Pairing, Characters: Jim/Bruce (eventually), Montoya, Stephens and Bullock.
Rating: PG for now, will go higher.
Worcount: 1571 for this part
Getting any work done was bordering on impossible in the last few days. Montoya's day had been punctuated by phonecalls with well-meant questions, rookies stopping by her desk with tentative inquiries, and girls from the HR leaving get well cards with her, to be delivered to the hospital later. Even some of the detectives happened upon her during her lunch break, dropping heavy hints about the rooftop and resources, which just meant that you really couldn't keep a secret in the precinct, and especially not if one of the people in on the secret was James Gordon, whose complete inability to keep a poker face was practically legendary.
What she really wanted to know, however, was why all those questions were directed at her. Bullock and Stephens, equally guilty of the conspiracy and just as informed on Gordon's condition - if anyone, Stephens was getting the updates from the doctors every hour - were somehow free of all that.
She glanced over to Stephens' cubicle; he was apparently hard at work, his keyboard just about to burst up in flames from the speed of his typing. Lying blatantly, that liar, there was no way in hell he could be producing actual words with that speed. Bullock was nowhere to be seen, but his desk was adorned with towers of files. Renee stood up and peered over them, and of course, Harvey was doing a crossword in the paper, and even had the guts to offer her a small smile.
"Kill, seven letters?" he asked her, and she shook her head.
"Don't tempt me," she warned him and pushed some of the files aside, perching herself up on his desk. She could have pointed out that doing crossword didn't fall exactly into his job description, but her own attention span was shot to hell today, and it wasn't even because of the constant interruptions, more because she kept watching the clock to see if she could ask Stephens about the news without sounding like a bored child on a road trip.
And the day had been strangely quiet, too. It always was, before and after the worst that could happen. And in Gotham, the worst that could happen usually got pretty damn bad and pretty damn strange. But it was calm for now, and usually, everyone would be using this time to catch up on paperwork, as Harvey was pretending to be doing, but no one really had a mind to do this today. With all that worry and distraction, they were quite lucky the day had been slow, at least until the afternoon.
Because in the afternoon, the commotion started, with the arrival of Bruce Wayne, doing his monthly run of ticket paying a few days earlier. Montoya rolled her eyes, first at the inevitable flock of most of the administrative department spilling into their area, and then at herself, when she caught herself shifting in her seat, taking a more flattering position. Stephens, damn him, noticed too, over the forms he had been signing for the courier from the city hall, and sent an annoying smirk her way.
Bullock tried to hightail it from the office, but Wayne managed to pay his tickets in record time, and appeared back very quickly, just as Harvey was out of his castle of manilla folders.
"Ah, my good friend detective Bullock," Wayne announced happily, making his way pass Montoya to harass Harvey. Bullock had pulled him over for reckless driving once, and had been paying for it ever since. Most of the time, he looked ready to punch Wayne out, but, well, it was Bruce Wayne. Who was known to somehow manage to rope Jim Gordon into attending charity benefits, so you know, Harvey Bullock didn't stand a chance. Montoya smiled happily and settled in to watch the show. As did the entire precinct, even the courier, and a guy Mayers was talking with about the robbery from three days ago, showing him the pictures of suspects.
Bullock muttered something that could be a 'Mr Wayne', but very well could be something more more uncharitable, and Wayne started to ask about something, when his phone perked up, and he snapped it open with a grimace, then launched into an entire tirade of being busy and important and not wanting to do something or other, already moving to walk out, much to Bullock's relief and everyone else's disappointment.
Montoya sighed. "There goes my only entertainment for the day," she offered sadly, and glanced at the clock. "Hey, Stephens, is it time to call already?" she asked, stepping towards his desk.
Stephens glanced at his watch, and shook his head. "We should..." he stopped, when Montoya raised her hand, picking up the curious little box from his desk. "What is it?" he asked, and she shrugged.
"Not a bomb, for sure," she muttered. "Too small. And I'd say there's a lot of people more likely to be targeted than you."
"I feel better already," he assured her, opening the box, shaking out two vials. "Is that..."
Montoya whistled. "Middle of the precinct, middle of the day? Say what you want, guy's impressive. We going?" she added, reaching for her car keys, tossing them up and catching them pointedly.
"With a distraction such as Wayne's visit that wasn't so hard," Bullock muttered as they made their way outside. "Although I bet he just paid the courier. I'd do that."
"We'll check later. Now, just get into the damn car," Stephens told him dryly, and Montoya started the ignition even before the door shut. She had to admit, the courier made sense, no one would pay any attention to the package. Of course, broad daylight there was no way Bat himself would have gone for the hospital, and the doctors wouldn't trust the anonymously delivered package, getting it to one of them was the only way. She briefly entertained the notion of the Bat doing it himself, under the guise of the courier, but the kid had been too scrawny, shorter than herself, and the suit of armor Bat sported could maybe make up for some body mass but not that much.
"We won't check," she said absently, watching the traffic, tempted to put on the siren. "Your desk is in the security camera's blind spot."
"What? How do you even know that?" Stephens asked, and she smiled lightly.
"Please. Eveyone knows that. The only places one can have sex in the office is your desk, or the commisioner's office," she said cheerfully, and then gave in and put on the siren, watching the cars part before her with some satisfaction.
Gerry choked on his own breath, while Bullock shook his head. "How... Nevermind. I really don't want to know."
"I certainly didn't want to know," Stephens announced with a wounded expression. He turned the box in his hands, growing more serious. "You think it will work?"
"It better," Harvey said quietly. "It better work, or..." he didn't finish, and the silence stretched until Montoya pulled over at the hospital parking.
"We really doing this?" she asked, glancing to her side at Gerry, then into the rearview mirror at Harvey, who shrugged.
"You mean, are we giving the commish an untested drug while he is already dying? Yeah, we apparently are."
Montoya didn't have a ready answer for that, and they kept the quiet tension going while Stephens talked to the doctor and convinced him to give his patient an unknown substance despite all the reservation. They sat and waited outside, after they relieved the guard. He didn't want to go, and instead offered to get them coffee, and even Bullock just nodded at the kid and told him to sit down and don't annoy anyone and he could stay, which was big for Harvey, who avoided dealing with younger officers like one avoided the plague.
Stephens tapped his foot against the chair's leg, driving her positively nuts, but she kept her mouth shut, biting her lip. This could be the most stupid thing they ever did, but she had to hope that Jim Gordon knew what he was doing, trusting the vigilante.
"He was there when Jim pulled that dying stunt," Stephens said absently, fingers nervously moving against the armrest. "When we went to tell Barbara, he was there on the fire escape, like he came to pay respects or something," it seemed that Renee wasn't the only one convincing herself it was the right thing to do.
"Do you trust him?" she asked quietly, not looking up, eyes tracing the pattern of cracks on the floor.
"Jim does," Gerry said, and she didn't bother to call him on the crappy answer, because this was exactly what she had been thinking, and from the nod Bullock gave, him too. She didn't dare to think that Gordon made mistakes, too.
One of the doctors came out of the commisioner's room, and all four of them stood up, the guard first on his feet, with Montoya jumping up a close second. "And?" she prompted.
"The fever is lessening. We're running tests, but there's room for cautious optimism," the doctor offered with a small smile, and Renee thought that the collective sigh of relief was almost deafening.