With a ridiculously overexaggerated flourish, you pull your hand away and hold your fist in the air, index finger upraised.

Who so Pulleth Out This Sword of this Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of England!

…

What?

Is there something wrong with a young lad enjoying a rollicking good tale of swords and sorcery? I say thee nay!

‘tis truly a shame that the young maiden is at her wits’ end and thus, in no state of mind to fully appreciate your crowning (literally) moment of awesome, but such is life. You pop your finger into your mouth, and then, determined to mete out swift and doleful justice, jab it into the tender space between her big toe and second toe.

“Jesus H. Tapdancing CHRIST!”

The Wicked Witch of the West ain’t got nothin’ on you, son. You launch into a cackle so malefic it’d put that old hag to shame. And you’re just getting warmed up. You spend the next few minutes using every last trick in the playbook, and improvising a few more new ones right there on the spot. (There’s one particularly vicious little beauty involving the edge of your car key – you’re not quite sure exactly what she said in response to that one since you’re pretty sure only dolphins could comprehend the noises she was making at that point, but you’re willing to bet she suggested you go do something anatomically impossible.)

By the time you’re done, she’s running on fumes. You’re pretty sure she’s thrown down with some supervillains and gotten less of a workout than that. When you finally let up, she takes in this deep, gasping, almost sobbing breath.

“You ok?”

She’s balanced on one foot and her entire upper body is quivering with exhaustion. Her hair is a tangled mess, lying ragged and limp against her shoulders or plastered to the side of her neck. Her cowl is crooked from all the thrashing, and you can see a few drops of sweat wicking from the fabric into her eyes. She flinches from the sting. “Can’t… can’t… no more…” She manages to pant out. “You bastard.” She throws in for good measure.

You actually feel a little guilty. (Even after she called you a bastard.) After all, you did push her pretty hard. Sure, it was all in good fun, but still, the poor thing’s just… spent. So, you sidle in behind her and give her a hug. No games this time, no ulterior motives, just a good, old-fashioned hug. And she’s so tired, she sinks right into it. More than that, she’s grateful for it, glad for some basic human contact that doesn’t involve her being tickled half to death. She takes a few more deep breaths, the air whistling slightly as it enters her nostrils. “And now here you are, making me go all Stockholm Syndrome… God, you’re an ass.” she quips.

You offer up a little half-hearted chuckle by way of apology and give her another tiny little squeeze about the waist. She’s so soft. Warm. Alluring. That faint scent of cinnamon that clings to her hair; her lips delicately parted as she tries to catch her breath. A part of you recognizes the temptation for what it is. Empires fell because of this sort of thing and you know it, but what chance have you got? You’re just one man – only human, with all the failing willpower of a horde of starving dieters staring down a fully laden buffet table. Conscience demands that you partake, and you’ve never been one to ignore your conscience. You lean in, and you can practically taste that gentle hint of soap on your tongue as you brush your lips gently across her cheek. But then she turns in surprise and suddenly it’s your lips against hers, the kiss needy, intense and exquisite.

And you regret every moment of it.

It’s like sticking your finger in a power outlet, and the both of you snap back from each other, stunned. You find your voice first, but there’s not enough wit in your words to fill a thimble. “Um. Er.”

Her cheeks are a bright shade of red, and she stiffens, her entire frame tensing – not like it had before, with nervous anticipation, but with a different kind of energy. There’s a different cast to her muscles this time, something dangerous, something predatory. Images of snap kicks to the face and of multiple, prolonged trips to Dr. Chen, your horrible, sadistic dentist, flash through your mind. You can just see him, one of those spit-suckers clenched in a monstrous, claw-like hand as he throws his head back and screeches with villainous laughter. Bolts of jagged lightning erupt all around your strapped down head, and there you are, helpless and thrashing as a massive whirling saw blade slowly makes its way down into your mouth…

“Sorry. Sorry, that was… that was out of line.” You hasten to apologize, certain that you’ve finally done and gone too far and wondering just how you’re going to charm your way out of this one.

But just as suddenly as it’d appeared, all the fight flows right out of her, and she sighs, instead turning to you and tugging weakly at her wrists. “Can I get out of this stuff now?”

The quivering lower lip, those sad, puppy-dog eyes… those are just as impossible to resist, and you nod quietly as you feel your willpower cave one more time. This time, though, you’re extra careful as you go searching through her belt pouches – can’t afford any unfortunate accidents. But even with all the precautions, it still takes you no time at all to come up with the solvent for the Batarang adhesive. You sprinkle a few drops of the stuff on the sticky green goop and wait. But it’s a long, awkward silence – not at all like the breezy, banter-filled moments the two of you had had ever since you’d met – and the longer that silence stretches, the more uncomfortable you feel. You try desperately to strike up a conversation, but she shuts you down, clearly not interested in talking. If only she’d at least give you some kind of opening: make eye contact, maybe. Anything.

You try and force some kind of chatter, anyway. “Um… so… are we just not going to talk about-”

She cuts you off before you can even finish getting the sentence out. “That was the plan.”

“Oh.”

A few more seconds of silence punctuated by a cat yowling in the next alley over.

“Can we talk about why we’re not talking about it?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“Hrm.” You have to admit, you’ve never before met a girl who speaks “Grunt” quite so fluently. You’d be impressed if you weren’t otherwise preoccupied with her sudden (but understandable) mood swing. “Erm… would you like your boot back?”

“That’d be great.”

A longer-than-one-word reply! Progress.

Your hands are delicate. Precise. Like a surgeon’s, as you bend down and slip her sock and then her boot back on. But she still’s in dishabille, so you reach up to help her readjust her mask. She shakes her head as you approach, though, warning you away, and you frown, but wisely back off, instead deciding to intently study the wall of a nearby building for a bit. “So-”

“Ngh.”

“Ok.”

And back to one word at a time. So much for progress.

The both of you spend the next few minutes in silence, until eventually she grunts one more time. Looking down at her hands, you can see that enough of the green glop holding them in place has dissolved and that she’s once again started trying to tug herself free. You decide not to help this time. Seems it was that kind of “chivalric” thinking that got you into trouble in the first place. Besides, as it turns out, she’s a big girl, and she can handle herself: in a few seconds, she’s loose and rubbing her wrists, which, not surprisingly, are more than a little sore.

Of course now that she’s free, she could probably put a good hurting on you for what you did. It might be a good idea to apologize. In fact… yeah, no… you should probably just go ahead and do that and forget about the consequences.

You sigh. Time to face the music.