It's not Halloween anymore, I know, I know, but this came about while trying to move on. Forgive me for posting this so late… More to do with the detectives of Gotham, though, so yay!
-:-
Wondered what it's like to touch and feel something…
Monster, how should I feel? Creatures lie here,
Looking through the window…
-Monster: Meg & Dia.
The Right Side of the Tracks-:-
October 31st, 10:25 pm-
"Sam, honey, your tie looks fine," Barbara smiled, coaxing her husband's hands from the fluffy red thing around his neck that served to make him look like Ichabod Crane from the time of the Puritans when most trials were a sham, or merely a preamble to burning a witch or blasphemer at the stake, "Stop fidgeting."
The District Attorney ceased the touching and moving about of the thing on his neck that Barbara called a tie, but more or less looked more like a snipped off piece of a lace fancy dress, and sighed, bringing his arm back up to allow Barbara—beautiful in her costume of Madame Giry of The Phantom of the Opera, all late eighteen hundreds with black and white lace and a shawl of fantastic blue; her glasses hidden in her, well, loose corset, and a sort of leather black choker about her lithe neck—to hold onto as they made about the fringe of the Policeman's Ball.
The place was beautifully done up. All low lighting, except for the dance area, food in abundance on the tables against the walls, spider webs along the walls and the ceiling (how the decorating committee had managed that, Barbara couldn't imagine) with two witches cauldrons sitting at each door giving off waves of mist to make the place even more festive—it didn't smell bad like she remembered in school, seeing as Deidre changed the mixture to smell like chocolate at the front entrance and vanilla at the back—and creepy at the same time.
"Don't be so high strung," Barbara continued as they travelled to the table that had the chocolate fountain and also had two old friends of Barbara's standing there talking to their son, "Harvey won't shoot you, no matter what Internal Affairs may have said about him. And Renee is just the sweetest woman ever."
"I suppose I'm just nervous," the dark skinned man defended half-heartedly, eyes glancing over the elder Bullock that still stood tall and proud despite being as old as the both of them and a little older still, towering in his own skin like a historic, neo-gothic giant beside his son, dressed in a costume picked by Miss Larkin as it was picked for all of Barbara's special four so that they could attend the party but wouldn't have to leave work and waste time picking something out, "You speak so highly of them, and I've only ever met their son. Mister Bullock doesn't look as…unmade…as in his old photos, though."
Barbara laughed at that, the crisp sound of her joviality dimming as they were within reach of the lot of the Bullocks and whispered (almost as though it were a wicked, wicked secret) in her husband's ear, "That's because after Renee gained weight from having Ray, he dared her to lose more than him within a year. She won, and her prize was that he'd stay on his diet of no more cigars and no doughnuts unless on special occasions."
Sam grinned at his wife and they came to a stop before one of the few of the legacies of the Gotham police force.
Former detective Harvey Bullock stood beside the smaller food items that were spattered on golden plates with toothpicks sticking out of them, five fitting easily in one large hand and was speaking plainly—voice as loud and attention attracting as it had ever been or would be—about Gotham happenings with his son. Renee stood beside him with his other arm draped pleasantly and not so heavy over her back, laughing occasionally when Ray said a joke, while sipping at pumpkin punch and once and a time frowning about the pipe that her son was smoking that went with his costume. Harvey was dressed, per Renee's insistence, in a costume that made him look like an American soldier from the Revolutionary War, with all the buttons undone so he could breathe and a fake musket strapped to his back; Renee, to match and in a way that made them look perfect together, was dressed as a pilgrimess, but without the white bonnet, with her hair down.
Ray stood dressed, arms waving with the story he was regaling them with, as Sherlock Holmes. He was in the elaborate brown and tan coat and black suit underneath it, with the hunting cap and the long pipe that Deidre had gotten so he could smoke if his nerves got the better of him, but Alcana got the tobacco for him that smelt much more pleasant than the cigarettes Ray regularly smoked.
"…and then, Duquesne tackled the guy by pulling down on his horn and gripping that gold ring hanging from his nose; it was the most awesome collar this year!"
Ray was apparently talking about work and Barbara rolled her eyes as she and Sam came to a stop, with Harvey needing for Renee to pull on his musket strap to bring his attention to the Commissioner and her husband, her dark eyes bright and looking over Babs in a way most women had that night. Barbara was still most pleased that she could still turn a few heads at her age.
