The patience was thin in the GCPD this morning, as the all too familiar face of the young Bruce Wayne, strolled into the precinct, with the never fading look of determination, glinting in his eyes. That made nobody feel any better. Everyone pretended to be busy, to avoid Bruce's confrontation, stapling papers over and over again, standing at the printer hitting buttons, and standing with their backs turned, sipping from empty mugs. Bruce's nose was assaulted as he approached Officer Windsor, the lingering plumes of cigarette smoke, and stale drip coffee putting off his bravado. Windsor, the officer that was stuck at the front desk, and therefore, forced to take the brunt of Bruce's incessant questions and demands, pinched the bridge of his nose as he saw the boy approach. "Damn it, Bruce- we already told you everything we got. I don't even have the authority to look at those files, let alone the authority to give them to you. Give it a rest.", but Bruce was not deterred. He knew, if he kept bugging people, eventually, something worthwhile would cross his path.
Bruce fists clench, his knuckles paling, before slamming his fists down on Windsor's desk. "I am not an idiot! I have been coming here every day for years! I know that EVERYONE has been given this case at least once. You have to know something, or someone who knows something." Bruce intrusively prods, with a pleading look on his face, one that made Windsor think about how Bruce must be feeling. For a kid who has experienced such a traumatic event, he is very emotionally regulated, even years later. Maybe telling him something would put his mind at ease. Windsor sighs, before rolling forward in his chair, the wheels squeaking loudly as his gut pinned itself against the edge of his desk. He leans in close to Bruce, and whispers "Look- there is a new detective in town. Hot shot. Big deal apparently. He transferred here after your parents case going cold, specifically to take this case. Harris, something or other. You want the scoop on where your parents' case is going? You gotta ask him.", before leaning back away from Bruce, his chair creaking under his weight.
Harris? Bruce had heard that name before. He wasn't sure where exactly, but he had heard it. Bruce gives Windsor a suspicious stare, wondering if he is just telling him what he wants to hear, but ultimately deciding to let it go. His curiosity was satiated, for now. Bruce smiles at Windsor, and salutes, "Thanks then, boss." before turning on his heel, and sprinting back out the front door, his dirty Converse squeaking against the waxed tile floor, while Windsor sighs in relief.
Bruce's pace did not slow as he reached the sidewalk outside. His arms swung at his side as the chilly afternoon air stung his lungs, the hum of the city spreading a familiar warmth in his chest. Traffic was crawling, shopkeepers were yelling at their regulars, kids were chasing each other between lampposts- the city was alive, and he was happy to be apart of it. A smile crept into his cheeks, as the soles of his shoes scraped against the concrete, and he approached Costello's corner store just down the street from the GCPD. Bruce waved to the old man that always sat out front, the old man smiling back at him in return. "Mustache is looking as swell as always, Mr. Hanley!" he says in passing, before waving to the others around him, as he absent mindedly crossed the crosswalk, only for a car to screech to a stop, just inches from his chest, "Watch where yuh fuckin' going!" Bruce sucks a breath through his teeth, before saying "Uh... sorry!" before continuing to the other side of the road, chuckling nervously to himself, before getting pelted with a hotdog, from the stand across the street, catching it in his hands as it fell towards the floor. "Try not to get flattened out there, Brucie." the shaggy haired stand owner says, before seeing a quarter land on the counter in front of him. When he looks up, Bruce is smirking, standing in place, "Hey, you aren't putting me in debt to you, Trevor!" Bruce playfully exclaims, before Trevor responds by throwing up his arms- "It ain't like you can't pay it back whenever you want, kid.", Trevor says, as he turned lightly charred hotdogs on his griddle, looking down at his work, instead of at Bruce.
