A voice in the dark: "What are you doing man?"

"What does it look like I'm doing... I'm going to the kitchen."

"You can't just leave when we're--"

"You don't tell me what to do. I don't have to listen to you."

"Malone," Dick's voice cut in stopping the argument between Robbie and Jack. "Don't make me come up there."

"Stupid Fictive. Think you're all that just cause you get to go out in your pajamas in public."

"Would you just please help set the table."

"No way, man. I'm going to the kitchen. That's where it's at. Uh huh."

Dick rolled his eyes and waved him away. Malone could do whatever the hell he wanted he didn't care. Tim looked at the retreating fictive and smiled nastily. "Gonna wear a prissy apron too?"

Both Dick and Robbie's mouth dropped open in shock. Langunage like that, coming out of Tim. Heaven forbid, twilight zone here we come!

"That's it man!" Robbie stalked back to where Tim was folding napkins. "Superhero or no superhero, when I get through with you, you're name's gonna be--"

"Oh no you don't!" Babs shril voice broke in. All three men froze in reflex. "This is Charlene's birthday. There will be no fights on Charlene's birthday."

"But--"

"He started it."

"I don't care. No fights. None. Zero. Nada. And nothing!" Babs stood her ground. She directed Tim to continue to fold napkins, she urged Dick to continue to set out the glass and she smacked Robbie on his ass to get him into the kitchen.

Robbie yelped! Then grinned devilishly. That was his girl.

It wasn't long before Babs came back carrying a single candle. It was slightly deformed from previous lighting but it would work. Dick had some how managed to poor a glass of wine. Babs suspected it was a long and complicated thing involving batarangs and wire and pullys. And Robbie wandered back with a match, proud to be nuturing his pyromanic instinct. The only thing they were missing now was... the cupcake

And of course... leave the most difficult part to the most difficult and talented fictives.

Batman and Matches had manuevered through the kitchen and into the living room carrying their precious cargo. They had kept it from dropping. They had kept it from melting. They had kept the dog from eating it. They were Bruce Wayne. And he could do anything. Even star in a fic whlie he was dead... or at least AWOL.

Finally they hauled it up the table and placed in the exact center of the elaborate paper napkin display Tim had created. Then the candle... then the match... and the front door clicked over and then....

wait for it...

"Happy Birthday!" the tiny fictives yelled as Charlene entered from a post coital Bon Jovi haze!

fin

~story index~