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The diner Peter took Roy and Lian to, Max’s, was a bit more of a walk than Roy would have expected, but was more than worth it for the retro, 50s-style diner Peter managed to produce. Blüdhaven, for all her faults, had some good corners, too, and this diner seemed to be one of those.
The place was, honestly, a little ridiculous. Black and white checked linoleum floor, red and chrome barstools up at the white-topped counter, red seating at white and chrome tables, alternating aqua and pink upholstered booth seating at white-topped booth tables, and walls of alternating pink and aqua littered with photos and analog clocks and neon signs spelling out the obvious (like “diner” spelled out, all caps, across five different, lit neon letters).
On the back wall, to one side, there was even an authentic-looking era-appropriate jukebox. One of those boxy, late-40s or early-50s Wurlitzers with a rectangular window. As opposed to the rounder, more modern looking jukeboxes (a lot of which were also Wurlitzers) that were still selling on the regular, as reproductions or restoration jobs.
Not that Roy had anything against those other jukeboxes.
It looked like the jukebox was all lit up and ready to go, and it sounded like the music playing over the speakers was, in fact, 50s or 60s music that could probably be selected from the jukebox. “Hear that, Lian? That’s Elvis – Grampa Ollie hates Elvis music,” Roy grinned down at Lian.
Lian babbled back at him.
Peter made a scoff, albeit one that sounded amused. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“Well, the only reason I like Elvis, like, at all?, Is probably because of Lilo and Stitch,” Roy said.
“That’s not something you admit to,” Peter grinned.
“Well, when every other Elvis ‘fan’ plays the same three stupid songs, I can see how it might be easy to just be turned off by that kind of music completely,” Roy shrugged. In the background, the music shifted softly from Teddy Bear to The Wanderer, from Elvis to Dion & The Belmonts. (Roy didn’t actually know the title of the former or the artist of the latter, but the writer’s happy to supply random information like that.)
“Too Many Rounds of Hound Dog, growin’ up?” Peter snickered.
“Ugh, even I can’t stand Hound Dog. Or Love Me Tender. And Blue Christmas is the worst! And it’s depressing. Who the fuck listens to depressing Christmas music, like, on purpose? I don’t get it.” Roy shifted Lian from one arm to the other. “Daddy doesn’t like depressing shit,” he told Lian, “because it’s depressing.”
Peter stepped forward, still smiling in his amusement, as the host became free.
The staff of the place also fit the 50s diner theme, though it didn’t look like management was stuffing all the girls in skirts (or, by the looks of it, telling the boys they couldn’t wear the skirts). There were the stereotypical pale-pink waitress dresses and little aprons, and there were the pressed slacks, white button-up, and aqua bowties, topped with a similar apron. And the silly hat thing.
The host was one such young man – he/him pin clarifying his pronoun preferences from the collar of his uniform – who wore the retro waitress uniform, rather than the button-up and slacks. He grinned brightly, all five feet and five inches of him. He was practically a faerie or something, short and compact and far too bright for a place like Blüdhaven.
“Sup, Billy,” Peter greeted.
“Castle,” Billy returned, saluting.
Peter snorted and glanced briefly at Roy, then turned back to the host. ”Yeah, uh. Table in the back?”
“Sure!”
Billy picked up two menus from the host station and lead Jason and Roy (and Lian, bubbling over with curiousity and drool) past the families and couples already taking up a handful of the booths and tables up near the front of the diner. Billy took them literally to the furthest back corner and set the menus down, there.
A platinum blonde kid, hair so light it was almost white, showed up at Billy's shoulder, an inch or two taller than the host himself but otherwise similar in expression, proportion, and features. The new kid deposited a high chair at the table.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Peter called.
The kid, Tommy, was already skidding off to do something else, though. Literally skidding, like he’d completely worn the treads off his shoes.
“He still can’t stand still for more than a second or two,” Billy watched Tommy turn the corner and disappear to another part of the diner. He turned back to Peter, Roy, and Lian as the music faded out and was replaced by Be My Baby, by the Ronettes. “Can I start you guys with some drinks? We have Pepsi products, fresh lemonade, tea, coffee, milk, apple juice, orange juice, and water.”
