"No."

"Pleeeeease."

"No."

"Pleeeeeeease."

"Lois, for the last time, get away from me with that dress. I am not going to wear it to the interview."

"C'mon, Scribe! It's Bruce Wayne. Don't you want to make an impression on him?"

"Duh! Am I the terror of donuts everywhere? Of course I want to make an impression. Hey, my hormone levels were fine, last time I checked."

"Then why..."

"Listen to me, okay? Look, sit your little A-line clad butt down and listen. How many women does Bruce Wayne meet in a year?"

"Oh, gosh. I don't know. Hundreds?"

"And how many of them are wearing dresses?"

"Um... well, I guess all of them."

"So who's going to stand out from the crowd?"

*sigh* "You know, you can be right in the most irritating way."

"I knooooow. It's one of my endearing qualities."

"Your hair looks good. How did you get that bruise on your wrist, though?"

*cough* "I... um... jumped at the wrong moment."

"But how..."

"Never mind, Lois."

"And you never would have struck me as the sort to have a standing hair appointment. I wouldn't think you'd have the patience for it."

"Clive has a way of inducing patience. So, are you through arguing with me about my clothes? Can we go now?"

"Yes, I suppose so. He offered to take us to lunch. I hope you don't mind, but I accepted on your behal..." *splutter* "For heaven's sake! I like the kiss, but wait till I finish my sentence, would you?"

"And miss the chance to catch you with your mouth open?"

*sigh*

Deep in the heart of the Metropolitan Plaza, outside the Imperial Suite

"Whoa. Palm trees."

"Scribe, leave those alone."

"I just want to check and see if they're coconut or date."

"Will you please stop that!"

"Geez, Mom, chill. It's not like I was trying to climb it. Why are you so nervous?"

"Scribe, it's Bruce Wayne."

"Looooois? I think you're a groupie."

"A what?"

"Have you met him before?"

"I was on the floor at a few of his press conferences."

"Ever get the urge to fling your panties at him while he was up on the podium?"

"Scribe! I never... You... How did you know that?"

*snicker* "Lord, fan girls forever."

A thin, elderly man with a spine still as straight as Rock Hudson used to look opened the door. "Good afternoon, ladies. Miss Lane, and Miss Scribe?"

"Often imitated, never duplicated. Ow! Damn, Lois, you have sharp elbows!"

"Please, do come in. Mister Wayne will be with you shortly. In the meantime, Master Dick will keep you entertained. If you will excuse me..."

A tall, well built young man advanced, hand outstretched in greeting. "Hi!"

Scribe was grinning ear to ear. "Well, helllloooo, Chris O'Donnell version! How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Scribe looked at Lois, lifting her eyebrows. "Legal." Lois almost choked.

Dick Greyson, on the other hand, acquired a grin almost as wide as the one Scribe was wearing. "Wow, for once the magazines weren't exaggerating. You are outrageous."

She rolled her eyes. "This from a man who lives in a world where they have psychotic super villains who dress up as cats."

"Point taken. I was wondering, could I get you to sign a poster?"

"Ah, fan boys forever, too. Sure. Though I warn you, depending on my mood, you might have to keep it away from children, or else slap censorship boxes on it."

It was a poster sized rendition of the photo that had pretty much launched the frenzy, the cover shot of EXOTIQUE. Scribe uncapped a felt tip pen, letting the nib hover over the shiny paper while she considered, the tip of her tongue peeking from the side of her mouth. Worried, Lois said, "Scribe, remember, he's only barely legal."

"Party pooper. Heck, I'll just quote Bill 'n Ted." She scrawled at the bottom 'Be excellent to each other. Party on, dudes! Scribe.'

Dick studied it, smiling. "Cool! Wait'll my friends see this. 'Be excellent to each other. Party on, dudes.' Great sentiment."

"I can't claim it originally. I don't know who wrote the screenplay."

"Huh?"

Lois patted him on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it, if you're around her long enough."

Scribe snorted. "Yeah? You haven't."

Another very large man entered and came to them, hand extended. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, ladies. I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Yes, you certainly are!" Scribe cooed. She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and whispered, "George Clooney version. Thank you, Lord."

Seeing his puzzled look, Dick said, "You'll get used to it. So Miss Lane says." *snort* "Miss Scribe seems to be of a different opinion."

"Well," he clapped his hands. "Where shall we go?"

"That depends. Is this Dutch, or... Ow! Don't sit next to this woman. She has elbows like rapiers."

"My treat, of course."

Scribe looked over at Lois. "Look, I had to ask. Maybe it's just taken as a given over here, but where I come from..."

"Scribe..."

"And since you don't have ATMs around here, and any check I wrote would be from way out of town..."

"Scribe!"

"Shutting up now."

Dick looked interested. "ATMs? Are those anything like BEMs?"

"Some people think so. I'll explain while the grown ups talk."

"How about La Polonaise? Scribe, I understand they have a full slate of your drinks available now. Oh, but it is rather early..." Bruce ventured.

"You don't expect me to drive or operate heavy machinery, do you?"

"No."

"As far as I know, I'm not scheduled to perform brain surgery, so a couple of drinks won't hurt."

"Scribe..." Lois groaned.

"He brought it up, Lois. Anyway, I doubt that they have a kareoke machine, and I'm seldom inspired to sing along with the type of elevator music they play in fancy places, so you should be safe from all but the absolute minimal embarrassment."

Lois gave Bruce a long suffering look. "Translation: I'll only want to sink halfway through the floor."

