Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ken wipes the last section of the countertop, watching the sanitizer dry in splotchy puddles. The spots dry quickly, leaving only the faint smell of lemon and clove. She puts the rag back in the bucket, ringing it out a few times for good measure. As she dries her hands, she can’t help but look out the window.

Gotham Brew has two large windows on either side of its entrance, meant to entice customers to the warm drinks and cozy atmosphere inside. Except it’s currently approaching 2:30 in the morning, and it’s pitch black. Instead of the small parking lot and pizza store she knows is across the street, the windows are inky darkness, throwing her own reflection back at her. The overhead lights are pinpricks above her head, and newly wiped counters with the various espresso machines and blenders look watery through the glass. If she squints hard enough, she could just make out the faint outline of her car outside, the only one in the parking lot. Good, it hadn’t been stolen.

Still, with no approaching customers, she either has to find another thing to clean or something similar to pass the time. She eyes her half finished drink, left by her car keys and the inventory notes her manager always forgets to put away. A yawn escapes her lips, and she takes that as a sign of the universe, that yes, she does need more caffeine. She takes a small sip of her drink, wincing at the cold, bitter liquid. It’s time to brew another pot anyways, even if she’s the only one who drinks it.

With a firm task ahead of her, there’s a renewed vigor in her motions as she removes the filter and throws out the used grinds. She decides to make a popular dark roast—Vengeance, with tones of smoke and caramel. It brings a quiet satisfaction to replace the filter, grind the beans, and set the new pot running. As much as the night shift is tedious, she enjoys the ease of it, the way the only noise is her own thoughts and the low hum of the machines. She loves her coworkers—well, most of them—but sometimes she just needs this chance to be alone, to stop the performance.

Of course, it’s the the one moment she can’t leave her drink that she hears the front bell ring. Her coffee is almost done brewing, but if she takes an order now it would certainly overflow. She hears footsteps approaching the counter. They’re quiet, not the loud stomping she would except of Black Mask’s men. There are only so many types of customers that are awake in Gotham after midnight, and since Gotham Brew is firmly in Black Mask’s territory, his hired thugs were some of the store’s most popular nightly patrons. Even so, she can’t imagine this quiet presence being apart of that group. They must have reached the register a few seconds ago and hadn’t said a word. If she has to guess, this customer is more of the tired university student variety than hired muscle.

Her cup is finished, so she sets the machine on hold, and goes to greet them. Her foot trips on air when she sees the mask, but she recovers smoothly enough, if she has to say so. She doesn’t recognize him off the top of her head, but then again she really only keeps up with news of Gothams villains—for safety purposes—so unless he’s Batman himself, she probably wouldn’t have. He looks younger than Batman, though, so maybe she wasn’t too far off the mark thinking university student. He’s wearing a black cowl over his face that can’t quite manage to hide the dark hair escaping over the edges. His face, as far as she could tell, is serious, though all she can really see is the downturned mouth. Brassy yellow straps belt across the chest of his red and black costume, and while objectively, the whole get up makes for an intimating figure, the slump of his shoulders gives away a bone-weary fatigue that she finds herself sympathizing with.

Even thought she hasn’t had the chance to sip her new drink, she suddenly feels wide awake. She pastes on that customer service smile and can only hope it masks the nerves. As she logs onto the register, she can practically hear her manager’s training whispering in her ear.

“Hi, welcome to Gotham Brew. What can I get you started with?”

“Give me a minute please.”

His voice sounds rough, like it had been whetted against stone. He isn’t even looking at her, his eyes slowly roving over the menu hanging on the wall.

“Sure thing, let me know if you need help deciding something,” she replies.

She tries to give him some space, pressing random buttons on the register to make it seem like she’s busy. She can’t help stealing glances, though. She scans over his over his body suit. There’s a black scrape crawling up the left side of his torso, like he had been dragged along the pavement. Various pockets of his belt are opened and sagging, like whatever had been in them previously had been used. She doesn’t see any obvious injuries, though, which brings some relief. She doesn’t know the protocol for a bleeding out vigilante. Somehow, she gets the feeling he wouldn’t appreciate it if she called 911 if he passed out.

“I’ll take an ice coffee—the largest size you have. Seven shots of espresso,” he says.

Ken feels her eyebrows slowly start to lift. Thankfully, the man doesn’t notice, he’s too busy rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. There’s a noise, too, some kind of low beeping coming from his belt that he doesn’t seem to have an issue ignoring.

Ken lifts her marker and places the felt tip against the cup. She writes the order slowly, giving the man the chance to change his mind. Technically, she isn’t even allowed to serve seven espresso shots, but one of the few perks of the night shift is that no one’s here to reprimand her. That, and despite her instinct saying he’s a vigilante and not a villain, she could never be too sure. Best to play nice, either way.

She rings the order up on the register, adding two flavored syrup charges to make up the price difference of the three extra shots.

“And a name for your order?”

If Ken had thought a little bit more about it, she would have forgone this question entirely. A little logic tells her they’re the only ones here, and no one else would be coming in anytime soon, so it would be best to just make the drink and give it to the vigilante, no name required. But she’s worked dozen of shifts during morning rushes with lines out the door, and asking for a name is practically muscle memory.

It’s his fault for answering.

“Tim.”

She’s halfway through the T before the marker pauses. The sharpie starts to bleed into a puddle against the cup. Her eyes dart up from the cup to the man, whose wide-eyes stare back at her. Ken quickly looks away and finishes writing the name.

What the fuck just happened.

A few more clicks against the register break the awkward silence.

“That’ll be $6.34,” she says.

He reaches into an invisible pocket, and hands her a ten dollar bill. His hands are gloved, and when she holds the bill to the light, there’s a reddish brown smear where his hand had left. She swallows, puts it into the register, and grabs the change before she can think too much about it.

“Keep it,” he says, when she attempts to give it back.

She drops it into the tip jar, where it rattles ominously.

“I’m gonna be honest, I’m not sure where to go from here,” he says. It’s accompanied by a small laugh, but one that’s far from humorous.

“You can wait by the counter over there,” Ken points to the other side of the room, next to the sugar packers and canisters of creamer. “And I’ll call out your name when your drink is ready. Should only be a few minutes, we’re not very busy tonight.”

Yeah, Ken knew that wasn’t what he was asking about, but she just needed a little more time for her brain to stop short-circuiting, so she could actually process the fact she just found out—completely unintentionally—a vigilante’s identity. People have been killed for less.

The man’s mouth snaps shut, and his fingers fiddle nervously at a compartment on his belt. He walks slowly over to the receiving counter, but even as she begins making her drink he can feel his eyes on her every few seconds, like he’s sizing her up. She can practically feel his brain whirling, gears turning enough smoke to cloud the room. She does her best to ignore it, instead focusing on pouring the pre-brewed ice coffee, then on prepping the espresso shots. Her hands are moving seamlessly to and from the espresso machine, but it does little to quell her mind.

