Fuzzy End (4/6)

[mtgat]

***
The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop (4/6)
A Justice League: TAS story
by mtgat and dotfic
Copyright 2004
PG-13
***

Part Three

***
Thursday
***

It wasn't Clark's first time in Lois's apartment. As her guest, she let him have the
shower first. He didn't bother objecting, washed his short hair quickly under
delightfully hot water. As he was rinsing out the last of Lois' borrowed shampoo
- now he knew why her hair always smelled so good - Lois came into the
bathroom. Clark yelped in surprise as the door opened, was glad of the frosted
shower glass.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, just leaving you a towel and something to wear." Lois closed the door
behind her. Clark's heart hammered in his chest. Lois hadn't seemed to have
noticed anything wrong. And why would she? Clara was just one of the girls
tonight.

He shut off the shower, mindful of not running the water heater dry, toweled off,
and slipped into the fluffy blue robe Lois had hung on the peg behind the door.

"Coffee?" Lois asked, as he stepped out. "It's decaf. I swear." She was already
in her own robe.

"Sure." He took a cup as Lois brushed past him for her own shower. She was just
behind the closed door. He could hear her taking off her robe, running the water.
He didn't even need to make an excuse to go inside the room; x-ray vision was
practically designed for ...

He turned his back from the door, took a long drink of his coffee. French vanilla.
Girl coffee. Also Flash coffee, but Flash would drink anything with sugar. And
eat anything. Hm. Eat.

Clark found the cookies without much rummaging. He hadn't eaten in about
seven hours, and suddenly Famous Amos sounded like his best friend. He
munched a handful of the tiny cookies as he looked around the living room. Not
much had changed since he'd been there last: a new picture of Lucy, some
rearrangement of flowers and pots.

"Found the cookies, huh?" Lois was back in her robe, a towel around her hair.

"Sorry," he smiled around the last few crumbs.

"Not a problem. I was thinking, it's really really late."

"I know. We should get to sleep."

"Actually, I thought maybe we could blow off sleep, and murder some cookies n'
cream instead." She saw the confusion on his face. "Come on, how often will I
get the chance to hang out with a superhero in my bathrobe?"

"As often as you'd like," he blurted. "I mean, I can't imagine anyone not wanting
to spend time with you." She stared. "So, ice cream?"

"Ice cream."

The table was cozy, just right for a half-gallon of Breyers, and two spoons, and
Lois. She put on more coffee, high test this time, and they drank cup after cup in
between spoonfuls, and Clark couldn't imagine having a better time.

"So, what's the real story about The Life of Ultragirl? I know Batman's got his
dating issues, but do you ever get to just go out and have fun?"

"Sometimes. But it's not easy even thinking about having a relationship with
someone. If one of my enemies found out, they'd use that against me. I wouldn't
want to put someone else in that kind of danger."

"Kind of unfair, though. What if he doesn't mind the danger?"

"He?" He was confused for half a sec. Oh, right. "Sorry. It's late. Even
if he didn't mind, I would. I'd always be afraid that he'd get hurt because
of me." Lois watched him over her coffee, and then he changed the subject.
"And about that name. Can we go with ‘Ultrawoman,' please? I've got it on
good authority that Hawkgirl's still mad at you for that."

Lois laughed. "I'll tell Perry. But that means you've got to let me have an
exclusive sometime soon."

"Deal."

She set down her coffee, took another spoonful of ice cream. "Um, the next time
it comes up, could you tell Hawkgirl I'm sorry? I swear it was a typesetting thing.
Smaller word, bigger font."

Clark choked on his own bite of ice cream. "You called her ‘girl' instead of
'woman' because of the font size for the headline?" Lois nodded. I am never
ever ever telling her that.

Around three, Lois told him stories about her girlhood, some of which he'd heard
before, and some he hadn't. "Lois and Lucy and the Treehouse" was new and
wonderful. At four, he told her some (modified) Smallville tales that had her
clutching her stomach. The ice cream was long gone, but the coffee was hot and
sweet. They'd moved to the couch some time since, and Lois had put on a cd of
old Broadway standards. She sang a few snatches now and then, and Clark
listened raptly when she did.

He'd been happier. He knew it. He was just having trouble remembering
precisely when that was.

***

The nice thing about arriving together at work was that no one commented. Had
Clark been his normal self, wearing an obviously rumpled outfit and following
Lois through the door, the office gossips would have called it Christmas. Instead,
they walked in together still chatting, and got not so much as a glance. Clark
missed his old body, but the advantage list to this one just kept growing. Not even
Perry's bellow as soon as they reached their desks could faze him.

"Lane, MacKenzie, in my office!" Lois rolled her eyes, but led the way.

Perry had the news on. "Nice that the two of you could join us this morning." He
indicated the screen. "There's a bank robbery, with hostages, in progress down on
3rd. The police are on the scene. The tv news is on the scene. Care to explain
why my star reporter isn't there yet?"

"Just getting my notepad," said Lois. "C'mon, Duluth."

"Negative on the rookie. I've got an article I want MacKenzie to cover for page
six. There's a scandal brewing with the Mayor I'd like us to have the skinny on
before it breaks."

Lois paused, glanced at Clark. "Perry, I think the robbery would be a perfect
opportunity for Clara to finally get some real news coverage under her belt. I can
make the calls for the Mayor article."

Perry looked at her funny. "You sure? It's just a background piece."

"I mean it." She waved her hands at Clark. "Shoo!" In her eyes, Clark read an
additional "Go fix this."

"Thanks, Lois," Clark said. "I'll do my best."

***

"Central City, traffic accident. There's been a chemical spill." Diana had been
sending out alerts all day. John wasn't great at reading him, especially as a man,
but even he could tell Diana, or Apollo or whoever, was chafing at the bit to be
allowed to come down and help. And couldn't.