“Coffee,” Peter said. He leaned in, toward the highchair, to help Roy get Lian safely strapped in. Though, how safe could a restaurant highchair even be? Roy could swear he’d seen the exact same highchairs in all the restaurants he’d been to, like, for the last twenty years.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Billy said.
Peter laughed. “You talk to all the customers this way?”
“Just you,” Billy tossed Peter a wink.
Roy felt a pinch on the underside of his heart, one which he didn’t feel like examining. (It was stupid, anyway. Billy was clearly a kid – though still probably closer in age to Peter than Roy was – and Peter was clearly not interested in Billy. But tell that to Roy’s dumbass heart—)
“If you need more time...” Billy offered.
Roy snapped out of his head and smiled at Billy. “Oh, sorry. Uh. Apple juice for the tyke and...” Roy cast around for what he would want. Nothing readily offered itself up. “Coffee?”
“You sure? Because you don’t sound it,” Billy raised a single eyebrow.
“No, yeah. Coffee,” Roy plopped down in the booth seat, back to the rest of the diner.
(Naturally, Peter had already taken up residence on the other side of the booth, back to the wall and eyes consistently jumping to the exits and other customers of the establishment – Roy didn’t feel like he needed to express his own vigilante-originating paranoia when Peter seemed to express such an excess of his own, non-vigilante paranoia.)
Billy nodded, scribbling that down, then clicked his pen shut and placed it behind his ear with a flourish. “I’ll have that out momentarily.”
“Thanks,” Roy grinned.
“Ba!” Lian agreed. She threw her hands down onto the crossbar of the highchair a few times, clearly testing out dreams of becoming a drummer. Or judge. Jury was still out on which one she was envisioning when she beat her hands down on a surface repeatedly.
Billy smiled down at her, then made his leave.
Sh-Boom, by The Crew Cuts, started to play upon his exit. Was Sh-Boom doo wop? Roy thought it could be.
--
Two songs later (Put Your Head on My Shoulder and Mister Sandman, specifically), Billy returned with their drinks balanced precariously on a tray he carried over his head, sliding past other tables and waitstaff. It hadn’t been more than a few minutes, and Roy had seen the kid out the corner of his eye, dodging through crowds and delivering drinks, meals, replacement silverware, refills, menus, and guiding new customers to empty tables the whole time, not disappearing or standing stagnant for longer than a moment at a time.
“Apple juice for the little one, coffees for Castle and Castle’s friend,” Billy listed off. My Boyfriend's Back, by the Angels, started as he slid the items in front of their respective persons, then tucked the tray under his arm. “You guys ready to order or should I give you a minute or two?”
“Another minute would be great, thanks Billy,” Peter offered a smile that was significantly more charming (and less authentic) than the ones Roy had found himself on the receiving end of.
“Alrighty,” Billy saluted and disappeared back into the fray.
“Why does he call you Castle?” Roy glanced away from the retreating form of the kid and over at Peter.
Peter offered a finger to Lian, not quite meeting Roy’s eye. “Well. It’s a joke, really. Comic book thing or something. I’m not sure,” he shrugged his right shoulder, so as not to dislodge his left hand from Lian’s enthusiastic embrace (and gummy gnawing).
“She’s drooling on you,” Roy smiled down at Lian.
“Won’t hurt anyone.” Peter shrugged again, then picked up the menu. His eyes didn’t peruse the menu, though, so much as glance briefly at it before returning to Lian, who had both hands around his pointer finger and was trying very hard to chew through his knuckle. She wasn’t getting anywhere, though, even with her two shiny new teeth.
Roy propped his cheek up on his fist and smiled at them both.
Neither of them really looked at their menus before Billy was back, order pad open and pen in hand. (In the background, Rockin' Robin had played, then Johnny B. Goode, and And Then He Kissed Me. The Crystals were just fading out and the voice of Betty Hutton was beginning her "Girls! Girls!" from It's a Man.) He’d rattled off half the specials before Roy had fully processed that he was back, then gave commentary on each of the specials (that didn’t put most of them in a great light, honestly).
“Dunno, suggest something,” Peter said.
Billy scowled at him. “You always say that.”
“Yeah, you haven’t steered me wrong, yet, kid.” Peter shrugged.
