Chapter Text
Unencrypted SMS conversation, Alfred Pennyworth to Bruce Wayne.
Master Wayne. Please go to this diner.
Sit at the bar. There's someone waiting
for you there.
Attachment: Location
why
There is someone you should meet.
that's real cryptic
Please, Master Wayne.
how do i know its you
this could be a trap
Master Wayne, shall I go to some
embarrassing personal story that only I
would know, or will you just go to the
diner?
And the Joker isn't known for his manners or
his spelling and grammar, is he?
fine
Decrypted text conversation, Commissioner Jim Gordon and Edward Nashton
Free pie at the diner today.
Just a tip.
Thank you, sir.
With nothing better to do but follow his butler’s instructions, Bruce Wayne plugged the address he’d been given into his navigation app and drove to the diner. It wasn’t the most reputable of places. He’d parked in the parking garage across the street, and he jaywalked to the front doors, which were cracked.
As he pulled the front door open, the handle wiggled in his hand. Loose screws or rotting wood. Inside, the overhead lights flickered, their pale light reflecting off the checkered linoleum floors and the dull pink countertops. As instructed, he sat at the bar, where he was (for the moment) alone. His side of the bar was relatively unadorned: metal stools, upholstered in pink leather, matching booths. On the other side, the cooks had a grill, a cutting board, and a little table with a cash register, drink pitchers, and plastic cups.
Even though there were no guests at the moment aside from Bruce himself, the diner smelled of hash browns and sausage. On the counter near the register, a pot of coffee was brewing, steaming gently as one drop after another fell into the coffee pot. The coffee wasn’t expensive, not near Alfred’s standards, but Bruce breathed deeply and savored the scent. It must have been hazelnut flavored, and it smelled vaguely spicy.
While the building must have been twenty or thirty years old and in business every day of it, the staff kept every surface meticulously clean. The countertops were too old to sparkle, but they would have if they could. A single cook was sweeping breadcrumbs and bits of cardboard packaging off the floor, and when he saw Bruce he called out, “Cindy will be with you in a moment! Cindy!”
An older woman with an eighties perm and bright red lipstick hurried out of the back room, notepad in hand. “What can I get for you today, sweetie?” She asked.
Whatever the reason Alfred sent him here (and there was no one waiting in the restaurant as he’d said), Bruce was grateful not to be recognized.
“Um…” he paused.
“Oh, sorry. You’re not one of our regulars. Want a menu?”
“Yes, please. And can I have a coffee? Black.”
“Of course, dear.” She slid a laminated menu across the bar. It was as crisp and clean as if it’d been printed that day, and Bruce glanced down at the specials. Bacon cheeseburger. That did sound good — he hadn’t exactly been raised on a diet of normal people food. He’d eaten far more caviar in his life than cheeseburgers thanks to Alfred, and normally he wouldn’t have risked his butler’s disapproval, but for fuck’s sake Alfred had sent him here.
“And we’ve got a special that’s not on the menu too,” she said proudly. “Sponsored by… oh, gosh. Now I can’t remember his name. Some local celebrity. Wade, or… something. Anyway, you can have a slice of pie for free today! Any flavor, and you can have ice cream or our homemade whipped cream with it, too.”
“Oh, I’ll do that.” He squinted down at the pie section of the menu. What was more rebellious than cheeseburgers? Pie for lunch, of course. And coffee after noon. All with Alfred’s explicit encouragement. “I’ll have the chocolate pie. And whipped cream, please.”
“Coming right up!” Without writing anything on her notepad, Cindy disappeared into the back to retrieve the pie and coffee.
The little bell over the front door jingled, and Bruce looked up to see who’d entered.
A short man in a green jacket. Glasses, fluffy light brown hair. He slumped, which made him seem even smaller than he already was, and he didn’t look up as he sat at the counter a few seats away from Bruce.
Cindy set the pie and the cup of coffee on the counter. “Let me know if you need anything else, dear!”
Bruce ate his pie in silence. Dory could have made a pie as good as this, but he didn’t know if he’d ever had anything more delicious. The crust was flaky and deep, dark brown, flavored with chocolate and brown sugar and filled with thick, creamy homemade chocolate pudding and chocolate sauce. Cindy had swirled a healthy serving of whipped cream on top and sprinkled it with chocolate shavings and sprinkles. He put a single shake of sugar into his coffee — he liked the contrast between the sweet chocolate pie and the bitter, nutty coffee, though, so he didn’t add too much.
