Scribe peeked over Bruce's shoulder as Dick tapped him on it. Bruce didn't look around. "Whoever you are, go away."

"Aw, c'mon, Bruce. I want a turn."

Scribe gave Dick a goofily suggestive smile. "Young man, I am not a doorknob, despite what the tabloids say."

Dick poked his guardian. "C'mon, Bruce. I'm ready to admit I won't stand a chance against you in the auction, so be a pal and let me have a little time with her before you snaffle her up."

"Oh, all right." Bruce stepped back to allow his ward to cut in. "I'm going to check out that champagne." He reached over and tapped Scribe on the nose. "Don't go wearing yourself out. We have a long night ahead of us."

"Promises, promises." She cheerfully moved into the arms of the younger man. "Hello. How's the junior division doing?"

"A little ticked. I really wanted to buy you, but heck, I'm a realist. Bruce's pockets are a lot deeper than mine, and there's one or two other millionaires floating around. Will it hurt your feelings if I don't bid on you?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I mean, I do all right for a teenager, but I'm not in this class financially, so there's no reason to frustrate myself."

"An extremely wise sentiment for one so young. Besides," she leaned over and whispered in his ear. "If I hang around long enough, you can ask me over to stately Wayne Manor for a slumber party, and I won't say no."

Dick grinned. "Sounds like fun. I don't ever get to have sleep overs."

She arched her eyebrows. "Dear boy, there would probably be very little sleeping involved."

"Yeee-ah?" He sounded interested. "What would be involved?"

"I could further your education. I could teach you to make s'mores."

"Sounds good. A lot of people are worried about keeping me intellectually stimulated. That guy Clive just offered to teach me something he said you showed him, called the Lambada. But he said we'd have to go in the cloak room."

Scribe rested her forehead briefly against Dick's shoulder, but she was smiling. "The man will get arrested some day. Though he'd probably thoroughly enjoy the strip and body cavity search. Dick, dear, it isn't your intellect he's interested in stimulating."

"Really? Hm." He looked around. There was a table of hor d’oeuvres near the bar, and Clive, champagne glass in hand, was trying to decide between the crab puffs, caviar, and pate. He finally leaned over the table to scoop some Beluga onto a toast point. Being Clive, he automatically and without thinking presented his rump to the best advantage as he did so. And it was quite a vantage.

Dick's eyes got bigger, then narrowed thoughtfully. He couldn't understand, though, why Scribe started singing softly (she later told him the tune was by some queen or other) "Dum dum dum. And another straight bites the dust..."

Scribe had decided to spend one night actually playing up to the media instead of dodging it, in the hopes that, like most of the public, they would lose interest in that which was freely offered. Therefore when a couple of photographers approached timidly, she paused in her dance and said mildly, "Eek. Get away from me with those cameras, you horrid men, you." Then she threw a leg up on Dick's hip and tossed her head back while the shutters snapped.

When they walked away she said, "I hope you don't mind about that."

"Are you kidding? You just made me a legend among my peers. C'mon, let's go get you some champagne."

She followed him to the bar. He got a soda and a champagne, and turned to her. She smiled sweetly and plucked the soda out of his hand. "Um, Scribe? The champagne was for you. That was for me."

"Sorry. I can't stand the taste of champagne." She offered the glass. "You can have it back, if you want. I don't have cooties. Or you could drink the champagne."

"No, he could not." Bruce plucked the glass out of his ward's hand and sipped the drink.

"Oh, come on." Scribe patted Dick's shoulder. "When I was growing up, eighteen was the legal limit."

"It isn't here," Bruce said firmly.

"Fine. Stuff tastes nasty anyway." She tossed an arm around Dick's neck and offered him a sip of her drink, which he accepted this time. She whispered in his ear, "I've never been able to see what the fuss was over what was to all intents and purposes decaying grapes."

"Decay is sometimes seen as a mark of superiority." They all looked at Lex Luthor, who had come up on their blind side. He smiled. "The aged wine or cheese, beef allowed to mellow till mold must be scraped from it, game hung until it is positively offensive, ancient crumbling structures revered while modern edifices are scorned." He paused a beat, gazing pointedly at Bruce. "Old lines and old money boosted over the nouveau-riche."

"I give that line of insult a 9.1. It's witty and subtle, but you lose points because the image of mold being scraped off beef will keep me from enjoying a steak for the next month." Scribe declared.

Lex looked at Bruce. "You're hogging her, Wayne."

"She's a free woman. She doesn't belong to anyone."

"For now."

"You," Scribe said pointedly, "Seem to be taking this a tad too seriously. Hello? Ersatz? Faux? Falshung?" She looked at Bruce. "You're an international playboy. Give me some foreign words for 'fake'."

"Non vrai. Väärennetty. Podrobik. Enough?"

"Yes, thank you. I just love a man who speaks in tongues."

"Yes, you do, darling." Clive was giving Lex 'The Look'. You know, the one that makes customers quiver and assistant-cosmetologist melt into small puddles of apprehension. Clive was not Best Pleased with Mr. Luthor. Scribe knew it was basically because Clive was allergic to ass holes of any variety, but she was enough of a realist to wonder if the distaste would have been mitigated if Lex wasn't completely missing one of Clive's major turn-ons.