Billy sighed and tapped his notepad. “Let me think... Teddy’s on the griddle and, unlike my uncle, he’s actually really good at pancakes n’ shit. We have blueberry-strawberry pancakes that are pretty fantastic. Fresh and local, like, everything. Except dairy. That’s a little less local, but small-farm and all that jazz.”
“Hm,” Peter tugged lightly at Lian’s grip. She squealed and tugged back, mouth wide in a smile. Peter grinned back at her. “Sounds okay, I guess.”
“Or you could do chocolate chip pancakes. Or triple chocolate pancakes. It’s all good, seriously,” Billy said.
“You talked me into it,” Peter grinned up at Billy. “That triple chocolate shit. Definitely. Maybe some applesauce for my little friend, here? You guys do the whole natural thing, here, right? Homemade and nothing added?”
“Yes,” Billy gave a fond roll of his eyes. “We do. Thanks to, ya know, my dad, we’ve been doing natural shit for forever. Since me n’ Tommy were ‘bout as big as your small friend, there, is. So. Order of triple chocolate pancake shit and a side of house applesauce.” He turned expectantly to Roy, still smiling.
“Oh, uh,” Roy glanced down at the menu. He’d grown to be a fucking sap, obviously, if he’d gotten so distracted watching Peter and Lian that he’d just... zoned out. He didn’t remember any of the specials and hadn’t read so much as one of the entries on the menu. “I don’t... what do you suggest?”
“Another one,” Billy sighed. He still seemed fond, though. Which was good. Roy didn’t want to be trouble for the young man (who, from the sounds of it, worked in his family’s diner – working for family could be more difficult than the alternative, after all).
“Ga!” Lian squealed, kicking her legs out and trying to hop in place.
“Same,” Billy said, absently pointing the butt of his pen at her. “Same.” He gave a solemn nod, then brightened and returned his attention to Roy. “I hear our chicken and waffles dish is pretty good, though you’ll have to take customer word on that one. I don’t go for the deep-fried stuff, honestly. We’ve also got killer corned beef hash, served up in a skillet with eggs however you like ‘em, but usually lightly over if not specified. There’s also bagel and lox, which I enjoy, personally – I see you, Castle, I don’t care if you think it’s gross.” Billy turned to glare at Peter.
Peter raised a hand in surrender. Roy spied Lian clinging more tightly to Peter’s finger, in case he tried to escape her.
“We also have omelets, of which the steak and onion is probably the most popular, and egg, sausage, and onion sandwiches or egg, steak, and onion, or egg and cheese, or just egg... any of these striking a chord with you?” Billy smiled patiently, as if Roy wasn’t holding him up (even though Roy was pretty sure that he was). “If not, we also have an array of waffles, pancakes, and crepes.”
“Wow,” Roy raised his eyebrows. “I thought diners usually had, I dunno, a simpler menu?”
“Yeah, well,” Billy gave an amused shrug. “My dad likes cooking, and he’s usually in charge of adding or subtracting from our menu. Teddy and Aunt Lor help with the cooking, now, though. Which is probably a good thing, with a menu like ours.”
“It’s expansive,” Peter nodded. “But all of it’s pretty good shit. Even when Peter’s cooking.”
Roy turned to him with a frown.
“Not me-Peter,” Peter tacked on quickly.
“Uncle Pete,” Billy nodded. “He’s usually on delivery. Sometimes with my brother. But once in a blue moon, we need another set of hands in the kitchen and we always fall into the trap of letting him ‘lend a hand,’ even though that situation always ends with extra cleaning and a few burnt dishes. Actual dishes, though. Like. He’s burnt actual plates. It’s so dumb.”
“I see,” Roy turned over the food options in his head.
Tommy appeared at Billy’s elbow for a moment, glancing at Billy’s order pad, then zipped away again, almost fast enough that he left a draft in his wake. Billy’s skirt disturbed in the wind for a moment, then settled back against his knees.
“You know what? Give him the hash skillet,” Peter said. “And a sampler plate of stuffed crepes. And I’ll have a side of whatever fruit’s on for the day.”
“Gotcha. You good with that, Castle’s friend?”
“Roy,” Roy offered.
“Roy,” Billy amended. “You good with that, Roy?”
“Sure, that sounds fine.”