As he ate, he watched the other man order. Or try to, anyway.
“The usual, Eddie?” She asked, this time not even bothering with the notepad.
“Yes, please,” the man said.
Eddie. Short for Edward?
“All right, kiddo. And you’ll be pleased to know we’re having a special today. Mr… oh, gosh. I need to go look him up. A local celebrity is paying for all the pie slices we give out today, so if you’d like you can take an extra one home.”
Eddie’s face lit up. “Yes please! I’d like that. Thank you!”
Aside from his round face, which Bruce had only briefly glimpsed, Eddie had a sort of childlike innocence to him, something soft and sweet and at odds with the part of town they were in. Intrigued, Bruce stared at him.
His posture was horrible. It was as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible, hiding in plain sight. And Bruce could’ve sworn that for a second he saw a mouse or a rat’s tail poking out of his pocket, too, but Eddie reached up to adjust it before Bruce could get a better look.
Not once did Eddie glance in Bruce’s direction, or look at anything aside from the countertop.
By this point, Bruce was far too invested in watching Eddie to care about why he’d been sent here. All he cared about now was the cute guy a few seats down the bar. If only he’d sat closer…
Cindy brought Eddie a coffee — a latte.
“How is it?” Cindy asked. “I’ve been practicing.”
“It’s cute,” Eddie said, and that was the only time he looked up from the bar. He smiled at her, then looked right back down. “Thank you. Your latte art’s getting really good.”
Bruce was now done with his pie, but he was far too intrigued by the newcomer to leave. Clearly, there’d been some kind of mistake regarding who he was supposed to meet at the diner, but he didn’t mind. He’d ask Alfred about it when he got home, of course, but for now, he wasn’t worried. Whatever it was couldn’t be too important if Alfred couldn’t just be straightforward about it. And if they’d blown him off entirely, he’d rather not worry about it.
He contented himself with people-watching (or rather, person-watching) instead.
Eddie ate his pie in small, delicate bites, savoring every last morsel. He blew delicately on his coffee even though it had to have been ninety percent milk and there was no way it could have burned him.
Most concerningly of all, though, when the bell chimed a second time as a couple walked in, Eddie shoved the last bite of pie in his mouth, stuffed the to-go container in his pocket, and drained his latte all in one gulp. He then scurried past the couple and out the door, leaving them just as shocked as Bruce was to see him leave so abruptly.
Since Bruce was done eating by that point, he left a twenty on the counter to pay for his coffee and followed Eddie out the door.
He didn’t have to, but his Batman instincts tended to make him want to follow suspicious people. This could be an up-and-coming villain for all he knew, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t up to no good and get some information on him before he decided to do something nefarious. The rat tail in his pocket had certainly been concerning; Bruce hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be some modern retelling of “The Pied Piper.”
Eddie wasn’t an easy man to follow. The slippery little bastard kept stopping to tie his shoelaces, looking into store windows, and getting lost and backtracking. Bruce really thought he’d lost him when finally he spotted him through a bodega window with a shopping basket.
Incredible.
While Bruce was now sure he was some sort of highly skilled criminal, it was still almost possible that Eddie might really just be naturally talented. In any case, Bruce slipped into the bodega and walked back to the toiletry section. In between reading the ingredient labels on toothpaste and searching for the most expensive (and thus most likely to be Alfred-approved) deodorant, he kept an eye on Eddie, who wove between the aisles with frightening unpredictability.
His basket was filled with instant ramen and canned goods, and a box of oats. Plain ones, not the fun kind. Fascinating.
When at last Eddie reached the checkout, Bruce stepped only a few feet closer, ready to follow his mark out of the store before the staff could try to apprehend him for shoplifting, which he hadn’t done but most definitely would look like he had.
With Eddie’s skills at not being followed, it wouldn’t do to be caught and detained while the security guard made him turn out his pockets.
Eddie’s eyes were fixed on the little screen that displayed his total. As the cashier rung up one cup of ramen after another, he grew more and more concerned: he shrunk in on himself inside his oversized green jacket, and his brow furrowed behind his large glasses.
