Chapter Text
“And your change is $3.67, thanks for coming in.” Bruce finished lamely. The customer was a regular and, used to the unenthused parting, thanked Bruce and walked out of the now empty coffee shop. One would think at 10:06 a.m., such a shop would be bustling with business, unfortunately for the shop, and fortunately for Bruce, the place was practically invisible in one of the many dark alleys of Gotham. The amount of people that even know about the places’ existence can be counted on three hands, including the two people currently running the shop. Speaking of, Alfred swiftly walks out of the back kitchen, toweling his hands dry and looking, surprisingly, well put together for someone that has been slaving away, making pastries for the last three hours.
“Have a lovely day Mrs. Brown, stay dry out there!” He calls to the patron, his voice taking on a jovial cadence. Just before stepping out into the rain, the elderly woman flashes Alfred a smile and echoes his sentiments. “You know you could stand to be a bit more friendly. It wouldn’t kill you, I promise.” Alfred turns his attention to Bruce, who predictably has gone back to reading whichever book has caught his attention for the week. Bruce glances up at Alfred over the pages and lets out a soft sigh through his nose.
“It’s not friendliness our regulars keep coming back for, Alfred.” Bruce reasons, and he was right. The main attraction for The Morning Grounds are the varied and high-quality coffees the shop offers and the freshly baked pastries that complement them.
“Well, perhaps if you put in a little more effort in the customer service department, we’d have more than just twelve customers come in a day. People recommend shops based mostly on their quality of service over anything else, Master Bruce.” Alfred pushes on, quirking an eyebrow at Bruce. He’s obviously been reading those Guides to Business books again, Bruce thinks and knows better than to say out loud.
“You know if we have a steady stream of customers, you’ll have to actually hire staff and I won’t be able to work here anymore.” Bruce shifts his eyes back to his book.
“Is that not what you have wanted since I first commandeered your help?” Alfred shot back.
“I have no problem working here if it means I get to stand around with a good book, endless coffee and little to no social interaction.” Bruce gives Alfred a little too smug of a smile. “The only difference today, if I wasn’t here, would be location.” At this statement, Alfred furrows his brows and gives Bruce a look of slight worry. Uh oh.
“Really, Master Bruce? You know, sometimes I worry you don’t get out of the mansion often enough. It is one reason I was so insistent on having you here. I know how you love to hole yourself up in your room all day reading those case files, which you really must stop coercing Gordon into giving you. He may get into deep trouble for it. But getting out seeing the sun, or what little we have of it, seeing people, that’s important for your overall mental health. The last thing I want is for you to fall into a depressive state. I know, I know you’ve told me time and time again that your mental health is fine, but it is difficult for me to look at the way you seem to shield yourself away from the world and seeing you isolate yourself not giving other people the chance to get to know the wonderful and bright man I know you to be. It would be remiss of me not to check in with you every once in a while about how you are feeling, especially with your parents still out perusing in God knows where-”
At the mention of his parents, Bruce snaps his full attention back to Alfred. He knew which direction this type of speech went when his parents were mentioned. Soon he’ll consider the possibility of calling them. Perhaps they’d like to have a small visit to see for themselves how well Bruce is doing, and oh, of course, we must throw a party. It's been so long, let's invite all of Gotham’s elite and have Bruce shake hands, kiss ass, and attempt not to punch every single one of them. No, not happening.
“Is something burning?” Bruce quickly cut Alfred off.
“Oh! The scones!” Alfred’s eyes widened in realization and immediately left back the way he came, and into the kitchen. Bruce let out a sigh of relief. As much as he loved Alfred and his parents, the amount of coddling he received from them was stifling. Bruce turned back to his book, noting the time, indicated he should have a good hour before the next regular comes in.
The thought was quickly interrupted when the door jingled for the second time in less than five minutes. Biting back the urge to groan in annoyance and putting his book away, Bruce attempted to mold his face into something that could be described as a smile.
“Welcome to the Morning Grounds.” Bruce greeted what looked to be a young couple. A very well dressed woman was hanging off the arm of an equally well-dressed man and looked to have been caught off guard by the rain, as both were soaked, and making puddles where they stood. The man looks vaguely familiar to Bruce and based on his clothing he has likely seen him at a gala at some point or other. Gonna have to clean that up, Bruce thought bitterly watching the water on the floor growing in size. Neither seemed to take notice of Bruce or his greeting, the man instead shaking himself in a futile attempt to be free of water, but no doubt just creating a bigger mess. The woman, on the other hand, took a quick sweep of the tiny coffee shop and her eyes landed on the ATM, appraising it for a second before turning back to her companion.
“God, this rain is awful!” She complained loudly, her face twisting into an over dramatic pout.
“Sorry, baby, if I'd known this would happen I would’ve had us stay in bed all day.” The guy, Bruce thinks his name was Keith something-or-other, apologizes to her, putting a little too much sleaze into it. It doesn’t seem to bother the young woman by the way she flashes a smile and a few bats of her lashes back at him.
“Sounds like a plan for next time.” She replies, putting effort into making her voice breathy and moving her face closer to the other man’s. His face colors slightly at her suggestive tone and proximity before remembering he may have an audience. Composing himself the man looks around the tiny cafe finally spotting Bruce watching the two of them blankly behind the register.
“What are you looking at, freak?” The guy seemed to puff up with indignation and, if Bruce were to guess, insecurity at being watched.
“...Welcome to the Morning Grounds…” Bruce attempted a second greeting, despite the sudden hostility. The sooner they leave the better, Bruce decided, saying anything else would likely end in a fist fight and Alfred worried enough. The man only glared in reply before the woman interjected.