If she thought too hard about it, she might combust. Any Gothamite worth their snuff knew names held power. Hell, it had been fifteen years since Batman had entered the scene and buzzfeed mysteries were still writing annual articles about his identity. For some random vigilante to fuck up so badly over a coffee order—unheard of. And of course, she would be the one caught in the crossfire. Hopefully, he’s not someone important. Imagine the trouble she’d be in if this happened to one of the bigger names, like Robin, or Batman himself. She withheld a snort. God, they’d probably ship her off to the middle of South America, so they could keep her from running her mouth. As it is, the ball is in the man’s court. Maybe she’d have to sign an NDA or something, or if she was really lucky, he’d pay her off.

Not much she could currently do at the moment, except make the best damn coffee of her life and hope she makes it out alive. Her hands only shake a little as she snaps the lid over the top. She gives the cup a little swirl as she places on the counter, pushing it towards the man.

He gives her a look she thinks is meant to be intimidating, but it’s dampened somewhat by the way he’s swaying where he stands.

She awaits her verdict.

He disregards a straw entirely, instead taking off the lid and throwing the entire thing back.
Ken feels her jaw drop as he chugs the entire drink in one go. The coffee, slick and black as oil, drains down his throat. The ice chinks in the cup as he throws its carcass away.

He straightens immediately, and even though she knows it takes a while for the caffeine to kick in, it’s like he’s reborn. Gone is the exhausted figure and in his place is someone who looks dangerous.

It’s kind of unfortunate that his real name is Tim. Tim sounds like the name of the person who would file her taxes.

“Do you have a private place we can talk?” he asks.

Ken looks around the store pointedly, still void of any customers. Thankfully, he catches her meaning easily.

“One without cameras?”

He nods to the lone camera hung in the corner behind the counter. It’s an old thing, one black eye blinking languidly over the storefront.

Ken snorts. “It’s been broken for ages. We don’t have the funds to replace it, but we keep it up to scare any potential criminals.”

“I don’t think the people you need to worry about would care if they’re caught on camera,” he answers wryly.

“No, you’re probably right,” she admits.

She shuffles over to the bake case, snagging two croissants and putting them on a plate. She remembers to grab her own drink, too, before swinging open the half-door that divides the counter from the store. If they’re going to have this conversation, at least they can do it over snacks.

“We can take the table in the corner,” she says.

They settle in easily, though the man looks a little like he’s ready to take flight at any given notice with the way he’s perched on the edge of his chair. Ken pushes over the plate with the croissants towards his side of the table, encouraging him to try one.

The entire scene looks so out of place. The way the soft pastry breaks so easily between those black gloves is unsettling. She can tell his get up was designed for shadows, because with the lights overhead, he’s all harsh lines and dark cuts, absorbing any sense of normalcy.

He eats a third of his croissant before he puts it back on the plate. Ken wonders if he’s on a certain crimefighting diet, but as she’s eyeing him, she can almost see the areas the suit doesn’t fit quit right. Like he hasn’t been able to fill it out recently.

She’s broken by her staring as the man—Tim—folds his hands together and clears his throat.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he starts off, “but I’ll have you know I have a friend who can listen to every word of your every conversation, and if you so much as start to say my name, he will be there before you can finish.”

Ken leans back, letting the information sink in. Her first instinct is that it’s impossible. Everyone knows there’s a no meta rule in Gotham, and the only person she’s every heard of with those abilities is Superman. Tim would probably say anything to keep his identity safe, and it didn’t have to be true as long as she believed it.

But he sounds dead serious.

It would be different if he raised his voice, or was playing up on the intimidation. But no, the way he stated it all was almost resigned, like he was simply reading the facts off a piece of paper.

Oh god, was he friends with Superman?

“I won’t tell anyone. I wasn’t planning on it even before I found out you have Superman on speed dial.”

“Superboy.”

“What?”

“It’s Superboy, not Superman. He doesn’t like to be compared.”

“There’s a Superboy, too?”

His brow furrows. “Yeah, of course. You know, from Young Justice?”

The name sounds familiar, but that could just be because it’s two very common words strung together. She wracks her brain for what she knows of superhero teams, but other than Justice League and Teen—something, her mind is drawing a blank.

His face twists again, and she’s really impressed by the way the cowl manages to make expressions. It must be pretty thin.

“You don’t know Young Justice?”

It’s kind of funny the way he manages to sound a little offended.

She decides on a vague, half truth.

“I think I’ve heard of them, but I’m not super familiar with them. Sorry.”

“Do you even know who I am?”

The silence is telling. Ken can feel incredulous eyes on her face, but she doesn’t have the gall to meet them head on. She instead takes the time to shove half of her own croissant into her mouth, staring at the crumbs on the plate.

She feels her shoulders bunch up towards her ears, even as the croissant feels like a lead ball going down her throat. She really didn’t want to offend him, especially considering the situation, but she guesses it couldn’t be helped.

There’s a noise across the table that starts off as a huff but grows into something else. He’s not angry, he’s laughing.

Ken straightens, eyes darting up to see—yeah, he actually is laughing, that wasn’t a fluke. It’s a nice laugh, but she wasn’t expecting it to sound so—young. It’s tinged with something else, too, like it caught on something desperate in his throat and comes out not quite right.

The smile that caught on her lips unaware begins to fade as he doesn’t stop. More and more of that wrongness seeps in, and though it isn’t full hyperventilation, it doesn’t look pleasant.

“Hey, are you alright?” she asks.

Tim seems to jump at her question, but then he’s taking a deep breath, and although a few high pitched sounds still escape, it seems to wind down. Finally, he quiets.

“Sorry,” he says with a wave of dismissal. “Side effects. Seems to happen more when I’m tired. I apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

Ken tries to school her face into something neutral, but she isn’t sure that she succeeds. The more she’s been around him, the more some very concerning details emerge. The exhaustion, beyond any normal limits, and the way he drank that monstrosity like he’s done it a hundred times before and would a hundred times more. The ill-fitting suit, and the ease at which he just brushed over that strange laughing fit. She knows the life of a vigilante is dangerous, but this seems extreme. Not that it’s any of her business, but she would guess these problems, and whatever underlying issues, don’t neatly put themselves away when it’s time for him to call it a night.

It doesn’t help that she can’t parce out his age. When he first walked in, she assumed he was at least twenty-two or twenty three, around her age, but that was mostly due to the fact that he’s a vigilante. He may not be as big as Batman, but it’s hard to ignore how fit someone is when the costume clings like a second skin. It takes years to build that kind of muscle, and maybe she’s being naive, but she didn’t like to imagine anyone under legal age throwing their life on the line like that. There was no way that laugh was a one of full adult male, though, and he seemed to insinuate some kind of familiarity with a team called Young Justice. Emphasis on young.

There was an unpleasant feeling settling in the pit of her stomach, at the picture she was painting in her head.

“No, just your average concerned citizen,” she tries to keep her voice kind. She’s sure he wouldn’t appreciate anything approaching pity.

He squints, like he doesn’t quite understand.

“How old are you?”

She didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but she finds that now that the question is in the air, she really needs to know the answer.

He looks faintly uncomfortable, and it doesn’t help the feeling in her stomach go away.

“You already know my name, I’m not giving you any more identifying information,” he eventually answers.

Ken sighs. She can see the logic, but that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it.

“Just—“ she waves her hands as if that would help explain. “Over or under 18?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says sharply.

“Well, it kind of matters.”

“I assure you, whether I am or am not above a certain age, I am more than capable at my job and have years of experience to back it up.”

“That’s exactly my point,” she says. “You say you have years of experience. But—and I don’t need an exact number, I’m not fishing for information—you seem young. Not that doesn’t make you capable. I’m not trying to question your abilities, I’m just—“ she struggles to find the right word. She gives up all together when nothing sounds good enough in her head.

“You shouldn’t have years of experience,” she ends weakly.

Tim drums his fingers against the table. There’s small quirk raising the corner of his mouth. He looks as if he just solved a puzzle.

“You’re concerned about the ethics of child vigilantism. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Ken laughs, but comes out as more of a tired exhale.

“I didn’t realize it myself.”

“It’s an interesting topic, I don’t blame you. I have some sources I can recommend that go really in depth, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick to the original topic.”

“The original topic?”

Tim nods.

“So I already told you what would happen if you physically tell anyone about me, but if you thought you could get around that by going around online, you’d be very wrong.”

She thought she had already made it clear she wasn’t going to tell, but then again, she’s not surprised if a vigilante is paranoid. Seems like it would a popular personality trait for that line of business.

“Let me guess, you have a friend?”

“Exactly.”

He seems satisfied that she understood where he was going with that. And if she didn’t already have her suspicions about his age, she would definitely be having them now when he decides to pair his answer with honest-to-god finger guns.

She would very much like this conversation to be over now.

“What do you need from me to convince you that I’m not going to tell?”

“A lie detector test and 24 hour monitoring preferably, but that might be overkill.”

“Just a little. I really won’t say a word. My lips are sealed.”

Tim smiles, but even with the mask she can see it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Great. You’ll know what will happen if you change your mind.”

He stands, the chair screeching across the floor as its pushed back to make room. Ken does the same, and then they’re both staring at each other from across the table. There’s a moment where it looks like he wants to say something else, but it’s broken by that same buzzing noise she had heard earlier. It’s coming from his belt, which he quickly reaches into and silences. But not before an expression flash across his face. The exact emotion is hard to decipher—it was gone to quick for her to really tell—worry, maybe, or guilt. Whatever it was, it was obvious Tim didn’t want to face whoever was on the other side.

“Looks like vengeance is calling,” he says dryly.

Ken can’t help the little huff of laughter. The man had just threatened her, for god’s sake. It wasn’t even the joke that was so funny, but the entire absurdity of the night. Maybe if she brews the Nightwing roast the next time she’s working the nightshift, he’d show up. Now there’s one vigilante she’d be happy to see.

“Stay safe out there,” she says.

She bends to pick up the plate and her half-finished drink. The bell rings before it’s even fully in her grip, and she knows that he’s gone.

The plate shakes as she makes her way to the sink, empty and sparkling from her earlier deep clean. Her coffee goes into the trash.

She gives herself a minute—and only one minute—where she leans on the counter, closes her eyes, and completely loses her mind. She opens her eyes and tries to ignore the way the lights stab into her vision. She sees her rag, still in its soapy bucket, and figures she better get back to cleaning.

It’s an average shift in Gotham.

Chapter Text

Ken is working another nightshift, something that had become more regular since one of her coworkers, Parker, decided to switch to more typical hours. He recently started a new relationship and wanted to make the change in order to spend time with them. She wouldn’t necessarily claim she was a romantic, but the way he talked about his new partner constantly, like he just couldn’t help it, and with that soft, lovesick look in his eye, tugged something loose in her chest. There aren’t many other Gotham Brew employees with her flexibility, most were in school or had second jobs, so a few weeks back when her manager was looking for someone to take the shifts, she didn’t have the heart to say no.

Tonight’s one of the slower nights, a sudden drop in temperature causing most people to stay huddled in the warmth of their homes. Her own jacket is tucked away in a cubby in the back, and even though she still has a little over four hours left of her shift, she’s already dreading the short walk to her car.
She’s surprised when the front door chimes, and she eyes the wooden bat in the corner, just to reassure herself it’s still there. The sudden uptake in nightly hours has made her unfortunately familiar with how to use it. Well, she hasn’t actually had to hit someone—something she isn’t sure she could even bring herself to do—but she’s learned how to wave it around and make it look threatening. On one of her shifts, she managed to ask Parker how he had handled those kind of customers, but he just laughed and said something along the lines, it’ll calm down soon, they’re just getting used to the new face.
It hasn’t calmed down yet, but Ken is getting better at quelling her fear, and customers find an angry woman a lot less fun to threaten than a scared one. Still, she had tried to bring the incidents up with her manager, but all she got was a look. One that said, what else did you expect. She found a gift card to a self-defense class on top of her things later that same day, and she decided that she would take what she could get.

It meant that she now has a sixth sense on the bat’s location at all times, and if somehow she finds herself without it, aim for the eardrums.

She doesn’t think that advice would work on the current customer, however, considering its Red Robin.

He walks to the counter with ease, and she’s pleased to note that he seems more present this time, less like he’s about to collapse from exhaustion. He’s in the same cowl and suit, with the absence of the large scrapes on the side and the addition of a cape. It billows behind him in a stunning imitation of wings.

When he came in those few weeks back, she had thought that since she hadn’t recognized him, he couldn’t have been anyone of importance. A frantic deep internet search afterwards had remedied her of that assumption. There are apparently a lot more vigilantes in Gotham than she was aware of, and if they’re anything bat or bird related, they’re kind of a big deal. Underground celebrities, as one user put it.

She slips her earbuds out and slides them into the pocket of her apron. They’re a big faux pas while on the clock, but she doubts he’d be the one to tell on her. The sudden absence of music sets her a little off-kilter, like her head is just a touch too big.

“Hi, what can I get you started with?” she says.

“Iced coffee, seven shots, in the largest cup you have.”

So maybe he isn’t doing that much better, if that’s his regular order.

“Sure,” she taps the order in. “$7.02.”

He tilts his head down at her.

“It was less last time,” he says. It isn’t a question.

“Size upcharge.”

She holds up the cup. She doesn’t bother writing out the order.

“That’s the same size.”

Her smile tightens as she deftly grabbs another cup. She holds the two up, side by side. The one in her left hand is maybe a centimeter wider and two centimeters taller.

“That’s like no difference, though. How is that a dollar?”

“Take it to corporate, then. Do you want the smaller size?”

He looks between the two options, taking longer than any reasonable person should to answer. She’s the last person to judge, though, she took thirty minutes earlier this evening deciding between two places for takeout.

He sighs, running a hand over his cowl. It’s a funny tick, especially since she can see the slight surprise when it’s not his hair he’s touching.

