13 comments/ 66173 views/ 95 favorites When Spidey Met Batgirl By: littleblackduck I don't own Spider-Man or Batgirl or any other characters or places Marvel and/or DC related. I make no profit from this work. CHAPTER ONE: Before Sunrise It wasn't an easy climb up the trellis. Barbara Gordon had been Batgirl for little over a year, and as the nights wore on, she'd gotten better and better at scaling the trellis to her bedroom window after a late-night patrol. It'd gotten to the point where she could scale the twenty-foot expanse in thirty-seven seconds without making a sound -- the silent element being essential to maintaining both her secret identity and good relations with her father, Jim. After all, if the recently appointed police commissioner were to investigate a mysterious noise outside of the modest Gordon estate only to find his daughter playing Dark Damsel vigilante dress-up at fifteen feet, it'd spell curtains for her crime-fighting career. Suffice it to say, it was probably a good thing that the Commissioner was out of town at a police convention that week. On that particular morning, as an early spring dawn broke over Gotham City, Barbara was a little too banged up to make a quiet entry. About three minutes into her ascent, as she reached the half-way mark, it occurred to her that she really should think about moving out sometime soon -- a thought that had been occurring to her more and more in the last few months. She was twenty-three years old, and as much as she loved her dad, it was probably well past time she got out on her own. She sighed with relief as she climbed through her window and tumbled to the bedroom floor. After a few moments rest, she pulled her cowl off in a huff and shook out her long scarlet locks as she rose to her feet, thoroughly exhausted. She'd broken up one of the Riddler's less than daring raids on a rooftop restaurant. The brainteaser-obsessed megalomaniac and his assorted henchmen had put up a much tougher fight than she'd expected. She examined her cape to find it riddled with bullet-holes -- no pun intended. Edward Nygma's shots had come pretty close to tagging her. He was a better marksman than she'd given him credit for -- not that it had added up to much. After wearily pulling off her yellow boots and gloves, Barbara carefully peeled off her black lycra leotard, wincing every time the fabric brushed against her various sore spots, the sorest of which was her left breast. One of the Riddler's men had elbowed her in the tit when she wrestled him to the ground. Barbara sighed, realizing it was the most action she'd gotten in quite some time, and sighed again at just how pathetic she had to be if she was actually equating a life-and-death struggle with second base. Stripped down to just her boy-shorts, she flopped down on the bed -- an action she immediately regretted as little shock waves of pain exploded through her body. She remembered that young couple at the corner table of the restaurant who'd made out through the entire fight, so engrossed in each other they completely missed the fact that they were being robbed. Only in Gotham. With her new nightlife, she didn't think about men too often, but at that particular moment, when she felt so worn out and tender, it was hard to remember what made being Batgirl so worthwhile. She was sure that a good night's sleep would leave her refreshed and once more capable of connecting with the joys of crime-fighting, but as she drifted off into a well-deserved slumber, Barbara wondered if those two lovers were somehow better off than she was. She was a strong, independent woman. She didn't need a man for shit, but there were times when she wanted one. Unfortunately, the only guy who'd shown any consistent interest in her in the last few months was that little squirt Robin, the Boy Wonder. He was a cute kid and all, but a kid nonetheless, and she was really beginning to regret their occasional dalliances -- like that kiss in the subway station when they were fighting Blockbuster, or that quick little blow job she'd given him after he'd helped her take down The Scarecrow. She just knew the smarmy bastard was bragging about it to his silly little friends in the Teen Titans. Because even if he was eighteen, the Boy Wonder was just that. A boy. And Barbara wanted a man. But there was no telling when -- if ever -- one might drop into her life. * Okay, Spider-Man thought to himself as he tightened his grip on a weakening web-line. This has gone on long enough. In the three years since the bite of a radioactive spider had sent him crawling up the walls, Peter Parker had been thrown into some impossible situations, each more ludicrous than the last. But as he looked down at the blanket of clouds below him, he figured it'd be quite some time before he blundered his way into a state of affairs any wackier than this. It started off the same way most of his nights came to an end -- that long and lonely swing back to his house in Forest Hills after a night 'trolling for a little Spidey-crime-bustin' action. He'd been making a bee-line for the Queensboro Bridge when his spider-sense alerted him to a disturbance. And that's when he ran afoul of the Vulture. Now at this point in his career, Spider-Man had sparred with Adrian Toomes about a dozen times, and since he'd thoroughly trounced him again and again, he figured he was looking at a ten-minute scuffle at the most. Boy was he wrong. The Vulture had always been a fierce, tenacious fighter, especially for a man of his advanced years, but that morning, the old thief fought with a dogged determination that caught Spider-Man off guard. And at the inevitable moment in every fight he'd had with the Vulture -- the one where the wallcrawler hit Toomes with a web-line so he could get dragged through the sky for a bit -- Spidey was surprised when the crazed codger skyrocketed straight up, hauling him up to an altitude he'd never thought the Vulture's flying rig capable at a speed he couldn't believe. Once they'd broken through the clouds, Toomes had started heading in a direction Spider-Man could only guess was vaguely northward at a stiff 90-miles per hour, tossing idle threats and peppering profanities back at the web-slinger every couple of minutes or so. Spider-Man, worn out as he was, had no idea how long they'd been at this. He tended to lose all sense of time in the middle of a fight. He'd often be surprised to find that the super-powered tussles he'd thought had lasted hours had actually been about five minutes and sometimes, vice versa. But however long the Vulture'd been towing him along, one thing was certain: it'd been long enough. "Christ on a bike, Vultchy!" Spidey shouted, hauling himself up the web-line toward the old man one arm-length at a time. "Can we take it down a couple thousand feet? It's pretty nippy up here and I'm freezing my tight and well-toned little toosh off." "I'll flay you, you shit!" the Vulture shrieked back. "I'll tear out your guts!" "I'd check the batteries on the ol' hearing aid, Mr. Magoo," Spider-Man told him, finally getting a hold of the old man's feet, "'cause I don't think you heard me." He grabbed at one of the Vulture's wings, tearing a chunk of it free from his costume. "I said down!" Surely enough, the aged supervillain and his nemesis dropped down into the