Billy smiled and took that down. “Will this be one check or—”
Roy opened his mouth to answer, realized he didn’t actually know (since Peter invited him and Lian along to ‘celebrate’ and all), and closed his mouth again. He glanced over at Peter. Lian had moved on from trying to gnaw at Peter’s knuckle to sticking one of her pudgy little fists as far into her mouth as she could.
“One check, yeah. On me,” Peter nodded.
“A’ight,” Billy snapped the order pad shut. “You want some extra plates?”
Peter shrugged. “Sure.” He slowly withdrew his hand from Lian, now that her interest had gravitated away from him. Ironically, Heartbreak Hotel started to play in the background as soon as he’d broken out of Lian’s grip.
“Be right up!” Billy beamed at them and disappeared from their table. Almost literally, as a matter of fact. He was real quiet and subtle with his movements, to the point where it almost seemed that he stepped out of reality for a moment, then stepped back into reality in another part of the diner.
“He’s a good kid,” Peter said.
“Yeah, he seems it,” Roy smiled at Peter.
“The whole family’s pretty cool. You come around here enough and you end up meeting the lot of ‘em, ya know? Even met his fucking grampa awhile back. I have never met a grandfather as intense as that before or since,” Peter shook his head, smiling. “Maternal gramps. I don’t know anything about their dad’s side.”
Roy nodded, though he felt it was maybe a bit odd to talk like you’d normally know more about either side of a family, particularly a family that’s not connected with you beyond running a diner you might frequent. But who was Roy to judge? Any time Roy hired a babysitter from outside his circles of family and friends, he pulled out all the stops in researching them. Anything to keep his baby safe.
Well, Peter didn’t have the excuse of a kid...
No, it wasn’t charitable to think like that. Maybe Peter was just close enough with the family that ran the diner that he thought he’d know more about the sum total of them, grandparents included.
Okay, no. Still a bit weird.
--
Ten minutes and four songs – Summertime Blues, Roll Over Beethoven, Twist And Shout, and Paint It Black – were about all that passed before their order was arriving, to the tune of The Penguin’s Earth Angel. A blond kid, taller and heftier than either of the other boys, and with much darker blond hair than Tommy, helped Billy to deliver their order, a bit later. He had a clear ulterior motive, though, with the way his eyes shone when he looked at Lian.
“Do you mind if I say hi...?” he looked between Peter and Roy.
Peter looked to Roy.
“No,” Roy shrugged. Peter seemed comfortable, at least, so what was the harm?
“Hi,” the young man murmured. He shook her tiny hand, gently, with his much bigger hand, and smiled so hard that it brought out stark dimples at the corners of his mouth. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Teddy.”
“Ba, ba,” Lian told him. She gripped his hand right back, though not particularly in interest of a handshake or other social niceties,
“Careful, she’ll try to eat you,” Roy said.
“Oh, look at you,” Teddy said, grinning still harder, somehow. “Are those new teeth? Wow!”
Lian squealed at him.
Billy stood back a little, arms crossed and gaze fond. “C’mon, Teddy. You can’t just leave the kitchen to fend for itself.”
“But look how cute she is,” Teddy said. For his part, he didn’t even turn his gaze away from Lian to answer Billy.
“Yeah, I see that. But I’m pretty sure waitstaff aren’t supposed to mix with the customers specifically so that they can coo at customers’ babies.” Billy unfolded his arms and reached out to tug lightly at Teddy’s beltloop. “Besides, do you really want Aunt Lor making the next batch of corned beef hash?”
Teddy glanced at him, making a face. “She never does it right.”
Billy nodded solemnly, though humour gleamed in his eyes. “So you’ve said, only about a thousand times. C’mon, big guy.”
Teddy pouted, but divested himself of Lian’s little hand – a move that earned a high-pitch squeal of dissatisfaction for the half second between Teddy’s escape and Peter’s willing sacrifice – and let Billy lead him away. “Thanks for letting me say hi!” Teddy called over his shoulder.
Roy waved him off, smiling a little. Teddy seemed like a nice kid. “Little social butterfly, huh?” he glanced at his baby girl to give her another smile. She had both of her hands flat on Peter’s hand, exploring it with immense satisfaction bubbling out of her.