"I'm on it," said a voice over the comm. And since it was male, that eliminated
everyone but ...

"I am already in Central City," J'onn replied. "I will be there in moments."

"Gotcha," came the reply. John didn't respond. He had been about to, could have
grabbed it on his way back from Taiwan, but there was no need. He headed
home.

And then diverted his path just a bit. Ultrawoman was finishing up taking care of
some blizzard damage in Norway, nabbing Weather Wizard in the process, but
said she didn't need any help. Diana was on the Watchtower, Flash was deep
undercover, Batman was in Gotham. The tanker spill was the last thing to come
over the comm in a while, and J'onn had it. The previous alert had been a
daylight robbery by Tsukuri in a museum in San Diego. But if the person who'd
taken that one was ready to volunteer for more, which was no longer available due
to J'onn, that same person would most likely be heading home right now.

He caught up to her - him - over Iowa.

"Hey."

"Go away."

"You don't usually stay mad this long."

"Hah. I'm still mad at a kid I knew when I was six. And I'm not speaking to
you."

"No, you're just crashing at my apartment when I'm not home." He said nothing.
"I didn't mind. Really. You could've left a note, though. Had a Goldilocks
moment."

"I slept on the floor."

"You didn't have to."

They flew in silence for a little while. Shayera's normal flight velocity was like a
canter, easy on the muscles. John found it a nice change from his normal
breakneck speed.

"You're flying much better. Guess you got used to that new center of gravity
pretty fast."

"Stop it."

"What?"

"Stop playing nice. Stop playing like you're not still freaking out, like looking at
me doesn't repulse you. I deserve better than that from you."

"I know."

Shayera stopped, hovered in the air, flapping his wings to keep altitude. "What do
you want?"

"To see you. To talk to you. I haven't been around you in days. Kind of miss
having you nearby." It was hard, saying these things to him. He tried to
lighten things up. "Arguing with Flash just isn't the same."

"But Flash is a woman. You should get along with her just fine. You like
women, right?"

"I like you."

"Well, that's great," Shayera said, and there was more than a little anger in his
voice. "But you see, the problem I've got? Is that I don't like you. You drive me
completely insane, and you have since the day we met, and this recent panic attack
of yours has not endeared you to me any more."

"'Panic attack?' My body was changed to something completely
different."

"So was everyone else's! Diana's got a penis. Don't tell me that's not
screwing with Miss I Am Woman!"

"I know that!" Momentarily he wondered how the discussion had managed to get
on the topic of Diana's ... He shook his head. "Am I allowed to get to the part
where I say I'm sorry?"

"Depends. What are you sorry for?"

Their relationship had been brief thus far: not two weeks had passed since Joker's
bomb-planting spree in Vegas. Recent events aside, John had spent a
considerable amount of time navigating the waters wherein Shayera was
not a normal girlfriend. Nevertheless, in some ways ...

He replayed their earlier conversation in his head. Oh.

"I'm sorry for thinking you and Diana got the better deal, and that I and the other
men got the fuzzy end of the lollipop. I know we're all panicking in our own
ways, and that everyone has got plenty to panic over, you included. And if you
and I are going to be together, then not only do you get to listen to my whining,
but I also get to listen to yours, and help you relearn to fly if you need me to."

"I did that on my own."

"I know. I should have been there."

Shayera dropped several feet, caught a draft, continued flying. He followed.

"Are you going to start talking to me again, or are you going to stay mad for
twenty years?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"The reason I'm asking is that we're getting near your place. Mine's farther, but
it's bigger. We could get some food, rent a movie, maybe talk. Or we could get
some food, rent a movie, and you could scowl at me all night."

"Completely insane. I told you that, right?"

He zipped around, coming up from underneath, extended the ring's energy around
them both so they wouldn't fall, and kissed him, hard.

He kept his eyes closed behind his mask, knowing that opening them would mess
with his mind too much. Instead, he tasted Shayera's mouth, not ready to explore
inside, but reveling in the tremble of lips, the swipe of tongue and quick click of
teeth, the gasping of sudden breathless wonder. He had missed this so much.

The kiss broke, reluctantly. He opened his eyes to see Shayera's still shut tight
behind his own mask.

"I love you," Shayera said in that deep wrong voice, and he couldn't respond -
the words never did come right even when John was himself - and so he kissed
his jaw instead, rasping against the peach fuzz just beginning to poke through,
moved to kiss the sensitive flesh at the pulse point at his throat. Shayera made a
soft pleased noise, and then John couldn't imagine that voice ever being wrong,
ever being anything but exactly what he needed to hear.

He wanted to laugh, wanted to shout, wanted to call Flash and explain that in fact,
it wasn't about gay and straight or human and alien or anything else; it was about
holding the person you loved in your arms and never wanting to let go. The rest
was window dressing, was smoke and shadow, meant nothing.

However, they were several hundred feet in the air, and his concentration on their
bubble was going to wane soon.

"So, my place?"

"Fine. Your place. Pizza and Blockbuster. You're buying."

No one ever said dating would be easy. But sometimes, John mused, you caught a
break.

***

"Did I miss anything?"

Lois jumped, just a little. Clara had come out of nowhere and startled her in the
otherwise empty office.

"Hey. Nope." She dropped her voice. "How was Norway?"

"Cold." Clara flopped down in Smallville's chair with a sigh. It reminded Lois
that she needed to drop Kent an email and find out how things were in Singapore.
Maybe she could talk Clara into dropping in on him to make sure he wasn't just
taking another paid vacation on the Planet's dime.

"Tell me you got a story out of it."