clouds, exchanging punches and insults as they were bombarded by stinging droplets of frozen water. "I can't fucking believe this!" the Vulture screamed. "I know," Spidey replied. "You'd think they'd be all soft and fluffy, but no -- Clouds hurt like a mother..." "You're going to get us both killed!" Finally bursting through the last of the cloud cover, Spider-Man took his first look at the ground below since this whole miserable mess had started. He was grateful to see skyscrapers and buildings teeming with urban life. He was sure they would have flown out of range of New York by now. "Aren't you going to do something?" the Vulture asked as they continued to plummet. "Oh now it's up to me, right?" Spidey mock-fumed. "Fine! I'll knock you out, then hope I can snag a building with a web-line before we hit pavement." The old man didn't even get a chance to blurt out a confused "What?" before Spider-Man's fist caught him in the nose. "Finally, a little peace and quiet," the web-slinger muttered, as he tightened his hold on the Vulture so he could focus on the task at hand: surviving the next thirty seconds. The closer they'd gotten to the city, the faster they were falling, and the more Spider-Man realized just how unfamiliar his surroundings were. They were dropping over a part of New York he'd never seen before -- maybe Harlem. Whispering a quick prayer, he fired a web-line to the tallest building in range. The constant blare of his spider-sense was a sure sign that a little assist from The Big Guy couldn't hurt as much as the cold facts of physics. The line went taut, and Spider-Man -- still gripping the Vulture with his other arm -- screamed as he and his unconscious passenger swung over a busy city street in a wide arc. If not for his spider-strength, his arm may have just been torn off. As it stood, his shoulder was wrenched out of its socket. Blacking out from the pain, Spider-Man lost his grip on the web-line at the apex of his swing, sending the two of them on a collision course with the plate glass store front window of Wayne's World o' Beds. Spider-Man came to five minutes after his fall had been miraculously and implausibly broken by a stack of mattresses and the body of the Vulture. "That was uncharacteristically lucky," he murmured as he disentangled himself from the Vulture's broken limbs. The sound of sirens blared in the distance and his spider-sense began to tingle as he popped his shoulder back into place with a grunt. By the time he made his way to the front of the store, two squad cars pulled up. "GCPD?" Spider-Man said, reading the emblems on the police cruisers as the officers climbed out of their vehicles, training their side-arms on the bruised and shaken hero. "Where the hell am I?" "Welcome to Gotham, freakshow!" one of the cops shouted at him. "Now keep those hands where we can see them!" CHAPTER TWO: Escape to New York Escaping the cops had been a breeze. Of course it was. Spider-Man could escape the cops in his sleep. Half of the NYPD had been taking shots at him for years. The Gotham cops hadn't even switched off their safeties by the time he scaled the building and bounded down the block with a series of thirty-foot leaps. Throughout his entire daring getaway, the same question burned through his head: What the hell was he going to tell his Aunt May? Forget the fact that he'd almost torn his arm off. Forget the fact that he'd been carried to a strange city far from home. Hell, forget the fact that he'd pissed off the cops three seconds after touching down. He had to figure out how to explain his sudden absence to his beloved aunt without giving her a coronary. Assuming she hadn't already suffered one. Hopping from building to building in the unfamiliar environs, the answer suddenly came to him. Or rather, he came to it. Stopping at the roof of a small apartment complex, Spider-Man looked down to see the main gate of Gotham University, where a giant banner blazed the words "WELCOME PROSPECTIVE STUDENTS." * Barbara -- still sore and undressed from the previous night -- rolled gingerly out of bed at noon. She had a one o'clock shift at the Gotham Public Library that she really didn't want to work, but she'd used up the last of her sick days recovering from that ugly dust-up with Solomon Grundy two months earlier. "Librarian by day, crime-fighter by night," she murmured to herself as she shimmied out of her boy-shorts on her way to the bathroom for a quick shower. "I just gotta do something 'bout that day job..." "I don't know, Babsy," she heard a voice say as she opened the bathroom door. "You make that whole sexy school marm thing work for you." It took Barbara a moment to register the fact that Dick Grayson was sitting on her toilet, thumbing through her diary. It took her another moment to tear the book out of his hands and one more to cover herself with a towel. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded. "Well, I was reading the bawdy backseat adventures of a young, lithe, and flexible high school gymnast on the cusp of her nascent sexuality, but I fear I may have crossed a boundary there," Dick replied with a smirk. "By the way, I just love your new choice of sleeping attire. So many young ladies are afraid to let their puppies out to breathe au naturel." "I could have sworn it was a school day," Barbara said. "Spring break," he told her. "That's great," she said. "You can gear up for finals on your own this time. I don't tutor anymore. Now get out." "Overstayed my welcome already?" Dick sighed. "Pity. We didn't even get a chance to talk shop." "What do you mean?" "Batman wanted to congratulate you on a job well done last night." "Why?" Barbara asked. "It was the freakin' Riddler." He shrugged. "Trust me, Red. These little bits of praise are few and far between. Take 'em when you can get 'em." "Thanks. That means a lot. Now get out." Dick ignored her and pressed on. "Oh and heads up, His Holy Darkness is skipping town for a day or two." "Batman's leaving Gotham?" she asked. "Why? Justice League business?" "Something like that," Dick sighed. "Anyway, the Teen Titans and I are on a big case right now, so I won't be around either. That means the city's in your hands." "Wow. It looks like this little boys club we've got going's finally starting to shape up. Super. Now get out." Dick pouted a bit. "Babs, I thought that with your old man in New York and my legal guardian gallivanting about while I'm headed off to face god-knows-what peril out in the world, maybe you and I could finally deal with all this damn sexual tension." "Seriously, Pixie Boots," she said. "My dad's got a service revolver somewhere in the house. I'm just about willing to use it." "I know, I know," Dick said. "'Now get out.'" He made his way toward the door, casually snatching Barbara's towel away as he passed. He just made it out of the house before she found the gun. * Spidey was surprised he didn't get too many odd looks as he walked up to one of the campus pay phones. Peter was about a month away from his high school graduation, and he could already tell he was going to like college life. Anything that would regularly seem out of sorts appeared to be accepted with a shrug. Probably think this is a frat stunt, he mused, dialing his house in Forest Hills. "Hey, Aunt May, it's me," he said when she picked up. "Just calling