Chapter Text
The first time Steph noticed it, it was edging into three o’clock in the morning after an alert at Arkham called all hands on deck, and she was too exhausted to do more than register the light over the door of a boarded-up storefront and a written sign she half-squinted at before dismissing it in favor of crawling back home and into her bed.
She was still half-asleep at breakfast, and she made it all the way to the bus stop before remembering the sign. She jogged back and found the right storefront—windows covered by steel shutters, front door completely blacked out, and a wooden sign nailed haphazardly to the door frame.
‘Red Hood’ the sign proclaimed.
‘CLOSED’ the sign underneath stated.
Steph made her way back to the bus stop, missed her bus, and glowered all the way on her walk to school. She ended up missing first period.
The light was on again as Steph returned from patrol, and she paused on the opposite building to peer curiously at the store. There was no fancy script or banner, nothing to indicate what kind of shop had taken up space on the corner next to a dark alley.
Someone with a scarf pulled up over the bottom part of their face slouched up to the front door, opened it, spilling a circle of light over the street, and disappeared inside.
She waited five minutes, but no one reappeared, and she headed back home.
Steph planned better this time. She got ready fifteen minutes early—it was supposed to be thirty, but alarms were the work of the devil—and headed to the Red Hood. Only to be met with a ‘CLOSED’ sign again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Steph said flatly. What kind of shop was open at three in the morning, but not at eight?
She attempted to peer through the gaps of the black paint that covered the front door, but the shop was dark and she couldn’t see anything.
“It closes when the sun comes up,” a voice came from behind her, and she very nearly jumped out of her skin.
She turned to see a haggard-looking twenty-something staring mournfully at the locked door. “Best coffee in a ten mile radius,” the probable-college-student told her, “But only open during the night.”
Steph watched them shuffle off, and eyed the door again.
Like that wasn’t suspicious at all.
This was Crime Alley, every shop was a front for someone, she’d just never seen anyone be so blatant about it.
Luckily, during the night was exactly when Spoiler operated.
The light was on when she dropped by—before the start of her patrol, and a half hour before she had to meet Robin in the East End. The sign was now turned to ‘OPEN’, but the blackout paint made it very difficult to see anything through the front door—she caught a glimpse of plain tile and a stray chair.
Steph crept to the alley where—yep, there was a side entrance. It was locked, but she knew how to take care of that, and a minute later, she was turning the knob and slowly easing inside.
No alarm sounded, and she emerged in what looked like a hallway between the main shop and a room behind it—the door to the room was closed, but the door leading to the shop was open, letting in warm yellow light and a faint humming. The smell of coffee filled the air.
“You know,” a low voice drawled from the shop, “I have a front door for a reason.”
Steph froze.
She didn’t move for two heart-stopping seconds, but the conversation didn’t continue and no one emerged from the shop. Steph slowly crept towards the back door, intending to poke around a little. Good old-fashioned detective work.
She readied her lock-picks and stretched a hand out to the doorknob—
“The door’s electrified,” the low voice said blandly. Steph jerked to a stop.
She eyed the hallway again—no cameras, no people, no alarms as far as she could see. She eased back from the door and kept one hand on her emergency beacon as she edged towards the other door.
The shop seemed…plain. Five tables with mismatched chairs hugged the bare walls, the countertop was cracked and faded, decorated solely by a tray with a dozen pastries, and behind the counter was a basic coffee machine, an unmarked box of coffee beans, a unlabeled jar of what she hoped was sugar, a bottle of cream, and a young man stretched out in a chair with a worn book in his hands.
The guy looked up when she entered from the back, something sharp and amused in the corners of his mouth. He was dressed in sturdy jeans and a faded Wonder Woman T-shirt—the slouch did nothing to hide his trained posture, or the way his eyes flicked over her costume, lingering on the pockets of her belt and her gloved fists.