She glanced up when Roy addressed her, though, and laughed and kicked out her fat little legs.
Ahh, Roy loved her so much.
A moment later, she was back to her patting of Peter’s hand, and then wrapping her tiny fists around his thumb. She seemed to be in single-minded pursuit of something, but it was something beyond adult understanding, clearly. At The Hop, by Danny & The Juniors, played, putting a little more jiggle in Lian’s satisfied wiggling.
“Teddy n’ Billy are gonna get married,” Peter said. He nodded in the direction the two young men had gone. “Coming spring, I think? Next time the gramps can make it out, or they can make it back home or whatever. Something like that.”
“Married?” Roy jerked straighter in his seat. “Really? They’re so... young, though.”
Peter shrugged. “Well. Yeah, I guess. But they’ve been together longer than I’ve been in town. Years. They figured a quiet family wedding – as if anything about Billy’s family is quiet – was the right next step, I guess.”
“Wow,” Roy propped his cheek up on his hand and glanced toward the kitchen doors that Teddy had disappeared through. “They’re practically babies.”
“I was younger than them when—” Peter cut himself off and made a face. “Bad things happen to everyone, no matter the age. Might as well keep hold of the good things as well. They’re good for each other. They’ll be happy, I’m sure.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Roy made a face. He didn’t like thinking of Peter hurting, however that hurt came about.
Peter seemed to consider for a long moment, then shrugged slowly. “I knew a kid. Once,” he spoke haltingly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Roy this. “A kid, you know? Fifteen. Good grades, loved to read, had a bright future ahead. All that bullshit.”
“Okay,” Roy said, very softly. “Sounds like a good kid.”
Jason snorted and smiled that crooked smile of his. “Hellion, actually. Wasn’t great with authority.” He sat back, straightening. The smile fell. “He died.”
Roy startled. “Oh.”
There Goes My Baby, by The Drifters, started up in the background. Not nearly as melancholic as Peter's story probably deserved.
“Yeah. Fifteen. Never went on a date, never kissed any girls or boys or whatever. Never fell in love.” Jason looked out across the diner. Maybe he looked at the couples, maybe he just glanced around. “He had a crush, I guess. But that’s not the same thing. He never got to experience any of that mushy shit. And it wasn’t illness or accident, either, that took ‘im. Kid was fucking murdered.” He glanced back to Roy, then down at the table. “Beaten to death, practically.”
Practically?
Peter cleared his throat and shrugged. “Billy and Teddy are—they have that. And I hope they have it for a long time. They’re a bit young for that kind of commitment, maybe. But I think it’ll work out for them. I think they know themselves well enough, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Roy said. He reached across the table to put a comforting hand on Peter’s wrist. ”And I’m sorry about the kid. That sounds awful.”
“Yeah. Well. Shit happens,” Peter snorted.
--
They ate. The food was, in fact, eaten. And all of it had been delicious.
Several songs had passed, culminating in Splish Splash, by Bobby Darin, while Peter and Roy finished up the last of their food.
Hell, Lian was probably spoiled for other applesauces, after experiencing the in-house Max’s Diner applesauce. Applesauce made, as Billy said upon refilling their drinks, by the matriarch of the family, Mama Maximoff herself. Wanda. (If you didn’t know who this family was, before the Wanda name-drop, I bet you do, now.)
“Frankie!” a woman called, upbeat and serene, all at once. Lian squealed at the upbeat, cheerful voice, which Roy could understand. Cheer tended to be infectious.
“Wanda,” Peter had already seen her coming, Roy knew, but Peter still turned politely to acknowledge her, his smiling crinkling around his eyes. “Looking good.”
Wanda was a young woman, or looked to be a young woman, with blood-red lips and dangerously dark eyes. Her hair fell in dark half-curls out the back of a bandana that held most of it back, barring a single artistic curl off-center against her forehead.
Wanda, smiling with those bright lips, said something in a language Roy simply didn’t know. Like. At all.
She had a relatively light complexion, but Roy could see in her a little of a background that wasn’t the standard Caucasian. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and her soft Baltic or Slavic accent didn’t seem to quite match up with the ancestry he seemed to sense about her. And there were her eyes. Those dangerous, dark eyes that seemed to hold. Something.
