tap-dancing for Te (and for Jack, but ze doesn't alliterate)

By the time Tim had pulled himself out from under the bookcase and hogtied the thugs who were still conscious, Kon had used his tactile telekinesis to lift the others back into place and clean up the mess that represented a good chunk of the Dewey Decimal System. Several of the librarians, of both sexes, were staring at Kon with rapt admiration. Kon returned their stares with a friendly nod calibrated to indicate his absolute lack of interest, then put a hand on Tim's shoulder. Tim felt himself rise off the ground. Not much; just enough to take weight off his injured ankle.

"Dude," said Kon quietly, "I don't get it. Why do so many people think the librarian thing is sexy?"

Tim heard a low chuckle in his earbud.

"Um," he said in a strangled voice. "No idea?"

Oracle said, "Liar."

(Disclaimer: I have never seen a single episode.)

Jack O'Neill said, "Explain... *exactly...* what happened."

Walter Harriman cleared his throat. "The dialing computer malfunctioned."

"Yes," O'Neill said. "I'd figured that."

Teal'c impassively brushed a piece of fruit from his shoulder.

"I'm willing to accept the dialing computer malfunction," said O'Neill. "Even the planet that's apparently a bottomless pit of pineapple. What gets me is -- "

"I closed the place down. Locked it tight. But... I'm sorry, sir. Siler had his wrench. He was drunk. And he'd been watching Gallagher."

"Where did he get a wrench that big?"

"I've given up asking, sir."

"Oh, God," Kon said. "We're trapped. We can't escape and we can't send for help and nobody knows where we are and we'll be in some dead civilization's prison *forever.*" He bit into a piece of the fungus they'd found growing, plentifully, in the caverns below, lost farms gone wild. Tim didn't know what had happened to the people who'd built the lost city, but at least he knew they hadn't starved.

"We're marooned," said Kon. "For good. The rest of our lives." He turned to Tim. His eyes were wide. "I'll never see a woman again. The rest of my life, down here, and the only other person is you."

"Uh-huh," Tim said, as he pulled off his boot and pulled the insole away to reach the small device he'd cached there.

Kon said, "Well, let's get this over with."

Tim wasn't really listening, so he was surprised when Kon kissed him. Though not as surprised as --

"Whoa!" said Misfit. "This is totally not where I was trying to go!"

"I know," said Tim, holding up the device. He scratched idly at the stubble burn. "The other half of this is in your left boot."

"You gave me these boots! These are cool crimefighter's boots! They have toes!"

"And half of a quantum entanglement connector," said Tim. "Listen, I know you can't take us with you, but when you bounce back to Gotham could you tell Oracle where we are and have her send help?"

"Oh. Yeah, ok! Seeya!"

Misfit vanished.

Kon stared at him. "You had that all the time?"

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to use it."

"Why?" Kon said, as Misfit reappeared.

"Okay! Oracle said I should keep you company till help arrives! -- an' don't worry, 'cause I brought some portable speakers and my Ipod... oh, wait! Right back!"

In the sudden silence, Tim said, "You don't need an excuse, you know."

Kon said, "Er."

"Look!" said Misfit, reappearing. "Pictionary!"

"I have to say," said the starlet earnestly, "I never thought you would do something like this. It's so wonderful."

Lex Luthor smiled. His cheeks crept up on his cheekbones, and his teeth showed, and the corners of his mouth rose, not all at once, but each segment moving on its own, with a result that was perfectly pleasant but somehow mechanical, as if he'd learned it by watching others and practicing assiduously. "How so?" he said.

"Well -- a big environmental documentary like this -- and a businessman like you -- I mean, people say that all you care about is money and getting what you want, and then you do *this,* and you're using the press from the movie to make a difference, lending your support to those *treaties,* and really *changing* things -- it's amazing. It really is."

"Well, thank you."