to tell you I got here all right." "Peter, I've been worried sick!" she cried. "Where are you?!" "Aunt May, I don't understand!" he said with as much shocked indignation as he could muster. "I'm in Gotham City! I told you I was taking a tour at GU!" There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You did?" Spider-Man sighed. "Of course I did, Aunt May. You didn't forget, did you?" "I guess I did." She sounded shaken. "I could have sworn you had your heart set on Empire State University." "I'm just trying to keep my options open," he lied. She was right, of course. He vaguely remembered getting an invite to prefrosh weekend at Gotham University, but he'd tossed it out. There was no way he could actually afford to leave New York. And there was no way he'd move that far from his aunt. "Of course you are, dear," she said. "I should have remembered. Must be having one of those senior moments Anna's always teasing me about..." He winced at that. He was loathed to admit it, but he was getting used to lying to her. He hated leading her to doubt her own faculties, but what else could he do? The truth would kill her. "What a shame you're away," May continued. "Anna's bringing her niece here for dinner tonight." Well at least there was one good thing about his current predicament. Peter had never met Anna Watson's niece, and since Aunt May had always described this Mary Jane girl as having a "wonderful personality" he doubted he wanted to. And ever since Betty Brant broke things off with him, May had redoubled her matchmaking efforts. "Well thank you for checking in on a silly old woman, dear," she said with a frown he could hear some 90 miles away. "You're such a sweet, thoughtful boy." That last bit really stung. "Okay, Aunt May, I've got to go," he told her. "The group's leaving without me." "Have a good time, Peter, and try to stay safe," she said. "I hear such dreadful things about that city. I love you." "I love you, too." He hung up and hung his head in shame. * Harlene Quinzel had been working at the Gotham University Bookstore for two years. This was her last semester earning her doctorate, and she found that at times, her job made adequate use of her abnormal psych material. Days like today were a good example. "This all seems a little pricey," the guy in the red and blue tights said as he approached the counter. Harlene had been watching him the entire time he'd been sifting through the clothing racks. She tried not to pay him too much attention -- that was what these frat boys wanted you to do -- but she couldn't help it. He had a really nice butt. "I gotta tell you, the bookstore isn't the best place to find bargain duds, stud," she told him, ringing up the tee-shirt, licensed track pants, and authorized GU logo sneakers he'd selected. "Going Gotham all the way, huh?" "Certainly looks like it," he muttered, reaching into his tights and producing two sweaty and wrinkled fifty dollar bills. "There goes my mad money." Harlene couldn't resist anymore. "Can I ask you something?" she asked. "Shoot." "I'm working on a paper," she explained. "Would you say you feel compelled to alienate others in order to ingratiate yourself into a reward-based sub-culture, or would you say you feel a need to dismantle your primary persona to resocialize yourself within a collective ego mass? I mean, what drives you to participate in this type of ritualized norm disruption?" She bagged his clothes in silence, awaiting his response. He didn't say anything for a while. Since his features were obscured by that ridiculous mask, Harlene couldn't quite tell if he was mulling it over or just confused. "I get punched a lot," he said finally, "but with great power comes great responsibility." "Power, huh?" she murmured, considering his words as she handed him the bag. "So you feel different? In the tights, I mean..." "Oh yeah," he said, making his way out of the store. "Very liberating in strange ways. You should give it a try some time." "Maybe I will," she said. She watched him leave, marveling at the way he filled out that spandex in all the right places. And that twisted sense of humor! She loved a man with a twisted sense of humor... * "Get me another rum and coke and a gin and tonic," Jim Gordon said to the barman. "What do you want to drink to this time?" his companion asked, raising his gin. Gordon thought on that for a moment. "How 'bout our girls?" he suggested. "Sounds good to me." They clinked glasses. Jim didn't drink too often -- least of all in the afternoon -- but this was a special occasion. It'd been years since he'd seen George Stacy. "How is little Gwendy?" Gordon asked after a healthy gulp of his drink. "I thought she'd be around." "She's off looking at colleges most weekends," George said with a grimace. "She's graduating from high school next month." "Makes you feel old, doesn't it?" When Spidey Met Batgirl Stacy sighed. "I assumed the cane would have sapped the last of my youthful vanity, but the thought of watching her walk across that stage, Jimbo? Christ almighty!" Gordon downed the rest of his rum. "Yeah, well, Barbara's already out of college. You think high school graduation's going to be tough? Wait until she's got a job of her own. Then you can bitch, Georgie-boy." "Fair enough," Stacy agreed. "Or you can wait until your first partner -- the guy who helped you close your first case -- decides to retire," Jim said. "That'll knock you flat on your ass just as fast." "I'll keep that in mind, Commissioner Gordon." "You do that, Captain Stacy." They sat in silence for a while. "How is Gotham treating you?" George asked. "Gotham's kicking my ass," Jim muttered. "It's got a crime rate that just won't quit and a police force I can't wash clean no matter how many dirty cops I flush out." "Yeah, but you've got help from high and dark places, or so I hear." "Oh sure," Jim said. "I've got The Batman, too. Lucky me." "Could be worse," George told him. "At least you can talk to him without worrying about your badge. At least you live in a town where the higher ups can admit that this strange new breed of crime-fighter is here to stay and that it might not kill anybody if we let them pitch in. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised some of New York's more vibrant vigilantes haven't skipped town to give life in Gotham a taste." Jim laughed at that. "I'm sure going to Gotham would be a snap, Captain. It'd be getting out that'd kill 'em." * "Whoa, hold on, mack," Peter said to the bus station teller. "A ticket out of this shithole is how much?" "Sixty dollars, sir," the teller told him again. "Will that be cash or credit card?" "I gave my money to the hot blonde at the bookstore," Peter blurted out. "I've got maybe 20 bucks left! Can't I just sit on top of the bus or something? I won't slip off. I swear." The ticket agent just looked at him, puzzled. "That's a no, isn't it?" Peter asked. "Absolutely," the agent assured him. Peter resisted the urge to smash something and stalked out of the bus station as calmly as he was capable. He should have just stolen some clothes out of a laundromat or something. He knew he should have just stolen some clothes even when he was buying the overpriced rags he was wearing, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. Lying to Aunt May was bad enough. Taking the law into