I Dream of Disney (Volume II)

The Mystery of the Oval Window [ Professor Ratigan x Reader] Part II

Part II - Vendetta

"This is hopeless," Dawson sighed.  

The dungeons of Buckingham Palace was a bleak, dreary and desolate place. The holdings for the prisoners were tiny and narrow, paved in frigid stone with purposefully sharp edges to scuff palms and draw blood with the barest touch. It was miserably dark with a single paraffin lamp to brighten it. There was not a single thing to admire in this dank place: the air was stale, soured by the unidentified fungus growing between the slabs of stone; the windowpanes were built so needlessly high into the walls that the slippery, odorous mosses made any hopes of climbing to reach it just as morose as one's future if one found oneself in this place. 

The cell did not threaten anguish to its prisoners as much as it administered it to them and Dawson felt as if he was being punished. The doctor was on his knees, spoiling the fine corduroy of his best pair of trousers, and scraping dirt across his scuffed palms as he tried to peek through the wall. 

The American Detective, who had gotten them both into this mess, was seated on the uncomfortable concrete bench pressed into the alcove in the far corner of the room. The mouse had both hands pressed onto her temples and an intense look of concentration woven into her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids flickered faintly. 

Dawson sighed miserably and slid onto his buttocks, his back resting against the jagged walls. Pulling back his head so that he stared up at the dismal greyness of the cell, his Adam's apple bobbed desolately. 

"We're going to die in here, aren't we?" Dawson whined, "We're going to rot and die in here because they've forgotten us in here. In thirty years time, they'll discover our skeletons still fused to the wall where we tried to claw our ways out!" 

"Would you kindly simmer down, Dawson?" Detective (Y/n) Prescott mused, her face irritated, "I am trying to fabricate an accurate inference about this so-called Oxford Street Slayer and the sound of your breathing is annoying me." 

Dawson was incredulous, "I'm annoying you?" 

"Yes," She replied bluntly. 

"The sound of my breathing is annoying you?" Dawson repeated sharply, "What would you like me to do, stop breathing?" 

"For up to two minutes at a time," The detective replied, "If you are able." 

The doctor could only gape at the detective, half out of his mind that he simply and wordlessly sat down into a huddle near the bars of the cell - as far as the close proximity dictated - and grumbled beneath his breath. Sometimes he forgot how difficult it was to be around Basil - sure, they had a closeness that only seeing thousands of mangled bodies, decapitated heads and bloody puddles could admit - but he was also annoying, highly sociopathic, a narcissist and a general nuisance. Dawson remembered the sickly sight of his pale, yellow-veined associate on the floor of their sitting room. He sighed. 

"You're breathing too loudly." 

Dawson growled, "That's what you get for setting the Queen on fire!" 

" Dawson."

"Well, excuse me for trying to consider a possible way not to be executed for treason!" Dawson snapped, "I have a fiancée to think about and that is going to be a very difficult thing to do without a head connected to my body! Our wedding is in three months! Oh, poor Mary. We only just finished looking for a house together on Blandford Street: it's a perfect little place for raising children and starting a family - " 

(Y/n) grimaced, "Dawson. I really must - " 

"Not to mention that I had a contract with the Bank for a very extensive loan that simply cannot be handled if my head isn't attached to my body! Oh, dear. And can you imagine the look on poor Mary's face when she tries to find where I've gone? Oh - "