A/N: I don't even own the Gorram Crazy Steve, let alone Alfred, Bruce, Selena, and Huntress. Massive spoilers for Dark Knight Rises, but if they throw in Robin, crack supplies the rest.
The elderly gent was a regular at the café, after his fashion. He did not come every day, every month, every year, but his port and presence at a small outdoor table to himself was common enough for older hands to make vague recollections of him. He tipped well, remained unfailingly polite.
He tended to sit there much longer than the one glass afforded, staring out among the crowd as if searching for someone in particular, but he drank them all in without concern for the time slipping by, sometimes with a moment of disappointment, but overall with the air of a man who had already seen the worst life had given him and was determined to enjoy the rest of it at his leisure. No companion ever arrived, but he never wore a watch or fiddled with a phone as he gazed over the café tables. He was the sort who came to people-watch, as other men his age might study birds at the window.
The younger couple had stopped by the place but once. They had swapped smiles with the old patron, but a lot of vacationing honeymooners had, over the years. They'd come on recommendation from one of the husband's old friends, which led to his wife teasing him for his burst of nostalgia, and the two had bantered back and forth over a light lunch before they rose arm in arm for their hotel. The husband leaned into his wife's shoulder, a bit unsteady after his drink, but she appeared to have no more problem with his muscular bulk than a crimp in her wide-brimmed hat. They made no motion towards the old man when they left.
The regular smiled, finished his port, and rose to his feet. His phone buzzed as he walked away from the café.
We think it's a girl, the text read.
For a stoic old Brit, the man was positively beaming. Martha Rachel, I assume?
She wants something with a little less history attached. I'm learning to compromise, on certain issues.
The old man's fingers were slow as he pecked in his response, but the exasperation-touched smile had not faded from his eyes. I rather like the name Helena.