"Two. There was an apartment fire on the south side on my way back." She
smiled to herself, and Lois had to smile back. Dealing with Bruce was one thing;
he had more issues than the National Geographic. Clara was just a nice,
normal woman who also happened to possess superpowers. Nothing wrong with
that.

A small place in the back of her mind tickled that maybe, someone with these
kinds of powers should have been seen around before now, but then, Wonder
Woman hadn't shown up until she was an adult, either.

To be honest, Clara reminded Lois of Wonder Woman in a lot of ways. Less
stuck up, though.

"What did you tell Perry?"

"That you were downtown pulling records for me."

"That's a good cover story."

"Finish typing those up. I'll do a quick proof for you, we'll send them off, and
you can tell me all about it over dinner."

Clara beamed back, and spun to the computer. Since the office was once again
empty but for the two of them, Clara let herself type at full speed, her fingers
blurring. The typical click-clack of the keyboard became a high-speed purr. Lois
had finished her story on the Mayor's nocturnal activities, but Perry had told her
to hold it for a day. She checked it once more and trimmed some text for clarity,
then she saved the story for the evening.

"Done."

Lois raised an eyebrow as she silently accepted the diskette from Clara. Both
articles had flawless spelling and punctuation, and Clara had a good voice in
telling what had happened. Lois did feel obligated to tighten up three verbs just
because she could. Clara nodded at the changes, took the disk, and mailed the
stories off to the proofers.

Lois shut down her system. "So, where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere's fine," Clara replied. Her stomach gurgled. Lois was too mature to
laugh. Really she was.

"Maybe we should go for quantity over quality. I know this great little steakhouse
you'd love." She watched Clara's face carefully. "Clark and I go there all the
time." The twitch was small but clear. Mmm hmm.

"That sounds great."

***

"I don't like it."

Here it comes. "Why not?"

"It makes me look fat." Brynne turned, surveying herself in the full-length mirror.

"No, it doesn't." Barbara began rummaging through the sewing kit, a lopsided
smile on her face.

Brynne reached up with both hands, which were covered in thick heat and cold
resistant gloves, and adjusted the cowl. It was tighter than she was used to,
completely concealing her face.

"Really?" she flexed a bicep, turning her head this way and that.

Barbara laughed, then quickly stifled it and began putting away the stray strips of
Kevlar that littered the floor of the alcove. "Really," she said firmly. "Now let's go
show the boys."

***

The first time Alfred had ever seen Master Bruce in the Batman costume, he'd been
shocked. Even though he knew logically that this was still the young man whose
diapers he used to change, the transformative effect of the cape and cowl was
unnerving, to say the least. It wasn't merely the feeling that a complete stranger
suddenly stood before him; it was the sense that the boy he'd done his best to
guide to adulthood had transformed into something not quite human.

This time, the shock wasn't quite as strong, but the new, female version of the
costume had the same unnerving effect. More so in some ways.

"My word," Alfred said. "Master Bruce ... I mean ... Is that you?"

Master Richard, who had been leaning at ease against the computer console,
straightened up. "Okay, and I thought your other outfit was scary. You look like
something out of a Tim Burton movie."

Alfred had no earthly idea who Tim Burton was, but inferred his creations had a
certain unholy look to them.

"Hey, you know what?" Alfred overheard Master Timothy mutter to Master
Richard. "Brynne's kind of ... hot."

"Do. Not. Go. There." Giving Master Timothy a Glare of Death, Master
Richard elbowed the boy in the ribs with more force than was his wont.

Pretending he had heard absolutely nothing, Alfred stared straight ahead.

"Presenting ... Uh. Well, we can't call her Batgirl," Miss Barbara simpered
charmingly. "That name's taken."

"Have you thought of a name sir ... mistress ..." Alfred longed for an aspirin and a
lie-down. "Master Richard is correct. Though quite svelte, this new outfit, in a
way, is more terrifying than the original one."

"It's the full face covering," Master Bruce said, his voice only slightly muffled
through the thin mesh covering the mouth and nose area. No matter how hard he
tried, Alfred could not think of him as Miss Brynne. "What you can't see is more
terrifying than what you can. As for names ... Actually, I hadn't thought about it."

"Batwoman!" Master Timothy said, and flinched when everyone but Alfred turned
to him and shouted, "NO!"

Alfred spoke, "If I may so bold as to venture, given your detective skills and
knowledge, a name that suggests an all-knowing entity. To add to your air of
mystery. Oracle."

"Oracle?" Master Timothy wrinkled his nose.

"It's hardly a name to strike fear in the hearts of hardened criminals," Master
Richard pointed out.

"The Oracle at Delphi," Alfred raised a finger - what did they teach children in
schools nowadays? - "is a universally known figure and has an effect on the
superstitious. And as Master Bruce - I mean Miss Brynne - often says,
'criminals ... '"

"'Are a superstitious and cowardly lot,'" Miss Barbara, Master Timothy and
Master Richard chorused.

Alfred hid a smile behind a cough.

Master Bruce cleared his throat - her throat; the sound that came out was
decidedly too feminine to be from a he. "Are you saying I repeat myself?"

"Uh, no, of course not."

"Nope. Not at all, Bruce. I mean Brynne."

"Uh-uh."

"Oracle." Master Bruce considered a moment, head tilted to one side. "I like it."

"So," Master Richard said with his usual eagerness, rolling his shoulders as a
warm-up exercise. "When do we hit the streets?"

"Are you sure you're ready?" Miss Barbara put her hand on Master Bruce's shoulder.

Master Bruce nodded. "I'm ready."

"Great!" said Master Richard. "It's been a while since I've had a chance to work
with all of you. Let me go get ... "

"No," said Master Bruce.

At that single syllable, Alfred felt a sense of impending doom; the first flash of
lightning before a storm. He sighed; it had always been thus.

"What?"

