Two or Three

Those who simply want to get to the 'good parts' may click here, here, or here. The rest of you, please consider the following:

1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.

2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.

3) I'm no continuity buff, so for simplicity's sake this story uses the TV show Batman: the Animated Series and its successors as its model, with bits and pieces picked up from the comics as I'm familiar with them. Please accept it as the best knowledge I had when the story was written. This caveat applies especially to Poison Ivy's menu of powers; these appear to have changed from treatment to treatment and over time, so I suppose the version I've given her is appropriate to some incarnation of the character.

4) Stories like this take time and effort to write. The chief reward an author receives for this labour is the knowledge that other people have found them good. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop the author a line at mildmanneredauthor@yahoo.com and let me know. The more feedback I receive, the more likely it is I'll keep writing new stories.

Heroes are supposed to be lucky. It comes with the territory. What he couldn't figure out was, had he had two pieces of good luck that day, or three? He couldn't tell.

His first piece of good luck was that he noticed the drop at all. There were any number of reasons he should have missed it. One reason was anxiety. The breakout at Arkham a few days before had everyone worried. The whole crew of psychos -- Two-Face, Killer Croc, the Ventriloquist, the Riddler, Harley Quinn, and Poison Ivy -- had gotten out. Who knew what sort of horrors the city would endure with them all loose at once? Another reason was fatigue. Bruce, even more tightly wound than usual, had unleashed his pack. Bruce, Babs, Dick, and even Helena were all out on the streets, working alone; there was too much ground to cover to shrink their forces into pairs. That meant he, Tim Drake, also known as Robin the Boy Wonder (how he hated that name. He could see why Dick had been so eager to make a new identity for himself) was working without a net. His pleasure at finally being free of the older crimefighters' supervision quickly melted away: operating without backup was hard. He'd gotten a rumour from one of his sources -- to be honest, his only source, a drunken ex-con he'd helped out once -- that the Ventriloquist's gang meant to hit a particular jewelry store, sometime after two o'clock that very night. So he'd taken up a position across the street, on top of a commercial art gallery, and was patiently waiting for the string to make its move.

With all of his attention focused on the store and the alley next to it, there was no reason for him to have given the guy any thought, but a quick glance at him prompted a thoughtful double-take. This fellow had just rounded the corner and was walking nonchalantly up the street... but wasn't that nonchalance a trifle forced? The more Tim watched him, the more he felt sure something was up. You couldn't spend all that time with Bruce and not become attuned to the signs of someone acting out a role, however subtly. Sure enough, the guy was up to something. As he passed a trash bin, the open-topped kind, made of wire, he dipped into his pocket and threw an envelope in. Not an envelope for a letter, but a bigger one, for documents, rolled up. He hadn't stopped, fumbled around in his pockets, grabbed the envelope and tossed it in, as a normal person would do. He'd tried to hide it, as if his arms didn't know what the rest of his body was doing. That confirmed it; it had been a drop. He'd been lucky to notice it at all.

Robin, secure in the shadows, stared down at the trash bin, brows furrowed. What should he do? Go get the envelope, or wait to see who came to take it? Protocol was to wait, and then shadow the recipient; but a good tail needed two people to work it right, and he was alone. Also, his gut told him this had nothing to do with the jewelry heist. That envelope was too small to hold explosives or some other distraction. He couldn't follow the envelope and stop the robbery.

Crimefighters didn't have the luxury of indecision. Attaching a zip line, he jumped off the roof. He did a slow fall, reaching out and catching eaves, diverting some of his downward momentum into dips and darts to the side, landing on his feet on the pavement. The shock ran up his spine, and then was gone. It was a move any gymnast or stuntman would give eyeteeth to perform, but nothing special for Robin. He didn't even think about what he had just done as he smoothly approached the bin, grabbed the envelope, pulled on the zip line and snapped back into the sky as the line retracted. Tumbling to a crouch on the rooftop, he examined the envelope. From decision, to descent, to grab and return, fifteen seconds had elapsed.

The envelope was unmarked and unsealed. Reaching in, he pulled out a single sheet of paper. It had a single line of text, written in pen. It was just gibberish-an apparently random sequence of numbers and letters. He scowled; someone was playing games, and at the moment, he couldn't afford to join in. It was time for another one of Bruce's tricks. With a moment's effort, he hypnotized himself, as he had been trained to do. His face blank, he stared at the sheet for a few seconds before his conscious mind reasserted itself. Now, with a moment's effort, he'd be able to recall that string of characters until the day he died. He put the paper back in the envelope, crushed the envelope into a ball, and put in one of his utility belt's spare pockets to consider later. He returned to his stakeout of the jewelry store.

He didn't have long to wait. Maybe ten minutes later, two black sedans appeared in the empty street, rolled up next to the jewelry store, and parked, engines idling. Large men in trench coats came out and hustled around to the back of the store, out of sight.

Showtime, thought Robin, as he rose to his feet. His attention focused on the events unfolding below him, there was no reason he should have caught the flicker of motion in his peripheral vision, but he did, his second piece of luck that day. Without thinking, he ducked, and the blow that should have knocked him flat only caught his shoulder. His side screaming in pain, he crumpled to the rooftop, turning his fall into a roll at the last second, coming up in a fighting stance.

There were two figures in the darkness, coming closer. One of them giggled, a high-pitched burst of laughter. "Got 'im, Red!"

The other figure's voice was low and sultry. "Get him again, Harl."

The two figures fanned out and moved closer, hemming him into the corner of the roof. Even before they emerged into the dim light cast by the streetlights below, he knew whom they were: Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. This was bad, very bad. Two against one; they had the drop on him; and his shoulder still hurt. Focus, man, focus. You can get through this. Just stay focused.

The mantra steadied his nerves. He backed away, slowly, watching them as they came near. They were both in costume: Harley in her clown suit, jester's cap, domino mask, and whiteface; Ivy in her slinky green leotard, complemented with long olive gloves and boots. Her outfit seemed an inky black in the twilight, as did her mane of red hair, which set off her pale white cleavage and legs. Focus. Harley had a big mallet in her hands, which he presumed she had mashed him with; Ivy's hands were cupped. She had something in her right hand, but he couldn't see what.

Seize the initiative. "Hello, ladies!" he sang, his voice exuding a confidence he didn't feel. "You know, you could have turned yourselves in. You don't need me to escort you, but I'll be happy to oblige." He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to spring.