It took Peter’s response in the mystery language for Roy to place the familiarity. Dick. He’d heard Dick speak in that language, a few times. “Are you Romani?” Roy blurted. And he wondered, oh god, why was he the way that he was?
Wanda and Peter stopped chatting back and forth and turned to him.
Wanda’s smile stretched a little wider. “Yes. In part. And Polish, by my father.”
“Twój tata jest do bani,” Peter chimed in, albeit with a smirk.
Lian scrabbled for him when she heard the unfamiliar words, reaching and bouncing and babbling in excitement. Peter reached back for her, without really thinking about it, and said “Nie twój tata,” to her, almost comfortingly.
Wanda barked out a laugh and smacked Peter on the shoulder, “Skończ z tym! Erik isn’t so bad, once you get to know him.” She turned back to Roy, still smiling brilliantly. “It’s not often I’m recognized for my mother-tongue.”
Roy side-eyed Peter. That made three, that he knew of. Languages, I mean. Vietnamese, Romani, and Polish. A little more than coincidental, really. “Well, I – uh – have a friend who’s Romani. Roma? I—I’m not sure which to use, sorry. He tried to teach me some, once. Of the language, I mean.”
As Roy was turning back to Wanda, he saw Peter’s shoulders stiffen, everything in him looking ready to spring to attack or escape. Odd.
Wanda clapped her hands together and turned to grin at Peter. “O! Jak twój brat!”
Peter didn’t quite go pale, but he became rather suddenly subdued (in addition to the stiffness introduced to his frame), eyes flicking to Roy. Like he thought Roy would be able to tell, off the top of his head, what Wanda had said, and like that idea concerned him.
That was beyond coincidence and right into suspicious behaviour.
Brat ... that was “brother” wasn’t it? Well. In Russian, at least.
“Nie mam rodziny,” Peter muttered, half to Wanda and half to the tabletop.
Wanda’s head cocked slightly to the side, her smile a little too wide and suddenly frozen, like a doll. The song in the background, Let The Good Times Roll, cut out in the middle of a chorus. Nowhere to Run, by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas, started to play, a little lower and slower than it should be, and a bit weirdly off-tune. Roy felt a chill run down his spine. “Remember, Frankie,” she said softly, “family is the most important thing to me. Losing family is worse than losing a limb.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably. He shrugged. “Sorry.”
Wanda straightened, dropping the frozen (frightening ) smile. Let The Good Times Roll picked up right where it had cut off, interrupting Nowhere To Run. No one in the diner seemed to pay the song weirdness any attention. “I should let you lovely young men go, shouldn’t I? The little one will probably be needing her nap soon, yes?” She clapped Peter’s shoulder, this time solid and comforting in the motion. “Opiekuj się nim, mój kochany. He seems nice.”
(Lian squealed every time she heard something new, every word in a language she didn’t know, and it was fast becoming one of Roy’s absolute favourite things – how enthusiastic she was about new things, even new things as small as words.)
“It’s not like that,” Peter patted her hand and tossed Roy a wink. “Not yet, at least.”
Roy laughed, but felt his whole face heat up. He didn’t even know what Wanda had said, but Peter’s response was enough to send a flood of butterflies through his system, making him feel dangerously fluttery and charmed and all sorts of mushy.
“Well. I brought a gift for the little one,” Wanda smiled down at Lian and retrieved, seemingly from nowhere, a jar of applesauce. Lian went absolutely wild. Again. “I heard she liked it, and I seldom have a chance to fuss over small children, anymore. Not since mine grew up. Oh, they grew up... so fast.”
That’s when it hit Roy that this young woman was, somehow, the mother of Billy and Tommy, the teenagers running around and practically running the service-side of Max’s Diner. Billy and Tommy had to be in their older teens. Which begged the question: how old was their mother? She didn’t actually look much older than her boys, or Roy himself. He had half a mind to ask her about her skincare regimen, but that would be... would that be insulting?
Wanda set the jar of applesauce down in the middle of the table. “For the little one,” she said. Rock Around the Clock, by Bill Haley & His Comets, started up, in the background. Thankfully without interrupting the previous song or otherwise playing in a creepy manner (that everyone in the diner just sort of ignored ...!).