"People said you were greedy. But you're not." She looked up at him with eyes that were blue and beautiful, set in surgically tailored flesh. "You *care.* I mean, the corporate interests keep saying that your plans are too radical, if we put all these environmental restrictions in place, drastically curtail emissions, cut car usage, our economy can't take it, they say it'll collapse, but *you --*"

"I'm remarkably well-placed to survive a complete economic collapse."

The woman stared. She laughed, weakly, a faint little 'ha' that died on her lips as she realized he was serious. "Don't joke about that."

"Who's joking?"

Her mouth hung open. Luthor plucked the glass of champagne from her hand. "Funny thing about government legislation," he said. "If you do it right, diversify properly beforehand, you can arrange it so your company survives and a lot of competitors don't. That's a lot of assets to be snapped up at a bargain price, a lot of markets to be cornered. And if you help things along by large-scale currency speculation, driving down the dollar --"

"That's disgusting."

"Why? Because I don't believe I'm doing the right thing?" Lex shrugged. "There's no morality to the universe, my dear. Life is not about right and wrong. There's what you can do, and what you can't, and the rest is politics." He glanced at her gifted dress, her loaned earrings, her sculpted features. "You'd think you'd know that, after your time in Hollywood."

She stepped back from him. Her bottom lip was white with the pressure from her teeth.

The light flashed twice. A soft bell rang.

"Excuse me," Luthor said. "I'd better join the audience. Part of the burden of being a producer -- you do have an Oscar to accept."

He handed her the empty glass, and entered the theater to public acclamation.

In all my years of association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have often been surprised by, not my own perception of him, but the lens through which others perceive him. I have been told, in no uncertain terms, often by strangers, that Holmes was callous, indelicate, rude, short-tempered, and unthinking of others, and while all of these observations may indeed be accurate, they fail to include the softness his manner and his many kindnesses. Of all the many he showed to me, perhaps one I recall most fondly is one that showcased my own failings.

If I were uncharitable, I should lay the blame on Stamford -- Stamford, who, on a chance encounter in the street some months after my marriage, took me to his club, where a member's birthday had the place in a convivial state. I myself became so convivial, in fact, that my old wound no longer pained me, and as I left the club at a late hour I moved along at what I imagined was a jaunty stride, though from the reactions of those on the street I painted a somewhat poorer picture.

My feet wandered on their own, and soon I found myself on the street outside 221B Baker Street. It had been some time since I had seen Holmes -- he had begged off our invitations to dinner, and but for rare occasions I had had little involvement in his cases -- and a reunion seemed a perfect use of the evening and my mood. Mrs. Hudson was abed, so I showed myself up and entered our old bachelor quarters -- Holmes's own, now.

Holmes was at his workbench, where a dozen vials and beakers reflected the light of his alcohol lamp. Clustered before the fire, with their hands thrust toward it to warm themselves, were the Irregulars, Holmes's little band of spies, and their leader, Wiggins. All of them looked at me in surprise.

"Dr. Watson!" Wiggins ejaculated.

"Hallo, Wiggins," I replied, with not a little effort. "I do hope you are well."

Wiggins made no reply, but quickly looked at Holmes. "We'd best go on, now, sir," he said.

Holmes nodded, then raised a thin hand.

"A moment, Wiggins," he said. "On your way to the post, do stop by Dr. Watson's home. Inform Mrs. Watson that I have required her husband's services on a case, tender my apologies, and advise her that I shall return him intact in the morning."

"Yes, sir," said Wiggins. "Come on, you lot."

The street Arabs trooped their way behind him down the stairs. I fancied I heard muffled giggles, and wondered what they had found amusing. "Ah, Holmes," I said. "So good to see -- delighted -- far too -- "

"Stamford, is it, Watson?" he enquired. "And how is he?"

"Good! As good as I am, Holmes! Better."