Harley growled and swung her mallet in a long arc, swooping from right to left. She wasn't a trained fighter, so she telegraphed the blow, but she still had the advantage of reach. Robin undulated backwards, the mallet sizzling past his gut, and then rocked forwards into combat position. "You'll have to do better than that..."

Normally, his lines had more zing, but he was too worried to crack wise. With his shoulder banged up, he couldn't drop to the street safely, at least not for a few minutes. If he tried to escape on a zip line, he'd need to pull it out, aim properly, fire, wait for the bolt to strike home, then pull the release; they'd be all over him long before he was done. He couldn't go down, he couldn't go up, he couldn't go forward, and in a moment he wouldn't be able to go backwards either. He was only a few paces from the building's side. He needed an advantage.

"Believe it or not, we don't want to fight you, Boy Wonder," Ivy purred. Somehow she could be sexy even in mid-battle. "Just give us our envelope, and we'll be on our way. You can take Arnold and his boys in. That'll keep the big man happy."

"Or we can give the robin a red breast!" burbled Harley, making short jabs with her mallet.

The envelope. That was his edge. "Oh, you want this?" he asked. His voice cracked a bit on "this". Damn. Don't let them know you're not in control. Reaching into his belt, he pulled out the crumpled envelope. "Then go get it!" He tossed it over the side of the building, aiming low so they couldn't grab it.

Ivy cursed and turned to the street; Harley, less calculating, gaped as the envelope went over. Robin seized the moment. Pulling his zip line from his belt, he turned and in one smooth motion aimed and fired at a tall building on the far side of the block. The bolt sped through the night. This time, though, his luck had run out. His shoulder, still weak, interfered with his aim, and the bolt missed its mark, falling uselessly to the street, embedding itself in nothing. Without an anchor, he couldn't pull himself out of here. He wasted no time cursing his fate; instead, he braced himself to leap across the gap he had been pushed to, to the next building. It was at least ten feet. It would have been a difficult feat, but not impossible, but he never found out if he could have made it. Harley, with a hiss of frustration, stepped forward and clubbed him on the back of the neck. He dropped like a stone and sprawled across the rooftop, unconscious.

Criminals didn't have the luxury of indecision either. "Harley!" Ivy snapped. "Take him to the car. Put him in the trunk. I'll join you in a moment."

"You're the boss!" If Harley had any doubts about this course of action, she didn't express them. Humming snatches of 'Turkey in the Straw', she grabbed Robin by the shoulders and dragged him to the fire escape.

Ivy planted the ironvine seed she'd been holding in a crevice by the side of the building. She'd planned to use it to incapacitate the Boy Wonder, but this would do. In a moment, it sprang up, growing in seconds to thirty feet in length. Gripping it, Ivy lithely rappelled down the side of the building, crossed the alley, and entered the street. Where was that envelope? She had only moments before Arnold Wesker's thuggish antics in the jewelry store brought the cops. She had to be gone by then. When she'd heard he was planning this heist, she had thought it a perfect distraction for the cops and Batman: the Ventriloquist's caper would give Harl and her all the cover they needed so that they could be in and out with the prize, and no one the wiser. Damn that Robin, anyway. They'd known he was there, but were counting on him being preoccupied. When he'd interfered, it had thrown them off, forcing them to reveal themselves. All was not lost, though; if she could just grab that paper, they'd be set.

There it was, lying in the gutter. She frowned; it didn't seem that he could have thrown something so slight so far. The wind must have moved it. She strode forward, but even as she reached for it, the wind sprang up again. The paper flew up in an eddy, then landed at the side of a storm drain. It teetered on the edge and was gone.

She cursed with frustration, but aware of the danger she was in, she didn't belabor the point. Turning, she rushed through the alley and went around back, where Harley had managed to muscle Robin down the fire escape. Ivy was not surprised, though at first glance it might have seemed an impossible task. Looking at her, in her garish costume, people tended to underestimate her, but there was much more to Harley than met the eye. Harley slammed the trunk of their car, a mid-size compact, shut. "I know why the caged bird doesn't sing!" she exclaimed, in a childish sing-song.

"Sure, Harl. Let's go."

As they slipped into the car (Ivy driving) Harley said, "Uh, Red? Where are we going?"

"Back to the apartment."

"With him?"

"I'm afraid so."

Ivy pulled into the street on the far side of the block and drove, careful to keep below the speed limit. Harley knew the drill; as they moved, she removed her cap and mask, and used a cloth to wipe her face clean. There wasn't anything she could do about the suit, but other drivers and pedestrians, seeing the car go by, would only be able to see the faces of two women, pretty, but not otherwise remarkable. No costumed villains here, no sir.

"I don't get it, Red. If we were gonna kill him, why not do it back there?"

"A few reasons," Ivy replied evenly. Both of them knew she was the brains of the outfit. Harl was a bright girl, and on her own turf -- psychoanalysis -- she was still sharp as a tack, but beyond this the same eccentricities that made her a criminal interfered with her reasoning, especially the long-term, abstract sort. Ivy thus had to do the thinking for both of them. They were both used to it by now. "Firstly, if we killed him, Batman would never rest until he tracked us down."

"Oh, fer sure. And I bet it wouldn't be jail for us, neither! Bats in the belfry..."

Ivy nodded. Yes, Harl still had a good sense of how people would behave, especially the less stable, a category in which Gotham's self-appointed protector certainly fell. "Secondly, if we left him there, we'd lose our only link to the job. The envelope went down the drain. Even if I could get it back, it wouldn't have anything readable in it any more."

"I still don't get it..."

"We can't get the paper back. We can't get our contact back, either; by this time, he's long gone with the money we paid him. The only way to get the code now is to get it out of Robin. We saw him read it, right? He'll tell us the code, and we're back on track."

"Gee, Red, I dunno. How we gonna get him to do that?"

Ivy smiled, thinly and sharply. "We'll find a way..."

Robin came to with a snap; in one moment he made the transition from dreamless unconsciousness to alert awareness.

This is bad. This is very bad.

His situation became clear to him in a rush. He was in a largish room, maybe twenty-foot square. The floor was battered hardwood, the walls cheap plaster. A floor lamp, with no shade, sat in a corner, casting harsh yellow light. There was a skylight, a big one, at a forty-five-degree angle from the floor, but fifteen feet up; it didn't seem to open. It was dark outside, but purple instead of black; dawn was coming. Still morning, then. Though the light was bad, he was fairly sure there was nothing beyond the pane, no adjacent building.