The shirt and clinically assessing gaze gave him points. Steph wasn’t used to people taking Spoiler seriously, and she respected a man that could wear a Wonder Woman shirt in Gotham.
“You look a little short to be Batman,” the guy said.
Steph glared, respect immediately gone. “I’m Spoiler,” she snapped.
The guy frowned. “Spoiler, like ‘I beat people up while yelling out book spoilers’?” he asked.
Steph stared at him. “No,” she said sullenly, “Spoiler, as in, I spoil evil plans.”
The guy didn’t respond. He didn’t have to—his raised eyebrow did a clear job of conveying his judgement.
Steph marched over to the right side of the counter and leaned against it, still glaring.
“Yes?” Rude Coffee Guy asked lazily, turning back to his book.
“What is this place?”
“It’s a coffee shop,” Rude Coffee Guy replied, managing to convey a wordless ‘duh’ without ever looking up from his book.
“This is the saddest coffee shop I’ve ever seen,” Steph said flatly, taking another glance around the room. There were three other occupants, each sitting at different tables, each half-asleep in a cup of coffee and paying absolutely no attention to their conversation.
“No one asked you,” Rude Coffee Guy said mildly.
“No, really, it’s pathetic.”
“Ouch.”
“Do you actually get paid to work here?” Steph asked. She couldn’t imagine that this place made much money. She sidled over to look at the tray—‘PASTRIES’ the sign proclaimed, ‘$2’. Underneath was two lines detailing allergen information, but made no mention of other ingredients.
“I own the place so, technically, no.”
Steph snapped her gaze back to Rude Coffee Guy.
“You own this place,” she said in tones of deep skepticism, “Yeah, right, how old are you?”
Rude Coffee Guy looked up, met her gaze, and said, with a straight face, “Twenty-five.”
Steph looked at him. At strangely vibrant green eyes, the lock of bleached hair falling into his eyes, and the heavy jut of his jaw. She would eat her left boot if the guy was older than twenty.
“Uh-huh,” she responded, still skeptical. Rude Coffee Guy turned back to his book.
“Leave,” he said, “I have a very strict ‘no vigilantes allowed’ policy.”
Steph leaned further on the counter, but stopped short of saying ‘make me’ because she wasn’t twelve.
“I’m a paying customer,” Steph informed him, “I’d like a coffee.”
Rude Coffee Guy sighed, deep and put-upon, and straightened out of his chair—Steph hastily leaned back. Sitting down, he’d looked dangerous. Standing, nearly a foot taller than her and movements quick and silent, he looked like a threat.
Definitely something fishy going on. People who moved like that didn’t operate hole-in-the-wall coffee shops.
“Cream and sugar?” he asked, in a tone of absolute boredom.
“Two cream and four sugars,” Steph responded.
Rude Coffee Guy slowly turned towards her, and Steph flushed at his silent judgement. Sue her for not liking bitter things.
He prepared her coffee the way she wanted, though, all of his movements in easy view as he poured in cream and sugar and stirred it before offering the cup—takeaway, not a mug, the hint was obvious—and said, blank, “That’ll be $2.25.”
Steph counted out the exact change and handed it to him before snatching her coffee and stalking out the door—the front one this time.
Holy shit, this was the most delicious coffee she’d ever had. She took back every uncomplimentary thought she’d had about the shop.
On the downside, it was definitely a front.
Unfortunately, she’d already played her hand as Spoiler. Sure, she could’ve asked Tim or Batman, but Crime Alley was hers. They didn’t get to butt in on her territory. And so Steph waited for her mom to leave for the night shift and, instead of getting dressed for patrol, headed out as Stephanie Brown.
Sure enough, the shop was open.
She warily poked her head inside—the same collection of three random people as yesterday. One was the maybe-college-student she’d run into, hunched over a textbook, another was contemplating the cracks on the wall, their callused hands curled around a mug, and the last looked like they were completely passed out on the table, their mug full and steaming.
She made her way to the counter—Rude Coffee Guy was sitting in the same chair, a different book in his hands.