“The larger one,” he says. He sounds defeated.

She nods, another strained smile pressing against her teeth.

The motions flow with ease. The mindless tasks that have been repeated so many times they’re practically engrained in her skin. The drink makes itself, she is merely the vessel that puts it together in the cup. She can feel eyes on her, though, as she pours the coffee, and as she adds the shots and the ice. There are always customers, often young kids or demanding adults, who like to watch every step. It’s not the most comfortable feeling, a bit too much like an animal in the zoo, but it’s one of those things she’s learned to brush under the rug.

This feels a bit more than that. This isn’t some businessmen with a leery stare, waiting for her to mess up so he can demand a refund. This isn’t about the drink at all—it’s about her. It sets her teeth on edge, just a bit, and she has to resist the urge to say something. If he wanted to know whether she had said anything about his name, he could very well just ask her. It’d be much preferable over this creepy psychoanalyzing.

She snaps the lid on, and if the force of it makes the drink slosh up over the rim, it’s no one’s business but her own. She dries the outside with a paper towel, and then she’s scribbling a hasty RR on the side of the cup. The letter are barely visible against the dark liquid contents, but she still finds a sense of satisfaction.

“Ice coffee for Tim,” she says with a grin.

She knows it was a mistake when he glares at her through the cowl. Maybe the first week after their encounter she had some restless nights, hearing every noise outside her apartment and convincing herself it was someone after her, but as more weeks of silence tacked on, she grew more assured. If someone was going to come for her, it would have already happened. It’s not like she’s hard to find, her shitty apartment is listed under her name, and she doubts her deadbolt could stop a vigilante from dropping in. And if Red Robin’s as much as a bat as the internet made her believe, he can’t kill her over a little ribbing. She’s safe—probably. Even if he glare feels deadly.

He grabs the coffee. When he doesn’t say anything else, she takes it as a victory.
He pries of the lid and takes a sip.

“We have straws for that,” she points out.

Not even a foot away from him, there’s a homemade ceramic mug, bumpy and black. There’s a little clay bat symbol pressed against the front. It’s bursting with straws, about half of them taller than the others.

Tim looks at it, and then he raises his coffee to his mouth and starts to chug. There’s maybe a quarter of the drink left when he puts it down.

Ken feels a smile on her face.

“Teenage spite, I remember it so well.”

She presses her hands against her heart to really sell it. Tim makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff.

“So, I know my coffee’s good, but any other reason you decided to drop in tonight?” she asks.

“Patrol is slow tonight. Not many criminals out,” he answers.

“I guess even criminals don’t like the cold.”

“No, it’ll be quiet for another week or two, and then they’ll get desperate and start coming out again.”

“Sounds fun,” she comments.

“It isn’t.”

His tone is all too serious, breaking her easy manner. She can’t help but wonder why he’s really here. The obvious answer is to remind her not to blab her mouth, but if he has all those contingencies in place—and she doesn’t doubt he does—there’s not actually a reason to come in person. Even on a so-called slow night, there’s probably a dozen things that are a better use of his time. Sleep for one, since she assumes he’s in school. High school, probably, with those insane early start times. She definitely doesn’t miss those days.

Whatever his reasons are, she doubts he would tell her if she asked.

“I haven’t told anyone,” she says bluntly.

He takes a satisfied sip of his coffee, mostly ice.

“I know.”

He says it with just a hint of smugness, one that makes some pieces click into place.

Her mouth opens with a mortifying smacking sound. She’s too annoyed to give it much thought. Her hands search blindly under the counter. When she doesn’t feel anything but sandy wood, she drops to a knee and peers under. There, tucked away on the underside, suspiciously close to the door separating the front of the store to the serving area, there’s a small black knob. She’d been confused when she saw it cleaning last week—it hadn’t been there before—but she had convinced herself into thinking it was some structural component that had always been there. It didn’t help that sometimes her memory is as spotty as Swiss cheese. Now, with a wave of indignance, she rips the spot from the counter and slaps it down into front of Tim.

“Did you plant this here?” she demands.

His face doesn’t change. He looks at the piece calmly, clearly electronic now that she can see it in the light.

“What is that?” he asks.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Looks like a hinge. You should probably put it back, maybe it was keeping the counter aligned.”

“It’s not a hinge—it’s smoking!”

Little white wisps had started to emerge from the knob as he was talking. She pinches it better her fingers and waves it in front of his face. The smoke trails in puffy clouds. Out of nowhere, he slaps it out of her hands. Before she could so much as protest, the knob explodes. It’s not a big explosion, it barely makes a noise, but there’s a scorch mark on the floor in the direction it landed.

She stares at him accusingly. He has the nerve to not even look guilty.

“They self-destruct when removed, so you can’t trace it back. I told you that you should have put it back.”

“I can’t believe you bugged me!”

“How else was I supposed to know if you were telling the truth?”

“Your superhearing friend, or whatever.”

“He needs breaks sometimes, too. It’s cruel of me to ask him to do that 24/7.”

She narrows her eyes at him, pointedly looking at his drink. It’s unclear whether he understands her intention, calling out his hypocrisy.

“Any more bugs?” she asked warily.

“No.”

“You answered that too quickly.”

“I answered that in a socially acceptable amount of time.”

She clenches her teeth.

“I’m pretty sure its illegal to bug a place without consent,” she says.

Tim smiles. “Vigilantism is illegal.”

“Yeah, because sane people wouldn’t let teenagers run wild on the street with weapons. It’s so safe, too. How’s that injury by the way?”

She waves her hand over the left side of her torso, near the area she remembers those painful looking scrapes.

Tim stills, and it wasn’t until that moment that she realized how much he was humoring her. Any trace of brevity on his face is gone, it’s like he completely shuts down. His eyes are cold and grayed, biting through to her without mercy.

His jaw is locked, mouth barely moving.

“How do you know about that?”

Ken, already on the defense at the sudden shift in the room, struggles for an answer. She gestures vaguely over her own shirt, trying to illustrate the scrapes.

He crowds in closer, and she can’t see much of the store beyond his cape. A trapped, fluttering sensations beats against her ribcage.

He stares at her, like he’s trying to pry out an answer by his eyes alone.

“I didn’t think he’d go this far, but Ra’s does like his surprises.”

What.

“Ra’s?”

It’s the only word she can manage to say. It comes out more like a wheeze. She’s not even sure if she pronounces it right, the unfamiliar word feeling clunky on her tongue.

His hand catches her wrist, which she hadn’t even realized had come up in front of her, palm open in the gesture, stay back. He twists it away from her face, and she can’t help but gasp at the pain.

“Ra’s al-Ghul,” he says, like he’s testing her out, trying to see her reaction.

Ken’s breath comes in gasps, much too loud in the rapidly shrinking space.

“I don’t know who that is,” she manages.

Tim doesn’t move, doesn’t take a step back or say a word. Then, his otherhand slowly moves to rest on his belt. She has no idea what’s the pouch—one of those bat shaped knives, maybe—but the threat is clear.

