Cop Car ✸ Red Hood

1.3 ── He said he'd cure your ills.

Triggers ୨ৎ MENTIONS OF alcohol and drugs. VAGUE MENTIONS OF violence, toxic substances, and death.

1159 ୨ৎ Word Count

(Y/N) COULDN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME A PARTY HAD SUCKED SO BAD. The drinks were meant to be flowing, the conversation was meant to be glowing — the only alcohol available was an intensely watered-down form of champagne that was supposed to come from the most renowned of village/breweries (that's one alcoholic village!) in France, and the only subjects of conversation available happened to be mortgages and insurance. There is much pain in this world, but none of it is in this room. Of course, that's only true because those ladies with Botox can't make a sad expression to save their lives.

She'd been her perfectly sociable and amiable self, of course. She'd talked to people, she'd introduced herself to people, she'd very sweetly waved off a few requests to dance from middle-aged pot-bellied husbands that she had never met. She'd laughed, she'd sighed, she'd smiled.

What she hadn't done, however, was to drink enough. Commissioner Gordon seemed to be making a beeline for her and she was positive that only six shots could make whatever he had to say tolerable, considering the grim expression twisting his features — particularly, two shots of bourbon, three of Pzifer, and one .38 slug safely packed into a little gun. The closest she had was a crystalline flute of some fancy French word that sounded like a slur.

"Mr Gordon! I was just talking to your daughter." (Y/N) smiled as Gordon stopped in front of her, putting the deemed incompetent glass down on a nearby table overflowing with countless others and putting her hand out. "How's the job?"

"Oh, as it's always been. That teenage curiosity might end up killing this old cat." He shook her outstretched hand, and the amount of effort going into keeping that smile up grew exponentially. His grip was abnormally firm, his fingers abnormally cold. His visage was pallid and (Y/N) hadn't smelled the stench of cigarettes on his coat since she'd had to walk through a questionable alley a few years ago. "I'm sure you're having a wonderful evening, (Y/N), but —"

"— No, Mr Gordon, please. Drag me away from all of this." She withdrew her arm, toying momentarily with the silver bracelet wrapped around her wrist through habit. "A girl can only take so much small talk and dancing."

"You sound like Barbara," Gordon laughed, but the sound seemed strained. Something was bothering him, and (Y/N) had an inkling of a feeling (call it a hunch, call it an invitation) that she was about to find out what was weighing on his shoulders. "She could never stand these parties. Truth be told, neither can I."

"Yes, the troubles and toils of being a police commissioner. Attending parties and talking to women," (Y/N) nodded, falling into step with Gordon as he started to move away from the majority of the night's crowd. "A troublesome matter, I'm sure."

"Speaking of troublesome matters..." Gordon's voice trailed off as he stopped by the perimeter of the ballroom, tentative eyes warily watching for those within earshot. His voice dropped, the faint smile on his face collapsing to give way to something less jubilant. "I'm really sorry to drag you into this, (Y/N), considering you're only here for a week, but we've hit a few roadblocks back at the office and Barbara tells me you've really made a name for yourself in the medical community — congratulations on that, by the way."

"That's very kind, Mr Gordon, but you don't have to worry about asking me for favours. I owe most of my experience to you and your constantly injured men," (Y/N) shook her head, a sheepish smile tugging at her mouth as Gordon spoke. "I'd be happy to help. Gotham's got its fair share of wickedness, and I suppose there's no rest for the wicked."

"No, there isn't. Apparently, there's no rest for those actively trying to stop the wicked either." Gordon sighed, his fingers twitching towards one of his coat pockets. (Y/N) could distinctly make out the outline of a small box through the suede, explaining the stink of smoke and tobacco. "Now, I don't suppose you've heard of the homicides over the last few weeks?"

"Homicides?" The short extent of timidity that had been playing on (Y/N)'s face slipped away, followed by a flash of concern and a glint of recognition pursuing the two. She'd glimpsed a newspaper headline when she'd stepped onto Gotham's train platform the day before, but the weight of her bags and the nagging voice of her friend had drowned all recollection of it out. "Vaguely, yeah."

"They've been... gruesome, for lack of a better word. Linked victims and strange motives, it's all confusing. The one thing we can't figure out, though, is the mean." Gordon's restless eyes couldn't seem to find a spot to focus on, flickering from his fingers to her face to the people surrounding the pair. "How this man is killing all of these people."

"We? You mean Batman?" (Y/N) knew that Gordon, as Gotham's police commissioner and one of the better men on the team of authority in this city, had often conducted business that was closely knit with Batman's intents and purposes.

Gordon sighed, smoothing his crinkled brow with tired fingers. "Yes, Batman and nearly everyone on my forensics team."

"Forensics? Was it a toxin?" (Y/N)'s mind was reeling. What sort of poison, natural or artificial, could evade all sorts of detection and assaults from all sides at this level? Everything, no matter the volume or viscosity, left a trace. "And Batman can't identify it? I mean, he's gotta have some fancy bat-computer slash forensic-investigating-machine that can figure this out."

"Yes, some sort of poison. And he usually does. In fact, we usually do." Gordon watched as a man in a sleek black suit drew closer, all smiles and genial greetings, shaking his head as he stepped back. "We don't call him in for cases like this. And I'm terribly sorry for asking you to help —"

"Don't be, Mr Gordon."

"— but Barbara mentioned your toxicology degree. That, plus your connections, may be what we need to solve this case." Gordon exhaled slowly, the prolonged breath carrying an inestimable amount of morbidity.

"I'd be happy to help, I really would. I'm only in Gotham to visit friends and attend another half-dozen champagne extravaganzas," she waved off his apologies and explanations, ignoring the ringing of Barbara's warning echoing at the back of her mind. "I can drop by your office first thing tomorrow morning if you'd like."

"I'll have to check my schedule, but that should be fine. I'll let you know if there are any changes." Gordon breathed out heavily, putting the hand between one hand over his rain-tousled hair. "Well, I should be going, and our host seems to want to talk to you. Enjoy the party, (Y/N). Ask Barbara to call me back for once."

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HE SAID HE'D CURE YOUR ILLS,

Act One, Scene Three.

( A / N ) do you get it. the vision