Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne was a name well known in Gotham, even in Cobblepot’s Iceberg Lounge. Occasionally, he stopped by over the years. It was hard for him to get away with drinking since everyone in the city knew his age. Eight years plus the time since his parents’ deaths.
As a child, he had taken to wandering the streets by himself. Sometimes when he came to the lounge, he was covered in grime. The pair of shoes in a plastic bag smelled of the sewers. If his parents had been alive, he would have been seen as a rich kid playing in risky parts of town. Since they weren’t, people saw it differently.
On a day in cold January, when Bruce Wayne came into the lounge, Oswald Cobblepot went out to greet him. The lounge had heaters scattered near tables. Thugs from the underworld were intermixed with a few civilian friends and government officials.
The solitary child was easy to spot. A thin black scarf was wrapped around his face. His skin was pale but turning red from staying near the heater in the corner table.
“It’s a blizzard out there,” Oswald said. He sat down at the table, but he kept his distance. In his hands was a mixed drink with whiskey. It was the only thing keeping him warm.
“I know. I was out in it.”
“Do you remember your guardian’s phone number?” Cobblepot did not think of Pennyworth fondly, but he was aware of how the butler used to be a bodyguard for the Waynes. Alfred Pennyworth would have drilled his contact information into his charge’s mind.
Bruce turned his head. The scarf was slipping down. “No.” It was said in that flinty way of children trying to avoid talking to adults who didn’t understand.
Cobblepot had checked the radio by the bar before he came over. “It’s supposed to stop in three hours.” He waited for the kid to say something. “I’ll ask you again, then, whether you remember your guardian’s number.”
Bruce stared at the mob boss that ran a significant portion of the weapons trade in Gotham. He had enough good sense—or perhaps it was stubbornness holding up that small spine—to not openly argue.
“Okay then.” Cobblepot stood. He held up his cane and one of his waiters stopped, a nice young woman with pockmarked forearms. “Get this young man here some warm food. Chicken nuggets, ravioli, or something such as that.” He wasn’t sure what children liked to eat.
Cobblepot went back to the bar. He growled at the waiters teasing him over being nice to Bruce Wayne. About how he couldn’t just let a rich kid die on his property. He ignored how one of his staff had also brought the kid a blanket.
Two hours later, the lounge was less quiet. Someone had started a karaoke night. Cobblepot expected that it was the fault of some of his staff, but he let it go. Gambling could only amuse people for so long without starting fights. Free entertainment wasn’t bad.
Cobblepot wasn’t sure of the chain of events that led to Gotham school kids pushing each other on stage, but what he did know was that Harvey Dent had spotted Bruce Wayne and promptly dragged him out. It might have been an attempt at hazing or genuinely trying to get a friend to come out of his shell. Either way, Bruce Wayne had a good voice. It was not deep in the way it would be in a few years, but his voice held a smooth, mellow quality. He sang with a pace of his own, unlike how the other school children rushed ahead uncertainly. He had a voice made for jazz and lonely nights.
It was fortunate then, that it was a lonely night for the Iceberg Lounge. Even the gamblers in the far corner slowed down, heads turned to the stage.
When the storm died down, Cobblepot phoned the Wayne Manor and waited for Pennyworth. He stayed at the bar.
Bruce had come over. He had seen his butler at the entrance, waiting with a stormy expression. “You already had his number.”
Cobblepot inclined his head. He cackled quietly, even though the boy was frowning. “I did. Do you like Sinatra?”
“I haven’t listened to him.”
“He’s good. I think your voice would work well with his songs. When you are older, you will have the range.”
The kid didn’t seem to take that as a compliment and simply walked off.
Cobblepot watched the butler put another coat over top of the boy’s blanket. He wasn’t miserly enough to demand the blanket back. He would just consider it as payment for the song.
As a teenager, Bruce Wayne still sneaked down into the city and came by the Iceberg Lounge. He sometimes met up with schoolmates there; they tried and failed to get alcohol while he watched with hidden amusement. Bristol kids were deemed as the worst behaved of the boroughs children, enabled by their parents to try petty crimes to their hearts content and with the confidence of an old ship captain in a storm.
“If we called the police, they’d cart off all of you youngsters,” Cobblepot said.
“You wouldn’t,” Bruce replied.
