Behold, a Bat (and it's Many Hats)

Bruce Wayne Over the Years

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?"