his own hands and resisting arrest on a daily basis was second nature to him at this point. But he just couldn't steal. Especially not while wearing that mask. If he did that, he'd become everything the Daily Bugle said he was. Well maybe not everything. He wouldn't be a dogfucker. He still couldn't believe that the Bugle's publisher, J. Jonah Jameson, adamantly refused to print a retraction on that one. He thought about asking Aunt May to wire him some money, but he was in no hurry to call her up again. Besides, it's not like she really had the cash to spare. (And when you really got down to it, Peter had no idea what having money "wired" really meant anyway. He'd just heard about it in some movie.) He tried to remember if he knew anyone in Gotham, but the only person he knew who'd ever lived there was Angela Chen, one of the Bugle's staff photographers. She'd left New York a couple years back to chase the shutterbug Holy Grail: a snapshot of The Batman. It was well known that for all the talk heard about Gotham's Caped Crusader and alleged Justice League member, he'd never been photographed. Not even by Phil Sheldon, and that guy had photographed every superhero under the sun. So, of course, Angela came back six weeks later with nothing. Peter was there when she returned to the office for the first time. Jonah gave her a hard time about getting her job back, but after he went off to tear Ben Urich a new one, Joe Robertson, the Bugle's city editor and ranking voice of reason, assured her she still had a place there. "It's not the first time someone's gone off on the search for the Great Black Bat," Robbie told her. "Hell, it happens to all the greats at some point. That kid at the Daily Planet, Jimmy Olsen? I hear he spent half a year chasing that whackjob." Stepping out onto the streets of Gotham City, Peter thought about it. He had his mini-camera stashed away with his costume. And he had a big advantage over every other photographer that'd ever tried to capture Gotham's great urban legend on film -- unless that Olsen jerk could stick to walls. If he could snap a quick pic of this bat-chump he could sell it to the Gotham Gazette and get that bus ticket. Hell, he could probably buy the whole damn bus station with an exclusive like that. He'd have to wait until night, he figured. It was rumored The Batman only came out at night. Sundown was still another five or six hours away. He'd have to kill some time. How hard could it be? Here he was, on his own in a strange new city. He was a hip guy at the height of his youth. There had to be somewhere he could go for a good time. Somewhere cheap. "Excuse me," he said to one of the less threatening strangers he'd encountered. "Which way is the library?" CHAPTER THREE: When Peter Met Barbara The Gotham Public Library closed promptly at nine. There'd been many a night in which Barbara had been all caught up in the middle of what she considered a fascinating project only to get kicked out by security. "Come on, Miss Gordon," one of the guards had said to her once. "You might not have anyone to go home to, but I do." Barbara had really wanted to refute the guy's statement at the time, but she couldn't. What was she going to say? "Well for your information, I still live with my dad, and I do have someone waiting for me, so there!" Yeah. That would have really gotten his goat... Ever since she'd become Batgirl, however, her late work nights had become far less frequent. After all, what kind of research could be more interesting than cracking skulls that deserved to be cracked? Most nights, she couldn't wait to run out of work and hit the streets and this one was certainly no exception. She was still a little sore from last night's romp with the Riddler's goons, but she was brimming with a whole new zeal. Batman and Robin weren't going to be there tonight. All of Gotham City was her responsibility. They weren't just putting up with her anymore. They trusted her. Dick's trust hadn't been too hard to come by, considering. At his age, he was ruled almost entirely by his hormones and she'd made the mistake of indulging her weakness for his cocky bravado. But she'd never gone down on Batman, and even if she had, there was still no guarantee he'd trust her any more than he already did. Especially if any of Pixie Boot's secondhand tales of the Dark Knight's encounters with Catwoman were true. Barbara was actually humming when she skipped out of her office in the corner of the Research Department at 8:55. There was a high stack of books on a table that she really should re-shelve before she took off, but she decided it could wait. "Unbelievable," a voice said from the stack. "Just incredible." Upon inspection, Barbara realized that the stack in question was, in fact, the majority of the GPL's collection of Otto Octavius' academic papers. Upon even closer inspection, she found a skinny young man with brown hair and a Gotham University t-shirt hidden behind the high pile. "Sorry, sir, it's closing time," Barbara told him. "If you hurry, you can probably make it to the check out desk in time." "I don't have a library card," the guy murmured without even looking up. "I'm not exactly from around here. And where I come from, you can't get a copy of this stuff anywhere." Barbara looked down at the book in the guy's hands. "What is that?" she asked. "Octavius' paper outlining his cold fusion theory?" At that, he looked up at her for the first time. When they made eye contact, he seemed strangely startled to see her, even though he had to have known she was there. "Whoa," he whispered. Barbara smiled. "Oh, you don't think girls like to read dry science texts, too?" she asked. "How cute." "Definitely," he said softly, still gaping at her. "Cute." She turned to leave. "Come on," she sighed. "You don't have to go home but you can't stay here." As they made their way to the exit, the guy babbled through an explanation of how he'd lost track of time. "The man might have a weak left hook, but you've got to admit, Otto Octavius was a genius," he said. "Top of his field. If he hadn't gone fat crackers, who knows what he could have done, you know? I've been meaning to read his papers for ages, but like I said, you can't read them back home. Not since he smashed into the New York Public Library and stole them all. There was no stopping him either. He was incensed. Total nutjob." "I didn't really understand a word of that," she told him. "Oh right," he said. He looked hurt somehow. He was almost good-looking in a fidgety, twitchy sort of way. "Look, I understand how it is," she said sweetly as they stepped through the front doors out onto the street. "Time flies when you're geeking out. Especially with Doctor Octavius' research. Most of his radiation stuff flies right over my head, but he's written a lot about computer programming and operating systems that just blows me away. The micro-processors that control those crazy robot arms of his are bleeding edge tech." "I'm not much of a computer guy," he confessed. "Pretty pricey hobby." An awkward silence fell between them. "Well, I'm going to go," Barbara said. "Have a nice stay in Gotham. Maybe I'll see you around if you come back to finish your reading." He was still staring at her, almost transfixed. "Maybe." Barbara started down the street toward her car. She made