Her blood, spilling against the floor by her feet. It’s not real, but she can see it. If she doesn’t say something, he’d view her silence as an admission of guilt.

“The fi—first time you came in,” she pauses.

She doesn’t know whether her explanation will help her or hurt her. He tensed when she started speaking, but she doesn’t know what that means. She doesn’t even know what she said to cause this type of reaction. Something with his injury, another thing she isn’t supposed to know about. But it’s not making sense.

“You had scrapes—black—like you had been dragged against the pavement. That’s all I was talking about. I promise. I have no idea about any of this other stuff. I’m not working with anyone. I haven’t even told anyone that we met. Please believe me. Please.”

To her horror, she feels the cold press of tears. She tries to blink them away, but it only makes her vision watery.

He steps back, hand going back to his side. Ken collapses in on herself, like her heart, which had been beating so frantically, had stopped and now she had nothing to support her. She leans a hand on the counter to steady herself as her breath still aches in her throat. She hadn’t even been injured, but something in the way his eyes had carved her up, so hostile and disgusted, made her want to curl up on her couch and forget everything that had just happened.

She’s still catching her breath, but a thumping noise makes her look up.

Tim had fallen back against the wall, obviously with some force if it had been that loud. It’s hard to look at him after being so afraid a few minutes ago, but even through her discomfort she can see that something is wrong. His chest is moving too fast, and he’s not looking at anything, his expression glazed over towards something near the ceiling.

She curls her nails into her palm, any concern she might feel clashing against her apprehension. She thinks of taking a step towards him, or asking if he’s alright, but her body freezes before she can move an inch. She doesn’t know what the next thing would be to set him off, and she’s not willing to find out.
It somehow makes her feel worse, however, the squeezing in her chest bordering painful, when he does pull himself together. It’s a horrid thing to watch, the moment his head jerks up, like he’s being yanked on a string. There’s an animalistic panic on his face, but even more sickening is the way it just—disappears. Between one blink and the next he’s completely composed, any lingering emotion neatly tucked away. The only sign that something was ever wrong is the way he isn’t standing up quite straight. His shoulders—just barely—hunch in onto themselves, a protective measure, surely. One she isn’t sure he’s even aware of.

He turns to her, and his shoulders slouch just a little bit more. She feels her weigh shift, towards him or away, she can’t tell, and she forces herself to remain in place.

“The road rash. Yeah, it healed fine,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

She finds that she can’t hold onto her anger. It dissolves in waves in the face of his defeated frame and guilty expression. Whatever had just happened, it was clearly a reaction to something traumatic, something so painful he lost reason and shut down. She won’t excuse his actions, but she can give him a chance to make amends.

“What injury did you think I was talking about?” she asks.

He looks up at her, for only a second, as if he can’t believe her reaction on words alone.

That moment he had against the wall, she thought it was in response to the same thing had set him off about the injury, but maybe it’s something else. Maybe he broke some kind of moral code, threatening her, a civilian. He’s looking at her like he doesn’t expect forgiveness.

She meets his gaze with as much composure as she could muster. She hopes he can see it in her face.

The way she wants to give him a chance.

“It’s a long story,” he says. He grabs his drink, now completely empty except for brown slush, but instead of throwing it away he just holds it in his hands, squeezing gently. “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

Ken simply nods, worried that anything more would silence him all together.

“There’s a man—very powerful, very old—named Ra’s al Ghul. He’s based in the Middle East, but he’s been around so long that he has people in nearly every corner of the world. He’s the head of a group called the League of Assassins.”

He takes a pause, and Ken tilts her head so that he knows she’s listening.

“There was an incident last year—I’m not going to get into it, because it’s in the past, and it will stay there. But last year, I was looking for something, and Ra’s found me. I was desperate, had exhausted all other options, and so I did something I would never do under normal circumstances. I made a deal with him. He gave me his resources to help find who I was looking for, and in return I spent time with him.”
She didn’t fail to notice his shift, from what to whoever he was trying to find. But that paled in comparison to his last sentence, the implication behind his words. Spending time could mean so many things, but the way he said it—wasn’t good at all. She held her tongue, but her stomach twisted painfully.

“Ra’s participates in a lot of bad things, and even at my low point I knew I had to do something. So, to summarize a long story short, as soon as I got what I need, I turned around and betrayed him. A good portion of the League—gone in a matter of minutes. I managed to stop him from outright killing me, but it had an unintended consequence. He was impressed. He wants me.”

He spit out the words with disgust. Ken can’t help but feel similarly. Her nails continue to dig into the palm of her hand, but she barely feels it. This isn’t any typical violence, the kind she imagined must be a regular occurrence in a vigilante’s life. This is a horror of an entirely different nature, a nightmare she can’t imagine having to live through, not like Tim does. For every word he says, she can practically feel the ones unspoken, the ones that hold the living, breathing memory.

“He particularly likes gifts, and surprises. He’s stopped trying to outright kill me, but he likes to send tests. So that I don’t forget he’s waiting for me. He sent six assassins this week that just happened to get a worse hit than usual, right—“ he gestures to the exact spot Ken had asked about.

“Oh.” All she manages to say under the weight of realization.

“There’s a very limited number of people who know about his continued interest, only those who were directly involved, so when I thought that’s what you were asking about—“ he trails off.

She gives him the space to form his words. It sounds like it could have been leading to an apology, which would be appreciated, but after everything she heard, she realizes it isn’t necessary. There’s a lot going under the surface she can’t comprehend, so many moving parts of pain and disgust and shame. Tim lashed out at her when she didn’t deserve it, but it was from a place of self-defense, and in the end he didn’t hurt her. He let her defend herself and backed down when he realized he had read the situation wrong.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to finish if it’s too much,” she says.

He doesn’t respond, but she can see the relief shining clear in his face. He takes a moment, and when it’s over, she can see that he’s trying to push the memories down. Trying to get out of whatever place still haunts him.

“Are you alright? It’s not often I go full Red Robin on a civilian.”

Ken smiles. It’s small, and she’s not sure how reassuring it is, but it seems to set something in him at ease.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been in worse confrontations, I’ve got a bat and everything.”

He looks confused, and belatedly she realizes he’s thinking of the animal, so she nods over to the wooden bat in the corner. Comprehension dawns, and his lips twitch up, just the slightest. It eases something in her, too.

“My own personal vigilante,” she says.

“I’m not sure it measures up,” he says back.

“Maybe not, but it’ll do.”

Tim finally lets go of the cup he’s been clutching, and it makes its way into the trash. It breaks whatever bubble they had been in, and she gets the feeling he won’t stay much longer.

A quick glance at her phone shows the time. 12:45. It had only been twenty minutes since he had come in, but it feels so much longer. She has no idea how she’s expected to work another four hours after this.

Sure enough, he secures his cape firmly on his back, wrapping it over her shoulders like a coat, and she knew if she wants to say something, it would have to be now.

“Hey, Tim?” she asks tentatively.