At last, the total came to about fifteen dollars. Bruce watched Eddie’s hand shake as he swiped the card in the reader, and he flinched when it made a harsh beeping noise.
The cashier pushed a few buttons, then directed Eddie to try again.
He looked so mortified that Bruce wanted to look away, but he couldn’t for fear of losing track of his target. His cheeks reddened as he swiped the card once again, and a bead of sweat formed on his temple.
Again, the harsh sounds of the register rejecting the card. Eddie started putting things aside, telling the cashier to remove all the instant noodles and leave the oats and canned goods, but again it rejected the card.
With increasing desperation, Eddie told the cashier just to ring up the oats. Bruce heard a tremor in his voice and he was sure, now, that he meant no harm to anyone. Perhaps some petty thievery, but nothing that warranted being beaten up or arrested. He was just… well, he was just about the same age as Bruce. Probably fresh out of school, if he’d been at all.
The sweet, innocent man Bruce had seen in the cafe fumbled to swipe his card a fourth time, his entire face tomato red, his voice tearful as he apologized again and again.
Eddie wasn’t even out the door, clutching the box of oats against his chest like a child’s precious stuffed animal, when Bruce was already calling to the cashier, “Hey, ring those back up! I’ll pay for them!” He couldn’t let Eddie get away. He glanced frantically at the door, which closed with a soft thud, and he wished he could tell the cashier to ring up the items faster.
Eddie walked alongside the storefront windows, his head bowed and his whole body curled around the box of oats.
What was he buying oats for? Surely there were tastier options for the same price. But hey, maybe the man just really liked oats. Who was Bruce to judge? And he didn’t know what poor people ate anyway. Maybe oats were “in” right now.
At last, the cashier asked, “Cash or card?” He’d already bagged all the items, thank god, so Bruce thrust a wad of twenties at him, grabbed the bag, and sprinted towards the door.
He needed to catch up to Eddie before it was too late — he needed this food, he needed to be able to eat. And Bruce needed to find out where he lived so he could drop off better groceries, too.
Just when he’d almost lost hope, he caught sight of Eddie waiting to cross the street a block ahead, and forgetting all caution he ran to catch up. He did luckily have the good sense to wait about a quarter block back so that Eddie didn’t hear him running, but he had to jaywalk across the street to make sure Eddie didn’t get away again.
Now, though, it was easier to keep him in sight. He walked in a straight line, not checking out any storefronts or taking any shortcuts. He just walked, his head down, shoulders slumped, towards his destination.
Bruce pitied him, his small shoulders hunched and his footsteps hurried. His shame was palpable, and Bruce found the distance between them shrinking unconsciously.
Eddie turned left into a grimy alley and slipped through a side door. Bruce hesitated for the count of twenty, then followed, now leaving behind any semblance of caution he should have had. At the end of the hallway, Eddie rounded a corner and disappeared.
This was a residential building. It probably called itself a “condominium” or a “luxury apartment building,” but “tenement” was closer. Narrow doors lined the narrow halls, closing in on Bruce from all sides as if in collaboration with the low ceilings.
The dirty carpet crunched in places underfoot, and the wallpaper had peeled off in more places than not. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered. Bruce wondered how anyone could live like this.
Of course, Eddie wouldn’t have had a choice, but how could he stand it? Anyone would go insane living here.
Perhaps he had.
Bruce watched the half-dead LED display of the elevator tick up to the fourth floor, then stop. Grateful that Eddie didn’t live on the penthouse floor (if there was one), he began to climb the stairs two at a time, groceries weighing down his arms, his lower back burning under the weight. He burst out into the hallway just in time to see a door down the hall closing. Must have been Eddie’s — even if it wasn’t him, surely all the residents of this building needed groceries just as badly as he did.
Still, he hoped it was his shitty apartment resident.
Quietly, to draw as little attention to himself as possible, he set down the groceries. Gauging the distance between this door and the stairwell, he arranged them so that they wouldn’t be in the way of the apartment door when it opened. He knocked, loudly, then sprinted back towards the stairwell. The door shut behind him but just after it did he heard that familiar choirboy voice call, “Hello?”
There was, of course, no answer.