The only furnishing in the room, aside from the lamp, was a chair, which at present he was sitting in, securely tied down. Handcuffs, one for each wrist, chained his arms, and his legs were pinioned with some sort of thick cord. Another cord wound around his waist. They had trapped him well.

With a surge of panic, he realized he was out of uniform, without boots, gloves, shirt, or utility belt. Even his tights were gone, leaving him in his briefs. He still wore his mask, though. He relaxed slightly; whatever else had gone wrong tonight, he hadn't lost his secret identity. Word had gotten around, then, of what had happened to Croc when he had tried to remove Batman's mask the one time that Croc had gotten the better of the Dark Knight. The resulting electric shock hadn't killed Croc, but that arm had been out of commission for days.

Okay, inventory. What have we got? Nothing. Without the gloves and the belt, no lockpicks. I could get out of one pair of handcuffs by breaking my hand, but with two pair, I'd be left with two broken hands. Not a good idea. The cords... can't untie them, I bet, and no tools to cut them.

All right. If I can't get out of here myself, I have to wait for someone to get me out. The tracer in my belt... eventually, Bruce and the others will come looking for me, and the belt will lead them right here. Wherever here is. Just gotta stay alive, stay safe, until then.

Secured as he was, he could only see one door out of the room, in front of him about fifteen feet away. It opened a crack, and someone stuck her head in. It took him a moment to recognize Harley. She looked very different out of uniform: blond hair done up in pigtails, clear skin, high cheekbones. Amazing what a domino mask and greasepaint can conceal. Harley was, in her own way, as attractive as Ivy, a girl next door to Ivy's femme fatale. She's also as crazy as wounded bear, and as dangerous, too. Stay focused.

"Ayyy-vee!" Harley trilled. "He's awayyyy-ke!" Dancing an impromptu dance, Harley entered. She had ditched her clown suit, too; she wore an old T-shirt ("Property of Gotham University Athletics") and bicycle shorts. Tim tried not to show it, but he was shocked; under that baggy harlequin outfit, Harley was seriously hot. The T-shirt, tight as it was, showed off her slim waist and her surprisingly large chest. She had to wear some sports bra under her costume, and it would have to be at least a 36D. Her legs and arms weren't bad either, slim but well muscled. I guess incarceration at Arkham gives her time to work out. She pranced over and stood before him, striking a pose of mock horror, she cried, "Oh, officer, officer, there's a man in my room!"

"Knock it off, Harl," said Ivy without rancor. Striding in, she brushed Harley aside, who moved off behind Tim, so that he couldn't see her any more. Ivy was still in her costume. In the light, better here than on the rooftop, Tim was all the more aware of how distractingly sexy she was. Though slightly slimmer-chested than Harley, she had wider hips and a narrower waist, giving her a classic hourglass figure. Her hair hung round her face and dripped to her shoulders in an auburn wave. Her almond eyes and her curl of a smile would be, under other circumstances, highly exciting.

Her most prominent feature, at the moment, was the bright green lipstick she wore. "Be strong, baby," she whispered. "This won't hurt a bit." She leaned forward, and Tim, despite his predicament, couldn't help but check out her cleavage. Ivy firmly pressed her lips against his cheek. Making a smacking sound, she pulled away and looked down in satisfaction. Tim looked back at her, saying nothing. A minute passed, then Ivy broke the silence.

"That should have done it. All right, Robin" -- she mockingly emphasized the name -- "tell Ivy, what was the code, hmmm? The one you read on that piece of paper."

Tim stared at her. He licked his lips, and shuddered slightly. "I... I... I can't resist. I'll tell you. It was..." He paused. Ivy leaned forward expectantly. In the background, Tim heard Harley stop whatever game she had been playing (something involving jumping up and down) to listen. "It was..."

"Yes?" Ivy's tone was cool, but didn't mask her anticipation.

"It was... one if by land, two if by sea."

"What?" Ivy looked blank, then frowned. "I gave you an order. Tell me the code on that paper."

"Sorry, Ivy," smirked Tim. "Name, rank, and serial number. That's all you're getting from me." He watched her consternation, amused.

Without saying anything, she leaned forward again, and Tim made a point of openly ogling her. She kissed his other cheek, hard, and pulled back, studying him intently.

"Sorry, doll. Not this time. When Batman heard you had gotten out, he gave us all a shot. Your lipstick, your blood, and all your other little potions; no effect on me, so sorry." As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back; he had given too much away, especially his immunity to Ivy's toxic body chemistry. Surprise enhances any weapon. Perhaps it was inevitable, though. His small victory, after a night of defeats, coupled with the mild arousal Ivy's kisses and body had given him, had loosened his tongue.

Ivy ground her teeth together. She looked away from Tim and deliberately refused to answer him. "Come on, Harl." She stalked out of the room, Harley following her timidly. After working with the Joker for so long, she now had the habit of meekness whenever her partner became upset; it was a knee-jerk response, but one that had kept her alive and healthy so far. The two left and closed the door behind them. Tim settled back into his pinions. Round one to me. And maybe by the time they figure out their next move, Batman will be here.

The room the pair had entered was much more comfortably furnished than Tim's. Had Tim been able to see it, he would have immediately recognized it as a home, a space where people actually lived, and people with good taste too: the table and couches were expensive, the prints on the walls well-chosen. The kitchenette off to one side and the loft above it marked this apartment as clearly as the plaster and hardwood floors did: small, but well-furnished, this was an apartment for Gotham's middle class, with education and refinement but not enough money for anything bigger, given Gotham's absurd rental rates. Ivy owned the building through a few blind corporations, and kept it as a safehouse. As far as she knew, no one else was aware of her possession of it. With the other apartments empty (but occupied on paper), it was a perfect blind.

"Ivy? What are we gonna do?"

"Shh, Harl, I'm thinking."

The two sat together on one of the couches, Ivy sitting back and reclining, Harl curled up next to her. Ivy's sharp tone was belied by the gentle strokes she gave to Harley's hair, which served to calm both of them.

"Hmmm. We're in a tough spot, Harley. I don't have much of a pharm lab here, or many components, either. Certainly not enough of a setup to make a new hypnotic drug. We can't afford to go outside again, not with everyone looking for us, especially Batman, when he finds out his pet's gone. If we had the code, we could do the job and get out of town until the heat dies down, but it's too dangerous to leave without that code, not even for lab materials. We need to get it from him! ...But how?"