"Yes, that is not hard to believe. Do seat yourself in my arm-chair, dear fellow; it will stop the room from spinning. I shall take your shoes off and throw a blanket over you until the morning. I fear you will have to invent the romantic details of my case, which you should do easily enough."

"Holmes," I said, "my wife -- "

"Better I should face her wrath than you. Now do be quiet. I have this reaction to contemplate."

I drifted off in the arm-chair, and slept till dawn, when I found the rooms empty and a note from Holmes on the table apologizing for his departure, as the game was afoot. I gathered myself and prepared to face my dear Mary. Yet a strange memory haunted me. During the night, when I woke, fleetingly, I had heard Holmes's violin. Yet it had not played not the strange melancholy airs he was given to, but Mendelssohn’s Lieder, which I loved so well.

I wrote my thanks on the note, and went to face the morning.

"He's paranoid," Tim said. "Never leaves his apartment. Except when he vanishes. I can't get in to place a tracking device on him. There has to be a secret exit somewhere, but I've been through the plans, schematics, satellite images of the construction. I can't find it."

Barbara leaned forward to reach the teapot. "Did you try setting a fire?"

"He has a safe room with an oxygen supply. He evacuated to that; his building eliminated the fire within two minutes."

"Bigger fire?"

Tim looked uncomfortable.

"What kind of fire did you set, Tim?"

"The army just had that napalm in storage. They weren't doing anything with it -- look, I was getting desperate." Tim threw up his hands. "Now I don't know what I'm going to do."

"He's connected? Wired?"

"Totally. It's how he does everything. But I can't get past the defenses."

Barbara took her glasses off, tapped the earpiece against her teeth. "He has a balcony?"

"Yes."

"Watch it. Tomorrow, he'll run onto it screaming."

+++

"What did you do?" Tim said.

Barbara shrugged.

"He ran onto the balcony. Screaming. He was outside for a good ten minutes, tearing his hair, before he went inside again."

"Got the device on him?"

"Yup. Found his exit. How'd you do it?"

"...I might have set every computer in the place to play the Hamster Dance."

"The Hamster Dance."

Barbara shrugged.

"*The Hamster Dance.*" Tim rolled his eyes. "How... 1998 of you."

"Yes," said Barbara mildly. "I thought you'd react that way."

Tim's cell phone rang: dee-dee-DEE dee-DEE di-DO-do.

"Wait," said Steph.

Cass paused, one boot on the edge of the rooftop. She lowered her hand, the jumpline coming to rest against her side. She turned back, looking over her shoulder to where Steph sat atop a gargoyle.

Cass didn't say, "What?" It was Cass. She didn't need to. She knew already.

Steph knew that, but said it anyway.

"This," Steph said. She raised her arms, spread them wide, so that when she looked up she saw the city enfolded in them. "*This.*"

"Yes," Cass said.

"No one," Steph said. "No one is *ever* taking this from me." She turned from the city to Cass. "Do you feel like that about anything?"

Cass reached to her own breast with a finger. Traced the outline of the bat.

"Okay," said Steph. "Batgirl and Robin." She pushed away from the gargoyle and rose to her feet, pulling the jumpline free. "Let's kick some ass."

She dropped thirty feet before she fired the jumpline, and raced like hell to the Penguin's club, timing it so she and Cass would drop through the skylight at the same time.

"There were really heroes, Grandpa?"

Bob Carson looked up from the hay elevator. His son wouldn't be happy about Bob fooling with it, he'd said he'd fix it up, but Denny was in town and Bob wouldn't just let it sit when the thing could be working by the time Denny came back. Just because Bob was crowding eighty didn't mean he didn't know his way around a tool chest anymore.

Carrie -- age seven, all pink jacket and pigtails -- was sitting on a bale of hay. She looked impatient.

"I told you last night," Bob said.

"Tell me again. Please?"

Bob wiped grease from his hands, then reached for a wrench.