“Hi,” Steph cleared her throat.
“Hello,” Rude Coffee Guy responded, not looking up.
Steph stared at him. He ignored her.
“Is this the coffee shop that’s open throughout the night?” she asked.
“Sunset to sunrise,” Rude Coffee Guy confirmed.
“I’d like a coffee, please,” she said. Rude Coffee Guy straightened, giving her a dispassionate once-over as he made his way to the machine with significantly less whining than the night before.
“Cream and sugar?” he asked in disinterest.
“Two cream and—” oh shit, he’d remember yesterday’s order if she ordered the same thing, “No sugar.”
“Here or to go?”
“Here, please.”
Rude Coffee Guy finished her order and put the mug on the counter, “$2.25.”
Steph eyed the pastries. It looked like blueberry scones tonight. Ah, hell, she was starving anyway.
“And one scone.”
“$4.25.”
Steph took her order and drifted to one of the two empty tables, choosing a chair that offered her a good view of everyone in the shop, including Rude Coffee Guy.
She drew out the scone, nibbling at it and resisting the urge to scarf the whole thing down because it was the best blueberry scone she’d ever had—this guy could be a pastry chef, and he was sitting in a dingy, shuttered coffee shop in Crime Alley.
Something didn’t add up. About the guy. About the shop.
But nothing was standing out at her. None of the other three occupants made a single suspicious move. Rude Coffee Guy kept reading his book. Steph choked down every sip of her coffee, fighting back a grimace at the too-bitter taste, and dallied at her seat for as long as possible.
She ended up staying an hour. Six more people came in and out, each taking their coffee and leaving.
It was just a coffee shop.
That operated solely during the dark.
In Crime Alley.
It had taken her till Monday to get a free night—she’d teamed up with Robin for a bust down by Tricorner Yard, and then she’d had her normal patrol, and then homework, and then her mom was home for a night—but now she was finally free to start solving the mystery of the Red Hood.
She’d set up her stakeout a few minutes before sunset, on a roof that offered a view of both the front door and side alley entrance.
Definitely-college-student was hovering in front of the shop a minute into her watch. As soon as the streets went dark, the light flicked on and the door unlatched—Rude Coffee Guy opened the door and reached out to flick the sign to ‘OPEN’.
Either he’d gotten to the shop before her, or there was an entrance she didn’t know about, or he lived above the place.
Steph glanced over the darkened windows on the second floor. She’d need some more reconnaissance before she tackled those, especially if the guy had been serious when he said that he’d electrified the doorknob.
Six hours later, Steph had recorded fifty people entering the shop, and forty-eight leaving. None of them had obvious gang or Rogue affiliations. No suspicious packages or crates delivered to either the front or side entrances. Nothing suspicious at all.
If this had been any other city on the planet, Steph would be tempted to drop the surveillance. There was clearly not a shortage of people desperate for coffee in the middle of the night, and the bare furnishings didn’t exactly hint at any unexpected revenue stream.
But this was Gotham. And things were rarely ever that simple in Gotham.
She rubbed at her eyes and sighed. There was no way she’d be able to stay awake for another six hours.
She dropped down to street level, and used the front door this time.
The two occupants of the shop didn’t blink at her presence. Rude Coffee Guy merely sighed when she reached the counter.
“Spoiler,” he said, straightening out of his chair and walking towards the coffee machine.
He prepared her order the same way he had last time, adding two spoons of cream and four spoons of sugar without a single pause. “$2.25,” he said, dropping the takeaway cup on the counter.
Steph mournfully eyed the pastries—it looked like chocolate eclairs today, but she didn’t have the money to keep buying them—and paid for the coffee.
“You know,” she said as Rude Coffee Guy counted out her change, “I never caught your name.”
“That’s because I never gave it to you.”
“I can’t keep calling you Rude Coffee Guy in my head,” Steph said, and was taken aback at the rusty chuckle. Rude Coffee Guy looked as startled as her.