Harley spoke quietly, as if to the air rather than to Ivy. "Successful interrogation depends upon the application of pressure, either physical, mental, or emotional."

Ivy didn't show it, but internally she perked up. Harley was much more lucid out of costume than in it, but even when she wasn't in her work clothes she was flighty and unpredictable. Sometimes, though, Harley had moments of sharp clarity, especially when she drew upon her psychological training. Those moments couldn't be forced, but Ivy had learned to seize the opportunity they offered when they arose.

"What pressure can we bring to bear, dear?"

"Several avenues of approach suggest themselves. One: the subject's alter ego. A threat to expose it might provoke cooperation."

"Too dangerous, I think. Physical danger that oh-so-innocent-looking mask offers aside, the information would make us targets of both the Batman and the underworld. Not a position I relish."

"Two: physical pain. Given sufficient suffering, any subject will eventually submit to his captors' wishes."

"Also too dangerous. If he lied, we couldn't be certain of it until it was too late to go back and get the real code. What's more, the amount of damage we'd have to do to get him to cooperate... Batman would be just as provoked as if we'd killed him."

Still stroking Harley's hair, Ivy mused: "When we've got the code, we let him go, unhurt and with identity still unknown. Batman will have too many other problems and too little incentive to come after us. How do we do it, Harl?"

"Three: emotional pressure. Popularly known as 'Stockholm syndrome,' given the right circumstances a captive can... can... can, can you do the can-can, can you do the can-can, can you do the- LA la la la la la la!" Kicking her legs up, Harley laughed, sprang off the couch, and did a handstand. Ivy sighed. These moments of hers only lasted so long, then her irrational side reasserted itself, stronger than ever. It was darling, but at the moment rather inconvenient.

"That's all right, love. I think you've given us the answer."

Returning to her feet, Harley said "What? What's the answer? Was I talking? It's so hard to find good help these days."

"You were saying that if we can't break him, we have to convert him. Make him our friend, not an enemy. Then he'll tell us what we want to know."

Harley curled her lip and squinted in an exaggerated pose of dubiety. "Gee, Red, make him our friend? We've been tangling with each other now for, what, gee, a long time now, huh? Seems like he's pretty sure he's not our friend."

"Maybe so. But you know what, Harl? He's fifteen years old, at least, but not much older."

"So?"

"He's macho enough to withstand pain. But I watched him when I kissed him before. He's not mature enough, I bet, to withstand pleasure..."

At first, Tim tried to stay awake. He'd been knocked out, and maybe had a concussion; and everyone knew that people with concussions shouldn't go to sleep. After an hour, though, his head felt fine -- no ringing, no auras in his vision -- and his shoulder did too. His bonds were tight, but not excessively uncomfortable. His fatigue had an open field on him, and finally, exhausted, he succumbed. Even as he slipped out, he exulted that every minute that passed brought rescue that much closer.

He snapped awake when the door opened. Harley came in, dressed as before, dragging a mattress behind her. She plopped it to the floor in front of his chair, then retreated. It was a big one, queen-sized. In a moment she returned with a big comforter and draped it over the mattress, then left again. When she came back a third time, with pillows, he spoke. "What, is this the Hotel 6? Don't go to all this trouble on my account; I can just crash on the couch." She stuck her tongue out at him, and then left, shutting the door. Tim was left to ponder the makeshift bed before him. He was perplexed. What was going on here? Did they really expect him to be here long enough to need a bed? And were they going to untie him from the chair to sleep in it? He sure hoped they would. Without any bonds, he might be able to spare himself the humiliation of having Batman rescue him by effecting an escape himself.

In a little while the door opened again and the two of them entered. They had changed clothes: Ivy was in a sort of sea-green evening gown, cut low across the chest and high across the thighs, and Harley... he frowned. Harley was in a similar outfit, this one Lincoln green. What, were they sharing wardrobes now? He noted, despite himself, that Harley filled out the bosom of her gown nicely; it strained against her breasts, which were more ample than Ivy's. The pair kneeled before him on the mattress and looked up at him. Weird... why would they surrender the advantage of height? Harley smiled wickedly at him but said nothing; Ivy spoke for both of them.

"Look, kid, here's the deal." She began ticking off points on her fingers. "First. Batman's not coming." She saw him start and smiled; that was a point for her. "We figured there was some tracking device in your stuff, so we ditched it some ways from here. He can't find you that way, and he doesn't know about this place. Even if he did, Two-Face has a hostage situation going at Gotham Towers, and Croc is running amuck in the harbour. He's got a lot on his plate. You're on your own."

Tim stared at her, refusing to give anything away. She continued, undisturbed. "Second. All we want from you is that code you saw. Giving it to us won't hurt anyone; it's a combination key to a vault at the LexCorp branch office, filled with bearer bonds. It's not guarded, because that vault is impenetrable... unless you know the code to open it, which changes every two days. Give us the code, and we'll slip in, get the money, and slip out again. No one is injured, and the only harm done is that Lex Luthor loses some money, which he won't miss, and he probably deserves to lose it anyway. So what is giving us that code going to hurt? It gets you free, it gets us out of Gotham and out of Batman's hair. Everyone wins."

Tim still said nothing. It was his job to thwart criminals, not aid them, no matter how blameless their crimes seemed. And, of course, they'd just be back once they ran through Lex's money, and the next victim might be someone who didn't deserve to be robbed. He shook his head slightly. Inwardly, though, he groaned. He couldn't escape; he couldn't count on rescue. What could he do?

"Third. We don't want to hurt you. We're not psychotic lunatics, like..." She caught herself just in time. Harley would never have forgiven her. "...like Two-Face, or the Riddler. We want a non-violent solution. Won't you just give us the code?" She looked up at him, her face pleading. Her lip quivered. Staring at Poison Ivy, who seemed ready to break out in tears, Tim's resolve flagged. Get a grip, man! he berated himself. It's just a trick. "No dice," he muttered.

"I know you don't believe me when I say we mean no harm. But maybe I can prove it to you." She rose to her feet and stepped forward. Daintily, she sat on his lap, her silk gown rustling as it rubbed against his cotton briefs. She bent down. As her lovely face filled his vision, he just had time to realize her lipstick was ruby red, not green. So if she isn't using the mind-control lipstick, what is she...? He never finished the thought. Her lips pressed against his. Shocked, he felt her tongue press against his teeth, and before he knew what he was doing, he parted them and let her in.