"There used to be heroes," he said. "All kinds of heroes. They were folks who dressed up in costumes and fought for right. Nothing more I can tell you. Hitler had some occult artifacts, kept 'em off the front lines of the war, but they were always around -- foiling spies, saving people, stopping crimes. They wore bright colors and flashy capes. Men and women, brave as anything. Made the world a better place."

"Where'd they go?" she said.

"I don't know. The world changed, you know. Ain't always bad; your big sister's flying a helicopter for the Army; couldn't've done that then. I guess the world didn't need heroes and mystery men anymore."

Carrie pouted. "I think it does," she said. "I wish they were here *now.*"

"Might not be a bad thing at that," Bob said. "Meantime, come over here and watch how I fix this. You're gonna be big enough to help your folks fix stuff soon."

Carrie scrambled down from the bale. She made her way over to Bob, then froze. She gasped, her breath clouding in the Kansas morning.

"Look!" she said, pointing. "It's a shooting star! A big one!"

It was. The meteor tumbled from the sky, leaving a trail of smoke and flame. Bob sat up and watched it fall. It wouldn't land too far away. Maybe as close as the road to Smallville.

He glanced at his granddaughter, her eyes alight.

"Well, honey," said Bob. "Make a wish."

liviapenn has a cut-and-pasty version here!

Will add that to the original post, after I fulfill some requests...

...you have defeated me. Seriously. I confess to utter defeat on this one, and I've been thinking about it. This is as close as I can get:

"You're writing a book?" said Dick. "Seriously? What kind? Mystery? Literary?" He clasped his hands to his heart and waggled his eyebrows. "Romance?"

Alfred Pennyworth sighed. "If you must know, sir -- advice."

Dick blinked. "Advice?" he said. "You mean, like a self-help book?"

"Rather more in the line of information pertaining to specific career circumstances, rather than self improvement. Sir."

"Career -- " Dick shook his head. "Alfred, I have to say -- do you really think there's a market for books on how to be a butler for a control-freak billionaire and his family? With chapters on communications, romantic problems, costume-making -- I mean, how many guys have to face stuff like that?"

"It's rather more common than one might think, sir. Though I may require some assistance regarding the chapter on giant robots."

"Giant robots?"

"My publisher feels the audience is likely to have specific interest in that arena, sir."

Tim Drake fastened his bow tie -- tied neatly by hand -- and watched Dick Grayson adjusting his clip-on. Dick, he noticed, was cheerful. Whistling, even. This was very wrong.

"You're enjoying this," said Tim. "You never enjoy these things."

"Ah," said Dick. "That's because usually people are watching me." He tightened his tie slightly, checked the result in the mirror, and nodded. "This is your big debut. You're the new adopted son of Bruce Wayne. People don't know much about you. They're going to be watching you."

"They'll look at you -- "

"Only to find out how I feel about you. Am I upset, am I worried, do I feel I'm being replaced -- all that society gossip stuff. I don't have to play 'son and heir.' All I have to do is stuff my face with canapes and smile a lot."

"How do you feel about me?" said Tim. "We should decide, before we go out. Make it convincing."

"Hmm. Jealous rage. I'm plotting to kill you with poisoned champagne."

"Too up-front. We want to keep people guessing."

"We're secretly in love, but we're hiding it because now we're brothers?"

"Too extreme. Even for the Gotham Gazette."

"Um. How about, I think you'll do fine, and I think you take after Bruce in some ways better than I do. Which means it's a load off me. Because I don't have to figure out how to do that job any more."

Tim thought about it. "That doesn't sound bad."

"Good," said Dick. "It's the truth."

"The truth? Isn't that risky?"

"Sometimes. On the upside, it's easy to remember."

Tim nodded. Then he looked up at Dick. "I thought you wanted that job," he said.

"Had it. Hated it. You'd like it. You can keep it."

"But what'll you do?"

"Well," said Dick. "Batman needs a Robin, right?"

Tim's fingers stilled on his bow tie. After a pause, they moved again, tugging at the corners. "What do you think?" he said.

