
Basil’s cock was hard and shining with liquid at the tip when Ratigan freed it and took it in hand. “Why, Basil! Oh this is a compliment. I take it you enjoyed telling me about your misadventures?”
“Not really. There isn’t anything especially enjoyable about the memory of Marcus Whitby. But--” Basil gasped as Ratigan gave him a harsh pump to scold him for bringing the boy up, “but the way you looked like you’d perish if you couldn’t have me,” Ratigan’s large tongue licked a path up Basil’s thighs, and Ratigan’s big hands came up to steady him and knead them. A bare suggestion of Ratigan’s claws scraped lightly over Basil’s fur, and Basil panted a little as he finished, “that I most certainly enjoyed.”
Ratigan slid his mouth around Basil’s cock, enveloping it and stroking it with his muscular tongue. Wantonly, Basil cried out and let himself drop loose, supported by Ratigan’s hands wrapped around his legs. He was still standing, but he’d fall if Ratigan didn’t support him.
The simple physical trust of the act stabbed at Ratigan. He had been religious as a young child--in so few realms was the grandiose pageantry that appealed to him acceptable in this bourgeois world--and then had grown utterly disenchanted with substance of faith. Basil made him feel fervor, and if it wasn’t chaste and wholesome devotion, still, it was perfect--the soaring apotheosis of his unpretty feelings. Basil’s small hands grabbing at his shoulders, forcing him to stay, as though he might consider pulling back. Basil’s ratcheting breath and heaving chest and wild green eyes.
“I’m going to--mmph! Let me go! Unhand me, you brute!” Basil struggled weakly to get free, but Ratigan, amused, held him steady. Basil’s sense of fastidiousness or decorum was not going to prevent Ratigan from drinking him down. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. “Oh have it your way, you beast,” Basil slurred.
He then got terribly bossy, a lot of yes, yes, yes, come on, good good good and a delightful attempt to fuck Ratigan’s mouth like an entitled, greedy little slut. The thought of Basil being entitled to his mouth, to the use of him, made Ratigan moan audibly around his cock. Ratigan couldn’t remember ever being with anyone who seemed to enjoy sex so much. Basil’s pleasure alone was the most arousing thing he’d ever know--as frenetic and intense and captivating as the man himself.
Basil came with a tiny, rising series of gasps--ah ah ah ah!--and Ratigan held his small shaking body and had to acknowledge the inconvenient fact that he absolutely cherished Basil. London without him would be a species of dull hell. This was a want beyond wanting. A need beyond satiation. He’d never have had to know this if he hadn’t been faced with it, but now denial and ignorance were equally impossible.
He rose and tucked Basil neatly into his trousers, buttoning him up, using an handkerchief to tidy him. “Oh, Basil,” he murmured, in lieu of a number of other, more revealing things.
Now was the time to enact his plan, but when Basil lazily patted Ratigan’s engorged cock through his strained trousers and demanded ‘bed’, Ratigan revised his schedule slightly. He supposed he could worry about leaving in a few hours. The trunks would wait, and it wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford replacement tickets. This was Basil’s home, he wasn’t exactly likely to run off. Easily, Ratigan lifted Basil in his arms.
“Put me down this instant,” Basil demanded automatically, the snap in his voice dulled by satisfaction. He smacked at Ratigan’s back half-heartedly. “See here, I’m not a child.”
“By no means, my dear,” Ratigan agreed, negotiating the bedroom door. “You’re far more interesting than a child could possibly hope to be.”
“I trust I was worth my two shillings?” Basil deftly slithered out of his grasp and popped down on the bed.
“Oh, at the very at least, precious.” Ratigan took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, as if he owned the place. He started on his cufflinks and cravat.
“I would never be so crass as to attempt to renegotiate terms during the evening,” Basil said, “ but how much would you say, on the open market? Out of curiosity, you understand.”