Tim had very little experience with girls. Early in adolescence his family situation had left him little opportunity to meet people his own age, as he was forced to find a way to live on the street. After his adoption as Bruce Wayne's ward, he'd had even less time, as his training as Robin, then his night patrols, combined with home schooling with Alfred, meant he had very little free time and no one to take out during it. He'd had a few well-chaperoned dates with other children of high society, but that was all. The only real girl he'd spent time with was Barbara-Batgirl -- but she was a few years older than he was, and all business whenever he was around. Still, they'd worked out together, and once he'd gotten a glimpse of her in the shower. He'd spent many nights fantasizing about her. Though he'd done much more in his imagination, in real life he'd never kissed a girl before, so now, when Ivy kissed him, his glands went into overdrive.

They held the embrace a long moment, Tim enjoying every moment of it, even while reminding himself this was Poison Ivy, eco-terrorist and murderer. Worse, she was also a monster; without Bruce's blockers, exposure to her saliva or blood would mean sickness or death for him. His mind went over these facts, but they couldn't restrain his body. His hormones flooding his system, he was acutely conscious that his cock was stiffening, and pressing up against Ivy's legs.

Ivy knew it, too. She broke their kiss with a sigh, and whispered "Oh, baby." Rising to her feet, she stepped back as daintily as before. Reaching down, she took hold of his briefs and pulled them down slightly. His cock sprang free, rising up to its full six inches.

Ivy's eyes widened. "Oooh, Harley," she breathed, "look." "Mmmm," Harley cooed, and smacked her lips. Tim flushed, embarrassed, pleased, and excited all at once.

"It's so big," Ivy went on, still in her breathy siren-voice. "But maybe we can make it bigger. Harley, if you would?"

Harley stood and stepped behind Ivy and fumbled at her back. This was rehearsed, Tim thought. They planned this. He was too tired and horny to work out the implications, though. In a moment, Tim heard a zipper open. Slowly, seductively, Ivy reached up and pulled at her gown, and it fell away from her, leaving her nude.

Guess Babs was right, Robin thought. These two are partners in more than just crime. Does that mean they're not interested in men? He was certainly interested in them. His cock was painfully stiff now.

Ivy and Harley sank to the bed, into a sitting position, Ivy behind Harley, wrapping her long legs around Harley's waist. They kissed again. Ivy's hands slid down Harley's chest, taking the opportunity to tickle her midsection, before finally reaching her crotch. Harley's pubic hair was a small patch of blonde fuzz. Resting her palm on it, Ivy slid her fingers down into Harley's mound and began stroking it. Tim couldn't quite make out the details, but Harley certainly seemed to enjoy herself, breaking her kiss to cheer her lover on. "Oh, Red... Red... that's the spot, Red... oh... oh... keep going, don't stop... oh... oh..."

Harley's chorus of pleasure was more than Tim could bear. He hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction, but he couldn't resist any more. He tried to reach his cock with his right hand, but couldn't quite get to it, thanks to the handcuffs; nor was his left any better positioned. He struggled and squirmed, but in vain. Drips of pre-cum dribbled down his shaft, but he couldn't do anything about it. Harley, concentrating on her own needs, had her eyes closed, but Ivy's were open, and she saw what Tim was doing. She smiled: another point for her. "Oooh, Robin, would your boss approve? Just give me a moment, darling, and I'll see what I can do." She suddenly doubled her efforts, her fingers surely parting Harley's sex and rubbing Harley's clit with newfound energy. After a few moments, Harley screamed in delight, and fell backwards on the bed, writhing in pleasure. Ivy looked down at her tenderly, and then looked up at Tim, her expression changing to a lascivious smile, her lips slightly open. She crawled towards him, resting her chin on his knee. Her hair slid and twisted against his legs.

"You've had all your shots, right, lover? Good. Then I'm free to do this..."

She pushed forward, so that his cock pressed up against her cheek. She moved her head purposefully, rubbing it this way and that across her face. Tim stared, too tense to breathe. She opened her mouth and began to lick him, softly. Just like a mother cat cleaning her kittens, Tim thought, dazed. She started with the tiny ropes of pre-cum, licking them up and swallowing them, moaning softly as she did so. When those were gone, she licked him all over, from the tip to the base of his shaft. Soon his cock glistened, slick with her saliva.

Tim gasped with delight. He'd never had a blowjob before, so he couldn't judge just how skilled Ivy was, but this was every bit as good as he'd imagined, much more delightful than jacking himself off. Ivy sucked and nibbled at his head, moving it from one side

Ivy began to vary her tempo, bobbing hard, then slow, then hard. Harley pulled herself to her feet. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she padded behind him. He heard her say "Red's real good with her mouth, huh? Believe me, I know." She giggled, and Tim shuddered as Ivy, to acknowledge the compliment, deepthroated him. For a few seconds, she plunged down his shaft, taking all of him in, then pulling back, all the way off. She caught her breath, then returned to her work, sucking away at the head of his cock. Suddenly, Tim lost sight of her, as Harley covered his eyes with her hands. "Guess who?" She pulled his head back, into her breasts. His head pillowed, she began stroking his chest, reaching out from behind him to rub and caress his nipples.

Tim couldn't hold back any more. He desperately wanted to, but he knew he was on the verge of orgasm. He stiffened. Ivy recognized the cue for what it was. In a flash, she pulled away and stood up, towering over him, arms on hips. The effect was strange: Ivy's stern expression and stance, mixed with heaving breasts and a sloppy, saliva-and-pre-cum-sticky face, left Tim unsure if he wanted to cower or worship.

"You want me to finish? Believe me, lover, there's nothing I want more than to take care of you, but first you have to take care of me. Give me that code."

Tim, in an agony of delayed fulfillment, tried to speak. "I can't do that," he managed after a moment. "Please..."

"No, my dear. No code, no love."

Tim grasped at straws. "Fine! Fine! It was, uh, it was..." He rattled of a string of random numbers and letters, the same length and structure as the one he had seen. Ivy stared at him for a moment, then knelt before him. She leaned over his swollen prick; but instead of taking it in, she reached up and flicked it with her fingers. Tim screamed in agony and need. Harley, who still cushioned his head with her breasts, laughed in delight.