“Oh! Coffee sounds great right now!” She took a few extra steps to the counter, flashing a smile to Bruce, before scanning the menu, and after a few seconds her companion begrudgingly joined her. “Hmmm, I’ll have a skinny latte and… a slice of tiramisu.” Bruce writes down her order if only to give his hands something to do and turns to the man.
“Anything for you, sir?” Bruce prompts, trying to make his voice as neutral as possible.
“...Yeah, a black coffee.” He said, staring at Bruce with confusion. Shit. Can he tell who I am?
The notion that Bruce Wayne, son and heir of the richest family in Gotham is working at a hole in the wall coffee shop is ridiculous. Not to mention how the guy has hardly left his mansion since the age of eight unless his parents are in town. Bruce can feel a slight sweat build up on his forehead and inwardly curses at himself. Maybe I should have gone heavier on the makeup. Shit, shit shit shit.
“Did you want me to pay?” A soft voice pipes up, effectively distracting the man from scrutinizing Bruce, who let out a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“No no no, sweetheart, I’m taking care of you today.” The man gave her a grin and reached into his coat pocket, but after a second his grin disappeared. He went for his other pocket and after, once again, no wallet was produced, started patting himself in what could almost be described as a strange dance that, if Bruce were a less composed person, would make him burst into laughter. To both Bruce’s and the woman’s credit they only starred in growing concern.
“Maybe it fell out in the car?” The woman suggested, her voice only conveying worry.
“Shit… yeah must’ve.” The man replied reluctantly, finally producing something from his coat, a phone. “I’m gonna have to call Melvin to come back with it, I’ll be a minute.” The man held the phone up to his ear, having already dialed, Bruce assumed, his driver and walked back out into the rain which had let up by a considerable amount, for privacy.
The woman he came in with made a beeline for the ATM, pulling a wallet out from under her coat that didn’t really match her style. She made quick work of taking out a solid black card and sliding it into the machine.
Huh, was really the first thing Bruce could think before the situation caught up to him. “Um…” Crap, what is he even supposed to say? So much for all the true crime podcasts and detective novels he’s read, reality is always so much more overwhelming. Bruce once again feels himself breakout in a sweat, but this time his heart starts beating wildly as well, as images flash through his mind. What if she’s armed? Why did you open your mouth? What if you’ve put yourself and Alfred in danger? Bruce could feel that he was starting to spiral, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Sorry, but you know how it is.” The woman’s voice had changed in tone, and held more of an accent belonging to Gotham than she had originally allowed. Despite her hurry to get to the ATM, her body language appeared relaxed, and she offered Bruce a half-smile, as if she wasn’t committing a crime. The casualty of it, ironically, helped Bruce relax though only slightly. Before Bruce could work up the courage to speak again the sound of bills shuffling from the machine filled the silence instead. The woman’s smile widened to full as she collected her prize, stashed it, and the wallet back into her coat and strolled back over to the counter.
“I like your make-up by the way, very bold.” She comments to Bruce, pointing to his eyes where he had applied a heavy amount of black eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner. Practically, it helped Bruce hide his identity from customers, but another part of it helped Bruce feel like he didn’t have a target on his back and he was just another Gothamite. Bruce was so surprised at how genuine the compliment seemed and still coming down from his anxiety spike could only give a quiet thanks back. They stood there for a bit before the woman broke the silence again.
“So, uh, I still want my order…I can pay.” She said amusedly sliding one of her (stolen) twenty-dollar bills on the counter toward Bruce.
Bruce, now flustered, immediately starts brewing her latte, while also attempting to gather his thoughts. What do I do now? Should I call Alfred for help? Why is she acting so casual, like I won’t report her? Bruce glances at the woman, who has turned her attention to watching the rain drizzle down glass pane windows of the shop.
“What an awful view…” She says with some humor in her voice and, seemingly, directed at no one. She’s right, only two feet across from those big windows is the solid brick wall of the neighboring building. Her companion (victim) isn’t in sight, but probably didn’t go too far. Bruce couldn’t explain why, but to this comment he finally found his voice again.
“Not like the streets are much better.” It came out a little more bitter than was probably necessary. The alley facing windows were, like the rest of the shop, Alfred’s idea. “Exposure Therapy” he had called it. Yeah, right, even now the thought of confronting the woman about what she just did is making Bruce feel sick to his stomach. Exposure therapy, real helpful.
“Yeah.” The woman replied, adding some bitterness to her own inflection, but didn't dine to add anything more. Bruce finished up both drinks and placed the cake into a to-go container. He didn’t bother to ask if they were staying.
“For…?” Bruce attempted at last to get some information from her.
“...Selina.” She answered not quite reluctantly, but with an edge of caution. Of course the name could be fake and she’s obviously a good actress. And just in time the bell over the door rings again and the man walks in, his face pinched with worry.
“Mel couldn’t find it in the car, but it’s probably just under one of the seats.” He tries to play it cool, but both Bruce and ‘Selina’ could see the front for what it was.
“Hey, don’t worry, it’ll turn up.” ‘Selina’ reassures him, picking up the cup of black coffee and offering it to him. “Here, I took care of it.”
“...Thanks.” The man attempts to smile, but it’s obviously not genuine, a muscle seems to twitch at his temple.
‘Selina’ gathers her items and moves to loop her arm around her companion’s and before they’re out the door, she turns her head and throws a wink to Bruce. Bruce looks down at the twenty still on the counter and realizes he never gave her change.