This was indeed true. Cobblepot’s establishment did not play nice with the GCPD. He brushed off that the kid had called him out so bluntly on his grumbling. “Isn’t it a school night?”
“Isn’t it a work night? Don’t you have boring adult paperwork? Ledgers to write in?”
Cobblepot scowled. “I have an accountant.”
A few seconds later, Bruce said, “I don’t have a curfew.” There was something properly British about that tone and the arrogance. The influence of his guardian was apparent.
That sounded like a complete lie. Cobblepot raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t have one that Pennyworth can enforce. He has tried.”
That was much more believable.
Oswald Cobblepot and Bruce Wayne ignored how everyone else at the bar was giggling and calling Bruce some variation of ‘an adorable scamp.’
“I won’t call Pennyworth, as long as you get a taxi to go home soon. I will not have your butler breaking down my door with a shotgun.”
“Deal.”
Bruce did indeed get a taxi and went home, dropping off his tired schoolmates along the way.
Not long after, there was a span of time when Bruce Wayne, an older teenager, had not been seen and then suddenly he was at the Lounge with the new cohort of students at Gotham University. He had gotten a few bachelors while everyone looked away and blinked, then had gotten into the medical school.
Despite this, the baby fat clung and the growing awkwardness of what would be a large man someday was reflected in how Bruce Wayne scooted around the edge of the booth chosen by his cohort. Most of them left to gamble, but two joined the booth. The three there were Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane, and Bruce Wayne.
Harleen Quinzel drummed her fingers on the table. “I plan to be a psychiatrist. Arkham and the other prisons always need more.”
“I plan to stay in academia. Teaching and research work. I might change to a PhD program.” Crane had already ordered two drinks and was halfway through the second. He wasn’t drunk yet, simply because he hadn’t given it enough time to kick in.
The attitude towards alcohol in graduate school was rather close to ‘alcoholism is normal’.
“I want to just be a doctor, work in one of the clinics or hospitals. Dr. Leslie runs a clinic down the street. I…admire her work.” Bruce gave a fragile sort of smile, awkward.
He wanted to be a doctor like his father, Thomas Wayne. He didn’t say this and didn’t need to. Everyone who overheard knew.
The three talked further about themselves. Harleen enjoyed going to the old amusement park and cotton candy. Jonathan had been sorting through the university’s old journal as a favor to one of the professors. Bruce helped out at Dr. Leslie Thompson’s clinic and had taken on about four times the recommended load of classes to finish his college degrees.
And as Cobblepot passed by, he could hear their table singing along to one of his Sinatra records. He nodded towards them and did not stay.
Quickly afterwards, Jonathan Crane and Harleen Quinzel dragged Bruce Wayne to a poker table. It was a rough night for some regulars, as the broke medical students cleared out two tables of poker. According to what was said later that night, Bruce Wayne tried to hand over his earnings to another student but was declined. He bought ravioli for his cohort instead.
And then two years later, Bruce Wayne dropped out of medical school. Most people only knew this because Harleen Quinzel and Jonathan Crane complained about it at the Iceberg Lounge while drunk. Bruce Wayne had left Gotham and he stayed gone for a few years. He was supposedly on some sort of trip to find himself, or fund charities, or discuss how to expand across the seas.
Cobblepot and a few others thought it was a kidnapping, but nothing was found.
And Bruce Wayne did return home. Eventually.
“Call me Brucie,” the man said as he shook Cobblepot’s hand. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles that spoke of him having an exercise routine. His hands were calloused. That wide smile of his was perfectly white.
“Your hands are rather rough. Are you sure you were on vacation?”
“I got really into rock climbing.”
And with that, Brucie Wayne went on to talk to the others in the Lounge.
He winked and dropped pick up lines to the wait staff. Nothing overly inappropriate, just cheesy. He got them to laugh. He persuaded two of the waitresses to sit with him and ordered a whole cheesecake. One of the women had been around at the Lounge for years, and the other was a rookie running herself to death in new heels despite how most of the staff wore flats here.
Cobblepot was keeping an eye on Wayne’s table. He had never seen Bruce flirt with anyone, even when he was in medical school and drunk med students were piled next to him. He had seemed immune to anyone’s charm and now he was, charmingly, all over everyone like a puppy. Bruce was drunk, definitely. That was probably contributing to this behavior. Some people were flirty drunks, getting more thirsty the more they drank.