"Don't try to fool me, Boy Wonder. I don't know the code, but I do know its architecture. If you lie to me again, I'll know, and do you know what I'll do then? I'll leave. Harley and I will go and let Batman find you, tied up to a chair, naked and ready to burst. But if you tell me the truth..." She gave him a quick lick, easing the pain somewhat. "...I'll take you someplace where you've never been." His jerk told her she had hit home. Yet another point for Ivy: game, set, and match. "Tell me now!"

Tim gave up. Fatigue and desire had overcome his better judgment and his ability to resist. "Okay! Okay!" With a moment's effort, he recalled the code and gave it to her. He didn't even transpose some digits or change one letter for another, so afraid he was that she might know and refuse to satisfy him. Ivy looked at him, obviously thinking. After a moment, she smiled. "That checks out. Primes in the right places, and all."

She drummed her fingers against his knee. "You know, I have what I need from you now. I could walk out of here and leave you as you are. But I'm not going to. Think about that the next time you hear people call me nasty names."

She returned to his cock. As before, with Harley, she worked at a new pace now, bobbing up and down with energy. Without warning she deepthroated him, pulling against his knees to force his cock down her throat, then pulled back, sucking hard. Tim, afraid she might stop again, made no attempt to hold back. With a grunt, he came, his orgasm so intense he had to shut his eyes. He could feel Ivy still working on him, swallowing, taking what he gave her. In a moment, he opened his eyes. Ivy looked up at him with satisfaction, ribbons of come at the side of her mouth. Harley stepped out from behind him and knelt down beside her, kissing her face, licking her clean. Tim, exhausted and satiated, watched them as his prick shriveled down to its normal size.

The two kept kissing and fondling one another, now seemingly oblivious to Tim's presence. He watched them, and even in his condition, weak, tired, and sore from his bonds, he could see they knew each other's rhythms. It hadn't been a show strictly for his benefit, then; these two pleased each other, really cared for each other. They were lovers as well as partners.

Thinking about the two of them as partners made Tim think of his own partner. His mood spiraled down from post-coital elation to despair. Now free of the lust that had driven him, he berated himself with his crime. He was a criminal now, certainly; he had knowingly aided these two in their forthcoming heist. He hadn't been compelled or coerced; he had helped them only because Ivy wouldn't have sucked him off otherwise. What kind of crimefighter was he? Not a very good one, it seemed. A tear trickled down his cheek.

Harley and Ivy hadn't stopped petting each other. Ivy leaned back and spread her legs, and Harley eagerly began kissing her belly, working her way down. As Harley licked at Ivy's slit, Ivy, propping her head up on some pillows, looked over at Tim. Eyeing his tear, she spoke, punctuating her words with soft moans of joy. Harley didn't seem to mind that she didn't have Ivy's undivided attention, and diligently licked away.

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, dear. Better, tougher men than you would have succumbed in your position, if I do say so myself." She closed her eyes for a moment and smiled a dreamy smile. Opening her eyes, she continued.

"If you have to, just tell Batman we forced you into it. It's true, in a way." She gestured at her lipstick. "This wasn't just colour, dear. I didn't have the stuff to make a truth agent, but I did have something else, something Batman wouldn't have foreseen. Makes Viagra look like prune juice. I'd market it if I could, but there are side effects... nothing a young lad like yourself can't handle, but fatal, I bet, to the heart-attack crowd." She stroked Harley's pigtails, which seemed to encourage her to greater effort. "So the lust you're feeling is not entirely your own. Most of it is, but on its own, maybe not enough to tip you over to our side."

She broke off with a shudder and gasp. Harley stopped lapping at Ivy's cunt; with a grunt, she pulled herself up and rested her head on Ivy's mid-section. Tim realized with a start that Ivy had just come; obviously not every woman was as vocal in the moment as Harley seemed to be.

Was Ivy telling the truth? He surely wanted to believe her, even though he hadn't felt any hornier than he had in the past, especially when he found himself eyeing Barbara in her tank top during a workout. Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Not sure whether to believe me? There's your proof." She gestured at his crotch. Tim, surprised, glanced down. Watching Harley get Ivy off had inspired it to rise again. Ivy sighed an exasperated sigh. "Oh, the naivety of youth. Honey, normally you can't get it up again that quickly, no matter how sexy a show you've got in front of you." Tim coloured: he had assumed in his innocence that such a fast recovery was normal, under conditions like this. "We're flattered, love, but no, it isn't you or us, it's the drug."

"Believe it, little man. When you want a tower, you get a rope," sighed Harley, idly crossing and uncrossing her legs. The twitches that went through her ass as she did so only perked up Tim's prick the more.

Ivy stared at Tim, her eyes narrow, then sat up, thrusting her chest out. "Well, Harl, he's ours until tonight. You see, Robin, the code for the vault changes every other day; our code won't work until midnight. So it seems we have you for a bit longer. How shall we pass the time?"

"Huh?" Harley was obviously confused, but Ivy quelled her with one hand, pushing her head down into Ivy's belly. "It seems a shame," Ivy continued, using her seductress' voice once again, "to let that drug go to waste."

Tim, his cock now fully erect again, didn't know what to think. Ivy, it seemed, had changed plans on Harley... why? Once again, though, between his fatigue and his lust, he couldn't think straight. His cock demanded attention. "Uh..." he muttered, trying to figure out what was going on and what he should do. Ivy decided for him. She rose up and sauntered out of the room. In a moment, she returned, with keys in one hand and a knife in the other.

"What... what's that for?" Tim rasped, his cock shrinking at the sight of the knife.

"Oh, relax, it's for the ropes, not you. Harley..."

Harley, who still looked confused but seemed willing to follow Ivy's lead, rose up and joined her. Ivy swiftly unlocked his handcuffs from the arms of the chair, leaving him only tied down. She then snapped the cuffs on again, his right wrist attached to Harley's left. That done, she sawed away at the ropes, freeing him. Tim rose, stretched, glad to be out of the chair, but unsure of this new prison. Harley seemed as confused as he was, but shrugged. "You're the boss, Red."

"You two get acquainted. I'll be back soon." Ivy strode out of the room, leaving Tim staring into Harley's eyes.

"First things first, kid. Don't try anything, or I'll pulverize ya." Her bouncing breasts and pigtails neutralized the menace in her words. Tim wasn't inclined to argue the point, though; in his condition, Harley might be able to take him, even if she hadn't had Ivy close at hand to protect her. "Second things second: this don't mean anything. Next time I see ya, I'll cut ya to ribbons, if that's what Ivy or Mistah J wants. Third things third: that said, no reason we can't have a good time, huh? I've always wondered what Batman would be like in the sack. Guess you'll be almost as interestin'..."

