Hey, are you still writing about Gotham? I wanted to ask if I could request a Gotham story featuring Victor Zsasz x female reader—specifically, one where the reader is shy and has social anxiety? And this is their first meeting.?
AN; tried out a new format!! felt like switching things up, living on the edge, idk idk anyways hope you enjoy...... hope this is, as nsync says, all you ever wanted and all you ever needed
Wordcount; 1.1k
TW; cursing, stressful situations, lowkey claustrophobia kind of
Jim Gordon's a dead man, and you'd love to say that to him, but he's technically kind of your boss, and also the crowd around you is pressed so tightly that you're too busy trying not to suffocate on your own breath
As the GCPD's newest temp, you were used to doing the jobs nobody else wanted to do. So when Detective Gordon asked you to do him a favor, you'd expected to grab him a coffee or file his paperwork — not to be shuttled halfway across the diamond district in your workwear
Turns out you'd been the detective's ticket into the Iceberg Lounge...
As in, the Penguin's new nightclub.
A detail that the detective conveniently withheld until you were already there
(Sure, Detective Gordon had assured you of your safety, said this was completely allowed within the GCPD's departmental playbook, etc. etc. etc., and since this excursion was outside of work hours, you were making overtime. The extra couple bucks were enough to make you agree, however reluctantly, but at present, you're convinced that you've made a massive mistake)
Now you stand at the polished wood bar, one hand braced against the wooden countertop, the other fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve as Detective Gordon confronts the Penguin a stone's throw away
As he launches into one of his well-intentioned, one-sided lectures, talking at Penguin rather than to him, you gaze out at the crowd, noncommittal and super chill. You look far calmer than you feel — internally, you're cursing the detective, cursing yourself for going along with this so easily, and trying desperately to ignore the way the nightclub is compressing in on itself, throttling you in the process.
You know for a fact that the clubgoers are too wrapped up in their own glitter and champagne soaked evenings to pay you much mind, but you walked into one of the city's hottest new clubs in your workwear. It's impossible to feel like you don't stick out!!
You close your eyes, focus on the feel of the wood grain under your fingers, try to parse Detective Gordon's self-righteous speech out from the pulsing, ground-shaking music and the shouts of the crowd, and for several moments you stay like that
You wouldn't say calm washes over you, it's too damn loud in here for that, but you feel less unsteady, buried under a blanket of audio static, tuning out the chaos around you... until you feel like you are really, genuinely, truly being watched
You blink, search the crowd with panicked eyes, tug on a loose string hanging from your sleeve, shift your weight from one foot to the other and back again, and risk a glance behind you
There. In the corner.
Impossibly dark eyes lock onto yours. They're intense, almost enough to make your knees buckle; clean shaven, clad in leather, pale as a ghost, it's a miracle you didn't notice this man sooner... he doesn't exactly blend in with a crowd
When he notices you noticing him, he grins. Lifts a hand in greeting.
After several seconds of internal debate (they feel more like minutes, in truth), you awkwardly wave back
The stranger's grin widens. The crowd shifts, blocking your view of him, and when you can see the corner again, he's vanished
Surely he wasn't a stress induced hallucination. Surely.
You tune back into Gordon's conversation (argument?) with the Penguin. The latter's the one talking now, animatedly and unhinged, when a new person shoulders their way into the conversation (again, argument?): the ghost
He's trouble personified. He oozes danger, from the sharp edge of his canines to the holster wrapped around his chest, but something about him makes you feel like you can take full breaths again. Like for the first time since you stepped into this nightclub full of strangers, you're not drowning
"Zsasz," Detective Gordon says, voice low, and the name is familiar to you. You don't know why.
"Always a pleasure," Zsasz drawls, absentmindedly picking a speck of lint off of the detective's suit jacket before lifting his gaze to you. He watches you with a quiet intrigue that makes your head spin. "Didn't realize you were roping civilians into your plans, Jim."
Belatedly, you realize Zsasz is talking about you. You open your mouth to speak but Detective Gordon beats you to the punch, scowling.
"She's got nothing to do with this," he insists, "Leave her out of it."
Well, maybe you shouldn't have dragged me here in the first place, you think, tugging on the hem of your sleeve a bit harder.
"Certainly," the Penguin pipes up, clapping his hands together in a poor imitation of excitement. "Victor, would you mind seeing her out?"
"Not at all," Zsasz replies, stepping past a spluttering Gordon and placing a hand on the small of your back.
He guides you around the throngs of people effortlessly, avoiding the worst of the crowd. If it was anybody else, anywhere else, you wouldn't like the way his hand's on your back. Tonight's different. You don't know why you find the stranger's touch grounding instead of frustrating. You don't know why you're so happy to take a backseat while he guides you back to the elevator. It feels right, for some reason
He doesn't say a word the whole time, just a silent guardian nightmare. People move out of his way — out of your way, by extension — you make it to the elevator in no time
You don't expect him to get on, but he slips inside after you do, gaze trained on you as the doors slide shut
"So," he says, "How'd you end up in a place like this?"
"Overtime pay," you say bluntly, watching the numbers on the wall panel go down. The silence in the elevator is making you feel better already, but you're so drained from the past twenty minutes that you can't muster up more than a few words at a time.
Zsasz laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs. "My kinda woman."
You can't help the faint smile that comes to your lips.
He notices. Doubles down.
"You're a cop, then?"
"No."
"Ah." His expression shifts, like suddenly everything makes sense. "Parties aren't your thing?"
"Strangers," you correct. "Crowds. I don't know."
Zsasz hums, then falls silent.
The elevator car keeps descending.
"I'm a stranger," Zsasz says quietly, and you feel his eyes drilling into the side of your face. It feels like he's trying to intimidate you, maybe, see if you'll crack, but you're too damn tired from your day to care.
You shrug. You can see his grin widening from the corner of your eye as the elevator comes to a halt.
He says nothing, of course. The doors slide open.
"Goodnight," you say hesitantly as you step off the elevator. You don't look back, and you don't have to — you know he's keeping an eye on you when you head into the rainy Gotham night.
