Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. They all belong to DC Comics and Time-Warner. The Joy of Sex belongs to Alex Comfort. (At least that's the name I found on Amazon.com.) The first five lines are quoted directly from Nightwing #44. This is a what-if in answer to everyone's question: "What was that entertainment Dick was referring to?" Caution: Includes incessent sexual innuendo, one bad word, and Jody Revenson's idea that Batgirl and Robin had a bit of an illicit/underage affair way-back-whenever. Rated PG-13. Please notify me at amandas@udel.edu before archiving.

by Smitty

"And thanks for the flowers earlier tonight."
"Yeah, and thanks for the entertainment."
"That was Robin's idea."
"I'll get with him later. Gotta run, Babs."
"Ha! Oracle out."

When Dick Grayson had opened the package from Barbara Gordon, too often known as Oracle for him, he had thought that he had died and gone to heaven. The note said, "Some 'entertainment' for when things get a little slow." The rating was XXX. Unfortunately, the video did not star, or even feature Barbara. Dick watched it anyway.

Some people use the Internet to live. Some people live to use the Internet. Barbara Gordon was a little of both. As Oracle, she advised the GCPD, the JLA and the Titans. She ran secret military ops with the Black Canary, she teased Nightwing mercilessly, and she helped Robin with his homework. And, since she rarely left her apartment in Gotham's Clock Tower, she also ordered her clothes, her food, her books, and her music from through internet stores. So she wasn't surprised when her doorbell rang and a deliveryman blinked cluelessly in the general direction of her door camera.

She retrieved and signed for the package, then frowned at the label. She didn't remember ordering any books lately. A little worried, she examined the package carefully, then scanned it with a small device Bruce had dropped on her desk one day. It came up clean, so she opened the package, warily.

"What the..." she asked, drawing out a large, hardback book. "The Joy of Sex?" Out of habit, she opened the book, then slammed it shut again. "Grayson!" she snapped at her computer, switching on the on-line camera. Dick was sprawled on his bed, staring intently off-screen. "Richard John Grayson..."
"Babs!" Dick scrambled into a sitting position and groped for something lost in the bedcovers.
"Got your present, slick," she said, holding the book to the screen.

Dick offered her a mischievious grin, as he finally found the a remote control device and pointed it at something away from the computer.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I was thinking it might, um, explain things to our...little brother?"

Babs caught his thought and matched his grin. "I'll make sure he understands," she promised.

Tim Drake entered Alfred Pennyworth's spotless kitchen with the intent to find and demolish the batch of little hotdogs in dough he'd smelled Alfred baking not half an hour before. Fortuantely for Alfred's hors d'ouvres, Tim was distracted by a package sitting on the small table.

"Hmm," he mused, seeing his name scrawled in large, black letters across the brown paper wrapping.
"You will leave those hors d'ouvres alone!" Alfred announced, striding into the kitchen. "Those are for Master Bruce's party this evening. There are plenty of cookies in--oh." Alfred fell silent, when he noticed Tim examining the package. "Oh, dear. My timing does seem to be a bit off, today, doesn't it?"
"This is for me, Alfred?" Tim asked, his interest in the heavy block obliviating him to what was quite possibly the one faux pas in Alfred's entire career as a gentleman's gentleman.
"Yes, Master Timothy," Alfred acknowledged. "Miss Gordon said it was delivered to her by mistake. She had it couriered over."

Tim ripped the paper from the package and quickly scanned the handwritten note tucked inside.
Dick said you were in need of something like this.
Hope it helps you out with whatever the problem is.


"The Joy of Sex!" Tim exclaimed, drawing the book from its protective covering. "Dick said--?" He dropped the book, letting it fall open. "Oh, geez, this is revenge for that dirty movie--um..." He looked up guiltily as Alfred looked down his nose at the offending gift.
"Perhaps," Alfred suggested, drily, "you should learn from Master Dick's mistakes and start on page 247."
Tim quickly flipped through the book to the appropriate chapter.


Alfred merely raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know, Boy Wonder. This sounds like seriously contributing to the deliquency of a minor."
"C'mon, Oracle! It's not for me, it's for Dick!"
"Alfred confiscated The Joy of Sex, didn't he?"
"That's why you're all pissy and whiny."
"No! It's...my turn. I have to get Dick back for that one."
"Whatever. You're just like him, you know."
"Better like him than ol' Pointy Ears."
"Are you going to help me, or not?"
"Oh..." An elaborate sigh filtered through the phone lines. "I suppose. What is it, this time."
"It's another video. It's called How to be a Better Lover."
"Dick doesn't need that vide-"
"WHAT???" Tim jerked in his seat, almost losing the wheeled chair. "Not you, too!"
"No! Forget I said anything! Just...never mind."
"When did this happen? Like...recently?"
"No! It was nothing..."
"It's nothing? Does Dick know that it's nothing? Or...oh, was it like...y'know? Nothing?"
"Do you want me to order the video or not?"

Dick Grayson hastily unwrapped the small, squarish box, dropping the paper on the floor as he looked for the title.