The young pre-teen continued on down the street, the sound of bluesy woodwind filling his ears as he passes a street sax player, dropping a half dollar in the hat on the ground in passing, and picking a rose from the garden of the small ground floor apartment, once again placing a coin next to the flower bed, not wanting to feel like a thief, then skipping, to put some extra pep in his step, strutting down the street as sweat finally started to form on the parts of his face not shaded by the curved bill of his baseball cap. Wind stung his cheeks, as the smell of freshly baked bread permeated through the streets from the quaint little bakery across the street. The aroma made Bruce wish he had more space in his lungs for sniffing. It was out of the way, but what the hell? Alfred probably needs to go shopping anyway. Bruce was about to step on to the cross walk, but right before his foot touched the pavement, he hesitated and pulled his foot back, before looking both ways nervously, and THEN stepping to street.
As he entered the bakery, he was consumed by a wave of sweet, yeasty warmth, that only made his cheeks sting more, because of the sudden change in temperature, Bruce's eyes wandering from wall to wall, admiring the shelves of fresh wrapped loaves, before his gaze is caught by the light emanating from the displays below the front counter, filled with rows of pastries and baked goods, and just as his mouth began to water, his thoughts were interrupted by the gravely sound of someone clearing their throat. Bruce looks up, confused, before realizing this must be the an employee. "Uhm... yes?" Bruce asks, before the baker tersely responds "Watcha want?", overwhelming Bruce. He didn't know what he wanted. In fact, he hadn't really thought over why he came here at all, other than the smell. He has to say something though. "I don't recognize this place. Isn't this where Denny's Deli used to be?", the Baker nods "Yeah. Old Denny retired though, and didn't have any kids. So he just closed shop.". Bruce can't lie and say he isn't a little unhappy about that. Denny made the best braised beef in the state. Bruce looks the baker up and down, or at least, what he could see from in front of the counter, before noticing his name tag. "Well, it was nice to meet you- Vinny.", a look of surprise is on Vinny's face for half a second, before he looks down, and remembers he made name tags. Vinny returned Bruce's smile, only his far more... shark-like, "Yeah. Nice to meet you- Bruce." Bruce may not have had a name tag, but everyone knows who he is.
He looks down at the display, and points a finger at the sweets, "I would like a cinnamon bun please! Oh... and a loaf of brioche, if you don't mind.", making Vinny shrug, "Sure, kid, why not." he says as he slides the display open from the other end of the counter, and pulls the large, easily made for multiple people to eat, cinnamon bun, away from it's brethren, and places it atop a sheet of wax paper. Bruce watches with wide, excited eyes, as Vinny tucked the edges of the paper, and wrapped it tightly, before sliding it into a paper bag, and stamping the shops logo on the bag. "There yuh go, kid. Just take the brioche loaf off the shelf as you leave." he says, handing the heavy order in Bruce's waiting hand. Bruce places the rose in his mouth, to free his other hand, to drop 85 cents on the counter in front of him, and then pinching the rose back between his slender fingers. "Have the rest for yourself!" Bruce says, his voice echoing as the opposite direction, as he walks towards the door, pulling a loaf off of the rows of bread, and slipping out of the bakery,
Back on the street at last, Bruce crosses the street again, to get back on track, turning right, and heading down the sidewalk, towards Wayne Manor, before being passed by two women in floral A-line dresses, clearly getting ready for a night on the town. Bruce stopped in his tracks, mid-step, before, as casually as possible, jogging backwards towards the women. As soon as their faces were in view, Bruce extended his hand to the first woman, a brunette with bobbed hair "Hi, Bruce Wayne.", and then the second, a ginger with fair skin and shoulder length hair, "Hey, how's it going? Bruce Wayne." before pinching the end of the stem of the rose in his hand, presenting it to them, and winking, before his figure disappeared from sight. Hearing those women giggle, knowing they were looking back at him as he walked away, was more than enough to make him feel good about himself, whether they were laughing at him, or not.