“Lian,” Roy said, immediately present once more. He smiled at Wanda. “Thank you, I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“Lian?” Wanda bent lower to get on Lian’s level. “Oh mein Gott, was für ein süßer Name!” she said, in that high-pitched, friendly voice reserved especially for babies. Lian reacted with the usual amount of joy (which was: all of it) while Roy sat back and noted the shift from Polish to German with a small frown. It felt a bit like he was suddenly surrounded by polyglots. Civilian polyglots, possibly, but that felt... unlikely. “Schütze deine Vati, Schatz,” Wanda murmured.
Wanda made no move to touch Lian, which Roy appreciated. Too many mothers seemed to think that the mere existence of a baby was permission to smother it with whatever love they felt applicable to the situation. Wanda, though, kept her hands respectfully folded in her lap, only offering her affection vocally. (And through gifts of applesauce.)
After a little more cooing, this time in Romani, Wanda straightened again. “It’s always a pleasure meeting one of Frankie’s friends,” she said, smoothing down her apron. “Do come again, okay? Frankie, bring him around again.” She waved a little and turned to head back to the kitchen. Or, possibly, the office. Whatever.
After Wanda vanished through the kitchen double doors, Roy turned back to Peter. The song in the background was finishing up. When Rock Around the Clock ended... the theme for The Munsters started. Roy cocked his head in confusion. No, not The Munsters theme.
Lian seemed to like it, squealing and wiggling in earnest, but Billy, at the host station by the door, straightened up and whipped around. “Tommy!” he shouted.
“What?” Tommy plucked a nearly-invisible earbud out of his ear and turned to Billy, from where he was bussing a newly emptied table. He flinched and looked up at the nearest speaker, though.
“Yeah! That!” Billy motioned aggressively to the same speaker. “Tell Mom it’s happening again, would you?”
“Who’s been messing up everything?” asked one voice. The answering, feminine voice said: “It’s been Agatha all along!” and... Roy didn’t get it. But it seemed to be a frequent playlist prank. Apparently.
Tommy nodded and zipped away to the back of the diner, through the kitchen doors. Behind him, on the table he’d been clearing, he left his bus bin and the partially-cleared tableware. Roy could have sworn that he ran too fast for a normal person. But like. No metas in Gotham. Or Blüdhaven. Which made that unlikely.
Roy and Peter watched the hubbub, which mostly consisted of Billy trying to pretend he was unbothered – strained smiles and clenched teeth all the while – while continuing his job. It didn’t take long for the mystery song to be supplanted by Yakety Yak, by The Coasters (which Lian wasn’t quite as enthused about, but still seemed pleased by). Billy’s relief was almost immediate, and seemed to remind him that he’d slowed up a good deal, in his duties – as he immediately began zipping around, again, the way he’d been doing almost the entire time Roy and Peter had been there.
Billy stopped by their table with the check, relaxed into the new song. “My dad loves this song,” he confided. Then: “I’ll be back for the check in two shakes – oh god, I’m talking like a sitcom grandmother.”
Peter laughed as the kid slid back into his job, then pulled a card from one of his pockets to shove into the book. He withdrew the receipt in the same motion, but crumpled it lazily and dropped it onto his plate. Lian tried to reach for it and pouted a little when she couldn’t. Then busied herself with her feet, which she’d glimpsed upon leaning over to try and get the ball of paper.
“Why does she call you Frankie?” Roy asked. Billy had popped back, to grab the book, and popped out again. “Wanda, I mean.”
“Same thing as the other thing. Comic character. Frank Castle,” Peter shrugged. “I know. It’s weird. Tommy started it, and it just sort of... stuck. Most of ‘em call my Castle, and I don’t mind it. Wanda’s the only one who can get away with that Frankie bullshit, though.”
Roy nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Roy shrugged, smiling. “Like. Weird, sure. But okay.” The song changed, once more. This time, Wouldn’t It Be Nice (yes, the Beach Boys) played, and it played almost all the way through by the time Tommy skidded over to their table, book in hand.
“Autograph, fucker,” Tommy demanded.
“This is why you’re not allowed to wait tables,” Peter scoffed. He signed, though. An illegible scribble of three loops and nothing even remotely looking like any name Roy had ever heard attributed to him. Or any name in general. Maybe Peter was a doctor in a past life.