"You have a city of your own that needs you."

"But ..."

"Go back to Bludhaven, Dick."

Eagerness and energy transmuted in a matter of seconds to frustration. It was still
heartbreaking to watch after all these years. Master Richard strode forward, fists
clenched. "So three days of training and presto, you're one hundred percent what
you were?"

Miss Brynne - no, Master Bruce always no matter what - pulled back the cowl,
revealing her short black hair stuck up in messy cowlicks. Alfred made a mental
note to make an appointment with a hairdresser for Mr. Wayne's out of town
cousin. The cowl bunched at the back of her neck in soft folds like the hood of a
jacket. "Dick," she began, but he cut her off.

"In case you hadn't noticed, you're different now Bru - Brynne. Your center of
gravity has changed, your strength and endurance will be less."

"A second ago you were cheering her on," Miss Barbara said sharply. "Now
suddenly she's a helpless female again?"

"Not helpless." Master Richard turned to her. "I agree it's time she went out on
the street. But with backup."

"And what are we?" Master Timothy frowned. "Chopped liver?"

Bravo, thought Alfred.

"No, that's not what I ... It's just that one more team member couldn't hurt. Just to
be safe."

"It's not necessary," Master Bruce said softly.

From the expression on her face, Alfred could see she felt the situation slipping
from her control. A gesture meant merely to make things easier for Master
Richard had caused the group to go off like a string of firecrackers.

"Yes it is. Training in controlled conditions is one thing. But out on the street,
things are a lot more unpredictable."

"Which is why me and Tim will be there to look after her," Miss Barbara countered.

"I don't need looking after," Master Bruce said in a voice like frost on a window.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Alfred walked away sadly and went to
work at a table in the shadows near the stairs. Their voices faded somewhat, but
he could unfortunately still hear them.

Master Richard snorted. "Of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The frost on the window was taking on a white-
hot aspect.

"Before I went to Bludhaven, I didn't see it this way. But now I've worked alone
for a while. The way you used to for years. And trust me when I tell you:
working with partners is better than working alone."

"In certain circumstances, yes," Master Bruce said.

A guttural sigh, almost a bitter laugh, seemed to deflate the anger from him. "You
win. I'm going back to Bludhaven. Good luck you two," he said bitingly, waving
at the others as he strode across the cave towards the stone steps and Alfred's table.

Miss Barbara and Master Timothy wisely turned their attention to the computers.
So perhaps only Alfred noticed when Mistress Brynne opened her mouth and
lifted a hand as if to call Master Richard back. Then the hand dropped, the mouth
closed. She turned brusquely to the computer instead. "All right. Let's see what's
going down tonight."

***

"Leaving so soon?" Alfred said drily as Dick passed the table.

"Guess so."

Alfred finished rolling one bandage and started on another. "If it's any
consolation, I believe she has your best interests at heart."

"Oh, really." He paused, watching Alfred work. Another roll neatly placed beside
the first, start on a third. There was a neat tray of gleaming, clean surgical tools,
next to boxes of gauze. "Who does he - she - he think she is, anyway?"
Dick burst out, in the pleading, nearly whining tones of a frustrated child.

"Indeed," Alfred said, the voice still calm and dry. "He'd have been a goner a long
time ago without us."

He finished with the bandages and went to organizing the gauze in order of size.

"What I don't get is why he didn't get the League to retrain him. Why would he
come to us if he doesn't think he needs us?"

Alfred tapped the square packages of gauze on the table to even up the edges.
"What Master Bruce thinks he needs and what he does need are often two
different things, lad."

Dick paused, trying to wrap his brain around that. "What are you doing?"

Alfred finished with the gauze. "Being the back-up."

***

Traffic snarled and snaked through downtown, but they did eventually arrive at
the restaurant. The waitress waved Lois in, and sat them at a nice table near the
back. Drinks and food were ordered, and then they were left alone.

"So, Norway?"

Clara shrugged. "Like I said, cold. Weather Wizard was trying to reshape the
Briksdal glacier. I have no idea why, and I wasn't going to wait around to find
out. The Norwegian authorities can ask all the questions they want." She looked
up as the waitress brought them their drinks and a basket of pretzels, and thanked
the other woman kindly.

Lois nibbled on some of the pretzels, let Clara take the lion's share. Lois had
done a profile on the Flash a year ago, and Dr. Hamilton had estimated for her that
he would need to eat almost constantly to keep up with his metabolic level. She
was willing to bet Ultrawoman wasn't going to be much different. To be fair, one
didn't need to be a superhero to have a healthy appetite; the only reason she knew
about this place was that Smallville had dragged her here a couple of times to
watch him down a pound of steak, a baked potato, corn on the cob, and all the
cole slaw he could stomach. Clark got his build from life on the farm, though,
toting hay bales and bench-pressing cows or whatever it was teenagers did for fun
in small town America.

Poor Clark. A real live superhero working in their office, and he was off in
southeast Asia.

Over their food, Clara told her more about the apartment fire. She was far more
animated in relating that story. Four kids had been trapped in a bedroom, and she
described the heat and flames so vividly that Lois found herself gasping in fear,
even though she had read Clara's (far less detailed) story and knew everything had
turned out fine.

"The ceiling was starting to give way, and the walls to either side of us had
caught. The smoke was so thick I couldn't see, the kids were coughing and
choking. The only thing I could do was set them down, and they cried, trying to
hold onto me.. I told them to get all the way down, and then I punched a hole in
the wall, ripped it open wide enough for all of us, scooped the kids up, and flew us
all down to the street. The firefighters were just arriving."