it about half way before she heard someone running up behind her. She spun around, ready to fight if she had to, but it was only the nervous guy again. "This is going to be really forward and way unlike me," he said, "but I was wondering if you were maybe hungry." She was actually starving, but she figured she'd just scarf down an energy bar or two before she went out on patrol. Barbara took a good look at the guy. He was totally her type. Or at least, he was just like all the shy, nebbish guys she'd always dated in college. He was young though. A year or two older than Dick at the most. And Barbara was beginning to suspect that she'd chosen the quiet guys in college because she thought she had to. She never thought she'd be of interest to anyone too wild or exciting. She never thought she'd find herself in anything other than a comfortable relationship devoid of excitement. With someone safe. Of course, she'd never thought she was the type to pull off a cape, either. Things changed. Besides, this was her night. "I'm flattered, but I have plans," she said as gently as possible. "And all I really know about you is that you read the work of mad scientists and ramble nonsense sometimes." "Ha! That's funny!" he laughed, trying not to look too crushed. "She's smart and pretty and funny," he murmured so softly she almost didn't hear him. "Way out of my league..." "Look," she started to say, completely unsure how she planned to finish the sentence. Luckily, she didn't have to. "You're probably right," he said softly. "Have a good night." "You too." She started moving toward her car again. "Smooth, Parker," she heard him mumble behind her. * Peter wasn't completely sure what had happened back at the library, but he'd learned one thing for certain: he was a sucker for redheads. When he'd looked up at that librarian... When he'd seen those beautiful blue eyes, that burst of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and that brief glimpse of black lace straining beneath her rose-colored blouse, he'd felt like he was tingling. He really thought it was his spider-sense at first. The next thing he knew, he was running off at the mouth like a total jackass. It has to be because of Betty, he decided, changing back into his costume on a rooftop across the library. They had only broken up a few weeks earlier. Peter had thought he was fine with it, but apparently he wasn't. How else could he explain his behavior? Why else would he have almost put off the search for Batman even more than he had with Doc Ock's papers for dinner with some girl he barely knew? Even if she was gorgeous? And how had he expected to take her out with less than twenty bucks in his pocket? He was still reeling from the break up with Betty. He had to be. The fact that he hadn't really slept in thirty-six hours probably didn't help either. Spider-Man was still trying to convince himself two hours later. Gotham was a big city, but it wasn't New York. Spidey'd criss-crossed the town twice and hadn't seen any sign of the fabled Caped Crusader. "What'd he do, leave town or something?" the wallcrawler wondered aloud as he swung into one of the seedier parts of town. Maybe The Batman really was just an urban myth to scare Gotham's criminal element after all... Not that it seemed to be doing much good from the look of it. Parts of this burg made Hell's Kitchen look cozy. As if to reinforce his point, his spider-sense began to tingle, leading him toward the burnt out hulking ruin of a warehouse near the pier. Maybe this night wasn't going to be a total bust after all. CHAPTER FOUR: The Evil That Men Do Looking down at the bound form of Batgirl, Killer Moth couldn't help but smile. "I knew I'd get the better of you eventually," he murmured dreamily. "You thought you'd made a fool of me? Well who's the fool now?" For her part, Batgirl could only struggle against her fetters and wonder how this possibly happened to her. How the hell had Killer Moth of all people gotten the drop on her? She'd made her mark as a novice crime-fighter beating this chump! And more importantly, when did he learn to tie a decent knot? Her dad had once told her that one of the Moth's earliest kidnapping schemes -- in which he'd abducted the nine-year-old son of a tobacco magnate -- had been thwarted before the cops had even been informed of the ransom demands because he'd tied the boy up with a bow. The kid escaped while Moth was out getting a Happy Meal. And now, one of Gotham's premiere vigilantes was writhing against four perfectly tied double constrictor knots that had her bound spread eagle to a cold metal table. "Not so tough now, are you little bat?" her captor cooed gleefully. "Surprised that the Killer Moth was too much for you?" "I'm gonna be honest with you, Mothboy," Batgirl said with a smirk. "You got lucky. I had a run in with the Riddler's men last night that left me pretty banged up." "You think you're hurting now?" the Moth asked, producing a switchblade. "Wait'll you get a load of me, bitch." For the first time since she'd run into the Moth that night, a cold shiver of fear ran down Batgirl's spine. "What are you doing?" she asked as he stepped toward her. "Whatever the fuck I wanna do, Bat-whore," he said with a grin as the blade switched open with a stark and startling click. Batgirl screwed her eyes shut, realizing he was going to kill her. He was going to cut her and torture her to death and dump her body off the pier. This was how her father was going to learn the truth about his little girl. Killer Moth was going to kill her! She was going to die! The unending dread raced through her as she waited for the blade to sink into her flesh. She was almost relieved when instead of cold steel she felt a clammy hand press her chest. That relief soon gave way to surprise and revulsion when she opened her eyes to see Killer Moth standing over her, pawing at her breasts. "Oh you slutty little tease," he whispered. "So pretty and helpless." Batgirl was too shocked to speak. She could only grunt in pain as the Moth forcefully groped her tit, still tender from the night before. "Batty baby likes it rough, huh?" he asked, mistaking her verbal discomfort for passion. "Well if rough is what baby wants, rough is what she gets." The knife flashed back into Batgirl's sight as Killer Moth pulled the thick lycra material of her costume away from her body and started to cut. "No!" she screamed, finally vocalizing her shock as he methodically sliced through her suit, exposing her breasts. "Oh my, no bra," Killer Moth observed, ignoring her protest. "Such a dirty, naughty girl." Some small part of Batgirl's mind -- the same part determined to deny that this could actually be happening -- wanted to explain to him that the outfit he was so callously shredding had been carefully designed by craftsmen overseas on Bruce Wayne's dime to support her ample frame on its own for maximum comfort and flexibility. But that same small part of her mind shut down when she realized he was now carefully cutting the crotch from her costume. "I'm gonna let you keep that cute little utility belt," the Moth told her. "It's just so dead sexy. And let's keep our masks on, too. Roleplay always spices things up, don't you think? First I'm gonna fuck Batgirl, and then later I'm going to fuck whatever slutty little nobody's