"Hmmph," he sighed. "Don't need this." He tossed it on the couch, and walked away, mentally scanning the contents of Roy Harper's room for an idea to get revenge on Robin.

"Master Timothy?" Alfred Pennyworth hated to interrupt the Batman and Robin, but he felt his mission might be of some importance.
"Yeah, Alfred?" Tim didn't turn away from the computer console. His mask was off and lay next to Batman's cowl on the console.
"I have a package here for you. It seems to have come from Miss Gordon."
"Really?" The idea of another package from Barbara grabbed Tim's attention.
"Indeed." Alfred handed the brown, paper-wrapped box to the teenager.
Bruce straightened from his own work to watch the drama unfold.
The box was slightly larger than a shirt box. Tim hefted it and shook it, frowning intently. Finally, he picked up the folded index card taped to it. It read:

"A little entertainment for you...Nightwing's idea--Oracle"

"Hmm," Tim mused, wondering what they could have sent. It was too big a box to be another book, or a videotape and nothing was rattling around. Besides, he knew Dick and he knew Babs, and more than that, he knew them together, which was like knowing a third person. And that third person was dangerous. "Guess I'll just have to open it up and see." He unwrapped the paper and yanked the lid off the unmarked box.

Finally liberated, the contents of the box instantly began to inflate, forming the shape of an oddly positioned young woman. Tim, Bruce, and Alfred stared at it, as its chest popped out three cup sizes.

"Don't stay up too late," Batman rasped, clapping a hand on Tim's shoulder as he headed for the stairs of the Batcave.
"I believe," Alfred said, slowly, taking possession of the doll and tucking her under his arm, "I'll just take Miss...uh, Trixie...upstairs and...deflate her..."
"Uh...thanks, Alfred. I'll get with Dick, later."

"And how are you paying for this?"
"Credit card."
"Number please?"
Tim gave it.
"And your name is...Bruce Wayne?"
"Well, it's his card, but he said I could use it."
"I'm afraid we'll have to speak to him."
"Bruce Wayne, here."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne, we just wanted the authorize the use of your Mastercard..."
"Sure thing. And, um...send a redhead. He has a fatal weakness for redheads."
"A redhead. Yes, sir."
"Thanks. Have a good one."
"You, too, sir."
"A fatal weakness for redheads?" Tim asked Bruce, quizzically.
"You haven't noticed?"
"I noticed...but I also noticed the fatal weakness for blondes and brunettes."
Bruce shrugged. "Trust me, he's on redheads, lately."
"Ok. By the way, thanks for the hand with the lady."
"No problem. I still owe Dick for a prank or two."
"A prank or two?"
"Actually, seven. If I count this one as payback, I'm down to six."
"Oh, ok."

"Ye're lookin' fer who?" Bridget Clancy paused in her stirring and eyed the girl in front of her.
"Dick Grayson. Can you show me where his apartment is?"
"Yeah. I'll show ye." Clancy started to put her bowl down, then decided to take it with her, instead. Alfred, Dick's friend from the Adopt-A-Grandparent program, had taught her to make sponge cake, this week. True, she'd made seventeen cakes this week, not one of them spongy, but Mr. Amygdala was always happy to eat her mistakes and after all, practice makes perfect, right? She stirred the batter faithfully as she led the young woman up to Dick's apartment and rapped sharply on the door.

"Hey, Clancy," Dick said, opening the door. "What's up?"
"You're under arrest, big boy," the woman informed him, pulling a pair of cuffs from the belt she wore loosely wrapped around the top of her uniform skirt.

Dick blinked as she spun him around and snapped the cuffs on him. He tugged experimentally on the metal rings, realizing they were of the simplest variety and would require only a gentle twist in the right direction to break out of. But then, he forgot all about breaking out of them.

A pulsing beat started from a small metal radio the girl had placed on the table. She started swaying to the music, her fingers unbuttoning the blouse of the too-tight uniform she was wearing.

Dick, who was no longer really wearing the handcuffs, and Clancy stared in disbelief while the woman pranced around the apartment, tossing her shirt over a nearby lamp; her skirt on the couch. When she got down to a very lacy bra and g-string, Clancy immediately turned her attention to the sponge cake that was in dire need of a good stirring. The stripper strode forward and straddled Dick's lap.

"That was from 'Babs,'" she told him, kissing him on the nose. Dick mechanically held out her cuffs. "But she said to tell you it was Tim's idea."
"OOOH!" Clancy slammed the bowl over Dick's head and stomped out of the room.
Dick licked tentatively at the batter trickling down his cheek. "Sponge cake, again," he sighed, matter-of-factly. "Hey," he asked the fraudulent policewoman. "Want to do me a favor?"

"Are you Tim Drake?" the young, buxom woman asked the dignified, older man who answered the door.

The impeccably dressed gentleman studied her carefully for several moments, taking in her stilletto heels, short skirt, lack of stockings, and heavy makeup.

"Yes," he said, his British accent crisp. "Yes, my dear, I am."

The End...or is it? ;)

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