Lois broke into a grin, less for the story, more for the look of simple, satisfied
pride on her friend's face. Bruce refused to discuss his work, his real
work, the rare times they met up socially. Lois couldn't imagine he'd ever relate a
story like this with anything approaching the happiness Clara so obviously felt in
helping people. If anything, he'd be all grim and "I am vengeance" and such.

Superman would ...

Lois stopped that thought process right there. She didn't need to be thinking
about Superman. He'd drifted away from her over the past few years, after
Darkseid had brainwashed him. He'd gathered new friends around him who knew
what it was like to be him, and lately he didn't have time to spend in boring old
Metropolis.

Superman would have had that same honest joy, her traitorous mind told her
anyway. He'd have talked about responsibility, and duty, but mainly, he'd have
been like a little kid allowed to Help Out. He was completely unafraid of looking
cheesy.

How could any woman help but fall for a guy like that?

"Lois, you okay?"

"Fine. Sorry. Must be tired."

"Well, we didn't get any sleep last night."

"I forgot. That explains it. Are you ready?"

Clara glanced down at her own plate and scooped up the last bite of her ‘slaw.
"Now I am."

The waitress was busy, so they left the money for the bill and the tip at the table.
As they reached the car, Lois realized that she still didn't know where Clara lived,
or at least pretended to live. "Is there somewhere I can drop you?"

"N---no," she replied. "I mean, I can get home from here without a problem."

"This isn't going to be a rerun of last night, is it?"

"I hope not. We're at your car and there aren't any men with guns in our faces,
and you trust I can take care of myself now, right?"

"Point."

It was a one way street, and Lois had parked on the left. They stood awkwardly
on the sidewalk beside the driver's side door.

And it was awkward, Lois was quickly realizing. They'd been chatting
like high school girls for the better part of the day, and suddenly, the air between
them prickled differently and it wasn't just the wind.

"Clara?"

Clara stepped in closer, blocked the sudden wind from slicing through Lois's coat,
and suddenly she was right there, and as if on autopilot, Lois tilted her head up
and over and ...

And then her brain kicked into place, and she dropped her head and took a clumsy
half-step back, banging her elbow on her window. "Wait."

Clara backed two steps away. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean ... "

"No, it's okay. It's all ... Okay." Lois took a breath, grabbed Clara's hand before
she could run, or fly, away. "I've been acting stupid, and I'm sorry."

"You're not stupid." Even now, Clara was trying to be sweet. Why can't I
meet a guy like this?

"I guess, I mean, I could tell you," Lois hesitated, "liked me."

"I do. But ..." Clara stumbled over her next words, said them all in a jumble: "It
isn't what you think. Honestly."

"It's all right. I like you, too. Just not in that way. Just not ... No." She watched
Clara's face, hoping not to find too much hurt there. "Listen, you're one of the
nicest people I've ever met. You're smart, you're strong, and you're funny.
Though the elephant jokes have to go." A smile peeped for a moment on Clara's
mouth and was gone. "If you were a guy, or you know, if I wasn't straight, I'd be
all over you."

There was a pause, and Lois could not decipher her face or tone in her simple,
"Really?"

"Swear to God."

Clara looked ... happy. Apparently Lois had said the right thing. Good. Because
the last thing she wanted was to hurt her. Clara's face went through some
interesting contortions, as she seemed to be framing and abandoning a handful of
questions. Finally, she blurted, "Please say we can still hang around together?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I thought, maybe you'd be uncomfortable. Around me."

"Honey, the main superhero in this town is a guy with x-ray vision who flies
around in his long underwear. If that doesn't keep me in lead-lined outfits,
nothing's gonna faze me." Lois shifted gears slightly. She also took a quick look
around, but there was no one nearby. "Do you know Wonder Woman by any
chance? She's not seeing anybody that I know of, and if the rumor mill is right ... "

Clara was overtaken by a coughing fit. Lois decided not to press.

***

Fifty percent less muscle mass.

They were only statistics.

When he'd put himself through the fitness test Sunday, the readouts told him he
was more fit than the average woman, but still at lower strength, power, and
endurance than when he was himself.

Twenty percent less strength.

Robin, Batgirl and Oracle came at the gang members from three sides, swinging
in on jumplines. There were a dozen or so tough-looking types robbing the row of
small shops. Four went down in seconds - Batgirl kicked two at once, Robin
and Oracle took one each. Broken glass covered the pavement and crunched
beneath their boots as they landed.

The gang members still standing decided to abandon their original plan. One of
them dropped his plunder. Two of them bolted, one in either direction. Robin
grabbed the one heading south, Batgirl the one fleeing north. The remaining six
foolishly ran in a clump.

Twenty-five percent smaller lung capacity.

Oracle chased them on foot. Robin and Batgirl would likely use the rooftops and
drop down from above once they caught up with Oracle. A two-pronged assault.
Right now Oracle was just driving them.

The six turned into an alley that Oracle knew ended in a dead end.

Perfect.

And stupid.

As they skidded to a halt before the wall, he took out the nearest one with a flying
kick. Using the momentum, he punched the one next to him in the solar plexus.
Two down, four to go.

Very, very stupid.

The two he'd just taken out staggered but didn't go down. One of them waved his
hand like a signal, and the six broke formation. Three scurried around behind
him, three stayed in front.

Statistics were all very well, and beating them was fine. On the streets statistics
meant for something - number of shootings, number of muggings, number of
rapes, number of burglaries, number of felons released and out on the streets again
within twenty-four hours. Odds of survival. Statistics meant something.

They weren't everything, though.

He'd been so busy rating his own stamina and skills, making sure he wasn't too
tired, establishing that he was just as good as he'd been before, that he forgot. It
was the ultimate distraction.

Oracle hadn't been driving them, they'd been leading him. Or rather, her.

One of the three standing behind him made kissing noises.

"You're new, aren't you?"

"Is your face as sexy as that outfit?"