“Ah yes,” Ratigan smiled indulgently, “your lamentable curiosity. I know it well. It’s caused me no end of trouble in the past.” He considered. “Well, I’m not in that line myself--”
“I do know the basics of your enterprise,” Basil snapped, annoyed as a housewife whose husband had suggested she didn’t know what he spent his days doing or where she kept mustard in her own larder.
“But,” Ratigan continued, as though Basil hadn’t groused, “considering your gender, the fact that you have your own establishment, the quality thereof, your craft, and your impeccable condition,” he leered, “oh, let’s say twenty shillings for a night?”
“That is considerable.” It was more than a weeks’ good mill-wages. Basil scooted forward and, with brisk fingers, undid Ratigan’s cravat. Something about the action, its intimacy, made Ratigan’s cock throb pointedly.
“Well, you are a natural, my dear,” he said wryly.
Basil leaned back against the headboard, looking at him steadily. “Yes, I rather think I am. But I’m also aware that higher-class courtesans exist who do much better even than that. Luxury goods for men who can afford the very best, as it were. And I have a proposition. Rather than going through with your frankly moronic plan to cosh me over the head and spirit me away to somewhere exotic via Marseilles--
“I beg your pardon--” Ratigan said in a tone that indicated he did not beg anyone’s pardon, and had in fact been brought up short, and was none too pleased about it.
“Oh, really, my dear chap - it could hardly be more obvious. Elementary, even. You have two steamer tickets in your jacket pocket, as well as a receipt for the traveling trunks you sent ahead to St. Pancras station. And really, eight trunks and a hatbox? What have you even packed? At any rate, rather than going through with all that nonsense, you and I might come to an arrangement.”
Ratigan, in quick succession, blanched and became furious with Basil. Still standing awkwardly at the side of the bed, he clenched his fists. Basil blithely pressed on.
“Now, you and I both know what it costs to hire men to carry out a robbery, or, say, a given example of the various grades of assassination. Being a courtesan is a serious art, but one that, with diligent study, I can master. At the moment, my time is worth the sum you alluded to - although I hope with study to be worth a great deal more.” Basil leaned back against the headboard, flicking his hands about as he enumerated elements of his plan. “Your crimes are also worth a calculable sum. I’ll accept their worth as their retail rather than their wholesale value. What I propose is this: we’ll trade my bills and your invoices for the crimes you don’t commit. My preference is, naturally, to buy out your more felonious villanies first. I’m certain you take my meaning.
“The time you spend not committing crimes may be devoted to anything, so long as it doesn’t forward your criminal enterprise. You might lavish it on your somewhat neglected maths’ chair, or me, I suppose. Though I intend to retain my own profession, naturally. When you, in your professional experience, judge me to have graduated to that more elevated echelon of the trade, I’ll have more capital to work with, as it were. And don’t patronize me or try and bilk me on that front, I expect I’ll know.” Basil caught Ratigan’s gaze, made Ratigan look him in the eye. “You can of course walk away if the arrangement no longer suits you--though I would appreciate a note formally closing your account.”
“It was an exquisite scheme to get you out of the way.” Ratigan ground out, gripping the bedpost hard while maintaining a polite expression. “My organization’s reach extends perhaps further than you’ve realized--”
Basil exercised his unfortunate talent for giving Ratigan a stern look and shredding him to bits. “Fucking me picturesquely on a mess of cushions in that old serraglio you operate out of in Istanbul and trying to run your organization via Turkey might seem an ideal escapist fantasy, but it would involve more logistical issues than building Brunel’s tunnel. You couldn’t keep me drugged, and you couldn’t keep me there. You were jealous and over-eager and you weren’t thinking clearly. Be sensible. You and I both know I’d be back in London within a month.”
So Basil knew about the Turkish operation then. And he had parsed Ratigan’s somewhat embarrassing state of mind all too well. That stung. But Ratigan was nothing if not determined and self-willed. “I’d pursue you,” he countered.
