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Jack and Janet Drake always drank their coffee black.
Tim’s strongest memory of his parents was their coffee breath when they gave him a kiss on the forehead before leaving on their next five month long journey. It was mostly stale and not very pleasant, but Tim found himself brewing pots of coffee just to have the scent lingering in the empty house to fill it with space. He would put the half-full pot onto the hot plate on his desk while he studied and use it as a motivator for why he even bothered.
When he first entered Wayne Manor, he was surprised when he didn’t smell coffee. Didn’t all business people drink coffee? Isn’t that what his father had told him when Tim had asked all those years ago? The smell of Wayne Manor was something Tim really had never smelled before. It was rich, luxurious even, but there wasn’t a lingering dusty smell he associated with the Drake house. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on.
He knew Bruce drank coffee. He could smell the faint smell on his breath when they spoke. It was common to see him walking around the manor or seated at his desk with a black mug almost always a little under half full. The coffee inside was a light tan, obviously milked down. But the scent never lingered in the air. Bruce smelled like more than just coffee.
Tim looked at the mug in Bruce’s hand. He put the folder on his desk covering the other scattered papers and leaned against the edge of it.
“Do you not like black coffee?”
Bruce looked up at him and swirled his mug around. “I prefer it sweetened, why?”
Tim wasn’t expecting the question to be tossed back at him. “My father said real men only drink black coffee.”
“I didn’t know drinks were gendered.”
“Just coffee and cocktails,” Tim said.
A flicker of a smile passed over Bruce’s face. He sat back in his chair and pushed himself out from the desk. It was a rare moment that Tim was willingly sharing things that Jack and Janet had told him, and he intended to give it his full attention.
“What about women?” Bruce asked.
Tim narrowed his eyes as he racked his memory. He could see the Drake family dining room clearly. Tall windows allowed plenty of fresh light to stream in through the sheer curtains still against the glass. Dark wooden chairs were tucked in around the white linen. It wasn't their main entertainment room so only four chairs were pressed around the squarish table. His father sat across from him with an annoyed expression on his face. The carafe of coffee sat between them and two matching mugs. Jack had a pinched expression on his face as we watched Tim drink the dark brown liquid. A wince shot over his face. His tongue shooting out of his mouth followed by a cough. Tim could feel the disappointing look grow as each time he took a sip.
He could practically hear his father’s voice as he spoke, “Respectable women drank black coffee, but if the flavor was too strong they could add sugar. No milk or cream.”
The concept of social drink rules was something Bruce was never able to understand. Frequently at Galas he would immediately be handed whiskey without question, which thankfully he enjoyed enough for his limited taste for drinking, but he would wonder how many people there were drinking something they didn’t enjoy. Rich people had their funny ways of doing things to show class, but Bruce had never heard such strict rules about coffee.
“Did they hate milk and cream?” He asked.
Tim shook his head. “It wasn’t that. It was that expensive coffee shouldn’t need additives. If someone puts milk or cream in their coffee it means that it’s cheap and has a bad taste.”
“Do you agree?”
Tim’s posture stiffened. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
Bruce chuckled, hoping to ease the tension. “Do you think it’s wrong that I put milk in my coffee?”
“No.” Tim put up his hands. “Not at all. I just haven’t really seen it before. I just was wondering why.”
Bruce's parents had always put milk into their coffee. There were faint memories back to when he was a child watching them pour milk into their mugs and then top off his cup of milk around the breakfast table. It always made him feel happy to be included.
“It’s all I’ve ever known.” He looked back down at his mug. “My parents always added milk.”
Silence fell between them as Tim watched Bruce stare deeply into the coffee. It was another difference that Tim would add to the notebook he kept under his bed in the bin he wishes he could forget. The pages covered in little notes about things Bruce did that stood out to Tim. Things that Tim would stay up all night flipping through.
Jack and Janet Drake loved paintings, but didn’t enjoy photography. Bruce Wayne didn’t care much for art, but loved to hang family photos.
“How do you drink your coffee, Tim?”
He broke himself out of his trance. “Black.”
Bruce hummed. “Because you like it that way?”
Tim shook his head. He hated the bitter taste of coffee, but it was how he was instructed to drink it. His father had poured him his first cup of coffee at twelve and told him that he needed to adjust to the flavor before he was a professional. Only children couldn’t stand the taste of true coffee.
“It’s a bit cold.” He offered his mug. “Try this.”
Tim took the mug. The ceramic was cool against his hands. He raised an eyebrow, but took a small sip.
The coffee was sweet. Sweeter than he was prepared for. Only the aftertaste was remotely coffee, but without the bitter tang that made him grimace. It barely lingered on his tongue and went down twice as easy.
"It's very sweet."
Bruce smiled. "I can't stand the taste of coffee."
Tim chuckled and handed him the mug. "You always struck me as a black coffee person."
"Never." Bruce put the mug down on the coaster. "I always use milk and sugar."
It was surprising that someone who had a serious and dark aesthetic only drank very sweet coffee. It was as if the darkness of his life never reached his taste. Something about him was still sweet and untouched.
"Do you get teased?"
Bruce seemed surprised by the question. "No one asks."
Tim sat back against the desk. He had assumed that his parent's social rules were ones that everyone followed, and yet again they were proved wrong. Was he needlessly forcing himself to drink black coffee to prove himself? Who was he even proving himself to anymore?
He stood up from his desk and straightened out his slacks. It was time for him to head back upstairs to give Bruce time to run over the folder. He had just enough time to run back upstairs and clean up his desk before Stephanie would come help him get ready for his date with Bernard.
Bruce watched as Tim cleared his throat, offered him a curt head nod, and stepped out of his office.
The intercom easily chirped to life. “Alfred. Please lay out the sugar and creamer next to the coffee machine for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
Alfred’s voice was clear. “As you wish, Master Bruce.”