As he approached the manor, the houses the lined the streets getting more and more posh with every passing block, he saw his neighbor, Mrs. Stott standing at the trunk of her Oldsmobile, struggling with groceries. She often needed help. It wasn't irregular for Alfred to send for him, just to help her with her chores, though usually it was later in the day. "Mrs. Stott! Mrs. Stott!" he shouts from across the street, frantically flailing a hand in the air at her, his shouting startling her. "OH! Goodness..." she says, holding her chest in shock for just a moment, "Bruce Thomas Wayne, what have I told you about sneaking about and scaring me like that!? My heart can't take it. I am an old woman." she says bitterly, but not with malice, as she hands him her groceries, stacking the brown paper bags in his arms, forcing Bruce to stack his cinnamon bun and loaf of bread on top of everything else. "Well... thank you, Brucie. I just can't do this stuff anymore. Especially without Carl around." Bruce frowns at the mention of Carl Stott. He was a nice man. The kind that makes you feel happier just by thinking about them. "Hey, anytime. Seriously. I mean, it is bad enough that the nearest actual grocery store isn't in walking distance. Wouldn't want you throwing out a hip." he says, teasing her, prompting the old woman to playfully smack him on the shoulder, "Enough! Just take those inside.", he rolls his eyes at her, still smiling as he hobbles over to her steps. "Mrs. Stott, I can't see the steps, you need to tell me if I am doing good.", Bruce explains, before Mrs. Stott pushed right past him, up the steps, saying "Go slow, son, you're about to overstep. I just got these damn groceries, don't spill'em. WOAH-" she says putting her hands up to signify a stop, "You are about to entirely miss a step, raise your foot up higher. There yuh go.", and as he finally makes it up the steps, and into Mrs. Stott's home, he was hit with the stench of stale dustiness. Clearly she needed more help than he understood. She hasn't dusted this place in ages. But he ignores it for now- he has things to do today. He places the bags atop her shiny wooden countertop, and takes his baked goods from atop the bags, then turning to Mrs. Stott. "It was AWESOME to see you today, Mrs. Stott, as always-" he blurts, as he gives her a rushed hug, and a pat on the back, "But, I have plans today, and I have to go." he says, waving at her as he walks out the door, "TAKE THAT BOTTLE AWAY FROM ALFRED WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOUNG MAN!" Mrs. Stott shouts, so that the now absent Bruce can hear him.
Finally. That walk took longer than normal, thanks to all the stops, but there it was. As Bruce approached the towering gates of his home, he admired the beautiful garden he got to wake up to every morning, and waved at the gardeners, and groundskeepers that helped to keep it that way. "Hey guys! Keep up the good work- oh, and Alfred asked me to remind you guys that we are having a big holiday dinner next week, and you guys are invited to come kick it with us, you dig?" they all responded with a, "Thank you, of course, Bruce." because he didn't like being called master. The young man twisted the knob into his home, struggling to juggle the things in his hands, while making sure not to smash any of it. As soon as he was inside, he called out "HELLOOOOO!? ALFRED!?" yelling into the echoey halls of the mostly empty manor, before walking towards the dining room. When he entered the dining room, it quickly became clear why Alfred wasn't responding. There, on the dining room table, sat Alfred, his head laid against his arm, tucked closely to a bottle of a very expensive scotch. Bruce sighs, and grabs the bottle from him, fastening the lid on top, and tossing it to the very back of the top of the fridge, where he wouldn't look. Alfred had been like this for a long time now. He was fine for a while after Bruce's parents had died, but he could only hold it in so long. Bruce hated it, but he understood. He didn't resent Alfred for feeling the need to drown his sorrows. Bruce walks back out to the entrance hall, and grabs a pillow from one of the large loveseats, and brings it to Alfred, lifting his head, off his arm, and then lowering it back down on to the pillow. Bruce stared at Alfred for just a moment, his receding hair messy, his eyes sunken from a lack of sleep, his low snores smelling of alcohol... something had to change, and soon. "Goodnight, Alfred. Feel better when you wake up." he says, before walking up the massive cascading red stairs to his room, to get ready for the game.