hiding under that cowl." "Stop," she begged him, tears threatening to well in her eyes. "Just stop!" "We can't stop now," he said, slicing her panties away. "The fun hasn't even started yet." The sad truth of it -- a truth she now realized she'd never tell anyone as long as she lived -- was that in the beginning, Batgirl had a bit of a crush on Killer Moth. It was the deep timbre of his voice that had done it for her. It used to make her feel like the timid school girl to his stern high school principal. That crush had steadily subsided after she'd actually fought him -- after she'd seen him crumble into the pathetic wretch she now knew festered beneath all that bluster. And now, watching in horror as he frantically worked off his belt buckle and lowered his ridiculous lavender pants to expose the ugly stub of his stiffening penis, the last faint traces of that attraction were obliterated. "I swear to God, I'm going to kill you for this," she grimaced as he climbed up on the table, stroking his cock. "If I thought you'd get the chance to make good on that little threat, I might just say it'd be worth it," he glibly replied, positioning himself between her legs. Batgirl could feel his prick throb against her thighs, and somehow found the strength to fight even harder with her restraints than she already had been. The rope holding her right arm was starting to give a little, but she doubted she could free herself in time. Killer Moth ran his hands along her waist and up her sides to knead her breasts again. He moaned throatily as he violently pinched her nipples, sending waves of pain and nausea through her. "All the humiliations and beatings you've given me over this last year," he laughed, "and look at you now." Batgirl felt his dripping cockhead at the edge of her sex and could only whimper as he began to push forward. She just couldn't watch this happen, closing her eyes once more. No sooner had she lowered her lids than she heard someone shout, "Is this a private party, or can any wacky bug boy drop in?" Killer Moth suddenly withdrew from her. Shortly afterward, there was a less than soft crash on the other side of the room. When Batgirl opened her eyes, a garish red and blue figure stood over her. It only took a moment for her to register the big white bug-eyes and the web-pattern of his mask and realize who she was dealing with. When Spidey Met Batgirl Killer Moth had a new partner. "Don't worry," he said, reaching out toward her prone form. "I'll make this as painless as possible." She spied the obscene bulge in his tight blue trousers just as she finally slipped her right wrist free of Killer Moth's killer knot. * If Spider-Man had realized what the jerk in the ugly purple bug suit was up to, there was no way he would have made a joke. He'd stopped a handful of rapes in his career and every time it happened, he was taken aback. Peter'd been raised to believe that people were basically good, and while his years as Spider-Man had thoroughly tested that belief, there were some crimes he just couldn't accept. He understood that certain people had no problem with theft, and he'd met too many killers not to see that there were people to whom the value of human life meant less than nothing. But rape? There were still some things he just couldn't wrap his head around. It wasn't until Killer Moth sailed past him -- tugged right off his feet by a web-line -- that Spider-Man saw the creep wasn't wearing pants. And when the young crime-fighter turned from the now unconscious Moth toward his intended victim, Spider-Man finally noticed the obvious. Oh god! That girl's naked! Spider-Man made his way toward her, unsure of just how to handle this, and completely ashamed to feel a familiar stirring in his loins. Peter was a teenage boy. He was no stranger to the occasional unruly erection, but with the vast number of older gentlemen in his particular rogues gallery, they almost never happened to him in costume -- the notable exceptions being the handful of times he'd teamed-up with that curvy Invisible Girl from the Fantastic Four. He felt a fresh wave of guilt and self-loathing when he found that this poor young woman's awful predicament was actually arousing him. "Don't worry," he said, reaching to both untie and reassure her. "I'll make this as painless as possible." He was overwhelmed. Between her nudity, his shame, and the sudden realization she was wearing a batmask over her head, he failed to notice the blare of his spider-sense until it was too late. "Don't you fucking touch me!" the girl shouted, grabbing his arm and tossing him across the room with a swift and savage grace she made seem effortless. "Damn!" Spidey shouted as he crashed into a stack of crates. He wasn't sure, but it looked like The Batman was a smoking hot chick. By the time he pulled himself up out of the wreckage, the Bat-Girl had already untied the rest of her restraints and was getting up off the table. "That was fast," he mumbled, still too shaken to think straight. The girl fixed a look of pure hate upon him, disgusted to see him standing so soon. Spider-Man was mesmerized by the sway of her breasts. He wondered whether she realized they were still hanging out of her torn costume or if she was just too pissed to care. He felt hazy and hypnotized as he watched her reach down into a pouch on the belt that hung around the luscious curve of her hips. That only drew his attention to the tightly trimmed triangle of hair above the lips of her exposed slit, distracting him long enough that the next thing he knew, a brace of batarangs were flying at his face. "Whoa! Calm down, lady!" he yelled, dodging with a little more effort than he would have expected. He had to get his hormones in check if he wanted to get through this. He was still off-balance when she leapt forward and tackled him. "You monsters!" she shrieked. "You fucking monsters!" She was all over him. Pinning him down and beating him about the head with her fists as she continued to curse him. Spider-Man didn't know what to do. He didn't want to hurt her. He just threw his hands up, taking the brunt of her assault passively. "You shouldn't have done that," she sobbed. "You shouldn't have fucking done that!" "I was helping!" he tried to explain. "I thought I was helping! I'm sorry!' But she wasn't listening. She just kept thrashing against him and he couldn't help it. She was grinding against his hard prick -- nestled snuggly at the crux of her legs -- and her breasts bounced to the beat of her blows. The frightful sight of it all was eliciting a somewhat mortifying response. "Stop!" he begged her, tingling in a much more primal way than his spider-sense. "I don't think I can handle much more of this..." She started to falter, but not out of any concern for him. Only out of exhaustion. "You bastards," she panted. "You goddamn bastard." "Please stop," Spider-Man kept pleading, and eventually she did, losing steam, her rage spent. She collapsed onto him then, but it was too late. The crush of her breasts against his chest and her breath coming in hot and heavy blasts against the crook of his neck were too much. There was no stopping him now, anymore than there'd been any stopping her attack. He erupted right then. A warm, sticky mess in his tights. "I'm sorry," he blurted out in an explosive mix of