A rebound was possible. Maybe Bruce had met someone abroad and was struggling to get over them. Cobblepot didn’t care; as long as none of his staff got caught in some sort of scandalous affair with a dramatic reveal about a Mrs. Wayne coming to America soon.
The night went on uproariously, with Bruce Wayne deciding to buy a round of drinks for everyone. Cobblepot had been explicitly included in that gift by Brucie raising a glass and winking at him.
The only hiccup was some complete idiot, sat at the other side of Bruce Wayne’s table, caging in the women in the round booth.
“Who are you?” Brucie Wayne slurred. He shifted over, giving more room to the waitresses.
The man quickly glanced over at Wayne. “Harker.”
Wayne lifted a hand and waved him along. “Move, please. I don’t know you.”
“It’s fine. These girls know me.” Harker tried for charming and failed.
“We don’t.” The more senior of the waitresses, Erica, was being a barrier between Harker and the rookie waitress Jessica. Her tone was clear and serious. She had picked up her plate of half-eaten cheesecake. It was clear she wanted to throw it at Harker.
Brucie Wayne’s head moved in a jerky up and down motion. He had had four glasses of wine. “They don’t know you. Move, please.”
“I was wrong then. We’ll be friends from now on.” Harker put his arm around Erica.
Wayne stood up. “Mr. Harker, my friend, won’t you move to another table? The ladies seem uncomfortable, sir.”
Everyone else heard. No one was running to help or running away. Nothing was dangerous yet. They just waited. They wanted to see.
This Brucie Wayne who came back was a nice fellow. He was a man, not a rich orphan. He had gone to school here and helped at the clinic. They remembered him.
However, this cheer was more suited to Metropolis.
Those watching were rewarded.
Bruce Wayne grabbed onto Harker’s arm and punched him in the face.
Harker sputtered as he was dragged onto the floor and over to the bar. His hands were clasped over his nose. Red was dripping down through his fingers, onto his clothes and the floor.
Wayne even took a hand off Harker to wave off the bouncers. He let go of the man. “I know you don’t like clients to fight, but I only punched him once to get him to stop. Sorry about the blood.”
The restraint had been clear. Most of the others here would have gotten into a full on fight, both coming out bloody by the end of it. Wayne wasn’t making it personal. He was just dealing with a problem.
Cobblepot drank the rest of his scotch, paid for by Brucie Wayne. “It’s fine,” he decided. “I don’t think anyone here saw nothing, but if we did, it was definitely justified.” He slipped off the bar stool and leaned down on his cane. “Mr. Harker, I’m very dissatisfied with how you’ve treated my staff. I will be banning you. If you come back, my security will be very happy to rebreak that nose.” He tapped the side of the man’s face with his cane.
Indeed, Brucie Wayne still had Gotham spine of steel. He moved on quickly. Instead of another round of drinks, he ordered a round of desserts and wings enough for everyone. He wiped his bloodied knuckles off with a handkerchief that was embroidered by disciplined hands with a BW.
Cobblepot could see that kid now. These were the same black hair, blue eyes. Bruce Wayne had grown into his mantle in a strange way considering how gloomy Gotham was, but perhaps it made sense. Why shouldn’t the city’s golden boy and prodigal son in one be someone that finally was ridiculously nice and polite with a Gotham right hook. It was okay with Cobblepot. The city needed more businessmen that had a code of honor.
He somewhat regretted his kind thoughts towards Wayne when the man had another three drinks and started doing flips on the dance floor. Brucie Wayne made enough of a spectacle that everyone else cleared a circle at least. Then, the rich man talked to the DJ, bobbed his head to a loud song with the lyrics ‘dra-gu-la’, and started a weird aggressive dance with other young people who apparently knew the song as well. It was surprising that no injuries happened.
Only two and a half weeks later, Batman appeared. It took one interrogation and four warehouses before Cobblepot decided to take a break from weapons trading. He was just glad that Batman had some restraint. He could be in prison right now, but instead he was just sitting in his lounge and watching Brucie drink three of his bouncers under the bar.
A/N
Shout out to the several friends that I bothered about these ideas, and the help brain storming. Tagged gift off whose users here I remembered.
-Silver