Tommy flipped Peter off and stole the book back, flicking Peter’s card at him instead of waiting for Peter to take it, himself. Then he was off, again.
“How does he have all that energy,” Roy huffed.
Peter laughed. “It’s so he can be a little shit more efficiently,” he said.
Wouldn’t It Be Nice ended and another song began. But it didn’t exactly match the rest of the music that had played, throughout their time at the diner. “Is that... MCR?” Roy cocked his head, eyebrows raised. It was, specifically, Na Na Na from Danger Days.
Billy shouted “Tommy!” from the other side of the diner.
“Oh shit,” Tommy ducked the other way.
“You’re not supposed to mess with the playlist, you jerk!” Billy stomped his way to the back.
Roy had gotten Lian out of the high chair and up in his arms by the time Billy had fixed what was, apparently, Tommy’s musical meddling. Another Elvis song presented itself, instead, as if to round out the diner trip by bookending it with Elvis songs (that Roy didn’t actively despise). Devil in Disguise was a good one, too. Though it felt oddly prophetic, not that Roy couldn’t put his finger on why.
--
Roy glanced back at the diner as they left, making a mental note of it. They were nice. He could see returning there, even if it was a bit more of a walk than he might usually commit to. He turned back to Peter, grinning.
Peter met his eye, then dropped his gaze, but he had a self-satisfied grin on his face, too. “Not bad, huh?”
“I figured we’d be headed for the Denny’s or something.”
“Denny’s isn’t bad if it’s three in the morning and you just want to have a random breakfast without having to make it yourself, but I would never willingly let that be some poor kid’s first introduction to a diner and diner food,” peter scoffed.
Vigilante staple, Denny’s. Roy had fond Titans memories of just heading to a random Denny’s, in the middle of nowhere, after a mission – if it was late at night, anyway. Like, it wasn’t even that they had good food or anything (Roy liked it, but he knew it wasn’t good food the way family-run diners’ food was good food), but it was the whole atmosphere, the falling adrenaline from whatever mission, the friends on either side.
The only thing that would have made those memories better would have been if Dick were part of them. But he’d still been on basically house arrest back then, as Robin, and then he’d been too dedicated to Blüdhaven to even think about group shit.
And now Roy was out of the game. For the most part. He wasn’t going to be making any more of those Titans memories at random Denny’s, regardless of whether or not Nightwing decided to join up. That was kind of depressing, really.
Roy cleared his throat and pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Trade?” he turned and held a squirming, pleased Lian out to Peter.
Peter accepted her as if by automatic response. Habit. He looked surprised when she was nestled up in his arms, tugging at his shirt. “Oh,” he said. His surprise turned, pretty quickly, into a little smile, though, one that was just for Lian.
Roy disentangled the diaper bag from Peter’s shoulder, where it had ended up after they’d left the diner. Roy’d half thought that Peter would part ways with him and Lian, but it seemed like he was there for the walk back to the apartment building, which was nice.
“So.” Roy rolled the word around for a bit, lengthening it out significantly. “Romani, Polish, and Vietnamese,” he grinned over at Peter, who glanced up at him from Lian. God, that was a pretty smile. Lian inspired the nicest smiles out of everyone, but especially Peter. At least, Roy thought so. “A man of many talents, I take it?”
“Those aren’t even the one’s I’m good with,” Peter said. His smile went a bit crooked, almost (but nnot quite) self-deprecating.
“Seriously?” Roy laughed. “What would you consider ‘good,’ then?”
“My English,” Peter shrugged. He turned his attention back to Lian, who’d gotten a hand on his collar bone and seemed to be looking for a way to steal it off him.
Roy’s smile turned quizzical.
Peter glanced sideways at Roy. “Not a first language,” he shrugged. “My first was Spanish.”
“Oh. Oh! I never would have even—really?”
“Yeah.” Peter shrugged again. “I guess, technically, I was raised bilingual. But I consider the Spanish first. It’s.” He thought it over for a second. “It’s always felt a bit more natural, to me, I guess.” He grinned, then. “But I’m not bad at French or Italian, either.”
“Jesus Christ,” Roy laughed. That was more than he’d thought he would learn about Peter, for the day.