Without warning she grabbed Tim's sodden briefs and pulled them all the way down to his feet. He was now completely naked, except for his mask. Falling to her knees with a jerk, almost yanking Tim's arm off in the process, she grabbed his ass with her free hand. She didn't go into preliminaries, as Ivy had before; she just went down on his cock and began sucking on it, hard.

Right away, Tim could tell that Ivy was the better fellatrice, with more tricks and finesse. Harley simply had gusto, moving up and down without interruption. Yes, Ivy was better, but that was like saying that tiramisu was a better, more sophisticated dessert than double-chocolate ice cream. Both gave you what you wanted, and left you happy. Groaning in delight, he ran his free hand down the side of her head to her shoulder. Harley responded by yanking hard on his cuffed arm, pulling him down onto the bed, in a sitting position. Catlike, she curled around him, still bobbing, and grabbed his free hand with hers, pulling it to her chest. That was all the encouragement Tim needed, and he began to fondle, squeeze and rub Harley's bountiful breasts. Her nipples hardened at his touch.

Harley pulled off of him in a jerk. Rising up, she pushed him backwards, leaving him on his back on the bed. Tim cursed; he had been pretty close to coming. He guessed Harley had known it too, and that was why she had stopped. She crawled over his supine body, turning about until her slit was just over Tim's mouth. "Your turn, kid," she burbled, and lowered herself to him.

Tim, unsure of himself, reached out with his tongue, and licked what he thought was her. "No, no, higher, kid, higher." He tried higher, and then lower, and then harder, and faster, following Harley's ever-more-impatient instructions, but finally she gave up. Pulling herself up and away from him, she moved to his side. "Sorry. You just can't compete with Red, and why have spam when you can have steak?" Tim, embarrassed, felt his member begin to collapse, but Harley refused to lose her toy without a fight. She reached out with her free hand and began to rub it. "Guess we'll just have to see what kinda piledriver you are, kid. Can you fuck as hard as you punch? Let's find out."

She lay down on her back and yanked him. His wrist was pretty sore now, but he didn't care. Following her pulls, he rolled on top of her. "Gimme what you got, Boy Wonder," she commanded. Tim hesitated, and Harley rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You think I live with a fancy pharmacologist for nothin'? There's nothing I've got to give to you, and nothing you can give to me. So make with the lovin'!"

That was all Tim needed. With Ivy, he had tried to distract himself from considering just who his sex partner was, but his qualms were now gone, washed away on a tide of mental exhaustion and physical need. Bracing himself, he pushed forward, but couldn't find the spot. Harley rolled her eyes again. "New at this, aint'cha?" She grabbed him with her free hand and guided him in. With one push, he entered her.

He had thought, during the blowjobs he'd just received, that he knew what heaven was. But this was even better, a whole new level of experience beyond masturbation or fellation. Harley was tight and warm and vocal, and he found himself pushing, thrusting like a monomaniac, trying to pin her to the ground. Harley screamed in delight -- she was as vocal during intercourse as during oral sex -- and egged him on. "Come on, Robin, come on, Robin, come on, Robin, oh, oh, oh, oh, come on, Robin, give me what you got! Give it to me! Give it to me!"

He pushed and he pushed and he pushed. Time lost all meaning; there was just he and Harley, a panting, demanding Harley, urging him on. After a while even Harley receded: all he was conscious of was his cock, burning hotter and hotter, until he exploded, the fire too much to contain. The release was deliciously intense. Even as his strokes slowed, Harley shouted her pleasure, her loudest cry yet. He guessed she had come: why fake it to please him? His suspicion was confirmed in a moment; as his thrusts ceased, Harley gasped "Oh, Mistah J..." When a man made her die the little death, there was one person she couldn't help but think of.

He lay on her for only a few moments before she pushed him off, moving him away with feet and knees. Groaning, he sank down into the mattress, barely able to move. Harley, still chained to his wrist, rolled onto her side and nestled in next to him. For once, she didn't speak; instead, she ran her free hand along his chest, stroking it. She draped one of her legs over his and pressed down, hard, as if trying to soak up all the heat from him.

Everything was hazy now. Intellectually, he knew what a desperate position he was in: captive of two ruthless criminals who, as pleasant as they seemed, were both demented and dangerous; without hope of aid from his partners; in a compromising position, both literally and metaphorically. If Batman knew his sidekick had given assistance to these two in return for sex, what would he do? Tim knew all this, but couldn't concentrate; like jelly, his situation slipped away when he tried to come to grips with it. His body, worn out, demanded sleep, and Harley's soft embrace was disarming his defenses. He began to drift away.

He roused himself as he felt new pressure; Ivy had returned. She was still nude. Without a word, she lowered herself to the bed and lay down next to him, so that he was sandwiched between the pair of them. Like Harley, she began to rub his chest. He couldn't bring himself to respond, though.

Ivy had other plans. Her hand drifted down his chest, to his mid-section, and finally reached his flaccid prick, still sticky and wet with Harley's juices. She began sliding her hand along the shaft. Tim groaned as he felt his member respond, stiffening in her grasp. Earlier, he hadn't thought it possible to be tired of screwing, but he was; all he wanted was sleep. His cock had other plans, though. Ivy's drug had given it a life of its own.

"Come on, Robin. I hope they don't call you the Boy Wonder for nothing. Harley got a ride" -- "Boy howdy!" chirped Harley -- "and now it's my turn," Ivy whispered. She caressed him without cease, her touch gentle but sure. The handjob had the desired effect, as slowly Tim's cock rose up, pointing stiffly away from his body.

Harley eased her way down until her head was at the level of Tim's chest. She reached across Tim's body to Ivy's slit, moving slowly, as if her hand had a mind of its own. As Harley began fingering her, Ivy's ministrations to Tim's cock became less measured but more vigourous. Tim himself lay on the bed, almost oblivious to what was going on around him. It was as if he was a prisoner in his own body, his cock obeying someone else while he watched from far away.