He’s already a few steps on his way, but he stops and turns towards her. It shouldn’t mean much, that he did so without hesitation, but it did, at least to her.

“You mentioned not a lot of people know, about what happened, and I understand that a lot of the stuff you do has to stay within certain circles. And I really don’t know much about anything, and you probably have a lot of friends in your line of business that are there for you—“ she realizes she’s rambling and takes a breath. “But if you need one more—a friend, I mean—or just someone to talk to, you’ll know where I’ll be.”

Tim doesn’t answer, but she didn’t know what she was expecting. The vigilante, who only knows she exists because he revealed a highly classified secret, would then willingly spend more time with said person, a barista of all things. Yeah, she kinda walked right into that one.

She supposes she should be lucky he even gives her a nod before the door chimes, and he’s lost to the cold.

She walks over to her bat, picks it up in a two handed grip. It’s old, the wood worn down under her knuckles. She tosses it away, where it skids and clunks against the floor.

She knows better now, if someone wanted to hurt her—not Red Robin, she thinks—but someone else like him, skilled and strong, the bat wouldn’t do a thing to stop them. She shakes out her wrist. It aches, right where he grabbed her. She holds it up in front of her face. She can just make out the faint purple bruises blossoming under her skin.

Chapter Text

“The bag?” Ken asks, blinking in incomprehension.

The Red Hood throws his hands up, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have time for this shit.
Ken isn’t trying to rile him up on purpose, though. She genuinely has no idea why one of the more terrifying of Gotham vigilante’s would come storming in and start interrogating her about their to-go bags of all things.

“I mean, I designed the logo on it, like a year ago, for extra credit in one of my classes,” she says.

His eyes narrow, or at least the white outline of his eyes in the hood do. He taps the bag he slapped in front of her with an impatient finger, the paper crinkling.

The bag isn’t anything special. The outline of a cup of coffee, with white puffs of steam wafting above, spelling out Gotham Brew. She had designed in about an hour, and the only reason she thinks the store keeps using it is because before, they didn’t have anything at all. Even mediocre advertising is better than none.

“I know you’re supplying,” he says, voice mechanical and deep through whatever filter in his hood. “You can either give me the names, the people who are actually worth my time, or you can be stubborn. I’ll get my fun in either way.”

She holds her hands up, trying to calm him down. She’s grateful for the counter and the register that separate them, otherwise she’d be in a really tough spot.

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” she says, trying to keep her voice even and reassuring. It feels about as useful as taming a hissing viper. “First, you have to explain what’s going on. I have no idea what the bags have to do with any of this.”

The Red Hood scoffs. The motion of his chest catches her attention down to the gun holstered on his belt. She swallows.

Isn’t this the guy who beheaded ten people in a night?

“I find it hard to believe that people would deal using your bag without the place having any hand in it,” he says.

It takes a minute for the words to sink in. In the end, she wishes she’s more surprised than she is. This is Gotham, after all.

“Are you telling me people use our bag for some sort of drug trade?” she asks.

Red Hood’s voice decoder crackles. “You tell me. You’re the one supplying.”

There’s a panicked flush in her ribs. If she was to look down at her hands, she’s sure they would be trembling. She’s obviously not involved with the drug trade, but she has no fucking clue if anyone else here is involved in it and that’s not an answer Red Hood’s going to be happy with.

Holy shit, if the store was involved in something like this, would Ken even know? What if it’s been going on behind her back?

“I’m just a barista. I had no idea our bags are used for anything. I’m sorry I can’t be much help, but if you have descriptions, or something, of people you think are involved, I can try to remember if they’ve come in the store.”

It isn’t the most eloquent explanation, but Ken thinks it’ll have to do. It’s not like the cops could do anything in time if Red Hood decides to have fun, or however he put it, and again, this is the kind of situation the wooden bat probably won’t be able to handle. Up to her and her words then.

Red Hood leans in close, and with only about six inches of space between them she can see the thin fiber mesh of his eye pieces, the two dark smudges behind them. She freezes, jaw locked as she feels his hot breath on her cheek. It crawls over her skin and she has the resist the urge of claw her nails into her face.

Then, his breath is gone. He steps back a reasonable distance, and Ken can suddenly breath again.

“Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare ya. Had to make sure you weren’t lying to me, but I know lost when I see it.”

Ken crosses her arms over her chest. It helps the motion covers her shaking. She needed some way to regain her balance without being so obvious about it.

“I’m not a kid, and I’m not scared of you.”

It’s all false posturing, but it feels better than cowering in the corner.

Red Hood doesn’t respond, but he tilts his head down at her as if to emphasize how she’s practically a bug in comparison to him. Ken isn’t small either. She’s quite proud of her 5’9’’ height, even if it’s led to some awkward first dates. It’s just Red Hood is massive. His thighs are the size of small tree trunks and his arms aren’t far behind. Even if he had generous armor in his costume, adding to his size, his sheer bulk isn’t anything to laugh about.

“I’m not that scared of you,” she corrects. “Totally normal levels of fear.”

Red Hood raises a single brow and whips the gun off his belt. Ken has one moment of pure disbelief, a high pitched ringing in her ears, before there’s a flurry of motion and noise, and then the gun’s going back into its holster. He tosses something in the air, it spins and lands in his palm with a smack. Ken isn’t very familiar with firearms, but even with her limited knowledge, she can tell it’s the magazine. He unloaded it.

“I can be a nice guy, if you haven’t done anything to piss me off. Just because I kill people doesn’t mean I want to scare people half to death. Especially when they’re just trying to do their jobs.”

Ken can’t do much more than look at him. It’s too much of an effort to sort through his words and make any sort of useful meaning out of them. On one hand, he admitted he’s killed before, loud and clear, but on the other, he seems kind of—genuine?

The magazine’s gone, supposedly hidden in one of his pockets, and now he’s holding his hands out by his side, fists open. She thinks he’s trying to be reassuring, hands where she can see them, no weapon in sight. She would be a little more resentful of the way he’s treating her like a cornered animal if it didn’t actually give her some kind of relief.

There’s another thing, too, setting her at ease. She was too occupied to really note it the first few times he spoke, but his accent. He talks like her, that common Gotham slang that gets made fun of both outside the city limits and within it by the richest. It’s not as prominent as some people’s are, like he had worked hard at covering it up (she had too, at one point), but it’s definitely there, just waiting for the right syllable to make itself known. It’s a subconscious thing then, for her to be reassured by someone who was raised in the same place as her with the language to prove it.

“I’ll answer any questions as best I can,” she says.

Red Hood smiles, or at least something approaching a smile, since his hood can’t do much more than widen a bit at the mouth.

“Great. When I first came in tonight, I thought this was the hotspot where the deals went down, but based on your total lack of knowledge, I’m beginning to doubt that. I’m gonna start off asking a few questions that should shed some light on that, and then we’ll go more into individual leads.”

Ken nods, his explanation more reasonable than she was expecting. There’s still one thing bugging, her though.

“Not that I have an issue with this, but this sounds like it could take awhile. And I do still have a store to run.”