embarrassment and euphoria as his cock pulsed again and again, spurting cum out beneath her. She didn't seem to notice. "Shouldn't have happened," she whimpered into his ear, sobbing. "I'm so sorry," he said, spent. CHAPTER FIVE: Night Creatures As the clock struck midnight in his office, Norman Osborn felt a murderous rage that -- while not entirely uncommon -- surprised him. In recent years, Norman had taken to particular leisure time activities that leant themselves to a certain amount of anger, but rarely did he feel such contempt while at work. He tried to maintain a certain decorum in his day-to-day life, and to find said tranquility so thoroughly disturbed only served to frustrate him beyond all reason. The source of Norman's current resentment was simple enough: his four o'clock appointment still hadn't arrived. It wasn't being stood up that angered him so, because honestly, at the level of power Norman tended to operate, this type of thing happened all the time. Of the seven meetings he'd scheduled with Tony Stark over the last year, Stark had only attended two. These things simply happened. No. What pissed Norman off was the manner in which he'd been kept waiting. At 3:55, Rita, his receptionist, informed him that someone from Wayne Enterprises had called to say that Mr. Wayne was running late and wouldn't be able to meet him until five. Norman had agreed to postpone for an hour. He had some contracts to sign anyway. Then at 5:15, there was another call requesting to push back the appointment to seven with "unanticipated setbacks" the only explanation Rita had managed to wring out of Wayne's petulant yes-men and sycophants. At eight o'clock, having let Rita go home to tend to her children, it was Norman who took the next call for delay, this one from the man himself, Bruce Wayne. "Terribly sorry about all this, Norm," Bruce said. "You know how it is. Things get away from you." "Mr. Wayne, I can barely hear you," Norman seethed into the phone, fighting to restrain himself. "What's all that blasted music and shouting in the background?" "Oh that," Wayne guffawed in response. "I'm at an opening for a new club I've invested in. Had to put in an appearance. You understand." That stupid, doped up playboy had brushed Osborn off! "Have you forgotten our meeting, Mr. Wayne?" Norman asked when he finally found some composure. "You contacted my office last week saying you had a proposal for a joint business venture." "Well of course I haven't forgotten, Norm," Wayne chuckled. "That's why I'm calling, of course! You should come down to the club! We can talk shop here!" "I'd rather discuss this in a professional setting, Mr. Wayne." "Please, call me Bruce, Norm." "It's Norman, Mr. Wayne, though I'd really prefer Mr. Osborn." The pampered pretty boy had the gall to laugh at that. "Yes sir, Mr. Osborn," Bruce said, daring to mock him. "I'll meet you at your office as soon as I can tear myself away. Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes... at the absolute utmost..." "I'll be waiting," Norman roared into the phone, and then slammed it down. That had been about four hours ago. What a wretched waste of a man! Bruce Wayne had the whole world handed to him. If Thomas was alive to see what his useless son was doing with the family wealth, he'd surely wring the life from that insipid man-boy's neck. "I won't let Harry do that to me," Norman murmured aloud, thinking of his own son. "I'll kill him if he even tries..." "Kill who, old sport?" Bruce Wayne asked, as Norman's door flew open. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. There was nobody in reception." "Yes, well, we're far beyond Osborn Industries' regular business hours, Mr. Wayne," Norman said, rising to greet him. "Please forgive me, I was just thinking out loud." "First sign of madness, don't they say?" Wayne asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "You might want to be careful." "I'll keep that under advisement," Norman glowered at him. "Now what do you want?" "Right to business, great," Wayne replied, taking a seat. "Probably for the best. I really don't have a lot of time for this little get-together. It's starting to get late." "It's midnight Mr. Wayne," Norman said. "You're eight hours late and I'm not much of a night owl. I have a full day tomorrow. Now, what exactly is the nature of this proposal of yours?" "Well, as you know, Mr. Osborn, our two companies have enjoyed a lucrative partnership in the realm of pharmaceuticals," Bruce explained. "Wayne Enterprises has pioneered several breakthrough medical advancements, and Osborn Industries has done a pretty decent job of providing us with the raw chemicals we've refined and reformulated to do so." "That's one way of putting it," Norman muttered. "Go on." "Well, now that Osborn Industries is branching out into the realm of military defense, I was wondering if there was some way to extend that pre-existing relationship into this new arena." Norman blanched. "What makes you think we're branching out into weapons manufacturing?" "'Weapons manufacturing'?" Wayne chuckled. "Oh, Norman, you really are new at this, aren't you? Haven't your marketing boys told you? Nobody likes the term 'weapon'. 'Defense' tests so much better." "You haven't answered my question." "Oh calm down, sport," Wayne said with a small sigh. "It isn't corporate espionage or anything shady like that. I was just puttering around on the computer in my office a few weeks ago, taking a fairly dull look at our accounts when I noticed that WayneTech had received a rather large order for our new micro-turbine engines from a company called Emerald Imp Aeronautics." "I fail to see what that has to do with me," Norman said, his face now a blank slate. "Well Emerald Imp is a subsidiary of Jade Manufacturing," Bruce explained, "which is a branch of Greene & King Incorporated." Norman didn't say anything to that. "Greene & King also owns Plumpkin Demolition," Wayne continued, "which placed an order for some of WayneTech's explosive detonators. And Emerald Imp really improved our second quarter earnings by purchasing gyro-stabilizers for light flight craft. So I just had to look into Greene & King so I could send my thanks to Mister and or Miss King or Greene for all the good business, and how cool was it to find out that the company is an overseas holding for Osborn Industries! So seriously, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, Norman. I would absolutely love to know just what it is you're up to these days. You know, so Wayne Enterprises can help." The bastard's onto me, Norman realized. He knows what I've been doing. But how was that possible? How could Bruce Wayne of all people recognize the tangled web of legal jargon and corporate finagling Norman had put together to acquire the materials for the Green Goblin's secret armory? No. There was no way Wayne could know. He was obviously just fishing for something... "Well, Bruce, Osborn Industries has a vast number of subsidiaries at various locations all over the world," Norman said as evenly as possible. "As I'm sure you're aware, it's impossible for a Chief Executive Officer to keep track of it all. To be honest, I had no idea any part of the company was involved in this type of research or development." "So you're sure you're not chasing some fat government