Lex was not impressed. His 'bad ass' factor went up several notches in Scribe's opinion. He just smiled nastily and strolled away again. Scribe studied Clive's scowl. "Let me guess: You want to get him in your dungeon and torture him."

He looked offended. "Good God, no, precious! I only do that with people I like."

Dick was looking interested again. "Dungeon?"

Clive smiled and crooked a finger at him. "Come with me, dear heart, and I'll explain."

"Clive..."

"Pooh. Who dampened your blanket, Scribe?"

"Patience."

You think Superman has X-ray vision? You should have seen the look Clive gave Dick Greyson. That nice tuxedo should have melted. He looked back at Scribe. "Promise?"

"This outfit has no pockets, so I don't have any finances available, but if I did, I'd lay a bet on it."

"Good enough for me, lambie. I'll behave. Until."

"Ladies and gentlemen," cam a microphone-magnified voice. "Will the participants in the Celebrity Auction please make their way to the stage?"

"Oh, good. I never was all that good at waiting."

"Tell me about it."

"Hush."

They made their way up to the stage, in front of the orchestra. The Daily Planet group, Lois, Clark, and Scribe, stood together, Clive joining them. The rest of the crowd (and there did seem to be a good many of them) gathered before them.

The mayor got on the microphone and started his spiel about helping the free clinics with their generous donations. Clark noticed that Scribe was staring off into the distance, looking bored. But one hand was held near her face, fingers and thumb pressed together, palm flat and facing out, and she was slowly rotating her wrist back and forth, as if she were waving at someone, her head nodding wearily. "Scribe," he whispered. "Who are you waving to?"

"I'm not waving, I'm commenting."

"I don't understand."

"Know any American Sign Language, Clark?"

"Um... no."

"Well, when you do this..." she did the sign briskly a couple of times. "It means 'lecture', like a school lecture. And when you do this..." She repeated the gesture several times, tilting her head, rolling her eyes, mouth pursed wryly, "It means 'talk talk talk talk talk talk talk..."

Light dawned. "Oh."

"Yes. In other words 'yadda yadda yadda.' Oh wait, I think he may actually be about to say something significant."

"We ask all bidders to remember that a bid is considered a legal contract, and steps will be taken to collect it, so please, don't bid unless you can afford it. Cash or checks are acceptable. Now, it there's no further business...?" Brief glance around. "We can begin. Our first celebrity up for auction will be..."

"Scribe!" It was a roar of a chorus from the crowd.

"Oh, hell no!" she demured. "I will not be the opening act. Let someone else be the guinea pig for this body bargain sale."

So the first up was the head of the Water Commission. And, judging from the desultory bids, many people were thinking, "This is a celebrity?" Still, he was knocked down for a respectable $250. The weather girl for channel 13 got $400.

When Clark was put up, the bidding slowed down again. Scribe shook her head. *Dumb asses would probably walk over a chunk of real gold for some iron pyrite. She stepped up beside him, took the microphone from the startled MC's hand and said, "Folks, you're showing all the good taste and common sense of retarded buffalo herders. Look at the man!" Scribe walked around him, running a finger at about shoulder height. There was an interested murmur from the crowd.

Clark blushed. Scribe pinched his cheek, squealing, "Couldn't you just eat him with a spoon? He's very strong, has a lot of energy, and is a l-o-t of fun." She draped herself against him and fluttered her eyelashes at the crowd. "I speak from personal experience."

She handed the microphone back to the MC, and bidding started up again, much more briskly this time. Clark was knocked down at $1,500 to a very attractive fortysomething matron. Scribe had the feeling that Clark... er, Superman... uh, Kal-el... Oh, hell. All three of them were going to get lucky tonight.

Clive came up on the block a little later. The MC said, "And now, a real celebrity. Clive, who has recently become internationally known as hairdresser to the great and famous! What am I bid for..."

"Five hundred!"

It was the highest opening bid so far. And it came from Dick Greyson. Everyone stared. He blushed, but said, "If no one else bids, I get him, right?"

Bruce, standing next to him, said, "Dick, I think we need to have a talk when we get home."

"Sure, whatever. Do the going, going, gone bit!" he demanded.

It wasn't that easy, of youse. There were other bids. As it topped $3,000, they gradually dropped out. Finally it was only Dick and an elderly lady with improbably gold hair. The bidding ended when Clive snatched the mike and hissed, "Miranda, if you don't stop it right now I will never touch your hair again! You'll be cobweb grey in two weeks, and you know it!" Miranda stopped. Dick won Clive for $3,500.

Clive didn't bother with the stairs. He just went to the edge of the stage, hopped down, and strode over to Dick. Taking his arm, he said, "Come on, sugar. I need to go check on the rest of Scribe's outfit in the cloak room."

As they wound their way through the crowd, Scribe heard Dick saying, "Are you going to further my education?"

"Oh, God, yes!"