Red Hood waves her off, and she knows she isn’t going to like what she hears next.

“Store’s closed for now, switched the sign and locked the door and everything. No one’s going to bother us until we’re through.”

Ken looks out the window where sure enough, the red and blue open signs stares back at her, meaning anyone outside will see that the store’s closed. She hadn’t even noticed the switch. Also, she has no idea how he locked the door without the key that’s in her purse, but that’s not something she wants to dwell on. That’ll be a later problem.

Ken sighs, inexplicably more tired than she had been at the beginning of the shift. Even though she should be alert while the Red Hood’s still in the store, she can’t muster up any real effort. It’s okay, though, Red Hood doesn’t have to like her, he just has to accept her answers and then this entire thing will be over.

“How long have you been working here?” he asks. He’s moved from his previous position, now leaning his back against the counter, dirty boots crossed at the ankle. It’s casual, like he’s lounging on his couch at home rather than here.

“Three and a half years,” Ken replies.

“What days do you usually work?”

“Nights on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Mid shift Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I only started working the night shift regularly about a month now. Before then, same days but morning shifts.”

Hood nods, like the information’s nothing new to him. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe he has some kind of access to their shift schedules posted online. She doubts it, though, seems like an excessive amount of effort for something that doesn’t matter all that much.

“Any new hires recently?”

“How recently?”

“Let’s go with—last two months.”

So it’s likely the drug has been around for at least a month. Ken wracks her brain for any new hires, but her thoughts are sluggish, like syrup. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t see as many people on her shifts as she used to.

“Yeah, there’s been a few, I think. Seasonal hirers for the holidays coming up. They’re not the suspicious type though, two of them are in high school and the third is a bit older, but she cried once when she made an order wrong. Not the kind of people you’re after.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Names?”

Ken stared past Red Hood, into the store. If she wasn’t so fucking braindead she would probably remember their names better. As it was—

“Sarah, I think. And Mark and Druv,” she says slowly, sounding out each name to make sure it sounds right. “Wait, sorry. Not Mark, he left last year. I think the kid’s name is Matt. I’ve only met him once, though, so that could still be wrong.”

“Whatever, I’ll find it out one way or another.”

Ken nods, but whatever she was about to respond with is interrupted by a loud banging. Her head shoots up, gaze narrowed at the source of the noise. A gloved fist is hammering away at the window pane, uncaring of the smudges left on the glass. Beyond that, she can make out a large figure, bundled in a black heavy coat and matching hat. Even without his face being visible, his anger comes in loud and clear, emphasis on the loud.

Red Hood swears. Ken’s a little impressed by all the names he can come up with on the spot. She feels a similar frustration, shooting a glance and the time and cursing herself for forgetting about her regular. With a hurried step, she’s shuffling out beyond the counter, key in hand.

“Don’t let him in,” Red Hood demands.

“Do you want me to get fired?” she snaps back.

“What kind of dumbass can’t see that the store is closed? It’s fucking rude, that’s what it is.”

“It’s not like the light is off, he may not being able to see much, but he can see that. Also, he comes here a couple times a week around this time, so he probably thinks it locked by mistake.”

“Well, there’s a sign right there. Are all your customers idiots?”

“Only most of them,” she calls back.

She steps in front of the window, where the man is using over-exaggerated gestures to point between her and the door. She’s tempted to roll her eyes, but that’s not in the list of customer-friendly approved reactions. Instead, she throws an apologetic shrug. She puts the key into the lock, slightly relieved it still seems to fit after whatever Red Hood did to it. Before she turns it, though, she pauses and looks back the the vigilante. Any sort of casualness is gone, he’s standing up straight now, feet wide in a fighting stance.

“Red Hood? Could I please ask you not to kill or maim this guy? That would also probably get me fired.”

“As long as the guy doesn’t ask for it, we’ll be good.”

Ken pales, thinking of what little she knows of the regular outside the door. She tries to stay as ignorant as possible to her customers occupations, but even she can tell he’s involved in some shady shit.

“And if he maybe works for Black Mask?” she asks tentatively.

Red Hood swears again, and she winces.

“Maybe you could hide in the back room?” she suggests. “At least until he leaves. It’ll be bad for business if he thinks I’m consorting with a mask.”

Red hood shakes his head. “No—“ he reaches over the counter and grabs an empty coffee mug and a lid. “I’m gonna take this, and sit over there.” He points at one of the many empty tables. “And if fucking Black Mask goon number two has a problem with it, he can deal with me himself.”

He does exactly as he says, fitting the lid onto of his empty cup and setting down on the table in front of him. He sits down, leg folding over his knees like he’s been there for awhile, and then he pulls out a book of all things. His eyes scan the page like he’s really reading it. It’s a worn thing, too. She can see white cracks along the spine, and she has no idea where something of that size was hidden in his suit.
Ken turns the key in the lock, and readies herself for the storm.

“I’m so sorry for the mix up,” she gushes as the door swing opens. The man’s expression is twisted something awful, like he had been chewing straight lemon rinds. “The lock has been acting up and has been bolting on accident.”

He looks like he has words to say, and not particularly nice ones, so Ken practically jogs back behind the counter and continues talking before he can get a word in.

“Four large coffees, yes? One with 2% and another with a splash of non-fat and Stevia? I’ll make it as quick as I can. I promise you’ll be on your way in no time, so you’re not late to your shift.”

At this, the man appears somewhat appeased. He shakes out his sleeves like he’s brushing off invisible snow, and the lemon rind look dissolves into his usual frown. She lets out a small huff of relief through her nose, blow out averted.

She pulls out the carafe to check its temperature and praises the gods that it’s still hot. She lines up four large to-go cups and starts pouring the coffee down the line like they’re shots. Another minute later and the milk and sugar is in, jug caps and empty packets lining the counter like spoils in battle. She pops the the drinks into a carrier and sets it down in front of the man, the one with Stevia closest to him. She uses one hand to point at each drink and call out the order while the other rings it up on the register.

“$12.14.”

He swipes his card, and she feels second-hand embarrassment as the machine beeps back at him. Every week he swipes when the machine asks for chip, but she doesn’t dare correct him. The first and only time she did, she learned her lesson. It was obvious he hasn’t learned his though, when he tries to swipe it again. She bites the inside of her cheek, knowing this is going to take a minute. She accidentally makes eye contact with Red Hood, who seems to be distracted from his book by the incessant noise. They share a similar expression of exasperation, and it makes her look away before she’s tempted to laugh.

Finally, the card goes through. The man snatches his carrier with a glare. She would be more offended by if she wasn’t stuck on the unnatural curve of his nose. She’d been too busy making the drinks and staving off his anger when he’d first come in to really get a look at him, but even then, he’s been a regular for awhile now. She doesn’t know how she didn’t notice it tonight, but it was absurdly crooked. It must have been broken at least five times for it to set that badly. She feels bad for him a little, because she doesn’t know how anyone could breath like that. Maybe the small wheezing noises she’d been hearing while making the drinks wasn’t her imagination, then.