“Ah yes, of course,” Basil half-conceded, half-mocked, his face shifting from a polite expression to a hard glare. “And I should be constantly on my guard. If captured, I should simply escape again. The thing risks becoming a farce. Though I wouldn’t like to be in your position afterwards, having to the manage clean-up from your leaving your organization to hang.
“Now,” he leaned forward and walked his fingers up Ratigan’s still shirt-covered chest, “do we have a deal?”
This was play-acting, but it was also true. Basil could do this, he knew it. He could play games with Ratigan, he’d been doing it for years. He was good at it, and he relished the contest. “Because I’m fairly certain you want to keep me.” From the top down, Basil started unbuttoning Ratigan’s shirt. “Your own--” he kissed Ratigan’s chest, then undid another button, “private--”
Ratigan caught his hand. “Whore?” he sneered, even as the word, applied to Basil, jerked a hard cord of want in him. “My dear Basil, the term hardly seems appropriate. I think you’ll find that in most cases the lady of ill repute doesn’t want it as much as her client. While you--” he trailed off, mocking and meaningful. The solution Basil had proposed was masterful, but if the price of having Basil in his bed was Basil himself constantly disdaining Ratigan, putting up with him, indulging his desires disinterestedly, faking enthusiasm, laughing at him--he couldn’t endure it. He didn’t know how to balance how much he wanted Basil against how much the loss of Basil’s respect would enrage and devastate him, in a way little else could.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, old boy,” Basil said quietly, looking up at him. Ratigan was like him--he could be especially cutting when he himself was feeling weak or exposed. “I suspect the best ones do. What’s marriage, after all? A formal exchange of certain kinds of labor for certain forms of security. The best of them are built upon a mutual enjoyment of the process of payment.” He sat up and pulled Ratigan down on top of the bed and himself, coaxingly. “I’m sure I could learn to be very good for you,” he murmured. “Afford me the opportunity?”
Ratigan swallowed. “If I consented... on some occasions I’d want you for more than simply a carnal dalliance.”
Basil tensed under him. “I shall never help you commit crime.” It was rather amazing, Ratigan thought, that even at his most vulnerable (Ratigan could kill him here and now with his hands alone), Basil was never really afraid of him. Sensible of the danger Ratigan presented, aware of his capabilities--but Basil was astoundingly brave, as though he didn’t understand the notion of risk.
Ratigan snorted softly. “I didn’t imagine you would, though it is a deplorable shame. You’re utterly wasted on the law.” He settled down next to Basil on the bed, taking Basil’s hand in his own. “I had the opera in mind. Possibly trips abroad, that sort of thing. The geisha of Japan perform offices of the kind, alongside their more prosaic duties.”
“Ah,” Basil relaxed. “Naturally. Though--” he seemed slightly unsure about the thought he was about to voice, and Ratigan tensed responsively, “some nights I imagine I’ll be occupied with my work, or I might fall ill. Or--” Basil glanced away, “you know, I believe, what my moods can be. And then I don’t know that I could perform my side of--”
“A gentleman,” Ratigan interrupted him, turning Basil’s chin back with a finger so that Basil looked at him, “would never press such a point. Only if you evaded me for weeks on end, like a tenant dodging the rent collector, would you force a discussion about the state of our accounts.”
An unrecognizable sentiment entered Basil’s eyes. Basil kissed him feelingly, and Ratigan felt as though he’d won in some marvelous way he couldn’t understand.
Basil broke off, and a red chinoiserie box on the table seemed to catch his eye and remind him of something.
“You’ll find it relatively easy to fuck me at the moment, if you’d like to,” Basil said quite casually. “I’ve seen what is, given the somewhat hibernatory nature of my sex life, surprisingly recent use.”