The back seat of the limousine was a tiny bit crowded, but no one seemed to be upset about that. Scribe had somehow maneuvered so that she was sitting between Bruce and Dick, and was looking about as smug as was humanly possible. "I can now die happy, surrounded by male pulchritude."

Bruce leaned over her to speak to his ward. "Now Dick, this is the kind of girl you need to spend more time with, instead of those cheerleaders. She'll improve your vocabulary."

Scribe was looking as though she was thinking of leaning forward a little and nipping the millionaire somewhere intimate and tender. Lois said dryly, "Oh, he could get all kinds of education from her."

Scribe had crossed her legs, and was bouncing her foot. Dick seemed to be mesmerized by the flex of thigh muscles under the denim. She leaned close to him and said in a conspiratorial manner, "Did you know that in my world some people will pay up to, oh, two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans?"

He looked astonished, then smiled. "Gold rivets? Or do you come in them?"

"Dick." Bruce's voice was mildly reproving, but his eyes twinkled.

Scribe pursed her lips. "Let's not get started talking about me coming in jeans..." Lois had a coughing fit. "Though there was that one time I met Hugh Jackman at a convention..." She trailed off with a nostalgic smile.

Dick seemed interested. "Yeah? Do tell."

She batted her eyelashes at him. "You're too yooooung."

"I'm legal."

"I like you."

Lois had the feeling that this situation was rapidly escaping her, given the unlikely possibility that it had ever even remotely been in her control. Scribe seemed to be in 'force of nature' mode again. Lois couldn't really blame Wayne and Greyson for succumbing. When 'the unintentional multidimensional diva' (as Scribe occasionally referred to herself) got wound up, the safest, if not most sensible, thing to do was to hang on and let her wash over you. So that was what Lois did.

There was an awkward moment at the restaurant. It was one of those very chi-chi places that tried to cater to the trendy while not offending the straight laced old-money. At the entrance to the dining room, the maitre de was ecstatic to receive Bruce Wayne and party. But then he got a look at Scribe. She was, at that time, standing with her back to him, very close to Dick Greyson, busily charming the pants off him. It was, in fact, pants that caused the problem.

The maitre de coughed, nodded at the pair, and said quietly, "I'm afraid the young gentleman's attire is not suitable for the dinging room."

Dick peered over Scribe's shoulder. "Hey, this is a perfectly decent suit!"

"No, no, sir. Not you. I was referring to the other young gentleman." Scribe turned around, eyebrows doing a rapid climb, and an even quicker lowering. "Oh... um..."

She stalked over to the now very nervous waiter. He backed up as she invaded his personal space, but she didn't stop till he was against a wall, and they were toe to toe. Then she said softly, "Now, granted that I only got a B minus in biology back in college, but I still believe that these..." She bumped him with her bosom. "Qualify as secondery sexual characteristics."

"Oh, Miss Scribe, I am sorry..."

"You got that right."

"But from the back, the hair... and the jeans... I thought..."

"You might want to stop here before you get that size nine all the way down your throat."

"Yes. Sorry. But really, the dress code..."

She glanced at Bruce and said matter of factly, "It's a little known fact about me that the term 'dress code' causes my blood pressure to rise. I was in junior high before I could stop wearing dresses *shudder* to school every freakin' day! But, hey," Her voice was suddenly syrupy as she turned back to the maitre de. "I can understand your position."

He wilted with relief. "You can?"

"Of course. And I'm sure you'll understand mine. Can you direct me to a phone?"

"Why, yes. Right over... Why do you need a phone?"

"Well, I figured I'd go straight to the National Inquirer with the news that you were the only restaurant so far to deny me service due to my attire. Should do wonderful things for your publicity. Or..." She pointed to Lois, who for once played along by whipping out a small notebook. "Would you prefer we begin with the local news services?"

They were seated quickly.

During lunch, Scribe flirted, and Lois asked questions during conversational lulls. Bruce was ever polite, never ignoring her. Well, not entirely. There was that one question he didn't respond to for a good ten seconds. She thought he was giving it careful consideration, till she noticed that, while she was placidly sipping a glass of water, Scribe had her other hand on his knee, fingers dancing a tarantella.

*Thank God she only had one Screaming Orgasm. One more, and she might be sitting in his lap. Or Dick's lap. I think she's been running her foot up and down his leg under the table. It's amazing how co-ordinated that woman can be when she wants to. "Will you be taking a date to the charity gala, Mr. Wayne?"

"Hm?" Scribe, who'd ordered something called Chocolate Annihilation for dessert, was industriously trying to lick a dark smear off her lips, and he was distracted. "Oh. No, no. Not this time. I intend to bid in the celebrity auction." His eyes never left Scribe.

"Yeah," Dick looked interested. "I was meaning to ask you if I could have a, say, two or three year advance on my allowance."

"You can't participate. You're still to young to engage in legal contracts."

"You made that up."

"Possibly. Hit the law library when we get home."

Dick tipped his head toward Scribe. "That's all right. I've been saving. I can wait on that car."

Bruce's eyes glinted with amused competitiveness. "I'm warning you, Dick. I'll be willing to forgo that Toulous Latrec print I've had my eye on."

"I don't really need that college fund. I already have full scholarship offers."

Scribe beamed at Lois from her seat between the two men. "Okay, Lois. If I drop dead of a heart attack any time soon, make sure that the obituary reads, "She died happy, with an absolutely disgusting self satisfied smile on her face."