"Looks good. Y'know, for a squirt."

"That's a thought," said Tim. "If I ever step into Bruce's boots, maybe I should see about some lifts."

"Don't fight crime in platform shoes," said Dick. "Bad idea."

"Says the man with disco cleavage."

"Kory liked that outfit."

"No kidding."

"Come on, little brother," said Dick. "Let's go."

They walked out together, and the first question was for Dick. "How do you feel about getting a little brother?"

"Well," said Dick, "I think he'll do just fine."

"PARKER!" bellowed J. Jonah Jameson. "I always suspected a dog could take better pictures than you! Now I've proved it!"

Peter Parker looked down at Rex the Wonder Dog.

Rex looked back up at him.

Peter felt the strong suspicion that both of them were thinking, "It's your fault for getting me into this."

Two quick raps on the door, and the door opened. "Hello, gorgeous," said Mary Jane. "Oh, goody, and my husband's here, too." She pressed a quick kiss on Peter's cheek, and dropped one hand to fondle Rex's ear. "Howdy, JJJ. Treating my boys right?"

As always, Mary Jane's appearance sent Jonah from bluster to oil. Peter wasn't sure which was more unnerving. "Mary Jane, my dear," said Jonah. "I was just commending your husband for his part in finding my new staff photographer." He gestured expansively at Rex, and held up a sheaf of photos. "Look at these -- the quality's amazing! And not just for a dog. I want him on salary. Does he have a Social Security Number?" He turned from MJ to Rex. "Can you fill out a W-2? Huh? Who's a good photojournalist?"

"Sorry, JJJ," said MJ. "Rex is just visiting. He got stuck over here the last time our universe collided with his -- didn't you, boy? Yes, you did, awww." Rex, knowing where his bread
was buttered, rolled over so MJ could scratch his belly. "Tony Stark's trying to send him back, but it'll take a while."

Jonah's lip curled in distaste. "Parker, I told you you were moving in too-lofty circles. First you marry above yourself, then you take this job as the Avengers' photographer -- and now you're getting involved in dimension-hopping, when you should be trying to get a finder's fee by finding me your replacement!"

Peter said, "Finder's fee?"

"Pete! You wouldn't do that to Rex! -- no, Rex, he wouldn't, no -- "

Jonah shuddered. "Doesn't fuss over you like that, does she?"

"Not lately, no." Peter glanced over to MJ, who was giving Rex the kind of skritching that would cause any non-Wonder-Dog to wriggle out of his skin with glee. "Anyway, thanks for bailing him out of the dogcatcher's, Jonah --"

"A photographer like this? I'll keep him out of jail if I have to mortgage the BUGLE! Now, if I can't have his services -- "

"Sorry, Jonah," said MJ. "He's got to go home. There's a little boy who needs him -- isn't there? Yes, there is! C'mon, Rex." She tipped Peter a wink. "-- you too, Tiger."

"Sorry, Jonah," said Peter. He pointed after MJ. "'She who must be obeyed,' y'know."

"Hmph," said Jonah. "Well, at least get him to give you some lessons. Half the time, it looks like you glue your camera to a wall and set the auto-shutter."

Peter slipped through the door and caught up to MJ and Rex by the elevator, just as she pushed the button. "And you, Rex -- what were you thinking?" she was saying. "I mean, I'm sure she was a very pretty German shepherd, but you can't just -- oh, there you are, Peter!"

Peter kissed her cheek and took her arm as the elevator doors slid open. "Thanks for the rescue, MJ."

"Hon, if I hadn't shown up, Rex would be on a multi-year contract. You know how much trouble you have saying 'no' to Jonah."

"Last offer!" Jonah called. "Eight hundred a week for photos and a column! That'll keep you in dog biscuits!"

As the elevator doors closed, Rex said, "Arf."

MJ added, "And Jonah -- you can quote him on that."