Ratigan froze beside him, suddenly assaulted with the maddening image of Basil spread and pinned, Basil dripping with another rat’s come. “My dear Basil,” he managed, “I thought you said that you and your friend--”
Basil laughed softly at the look on his face and unlaced the box’s toggles, flipping it open. He removed an object from within. “I came home after that--in and of itself--meaningless encounter and fucked myself with this. Perhaps you won’t believe me, but strangely enough I was thinking of you. I thought about you watching me do it, to be precise. That’s worth trying at some point, I should think--I certainly found it sufficiently inspiring.”
Ratigan’s head swam as though he’d imbibed a gallon of champagne in a gulp. How sweet the image Basil invoked was--and what an unexpectedly wicked tongue! What other ideas had Basil concocted in that febrile little brain of his? “Do go on, precious. Take me through the lot.”
“If you like.” Obediently (but obviously pleased at being encouraged to show off his collection and his ideas), Basil rummaged in the box and brought out a porcelain ring.
“Now this is Chinese. I haven’t yet had an opportunity to use it--but as you see, the blue and white pattern is lovely, and it’s an interesting objet d’art. It stops one from reaching one’s peak too quickly, you understand. We’ll need a larger one, in your size--this is hardly likely to fit you. Now, once we’ve obtained such a device, I’d like you to use it so that we can make serious experiments into how much I can take. I assume you’ll need to be on top, at least after I come the first few times, and I might try and ask you to stop. However, I am committed to finding out what I can tolerate before I pass out, so I trust you won’t pay it any mind.” Ratigan’s mouth had dropped and stayed open, and, cheerfully, Basil continued.
“I’m going to need a new lab notebook to track these things. Those ones, the weighted silver balls there, are rin no tama--one uses them internally. Again, I’ve not had the opportunity to test them, but I assume they’ll make it interesting for you when I fuck you, despite my comparatively,” Basil coughed, “modest build. I’ll demonstrate the mechanism of their use in due course. More generally, have you heard of the ‘rectal dilators’ that came out onto the market a few years ago? We might look into them, they’ve a certain potential. And then there’s that peculiarly cumbersome Taylor vibrator--well, it is just a fucking machine, isn’t it? Have you seen how clumsily designed it is? It just sits there,” Basil scoffed, “It’s not even on runners! Such a waste of an excellent idea. You’re a brilliant mechanical thinker, I’m positively certain you can do better.”
“I’m not sure,” Ratigan said, dazed, “that I’m terribly interested in sharing you with a machine.”
Basil raised an eyebrow. “Am I to understand that you don’t want to build an instrument of your own genius invention and then use it to drive into me with an organ modeled after your own whilst you take my mouth, or simply observe? You don’t want your machine, the product of your own intellect, hands and craftsmanship, to ruthlessly, inexorably keep going, past mortal endurance, until I’m a spent wreck? Until you decide I’ve had enough?”
Ratigan stared at Basil, suddenly aware that as high a regard as he held the mouse in, he had simultaneously totally underestimated him. “Well, when you put it--in those terms, Basil--”
“As I suspected. Hm. I’ve such a great deal of reading to do!” Basil shook his head. “Incidentally how do you feel about play acting and costumes? I’ve very much in favor of them. I look forward to catching you in the midst of evil deeds, tying you up and punishing you severely at the earliest opportunity. You can of course take over the world and make me your catamite, but I do get to go first--after all, I did think of it.”
Basil’s focus and dedication, his bloody-minded need to excel, and more than anything his suggestions themselves made Ratigan nearly swoon. He’d be useless if Basil kept talking. He pre-empted further discussion by undressing Basil and fucking him with the toy, and then with his cock. He surprised Basil by, during the sex, handling him with unexpected reverence.
Basil, meanwhile, could see that Ratigan liked being verbally appreciated, and, enjoying the sheer act of responding to and for him, gleefully played up his praise and cries.
“Must you be so forceful?” Basil whined, visibly enjoying it. “Mmph! That’s harder! Oh! Oh that’s--oh you darling brute!”