After a few moments, Ivy rose up and slid on top of him. Without a word, she positioned his cock just so, and then lowered herself onto it. Tim gasped as he slid into her. Her cunt was much tighter than Harley's, which he hadn't realized was possible. The illusion of distance shattered; in spite of himself, he reacted, bracing his legs and pushing up into her. Ivy moaned in delight and began to jerk up and down. After a moment, they found a rhythm and began to move in unison, Ivy riding Tim as expertly as a jockey might a horse.

Tim gazed up adoringly at Ivy. The femme fatale was gone now: her hair was in disarray, wisps flying everywhere; her breasts heaved and shuddered as she pushed onto him. The icy control he associated with Ivy was gone, replaced with wanton lust. That makes two of us, he thought, and pushed harder.

Harley sat up, and laid her hands on Ivy. Tim couldn't make out what she was doing, but she seemed to be rubbing Ivy's slit even as Tim thrusted into it. Suddenly, her hand dipped behind Ivy, out of Tim's sight: Ivy screamed a little scream -- the first uncontrolled sound Tim had ever heard her make -- and shuddered, holding still even as Tim continued to thrust. What did she just do to her? Tim wondered. Harley answered his unspoken question with an elbow to the ribs. "You took the front door, I took the back, kid. I win the race. Hooray!" Tim was too close to coming to comment; with a final gasp, he pushed up and burst, Ivy obligingly tensing her vaginal muscles around him to drain his last drop. As he lay back, satiated, Ivy leaned forward and kissed him delicately on the lips. "Oh, Robin. You are a wonder."

Tim didn't reply. He was already asleep.

Ivy rose. Her face was the very picture of self-satisfaction. She picked up the handcuff keys she had left by the side of the bed and unlocked Harley's wrist. The two kissed, a sign of affection rather than desire, and rose from the bed without a sound. Tim didn't move. He was dead to the world. Ivy motioned to Harley, and the two moved into the other room.

"What's the story, Red?" Harley's tone was quizzical.

"I'll explain in the car. Quick: let's get cleaned up. Then get your things together. We won't be back."

Used to life on the run or incarcerated, the pair had few personal possessions. It only took a few moments for the two of them to shower, change into civilian clothes, pack some suitcases, and get ready to go. Standing by the door, anonymous in raincoats and sunglasses, the two looked at the apartment one last time. Ivy had hired a service to furnish it, so while they had enjoyed the atmosphere, they didn't think of the paintings and such as their own. It had been a nice place, but they could leave without a qualm. Neither let sentimentality get in the way anymore.

Looking back at Robin, who still lay snoring on the makeshift bed, Harley asked "What are we gonna do about him?"

"Leave him. After what he's been through, he won't wake up for a while, and then he'll be too groggy to do much. The phone's disconnected and he won't have any clothes, which will slow him down some."

"What's with all the foolin' around? It was nice and all, but he wasn't that great."

"An attempt at wearing him out as much as possible, for one thing. Calculated misdirection, for another. He thinks we're not hitting the vault until midnight; why else would we stick around? His ego's not big enough to think we'd put him ahead of -- ahem -- a big score. No, he'll reason that we really did have time to kill, which will keep him from getting his act together too quickly. By the time he wakes up, gets himself in gear, and tries to stop us, it'll be far too late. We'll be long gone, money in hand."

She smirked. "And no, his technique wasn't great... but nonetheless, it was worth it. Think about it, Harl. We were his first time. The next time he has to knock you on the head, will he be as fast, or as strong, as he should? I doubt it."

"Pretty clever, Red." Her eyes narrowed. "But there's more, right?"

"I can't fool you, can I? Yes, there's more. We were his first time. He'll be thinking about us for the rest of his life, especially when he's jacking it, I bet." She tossed her hair artfully. "That pleases me. A girl likes to leave a mark."

Laughing, the two left the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind them.

Tim was dimly aware of being moved, tossed and turned about, but he was too muzzy to care; in his exhaustion, he was like a child, being carried from car to bed late at night by loving parents. He knew what was going on but took it for granted he was being taken care of.

When he did come to, it was in his own bed at Wayne Manor. He sat bolt upright, shocked. Bruce was sitting at the end of the bed, watching him.

"Bruce! Uh, what..."

Bruce's gaze was keen and cold. "After I finished at the Towers, I tried to pin down Poison Ivy's safehouse. Imagine my surprise when I got there, finding it empty except for you, naked and asleep."

"Ivy said you wouldn't be coming-"

Bruce interrupted. "She underestimated me. It happens. You'd better start at the beginning."

In his vulnerability, Tim couldn't hold anything back. He told the story in a blank monotone. His voice quivered at the part where he gave up the vault combination, but didn't break. When he finished, he added, "Since it's not midnight yet, we can still get them. All we have to do is-"

Bruce interrupted again. "Not worth the effort. That was a trick, I expect, to keep you from chasing after them. The money's long gone." He shrugged. "As well in their hands as Lex's, I suppose. Perhaps better: they'll use it to lie low for a while. They'll be off their guard when I come for them."

He rose. "Get some more rest. I'll have Alfred fix you something for later. We're going after the Riddler tonight; be ready to move by eleven."

He moved to the door. Tim, shocked, said "But Bruce! What about... I mean, them, and me, and... and the code, and all."

Bruce stopped, but didn't turn. Looking at the wall, he spoke, more quietly now. "The work that we do imposes certain stresses on us. We can't do what we do if we're not tightly wound, and our more relentless adversaries couldn't do what they do if they weren't the result of psychological pressures themselves. Occasionally, when we meet, our psyches push against each other just so, provoking a reaction. Both sides feel it."

He paused. "I'm disappointed, but not angry. This sort of thing comes with the territory. You're not the first, or even the third. Ask Dick about Talia sometime, or Barbara about Nygma." He paused again, his shoulders tensing. "Or me about Selena." Tim swallowed in surprise. "Try to keep it from happening again," Bruce continued. "If you do feel the need to... blow off some steam" -- Tim goggled at the euphemism -- "let me know. I can make some arrangements. Until then, channel it into your work. It's the best fuel there is for what we do."

He left before Tim could reply. Tim settled backwards into his bed, stunned. That was an awful lot of food for thought. Bruce and Selena? Wow. 'Blow off some steam?' Bruce was usually far too literal for metaphors. Most of all: 'make some arrangements?' What was that about? The mind boggled at the possibilities.

For the moment, though, he meant to take Bruce up on his instructions and get some more rest. His last thoughts as he went to sleep were about his luck. Had he had two pieces of luck today, or three? He couldn't tell.