"Why, if it isn't Commissioner Gordon and the District Attorney," Renee spoke to get Ray's attention as well, bringing up a hand to shake with Barbara and Sam, "We were wondering when you were going to come over here."
"Forgive us for stalling," Babs grinned, "We were just talking with all the high and mighty of the IAB and looking for my other three bug brained lay-abouts."
At the mention of Sanchez, Duquesne and Alcana, the younger Bullock cringed a little, teeth biting down on his wooden pipe and grinding marks that hollowed into it like the teeth of a dog on bone when his master surprises him with a rolled up newspaper to the head.
That was almost exactly what Barbara had been hoping for.
10:32 pm-
"Can you please, just act somewhat like an adult, just for tonight?"
"It's Halloween," came the sly response, quickly followed by a light yelp of pain, "Oh, come on, Duquesne, get into the spirit of being wicked and clever! Tonight is supposed to be fun."
Growling low and deep from behind the door of the ladies locker room, Duquesne could be heard muttering curses as Deidre finished up the detective's costume, and there was a little bang that might have been her foot kicking the door, "Sanchez, give Alcana another swat over the head for me, will you?"
Alcana—dressed to the nines in his costume that was a rather specific replica to Watson in a very old BBC movie from the 1970's that included a tan bowler hat with matching coat and pretentious beige and brown suit—took a look at the door with wide eyes and, not bothering to even try to escape (there was no point when Sanchez was twice his size and a whole lot faster), braced up, hunching his shoulders. The older detective snorted and, indeed, cuffed the back of the ginger's head.
Sanchez—oh, yes, he was indeed in costume as well; a full body black coat/cloak that covered him like a soot black ink stain the size of a human being, a bloody red silk scarf encircling his neck once and, for "fun" as Miss Larkin had so eloquently put it, blue Henna paint decorating both of his hands as though he were covered with ivy leaves and ancient Egyptian as he was supposed to be some sort of Midcentury sorcerer—rolled his eyes and knocked on the door, "Are you almost decent, or are we going to be stuck here until after midnight?"
"Detective Sanchez," came a much more delicate, proper voice from beyond the warped wood and metal of the door, "Please step away from the door and at least pretend that you're not a smug smart-ass when Detective Duquesne steps out, in five…for…three…two…"
Both of the men stepped back and braced the wall to take in the view as the door did indeed open. There was nothing but the sight of the locker room at first—huh, the paint on the walls was black and the floor tiling was light blue and not pink, a very unexpected thing to see—but then, a shadow passed into the light and Duquesne emerged graciously and in full costume. Both of the men stopped breathing for a jolt and blinked twice to make sure they weren't hallucinating.
The short, lady detective brushed a stray bang out of her eyes that had struggled out of her sausage curls and resisted a blush, standing in a dress that looked like it had been produced for a duchess in the days of Alice and the Mad Hatter; all white lace and sleek with a ruffled black that reached from the crest of her neckline, down her back and split off at the pomp resting on her hips. What looked like the black spades on playing cards dangled from both of her ears and was a long, dominating scepter held in her long, white gloved hand. To put it in short phrase, she looked like a gorgeous aristocrat in a fairy story.
Deidre—still in her general secretary attire—came out from behind the door, waving an arm up and down, showing off Duquesne from out of her line of vision, "May I present to you, The Queen of Spades?"
Alcana somehow managed to still grin as he whistled lowly, Sanchez bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes traveling over the smaller detective's shapely figure. Both completely ignored the wrathful look directed at both of them as Duquesne moved from the doorway and started toward the elevator, cursing under her breath and trying to surpass the urge to shiver when the boiling heat from the vents in the opposing hallway blew her way and traced over her very visible backline, "Hurry up, Gordon's waiting for is. And pick up your jaw, Alcana!"
The ginger haired man stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and continued to leer as Duquesne practically punch her hand through the elevator button, following after her at a sturdy gate. Sanchez stood and looked at Gordon's little blonde secretary a moment, Deidre herself giving Alcana a disapproving glare as she remained in the locker room doorway.
"Aren't you coming up?" The basketball player sized detective asked, crossing his arms and ignoring the high pitched dinging of the bell inside of the elevator as it took off with two of his generally, and only by association, partners.
