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The man in the corner is vaguely familiar.
Darla tops off his coffee on her next round, nodding at him as he shifts the mug forward into her reach. The man -- hunched over, hair obscuring most of his face -- doesn’t blink as the burning carafe passes inches from his face.
He lifts the mug to his lips as soon as she’s done, returning to his far-off gazing in the window; dissociating in the neon glow of Gotham’s skyline.
Darla spots a regular coming in -- three eggs, over easy, side of bacon and sourdough toast -- and lets him be, heading over to check in on Roger. The three am crowd isn’t chatty, but they are mostly friendly -- and Roger’s daughter recently had a baby, which he’s likely keen to talk about.
In between orders, she puzzles over the glimpse of cheekbones and jaw she’d seen, wracking her memory for a name.
He’s not homeless, not just looking for a warm seat and the cheapest ticket to stay. Far from it -- the coat thrown haphazardly over pajama pants is real wool, stitched in an understated way that screams wealth, even in bizarre juxtaposition over threadbare sweatpants.
Darla tops off his coffee three more times, mildly impressed with the amount of diluted caffeine he forces down. Her offer of food is nodded aside, a polite no thank you disappearing into the freshly-poured mug.
She doesn’t ask what he’s doing there, or if he plans to chug coffee all night until the skyline he’s glued to lights up in the sunrise. As long as he’s not a threat -- and the prettyboy banker types rarely are -- she’s content to let him stay as long as he needs.
He leaves at first light, gathering his fancy coat around him and leaving a stack of cash on the counter that has her sweating under her makeup.
Maybe shitty linoleum seats are better for thinking than whatever fancy ergonomic chairs in his office are. Regardless, he’s in his booth in the corner again on her next shift, staring out the same window.
Next to his coffee mug, there’s a stack of unmarked manila folders. She makes sure not to let the carafe drip as she freshens his mug, clocking the pen and post-it notes next to it.
Whatever he’s working on, it’s always out of sight when she passes by. She catches a flash of scrawled notes once -- something that looks like a ledger -- and he politely looks away as she refills his mug for the umpteenth time.
Studying his profile as she pours, the name clicks in her head like she knew it would. Even downturned, that face is unmistakable, and the realization thunders lightly in her mind.
Bruce Wayne.
A wave of pity rolls through her, and she shrugs it off before he can see. With a smile, she ducks back into the kitchen to refill the carafe, the expression dropping as soon as her feet hit tile.
Poor little prince of Gotham, she thinks, refilling the carafe with a grim twist of her lips. Of course he’s lonely -- wouldn’t anyone be, up in that tower alone?
She’s heard rumors -- spoken and tabloid alike -- about shifting tides in the Wayne legacy. The sudden, albeit quiet, donations to shelters and job centers across the city hadn’t gone unnoticed. Not by folks like her.
Whatever path Thomas Wayne had imagined for Gotham, it seemed like his son was taking a different one.
A year out from the flood, she can still see the flashing cop car lights behind her eyelids.
She hadn’t been on shift that night, but the arrest Lucinda described to her -- days after the Riddler was locked up and Gotham sat under ten feet of water -- was jarring.
To know that their diner had been at the epicenter of all of it -- to know Vengeance himself had stood on the doorstep and looked in through those very same windows -- well.
It was Gotham. She couldn’t, in good conscience, expect any less.
She doesn’t know what Bruce Wayne, of all people, is doing here. If he was chasing anonymity, a diner in the middle of downtown isn’t quite the place, even if it is quiet for the few hours he haunts her booth.
But. He’s welcome all the same.
She’s at the register when the man with the gun comes stumbling in.
It’s 4 AM on another endless, rainy night in Gotham, and she cuts off the sigh before it escapes her. Being held up for the thirty dollars in the register is hardly abnormal, but it still comes out of her paycheck, and damn, but it stings.
She puts her hands up and steps back from the register, glancing around the diner for any patrons.
Roger had left sometime in the last few minutes, taking his granddaughter’s photos with him. The only one left was--
Bruce was watching them from his booth, suddenly seated on the opposite side of the table. His hair was finally out of his face, revealing sharp blue eyes unerringly trained on the gun.
Not again, Darla thinks to herself, half-frantic, he can’t see this again--
“The money,” the man says, gesturing with the gun at her face, “Now.”