He sighed, “Jay.”
“Jay…?”
“Jay,” he repeated, clipped—and there was the glare. Steph took the hint.
“Thanks for the coffee, Jay!” she said brightly, and took the cup back up to the rooftop to continue spying on Jay’s coffee shop.
When the sun rose, her eyes felt like they’d been shriveled in an oven, and she hadn’t gotten a single clue as to what was up with the Red Hood.
Steph had to get ready for patrol in less than thirty minutes, but she was half-asleep and she needed coffee, and it wasn’t her fault that the closest coffee shop open at this time of night was also the same one she’d been intermittently surveilling.
“Sugar,” she said when Jay finished stirring in the cream, “Four spoons.” Forcing herself to drink bitter coffee wasn’t worth it, even if Jay gave her a sharp look. “Need to stay awake,” she explained, “So much homework.”
“I bet,” Jay muttered, almost under his breath, but added the four spoons of sugar. “$2.25.”
Steph fumbled through her pockets for her wallet, and automatically stepped to the side when she heard the door creak open and heavy footsteps lumbering forward. She rescued one crumpled bill on her back pocket, found a quarter in another, and patted down the others.
“This is a nice coffee shop,” the newcomer said, voice low and rough.
Steph looked up at that, a skeptical look on her face, because she was ready to worship the coffee but it was by no means a nice shop—and froze.
Tall. Heavyset. Rings glinting on tattooed fingers. A smarmy smile on his face.
“You should have it insured, you know,” the man said, leaning on the counter and getting into Jay’s face. Jay stared back, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
“No thanks,” Jay replied bluntly.
Steph almost choked.
“Are you sure? So many things can happen to a shop like this. Fire. Robberies. Violence. Protection is always nice.”
“I can protect myself,” Jay said levelly.
The man leaned forward, clearly intending to loom over Jay, but the younger man merely narrowed his eyes.
“Either buy a coffee or get out,” Jay snapped.
The man glared. “You’re going to regret that,” he said as he turned away.
Jay scoffed.
Steph pretended she was invisible, and silently drew out the second dollar bill before pushing the money onto the countertop, taking her coffee, and leaving.
Jay hadn’t been intimidated.
That could be bravado, except Jay spoke with a Crime Alley drawl, and any native knew exactly what ‘protection’ meant.
It could be security—the gangs didn’t often clash over territory boundaries, but it could definitely be that some henchmen got confused as to which street belonged to them.
Or it could be that Jay and the Red Hood were mixed up in something far, far bigger than a simple protection racket.
Spoiler swung back home after finishing her patrol, casting her normal, cursory glance at the Red Hood as she clambered across the last few rooftops—and nearly faceplanted on asphalt at the flashing lights of a cop car in front of the shop.
She crossed the street and dropped onto the fire escape to see better—there were four groaning bodies on the ground, and she recognized Tattooed Insurance Salesman. The rest must’ve been his buddies.
There was no evidence of a gunfight, but Jay was slouching against the alley wall, projecting boredom as a detective talked to him.
“—don’t know why they attacked you?”
“This is Crime Alley, lady,” Jay drawled, “If I stopped to question motives every time someone tried to mug me, I’d never get anything done.”
“Well, you certainly fended them off,” the detective said, watching one of the officers cuff the goons and load them into the waiting cop car.
“Got lucky,” Jay said, and twirled the long, thin shape in his hand—it caught the light, and Steph recognized the sight of a tire iron. “I was working on my bike when they showed up.”
“Fortuitous circumstances,” the detective nodded, and headed back to her car. Jay waited in the alley until the cars were gone, and then turned and stared up at the fire escape, directly at Steph.
He didn’t move. Steph didn’t move. They both stared at each other for a long moment before Steph clambered back up the fire escape.
Maybe the shop wasn’t a front. Maybe the shop was just a Crime Alley kid attempting to make it in the world.