"Wanna beat me up first, baby?" A short, chubby one with hairy arms pulled a
handgun from his belt with suggestive movements.

There was a quick *whip-whip* and the gun went flying. It hit the side of a
dumpster with a *clang* as Chubby cursed and clutched his hand. The batarang
circled back to Oracle's outstretched hand.

"Ooh, she bites." A tall one with spiky blond hair and a gold hoop earring in one
lobe grinned like a predator, showing perfect white teeth.

Enough of this.

Leaping at Predator, he placed his hands on the man's shoulders to use as leverage
as he used both legs to knock down one of his buddies. Predator was so surprised
he didn't move at first.

Then he grabbed Oracle's wrists - Oracle was surprised how easily he was able
to break the grip on his shoulders, he'd thought he'd had him - and flung Oracle
against the dumpster. It knocked the breath from his body, but only for a moment.
He punched one that ran at him.

The three who had been down got to their feet, rubbing sore spots and glaring at
him angrily.

That wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to stay down.

The blow caught him off-guard; he felt something crunch in his jawline, felt his
lip split open beneath the fabric of the full face mask.. It was a blow he should
have been able to dodge - should have felt the air displacement, spotted the fist
forming, the arm drawing back, read his movements.

Coolly and analytically, Batman diagnosed Oracle's problem. He was still
throwing blows with the assumption of strength behind them that was no longer
there. This made him less effective than Batgirl or even Robin. They were used
to their bodies.

So very stupid.

One hand touching the dumpster behind him, Oracle stood in a semi-crouch as his
opponents crowded in around him, looking for an opening, a weakness. One
feinted towards him and he kicked him so hard the thug flew backwards several
yards, landing hard.

This time, he stayed down.

The kick, however, left Oracle vulnerable for a moment. A burly, strong one
grabbed him from behind, lifting him off his feet, pinning his arms to his sides.
Again, Oracle felt surprise that he couldn't simply break the grip.

One of them grabbed at his left breast - he didn't get far, with the Kevlar -
while Predator leaned close and began to whisper the specifics of what they were
going to do to Oracle.

At first, the triple cocktail of surprise, rage, and, most unfamiliar, panic, paralyzed
him. Something dripped down from the corner of his mouth; he tasted his own
blood.

It snapped him back into focus. Rage sent panic whimpering into a dark corner.
Part of it was humiliation for her--himself, and part was the realization that if this
could be happening to him, now that he was a female crimefighter, it was
a permanent potential for Batgirl. For Hawkgirl. For Diana. Didn't matter that
they were tough, that they'd never let it happen, that any man who tried would
carry his teeth home in a sack. There were some things Batman and Flash and
Green Lantern never had to worry about. Until now

With Burly holding him from behind, he drew up his legs. One. Two. Chubby
and another one fell, slumping like potato sacks. Predator tried to grab him and
got a face full of boot for his troubles - teeth went flying, blood marred his
perfect features. He'd made him angry but not taken him out, not yet. Predator
got in another punch into Oracle's ribs before he broke free of Burly. Kicking
backwards, his heel met a very vulnerable area just south of the area where
Batman usually kicked people.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Burly let out a whimpering grunt of pain and Oracle slipped lightly from his grasp,
landing on the cement in a fighting crouch.

Robin and Batgirl dropped down on either side of the alley just as Oracle spun-
kicked Predator into oblivion. The rest were all on the ground now, curled up and
moaning, or just plain out cold.

It was an otherwise dashing entrance rendered anticlimactic.

"What took you?" Oracle said, calm and terse.

"We ... " Batgirl began, then noticed Oracle struggling for breath, leaning with one
palm flat against the brick wall. "Are you hurt?"

She took a step closer, then said flatly, shocked, "You're bleeding."

She reached out but Oracle jerked away. "I'm fine."

Batgirl pulled back her hand as if an eagle had snapped at it.

"I'm sorry," she said, either because Oracle was bleeding or because she'd dared to
try and help.

Robin rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, staring at Oracle. He bit his lip. This
wasn't nearly as amusing as training in the Batcave had been.

"We should have remembered that you're ... " Batgirl tried again. "We should
have let the other ones go and gotten here faster."

"No!" Oracle straightened up, hoping his wince wasn't visible. "I don't need your help."

The moment Batgirl folded her arms, she wasn't Batgirl anymore but Barbara,
with every emotion written plainly on the exposed parts of her face. Like Dick,
she wasn't much good at appearing impassive. Neither was Tim for that matter.
The only one of them skilled at giving nothing away was Batman.

The words had come out more sharply than he'd meant them to.

"I can take care of myself," he told Batgirl, more gently this time. "And so can
you."

***
Friday
***

Wally knew what a moll was really supposed to be but so far he'd managed to
avoid that. He'd flirted, and dodged, and played hard-to-get with Roberts and all
his men for days. He'd done his best to blend with the other girls that hung out
at Roberts' mansion. Girls with teased hair and too much lipstick, they draped
themselves over the members of the gang with uninhibited, cynical sensuality.

If Wally had seen any of those girls in passing, they'd have been eye-candy. He
might even have offered a wolf-whistle. But he wouldn't have seriously pursued
any of them. There were different types of girls in the world, and he'd been raised
with very set ideas about "nice" girls vs the other kind.

In the last week, he'd learned it wasn't that simple.

Some of the women in Roberts' harem, beneath the makeup, looked far, far too
young to dress like that, act like that, be like that. With several of them he'd had
to resist the heroic impulse to wipe the makeup off their faces and stick them on a
bus back to Illinois or wherever, complete with a scolding, big-brother lecture.

It would blow his cover, and they'd probably fall over laughing if he attempted it. So
he kept his mouth shut and tried to imitate them and stayed on the assignment.