contract?" Wayne asked, visibly confused. "I'm really not at liberty to say," Norman told him. "Huh. So I guess there's nothing to help the old bottom line here," Bruce concluded. "At least, not any more than you already have." "I suppose not." "Well, sorry to have wasted your time, then," Wayne said, standing. Norman rose to shake his hand. "Not at all, Bruce," he said. "Not at all. Let me walk you out." * "If you want me to do this, you have to drop your arms," an exasperated Spider-Man explained to Batgirl for the umpteenth time. It'd taken him awhile, but he'd finally convinced her that he was on her side. But it was starting to dawn on Spider-Man that this truce was more a product of her exhaustion than any genuine trust on her part. She'd been awkwardly pulling her short cape around her body to hide her nakedness since she'd finally climbed up off of him, and she'd kept her distance while he webbed the unconscious Killer Moth to the ceiling. But while he'd caught her eyeing the embarrassing wet splotch on his pants with disgust, they'd wordlessly agreed not to discuss it. Spider-Man had suggested using his webbing to cover her up as a peace offering. Batgirl had determined he was just out to sneak another peek at her. It had turned into a ten minute argument. "Look, I'm just trying to help you," he said. "I'm telling you, this isn't going to work unless you trust me and drop your arms. Unless you want them webbed to your body." "And I told you," she said, one armed clasped over her bosom and the other covering her exposed nethers, "I'm not dropping anything until you close your eyes." "My eyes are closed!" Spider-Man insisted. "How can I tell?" she asked him. "That mask covers your whole face!" "Trust me," he said once again. "They're closed." She hesitated for a moment, still considering. "Okay," she said finally. "You can do it now. My arms are down." "Uh, no," Spider-Man said. "They're not." "And the only way you could know that is if your goddamn eyes are open!" she shouted. "Well how the hell am I supposed to web you with my fucking eyes closed?!" * Alfred Pennyworth had been patiently waiting behind the wheel of the Lexus GS-400 for a mere fifteen minutes before his young charge returned. "That didn't take very long, Master Bruce," Alfred observed, pulling out into traffic. "I trust you learned everything you needed." "He's definitely up to something," Bruce growled. "And he's using WayneTech technology to do it. Tomorrow morning I'll have to call Lucius. We're dissolving our dealings with Osborn Industries." "Ah. Will we be proceeding to the airport now?" Alfred asked. "If so, I should call ahead to make sure the jet's prepared." "That won't be necessary," Bruce said. "We'll stay at the Park Avenue penthouse tonight. We can fly back to Gotham in the morning." "You're sure, sir?" Alfred asked. "You seemed worried about being away for too long before we left." "It's fine," Bruce said. "Gotham's in good hands tonight. And there's something I'd like to do while we're here." "Shall I prepare your night clothes, then, sir?" Alfred wondered. "The Dark Knight takes Manhattan, perhaps?" "No, Alfred," Bruce told him. "New York has more than enough extra-curricular law enforcement flitting around. I think I can let one of them take care of whatever Osborn's planning. I just don't want Wayne Enterprises facilitating it any more than it already has. As long as Osborn stays out of my city, he can be someone else's problem." "A shrewd decision, sir," Alfred agreed. Bruce had a tendency to obsess, taking the problems of the whole world on his shoulders. If he wasn't prone to make the nefarious dealings of Norman Osborn his new fixation, Alfred could only deem it a surprisingly healthy choice. "I do find myself curious, Master Bruce. If The Batman won't be making an appearance in the finer back alleys of the Big Apple, what exactly is the nature of this... 'thing' you'd like to do while we're here?" The butler glanced up at the rearview mirror, where he saw a smile stretch across Bruce's face. "There was a lovely young lady I met at the club earlier," he confessed. "I thought we could swing over there and see if she'd left yet." "But of course, sir," Alfred said, steering the Lexus back toward the club. Bruce reclined in his seat and tried to relax. It wasn't easy, but he was determined not to make Osborn his problem. He found it even more difficult not to rush back to Gotham, but he'd done the math. Between the trip to LaGuardia, waiting for clearance to take off, flying to Gotham and getting back to the manor -- all while putting up appearances as the vapid billionaire playboy -- he'd be lucky to set foot in the Batcave before dawn. And The Batman was a creature of the night. No. He'd be better off just staying where he was. He had faith that Gotham could survive one night in the hands of his new trusted associate. Batgirl had certainly proven herself. So he was resolved that there was only one thing he was going to worry about tonight: That sexy little minx Felicia Hardy had better be eighteen. CHAPTER SIX: Trust the Man "You're going too fast!" Batgirl hissed. "Slow down!' "I don't know how to go any slower," Spider-Man called over his shoulder. "It's kind of up to gravity, you know? Just hold on, all right?" Batgirl tightened her grip around him and closed her eyes. It didn't make her feel any better, and she couldn't help but wonder what kind of nutcase would choose to swing around the city as his primary mode of travel. Sure, she'd done her fair share of swinging around the Gotham City skyline, but for the most part, those had been under closely calculated conditions. She'd been sure that her jumplines were secure and she knew where the arc of her swing would carry her. On a few occasions, she may have found herself plummeting unexpectedly and been forced by the chaos of the moment to fire a grapple blindly and hope for the best. But afterward, she considered herself lucky and swore never to put herself in that situation again. What Spider-Man was doing now? This web-slinging shtick of his? It was nothing but chaos! She'd heard of him, of course. She hadn't recognized him when he first showed up at the warehouse, partly because he wasn't the most high-profile member of the superhuman community, but mostly because of the abject horror of her circumstances at the time. But in a calm, safe situation and with a clearer head, she remembered. The Gotham Public Library had a subscription to every major news publication on the planet, including the Daily Bugle. And months ago, when she'd pledged her allegiance to Batman's crusade against crime, he'd provided her with remote access to his considerable database, including detailed dossiers on every costumed freak and meta-human currently operating, be they good, bad, or ugly. And Bruce expected her to study it. The file on Spider-Man hadn't consisted of much. Just a picture, a backlog of press clippings, and a Dark Knight notation deeming him a "minor threat at best". And what she remembered from the few Bugle headlines she'd come across had led her to believe he was some sort of petty criminal. (And she could have sworn she'd once read something about him buggering a champion show dog, but she couldn't be remembering that right. Who in their right mind would publish a story like that?)