She also had completely forgotten the customer hadn’t seen Red Hood yet, but she’s reminded when he turns to leave and practically jumps out of his shoes. Red Hood isn’t even looking this way. He’s gone back to his book, idly turning a page with a single finger. The motion causes his jacket to lift, once again showing the distinct gleam of that wicked looking gun. Ken raises a hand over her mouth before she can do something stupid, because there’s no way he isn’t aware of what he’s doing.

The man freezes in place, coffee carrier swaying precariously. She watches with bated breath as his hand twitches at his side, but except for a half-aborted motion towards his face, he doesn’t move an inch. Then he shifts his eyes resolutely on the floor and heads towards the door at twice the pace. When the door closes, Ken lets the smile pull across her face.

“No tip, huh?” Red Hood says from across the room. He snaps his book with a dramatic band and rises out his chair.

“I didn’t see you tip.”

He waits until he’s back in front of the register before he answers. He seems to be in a much better mood. Ken wouldn’t call it bouncing, because he’s an over-six-foot masked killer, but he definitely is enjoying himself.

“I didn’t buy anything.”

“The cup and lid is probably like 50 cents, technically.”

“My tip is my presence, and scaring that guy out of the store.”

“Scaring customers is bad for business,” she remarks dryly.

“His face is bad for business.”

Red Hood could just be making a joke, but there’s something knowing in how he phrases it. It reminds her too much of how Red Robin sounded about his listening bug. She feels a wave of annoyance wash over her, mostly directed at herself, for drawing comparisons and reminding her of things she didn’t need to think about right now.

Before she could project her feelings of another vigilante onto this one, she forces herself to talk. “He was particularly scared of you, though. Any reason?”

There it is. The smug grin on his face that tells her he was just waiting for her to ask.

“Let’s just say his nose wasn’t that crooked last week. Though it he must be wearing makeup because I couldn’t see any of the bruising.”

Yeah, and that explains why she got so fixated on his nose. She finds herself not that upset, the man was probably asking for it.

“Hey,” he interrupts before she can say anything about it. “Do you always leave your bags out like this?”

Ken follows his gaze to the side of the register. There’s the stacks of cups, two different sizes both hot and iced, and next to them are the to-go bags. Everything is piled high, something Ken likes to do when she’s bored and because she knows the morning shift will be appreciative of it when the rush hour comes.

“Like what?”

Red Hood, in one smooth motion, reaches next to the register and grabs a stack of the bags. “So easily accessible,” he says.

Ken perses her lips, and though she’s annoyed by his lack of boundaries—customers who reach over counters are rude—it’s small in comparison to her relief. Maybe it wasn’t an employee’s fault after all. It would be the absurdity of Gotham dealers to market their newest batch off of a random café.

“Yeah,” she admits. “At least for my shifts.”

“Damn, that means almost anyone could be taking the bags if they’re quick enough about it,” Red Hood points out. “Have you ever caught someone stealing a stack?”

Ken shakes her head. “No, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Especially when there’s only one employee. The person would be busy making the drink, and it’s not really a priority to pay attention to what the customer’s doing while they’re waiting.”

Red Hood looks annoyed, but Ken could care less when she’s saying nothing but the truth. He pulls out a device, and she’s surprised to see it’s a really outdated phone, the particular model at least five years old. She would have thought the man with such a fancy suit would have the tech to match, but obviously she’s wrong in that regard.

Then he’s shoving the screen in her face, and she reels back before her eyes cross at the short distance.

“Have you seen this man come in?”

She stares at the picture, cracked screen dividing an average looking face, floppy brown hair and a thin mouth. He looks like any stranger she passes on the street, but her gut is saying she’s never seen him. She shakes her head.

If Red Hood is disappointed, he doesn’t show it, just swipes to the next picture. She doesn’t recognize this one, or the one after that. Eventually, after she shakes her head yet another time, he tears his phone away.

“That was helpful,” he says sarcastically.

“Maybe I should have refused to say anything, since apparently I’m just wasting your time,” she bites back.

“Calm down, I’m not blaming you, kid. In fact, you’re doing the opposite of wasting my time, because you’re gonna be helping me out.”

Ken raises her eyebrows, not a fan of his assumption that she would volunteer herself to help him.

“Help with what?”

Red Hood leans into the counter, fingers drumming agains the fake wood.

“Nothing big. I just need to keep a closer eye on the bags this week. Pay attention to any customers who look suspicious. If you happen to see anyone taking more bags than normal, don’t confront them—it’s dangerous to do that—but write down anything you can remember about them. I’ll check in with you sometime later, probably a week or so, to see if you find anything. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out on the streets, and hopefully I can shut down the traffic before it becomes more of a problem.”

It wasn’t too out of her way, she would probably being keeping an eye out anyways now that she knows what she’s looking for. She doesn’t want to give in that easily, though.

“So like an informant?” Ken asks.

“No, because I’m not paying you. You’re gonna do this because I can tell you hate the idea of the café being involved with this mess just as much as I hate the situation in the first place. If the police start catching wind of this, they’re going to expect this place is part of the illegal activities as much as I did, and they would be much less willing to drop it. Me, there’s not much I can do to an entire café other than burn it down, and I wouldn’t do that except as a last resort. The police, on the other hand, they can shut it down permanently.”

She’s pretty sure he’s bluffing. But then again, there weren’t many people in Gotham who were a big fan of the police force. There’s definitely a rotten bunch mixed in there, and they’ve done worse things for less, as corrupt as they were.

“Fine,” she says. “But no more scaring my customers. Or closing the store without my permission. If I’m going to work with you’ll act like a normal person when you come in, and wait until I get a break to start the interrogation.”

“Deal,” he agrees readily, holding out a hand to shake. Maybe she should have negotiated the terms more if he was convinced so easily.

Ken slides her palm in his, and then they’re shaking on it. His grip is firm, but not bruising like expected. They let go, and the deal is done.

“I’ll check in soon, then,” Red Hood says, and turns towards the door.

On his way out, back still turned to her, he pulls out his magazine and reloads it back into the gun.

The night is young, apparently. Ken just hopes he waits until she’s out of hearing range before he uses it.

He pauses right before the exit. “Oh, I forgot to mention. There’s another person who works the other night shifts, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ken draws the syllable out, not liking where this is going.

“Tell them I’m going to stop by tomorrow. And don’t worry, I’m gonna do the same deal I did with you. Don’t tell them that, though. Just say I’m gonna stop by asking about a local crime. It doesn’t work if I don’t get their genuine reaction.”

He fucking winks, and it’s annoying as shit because he also leaves without waiting for her answer.

And yeah, Ken’s gonna text Yavin, who works tomorrow, but it’s not because Red Hood told her to. It’s because Yavin is nice, and sometimes bakes cinnamon rolls and leaves them in the back for them, and he deserves to know ahead of time if he’s about to be assaulted with the entire dramatic asshole that’s the Red Hood.

She sighs, opening her phone to the notes app so she can draft a text that somehow explains this without sounding insane.