This was new: to ignore many small crimes in the name of stopping the big ones.
Maybe that's what had given Batman his own very special blend of insanity.

At two a.m., Wally walked the darkened upstairs corridors of the mansion, pausing
as he went by a nook that contained a marble statue of a half-naked girl, draped in a
toga and reaching upwards to something unseen.

Earlier that day as he'd come down that corridor he'd heard one of the younger
girls, Salli, protesting against the advances of one of Roberts' machine-gun heavies.
The guy was hurting her. It had been easy enough to zip in, trip him so he fell out
of the nook, and get gone again. Neither was the wiser and thought it was a freak
wind coming in through the many french doors. It gave the girl time to flee, and
gave Wally's conscience a temporary vent.

Sure, if he wanted to be truly heroic, he could deliberately try to draw more
attention to himself and away from them, put himself between the gang members
and the jailbait.

He wasn't that heroic. There were things, surely, his teammates didn't expect him
to do. Right? Right.

Glancing down at the tight red dress he wore - the skirt stopped somewhere
mid-thigh - he thought he'd better hurry up and get the information, fast. Get
information, get back to Watchtower, get back to his real gender or at least back to
wearing pants.

Although ... there were certain interesting things about this new form. It was
almost fun.

Hey, it wasn't as if it was someone else's body. He wasn't violating
anyone else's privacy. It was his body, only now it was her body
and didn't it just react in new and informative ways to certain routine activities
he'd taken for granted before. He'd made mental notes on several responses that
would (he hoped) come in handy. Prime opportunity. Not many guys had the
same chance at research like this.

But on the whole, being undercover sucked eggs.

The dresses Bats had provided, all designer labels, were uncomfortable and his
underwear rode up and his bra straps chafed and the pantyhose were diabolic
torture devices. He'd bet money Diana never wore them even in her civvies.

For the thousandth time, he grumped to himself that SuperClara didn't have to go
undercover as a moll. BatBrynne didn't have to go undercover as a moll.

Diana and Hawkgirl would never agree to go undercover as molls and
would rip anyone who suggested it a new one.

It wasn't fair.

So he wandered the halls in the middle of the night, hope to pick up a stray bit of
info, anything that would make his assignment end sooner.

He turned the corner, catching a glimpse of himself - herself - in a huge,
gilt-framed mirror. He waggled an eyebrow at himself appraisingly. In the dim
light of the hallway, with makeup finally applied, if not right, then not like a drag
version of the Joker, she wasn't too bad. If he spotted himself across the room at a
party, he might ask himself out.

Both images hurt his brain. A lot. Particularly the Joker in drag.

"Molly."

Startled, Wally turned, fists instinctually coming up in a fight position.

Roberts' slender, athletic frame emerged from the shadows beside an open
bedroom door, from which firelight flickered. His blond hair flopped over one
eye and he was watching Wally with a lopsided smile on his boyish face. "What
are you doing?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

"C-couldn't sleep." Wally cleared his throat. "I ... ah. I'm an insomniac. Walking
makes me sleepy."

"There are better ways to cure that," Roberts said, the smirk deepening.

He wore a silk smoking jacket, open at the chest, Wally noted. What a
player.

Unsure of what to say next, Wally smoothed down his dress and smiled. Must be
nice to the gang leader. Sooner they cracked this, the sooner the league could
devote its attentions where it should be, which was to solve their gender identity
crisis.

"C'mere." Roberts jerked his head back towards the bedroom.

Me? Wally pointed to his chest in mock modesty, stalling for time.

Roberts crooked his index finger twice. Come here, gorgeous.

For a second Wally hesitated. Following an expert womanizer into his bedroom
at two a.m. seemed a good way to mess up the whole operation.

Information. Get information. Never wear bra again. Or thong. He liked
the look of a woman in a thong, liked how a well-sculpted body could be perfectly
outlined with a scrap of fabric. Plus, no panty line. He'd picked up half a dozen
at Victoria's Secret before discovering that another word for "thong" was "floss,"
with an added "butt" in front.

Wally moved past Roberts into the bedroom, careful not to brush against him,
trying to walk casual.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

Candles burned on the mantlepiece, on the windowsill, on the table, which was
covered with a white tablecloth.

"Please, have a seat." Roberts graciously pulled out a chair for Wally. Gingerly,
Wally sat.

A bucket of champagne chilled in a silver bucket, ice glinting in the firelight.
Roberts sat in the other chair, which was on the adjacent side of the table from
Wally's chair, not opposite it, curse the man. He lifted one of the silver domes
covering the many platters, revealing two steaks.

"Molly, we haven't had a chance to talk since you arrived."

Evidently Roberts was of the school that believed the way to a woman's heart was
through her stomach. He lifted another dome, and another. Steam curled up and
away from a pair of large scarlet lobsters.

Wally inhaled. Big mistake. His stomach muttered.

"You're such a busy man." Wally batted his - her - eyelashes (stupid
pronouns, they were kicking his ass), resting his palm on his stomach to calm it
down.

He was hungry. And there were french fries.

Heck with it. As long as he was there, he might as well eat, right?

Wally ate almost constantly, a lot of junk food, a lot of carbs. It was his
metabolism. John, finding the Watchtower refrigerator once again picked nearly
clean, grumbled that he was like a plague of locusts, eating everything in his path.

"Your work must be so fascinating," Wally said with his mouth full of fries. He
reached for a shell cracker and tackled the lobster. "I mean ... " *crack* " ...
keeping all the different subgangs from fighting, and so many people to keep track
of ... " *crack* "You must have some sort of way of keeping it all straight. A
computer system or a ... "

"Yes, of course." Roberts put two slender fingers to his forehead and closed his
eyes. "It is difficult, and stressful." He opened his eyes. "Please Molly, if you
could take pity on me, talk to me about cabbages and kings. Not my work."