A little psyched out by Sanchez saying anything to her—he had only ever spoken to her to get more coffee or a data-pad or (this being a onetime only type thing) flowers and condoms for one of his various dates—outside of the office, Deidre blinked her big sapphire eyes at him and just stood there for a moment.
When she finally spoke up, it was with the minor shift in her character that had been happening those last few weeks, i.e. her growing a spine and a more developed personality than that of a shaky rabbit, "Well, I was going to as soon as I got my costume on. The Commissioner insisted I be involved in the party for at least an hour, have a good time, and all that. It will just…it will take a while to get it on and I might be a while."
Sanchez continued to rest his back against the wall, though he did draw his leg up and pressed his foot at an angle, crossing his arms like the smug smart-ass Deidre had called him earlier.
"I've got time. No sense in you being late to the party if you're not at least fashionably late."
She raised a sleek blonde brow at the man, eyes checking out his costume, "And you think you're fashionable?"
A smug smile was all that greeted her as he pressed most of his weight into the wall even more.
She rolled her eyes and slammed the locker room door.
11:04 pm-
"So, I hear from a little bird that you finally got someone to do your bidding that hasn't had a heart attack or quit from shot nerves."
The entire mouthful of pumpkin punch in her throat went down with a vapid hot feeling that came with the level of her feeling of nice, party oriented joy flying out the window and dropping like a frozen bucket off of a twelve story building. Barbara had really hoped that Baby Bullock would actually refrain from telling Daddy Bullock about her ward, but some hopes aren't meant to flourish.
Filling her cup with more punch, the current Commissioner smiled in a very fake manner at Harvey, Renee in her peripheral talking with the stunning Duquesne and the still gawking Alcana and the also lustily looking Ray—Sherlock Holmes and Watson checking out the Queen of Spades from the Alice books (a fairy tale dream come true).
"Why yes, Harvey," the boss lady answered, turning her head to see that her husband was talking with the scum sucking trolls in IAB, "I have gotten an assistant. A rather fine lady that tolerates my four "children" with their whining and bad tempers; who puts up with me and my yelling and controlling issues. Ray did tell you that she bakes, right? A wonderful bonus."
The much, much, much older (former) detective gave her a look and simultaneously stuffed three appetizer sized cream puffs in his mouth before talking with his mouth full, "Yeah, he did mention that, and that is great, but…How much are you paying her?"
Barbara snorted at that, taking up a little truffle thing, took a bite and swallowed before answering the admittedly very fair question, "The same as the last one that took off crying her eyes out after your son graciously yelled at her about the beauties of the Yankees and her own stupidity…or something like that."
"So, you're paying her barely more than slave labor and she's still here?"
Sometimes Barbara forgot why her father kept on the walking unmade bed, but sometimes he gave her that sly look he was presently her at that moment and then she recalled the reason. He might be a jerk and a slob, but he knew when something didn't smell right. A very good reason why she would be screwed if he grilled her on exactly how she came about possessing her little blonde. Lying rarely worked on Harvey and when it did, the results were short lived and a pain in the ass when the truth came out.
So, quite frankly, Babs was pleased when she spotted Sanchez coming up from the exit to the stairs—looking a little winded considering there were, like, thirty steps for each flight—with Deidre on his arm.
"You can ask her why yourself, Harvey," Barbara smiled, spinning him around toward the door and pointed him in the direction of the annoyed looking beanstalk of a man and the little blonde holding his arm half-heartedly, "And meet her, as well."
Silently, Barbara did a little victory dance in her head when she saw that Harvey's eyes didn't widen or wither into slits that were definitive signs of his thinking Deidre had a familiar face, or eye color, height or hair color. He did not draw his hand to his belt where she knew he kept his semi-automatic or start screaming about cooky little hench wenches, and after she was done squealing in her head, she sent a little prayer up that he never would make a connection.
Ray and Duquesne stopped Deidre and Sanchez in their approach towards Barbara to comment on Deidre's outfit. She looked like Jane Austen sans the chocolate hair; with a dark purple Regency dress that had a velvety and gothic red sash around her middle as well as matching elbow length gloves, her hair was done up with clear sequins crossing to keep her hair in place and she looked…oh, damn, she looked older.
The idiotic grin that appeared on her men's (and Harvey's, damnit) faces at the sight of her made Barbara want to set off a bomb and quietly plot to never assign her to be a part of the Halloween (or any costumed event) parties in the future. Next time, Batman could patrol during the day and the little Quinn could work the night.