The tip of the gun grazes her cheek, and Bruce is suddenly there, an arm wrapped around the robber’s neck. He shoves the gun down and out of her face, yanking him up and backward with the strength of a far larger man.
The robber’s dispatched quicker than she can blink, on his ass clutching his wrist with a stunned expression on his face. There’s pain there, yes -- but also recognition, and on its bootheels, the beginnings of shame.
Darla swallows loudly in the ensuing silence. She drops her hands.
Bruce palms the gun, stripping it with an expression of mild distaste. He sets the pieces down on the counter next to the register, turning to her.
“Don’t call the cops,” he says softly, whether for his benefit or the man’s -- it’s not clear, “Get some ice. I’ll talk to him.”
When she comes back out of the kitchen, clutching a ziplock full of ice, Bruce has the man up in the booth, talking quietly over a business card.
The would-be robber, pale and still holding his wrist, nods along as Bruce explains something, gesturing at the door. Darla approaches the table, holding out the ice pack with an abrupt motion.
“Here,” she says, “If you need a towel so it doesn’t get too cold, let me know.”
The robber nods, exchanging a look with Bruce. There are faint tear tracks on his face, running down past his jaw.
Bruce tilts his head, waiting.
“I--uh, apologize, ma’am,” the man stutters out, looking up at her with bloodshot eyes. Darla softens, ever so briefly, “For putting a gun in your face. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.”
She accepts his apology with as much grace as she can muster, glancing curiously at Bruce. The younger man nods, seemingly appeased with this.
“You talk to that hiring manager,” he says, nodding at the business card still on the table, “Keep the job for a few weeks and I’ll reimburse you for the gun.”
“Yes sir,” the robber says, no hesitation as he addresses as man at least twenty years his junior, “I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce stands, lips twitching. “Good.”
The would-be robber leaves with the business card clutched like a lifeline in his hand, awe carved into his face as he stumbles into the morning sun.
Bruce returns to his booth, sitting on the normal side like he’d never left.
Darla cries in the kitchen for a quick thirty seconds -- despite this being her fourth hold up in as many months -- wipes her face, and walks out to continue her rounds with trembling hands.
She replaces Bruce’s gone-cold coffee with something fresh from the carafe, biting her lip as she swaps out the mugs entirely.
“Thank you,” she finally says, halting, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” Bruce says, back to staring out the window. This time, however, he lets his gaze flick up at hers, a flash of blue she appreciates nonetheless. “But you’re welcome.”
Darla sneaks a blueberry muffin onto his table a few days later, unable to express her gratitude further verbally. She watches as Bruce notices it, surprise swiftly following confusion across his face.
He abandons his ledgers and pens, leaning down and squinting at the muffin like it’s an alien specimen.
Eat it, she thinks, spying on him from the tiny kitchen window, You ridiculous skinny child. You can’t survive on coffee.
As if sensing the motherly guilt wafting from the kitchen, Bruce sighs, breaking apart the muffin delicately and putting a piece in his mouth.
Darla fist bumps herself in the small kitchen hallway. It’s $3.00 out of her paycheck -- all she can give him, really, other than coffee -- and she prays he understands.
He only eats a third of the muffin, but it’s a victory in her book. She packs it up for him in a small styrofoam container, radiating gratitude as he rouses to leave at sunrise.
His usual tip, when she collects it, has three perfectly folded dollars added on top.
Several months after he first haunts her diner, Bruce Wayne disappears.
Darla sees him on television as she walks home from her shift, weeks after she sees him last.
She pauses in the weak Gotham daylight as a familiar face comes on screen inside the nearby deli, hanging over the crowd of morning coffee zombies.
The hours of reading and writing in her booth must have paid off; Wayne Enterprises launches publicly to great applause and record successes, its boyish CEO waving from the front of the crowd as he opens the New York Stock Exchange.
The news anchors call it a “historic time” for Gotham, leveling video of Thomas Wayne’s Revitalization launch alongside the live feed. There’s talk of an “unprecedented” community fund, overseen by the Wayne Foundation, and endowed directly from company profits.
Darla smiles, thinking back to the quiet, hesitant man working tirelessly to make it happen, and steps back into the morning light.
It’s a beautiful sunrise.