He actually did look tired. Also, he hadn't eaten anything, although he had
consumed two whole glasses of champagne.

Hm. All the better. Better play along. If he got drunk enough, he might end up
talking about a central database and passwords.

Wally gulped down a glass of champagne in a few swallows. He lowered his
glass to see Roberts staring at him.

"Ah, a woman with an appetite for life." Roberts raised his glass. "Cheers."

They clinked wineglasses. Wally giggled and reached for the bottle. "More?"

As Wally watched Roberts grow more and more tipsy - and more talkative - he
found himself giggling more and more often. Not because he was getting drunk
(with his metabolism it would take four champagne bottles to feel a buzz), but
because he wanted Roberts to feel flattered enough that he would give up his
secrets.

Two lobsters, a steak, a plate of oysters, three chocolate mousses (mousse?
meese? - grammar was his new arch-nemesis, he decided) and two champagne
bottles later, Wally found himself sitting on the plush velvet couch next to
Roberts, listening to him tell stories.

Maybe his metabolism wasn't as speedy as he'd thought.

On his thirtieth giggle, an unexpected sharp sadness made him catch his breath.
Memories of girls, dozens of them, giggling at his own heroic stories, telling him
how brave he was, urging him on, cascaded through his mind like falling bits of
glass. On his thirtieth giggle he knew for a certainty none of them had found him
funny. They hadn't wanted him. They wanted something from
him and flattering his ego was their tool of choice.

What they were after, that was anyone's guess: the reflected glory of being seen on
a date with one of the League, or simply bored girls, the sensation seekers, the
curious.

The thirtieth giggle died in his throat. Then he focused on something Roberts was
saying and it snapped him out of his funk. Yes, he'd mentioned computers.

"Ooh," Wally cooed, feeling more like a slut than if he was actually putting out,
"You must need a lot of them to run an organization as big as Intergang."

"Indeed." Roberts had a very odd look in his eyes. There was something about it
Wally thought he should find familiar. Before he could figure it out, Roberts'
hand was cupping the back of Wally's head and Roberts' lips were on his - whoa,
was that his TONGUE?

Okayokayokay don't panic, don't panic, you'll blow your cover, just pretend
you're kissing your brother ... Wait! I don't HAVE a brother! And if I did, he
wouldn't USE TONGUE!

Ew! Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew!

Something brushed against his breast - Roberts' fingers - and it shook Wally
out of his shock and paralysis. In a heartbeat, he was standing behind the couch,
the candles guttering out in his wake. Roberts pitched forward.

As he pushed himself up on his hands, looking around in confusion, Wally
clubbed him at the base of the neck with a two-fisted punch, as Bats had taught
him once.

Roberts' slumped face first onto the couch. His slippers slid off his slack feet onto
the floor with two tiny soft thuds.

"Well I never," Wally eyed the unconscious crime boss. "I am not that
kind of girl!"

Before he fled back to his own room, Wally dragged Roberts onto the bed. He
plucked a few red hairs from his own head and left them on the pillow, rumpling
the covers and sheets so it would look like someone had slept on that side. With
any luck, Roberts would think he'd had a good time before he passed out drunk.

Info, info. He's gotta have something here ...

Wally searched the room as fast as he could, which in his case meant between two
snores from the guy on the bed. Or would have, if he'd not been in the tight dress.
So if he was still looking three snores later, it could hardly be his fault, right?

Hello ... Roberts' laptop was stashed away in the bedside cabinet. Wally
considered staying there to look at the files, then thought better of it. He could
always sneak the computer back in the room, and in the meantime, he didn't want
any stray beeps to wake up Roberts.

The hallway was empty. He snuck out, clasping the laptop to his chest, then
ducked into another room - and ducked out again when he saw the couple
snuggling inside.

"Sorry!" he trilled. Um, right. Study? At this time of night, the study
would be vacant. He could just leave now, but if he was wrong, if there
wasn't anything here, well, he could just see the looks on the others' faces when
he told them he'd blown his cover just to bring them Roberts' porn stash.

He zipped into the study, clicked on a lamp, and started booting the computer.

It requested a username and password.

Uh oh.

Wally touched his ear. "Hey, Bats, you busy?"

There was a long pause, long enough for Wally to remember what time of night it
was, and then also to remember who it was he was contacting.

"Go ahead," came the terse reply.

"You busy?"

Another long pause. "Yes." She sounded tired and out of breath. Wally figured
she was giving some lowlife in Gotham a lesson in anger management.

"It's just that I found Roberts's laptop, and I think it's got what we want, but it's
asking for a username and password. Any ideas?"

"You'll need to break into it."

"Figured that. How?"

The sigh carried well over the comm. "Give me a minute." The line stayed open.
Wally heard muffled grunts from the other end, a few rhythmic thuds, and a final
*crunch*. "All right. This is what you need to do."

He followed the instructions as Bats dictated them, and within a few minutes, he
had the computer's file directory open and waiting.

"Let me see ... " He clicked through, and pulled up a file named Inventory.xls.
He scanned it for content. "Bingo. This has got what we want. Gun sales and
allocations. Man," he said, whistling, "I'm sure most of these things are illegal.
You ever hear of a - "

Wally didn't know for guns. They weren't his interest, hadn't been since he was a
little kid with an air rifle. So he really didn't know the difference between an HK
MP5 and a P90, but he decided quickly, that didn't so much matter when one or
the other was currently stuck in his ear.

"Hi, sweetheart," said the voice holding it. Not Roberts, he thought.
Thank God.

And before he could so much as think, the butt of another gun made contact with
the base of his skull, and Wally finally got that sleep.

***

Part Five