Ratigan’s ill-gotten wealth had bought him the finest clothing, the richest foods, the most luxurious indulgences--but he had never purchased anything finer than this.
***
A year of hard work, in and around the not-insignificant demands of detection, saw the couple celebrating a milestone. In his own peculiar, obsessive way, Basil had mastered everything there was to know about his secondary profession--though he showed a keen dedication to continuing education. When Basil moved in to Ratigan’s finest property as a kept man (though he retained his old premises for his practice), Ratigan presented him with a Crimes Uncommitted receipt for taking over the entire country.
“Complex, and very pretty,” Basil observed, looking at the itemized plan, which included diagrams for a clockwork automaton Queen. “But I do think I might have been able to foil it.”
“Very possibly,” Ratigan observed, idly sorting through Basil’s clothing--he’d leave the maid he’d hired for Basil, against Basil’s mild protests, the real work of deciding what went where. “But I suppose we shan’t ever have to find out. Which is a pity.” He shook his head ruefully. “I think you’ll agree it’s one of my best. A triumph of the art. Ah, well.” He sighed theatrically. “So it goes.”
“Oh it is, beyond a doubt an extraordinary piece of work! And such a fascinating multiplicity of elements! Why, the escape dirigible alone--and such an enormous sum!” Basil goggled at the bill, sitting down on the bed. Say what he would, it was obvious to Ratigan that Basil adored his work. It was a great relief that Ratigan’s most appreciative audience still had the opportunity to fawn over his most ambitious schemes, even if they remained safely on paper.
Ratigan shrugged elegantly, smoothing a coat. “The best-trained, most dedicated and expert courtesan in the world lives with me, is faithful to me alone, and is at my beck and call--around the parameters of his spectacularly irritating work schedule, of course.” He glared mildly, but then dismissed the matter from his consideration. “Only an idiot would expect that to come for a sixpence, so I have to think up the extraordinary in order to pay for it. By my calculations--which are, as always, perfect--we are, currently, almost even. I expect you’ll outstrip me again soon.”
“That’s perfectly acceptable to me.” Basil slid the bill into the drawer of his bedside cabinet. “I’ve no objection to keeping you well in the black. How very kind of you, darling. The Empire and the Queen’s life make an ideal housewarming present.”
Given the training he’d put into it, Basil suspected the content of the bill was a fair estimation of his talents. Why shouldn’t it be? He’d studied and applied himself until he became a concert-quality violinist. He was the world’s foremost expert in detection. Now he was also, very probably, the world’s most dedicated analytical professional prostitute. And would an intellect of Ratigan’s caliber and rigor be satisfied with anything less? What other whore had invented entirely new chemical formulae for a variety of lubricants that enhanced sensation? Who else made such a perfect ravaged pastoral shepherdess?
Basil had never been prouder of himself than when Ratigan had almost come undone upon finding the perfect, alluring little lilac and pink bows Basil had sewn into the petticoats of his shepherdess costume. Unless it was when Ratigan had tripped over his own tail at coming into his study to find Basil in something very like his old Harrow uniform.
At Basil’s tremulous “Professor?”, Ratigan had been unable to keep himself from unintelligently blurting out a declaration of love. “I know,” Basil had stage-whispered, “and I of course love you, but you really do have to stick to the script. There’s a rattan cane in the top drawer of your desk next to the plan to steal the crown jewels--Oh Professor,” he whimpered at a normal volume, “there’s been a terrible mistake! A wretched little specimen called Marcus Whitby tried to take advantage of me, and I called out for help. In the confusion, I was assigned a detention as well. Isn’t it unfair? The headmaster said I had to serve it with you.” Basil bit his lip coyly and summoned up some crocodile tears. “He--” lip wobbling, “said there might be lashes involved? Only I’ve always been a terribly good student and I’ve never had anything like that happen to me…”
Essentially, Basil knew his worth. Still, it was excellent that Ratigan had the discernment and good taste to appreciate his accomplishments.