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»Hey,« Dick says, not taking his eyes off of the silver clasp right in front of him. It’s ancient, pretty ugly, probably equally as expensive and yet to be freed from its prison made of security glass and – surprisingly – a combination lock of all things. »What do you think – what should be the feminine of thief?«
»What?« Barb asks from the other side of the room, clearly taken by surprise. »What do you mean, the feminine of thief?«
»You know.« Dick gestures carelessly with his left hand, since his right one is currently busy patting through the pouches of his utility belt. »We’ve got actress for actor. Stewardess for steward. Princess for prince. Murderess for murderer. Although I might misremember that last one,« he admits after a second of consideration. He’s been known to confuse some of the jokes he invents to annoy Bruce with actual real words if he uses them too often. »Anyways. Point is, what would be a good feminine for thief?«
»Thievess?« Barb offers, sounding unsure.
Dick clicks his tongue. »See. I don’t know about that,« he says, aiming for flippancy in hopes of hiding the frustration at his inability to find the damn lock picker that he knows should be in one of these pouches somewhere. If he manages not to seem like someone who has spent frankly embarrassing amounts of time thinking about what to call female thieves, thus already having opinions about the options he does and does not like, that’s just a bonus. »It sounds like the plural, just mispronounced, if you ask me. Could be solved pretty easily, though. What about thieveress?«
»I don’t think you just get to add an ›r‹.« There’s a hint of amusement in Barb’s voice now. »It doesn’t fit the pattern if you look at stewardess.«
Dick finishes his search of the last pouch on his belt. »It does if you consider actress,« he argues distractedly, contemplating searching all of them for a second time. There’s a good chance that he never put the thing back after his last spring cleaning, though, since he vaguely remembers thinking that he’d never need it and even if he did, Bruce would have one for sure. That’s probably still true, but doesn’t really help him now, seeing as Bruce is not here.
»Yes, but I don’t.« He imagines Barb shrugging, since her voice sounds like she might do that right about now. »I mean, you take away the ›-or‹ to get from actor to actress. But there’s nothing taken away from thief if you don’t want to end up with thieress or something, which I’d suggest you don’t if you want to create a nice sounding word.«
»I did ask for a good feminine,« Dick concedes, eying the lock. There’s a very stupid idea that he can’t get out of his head, but to be fair, securing a thousands of years old clasp from another continent with a simple combination lock that doesn’t even seem to connect to the main security system is also very stupid, so it might just work.
He glances at the plaque on the bottom of the showcase and punches in 1–9–4–9. Somewhere behind him, Barb asks, »Alright, so what would you say to thieverix?«
»There’s an ›r‹ in that one, too,« he answers, biting back the slightly hysterical laugh that threatens to escape his throat at the sight of the green light. Although that ›r‹ might be Barb’s point, he realizes a second too late. »Also, wrong language. And I don’t even know if it would work with the Latin word for thief. I can only think of victrix and ultrix off the top of my head, but I guess they both have a ›t‹ at the end of their stem that fur doesn’t. Could be coincidence, though.«
Belatedly, he remembers raptrix, but he’s already turned around by then and catches Barb staring at him. Somehow, although he can’t see her expression, her posture makes him think that he might be better off not listing any more Latin words.
»How do you know this stuff?« she asks, confirming his suspicion.
»Uhm.« The answer is that it’s great fun to annoy Donna with the ›language of soldiers and farmers‹, as she once called it. But it’s not like he can just say that and expect Barb to understand. »B thinks that a classical education is very important?«
»Sure he does.« Dick can practically hear Barb’s raised eyebrows, even without being able to see them. »Why would the Boy Wonder only speak living languages, after all?«
»That would be a very careless oversight indeed!« Dick snaps his fingers and points at her as if he couldn’t hear the layers of irony that she coated her words in. »Just imagine the chaos if we ever got a legionnaire themed villain and no one were able to understand them! I’m basically serving the public, learning all those declensions.«
»Truly the hero Gotham deserves,« Barb remarks dryly.
Dick suddenly remembers the stolen archaeological artifact that he’s holding. »Uh. Yeah. About that …« He raises his hand. »I do feel like she might disagree with you. You know, what with the breaking and entering and stealing ugly old silver brooches worth thousands of dollars?«
»Yep.« Barb pops the ›p‹ in a way that makes the word sound as if it had two syllables. Then she shrugs. »I said what I said.«
Dick stares at her for a second before he laughs softly, letting his arm fall back to his side. »Damn, that’s cold,« he says, reluctantly impressed. Usually, he’s the one with a bit of disdain for the city that produces masked supervillains as if it had a factory for them somewhere, and Barb is quick to defend her home. But there’s firsts for everything, he supposes.
»I have a feeling she deserves it tonight. That one was fast even for you, Rob.« She nods in the direction of his hand.
»I guess it was,« Dick agrees slowly. »Might be all the practice I’m getting under Your Highness, The Great Robberess.« He leans the slightest bit forward and raises his arms a little in an ironic indication of a bow. Then, he straightens up again. »Or it might be the fact that they decided to set the lock’s code to the year of the dig that this beauty was found in. Who’s to say, really?« He grins, but it feels sharp on his lips. »Maybe we should leave them a note. Something about the importance of basic security measures – the elderly not being supposed to write their PINs on post-its sticking to their credit cards, museums not being supposed to write their locks’ codes on plaques that the general population has easy access to … This right here feels like stealing candy from a toddler, only that they throw it at you and yell, ›Take it, I hate licorice.‹«
»Oddly specific,« Barb comments. »And also spoken like someone who has never once met a toddler in his life.«
Dick tilts his head. »What, you wanna tell me they like that stuff? Why? It’s so …« Words fail him in his endeavor to express how disgusting licorice actually is, so he simply makes an all-encompassing gesture with his left hand.
»Oh no, it absolutely is,« Barb agrees with him. »Doesn’t mean they’d give it up voluntarily.«
Dick shakes his head. »I believe you’re thinking of elementary schoolers,« he informs her. »The tiny ones are still supposed to have natural goodness. An inclination to share. Naïvety. Whatever you wanna call it.« He sighs. »Anyways, you got a pen somewhere?«
He’d like to think that it’s a testament to their recent habit of spending a lot of time together how little she’s thrown off by the sudden change of subject, but then again, that might just be the kind of person she is. »Not sure, why? You’re not serious about leaving that note, are you, Mr Totally-About-To-Get-Busted-Due-To-Handwriting-Analysis?«
»Nope, just had the sudden urge to demonstrate how to escape handcuffs with nothing but a ballpen,« he counters. »Yes, obviously I’m serious about that note. How else are they gonna know what went wrong? I refuse to let them believe some silly heist movie theory about how I analyzed the wear and tear on the keypad to figure out the digits of their code or whatever it is people come up with.«
Barb simply crosses her arms in front of her chest.
»Please stop looking at me like that,« Dick insists, hiding his impatience behind another sharp grin. »I swear no one’s gonna connect anything to me. That’s why you never let anyone see what the handwriting of your non-dominant hand looks like.« It’s actually not for silly notes adressed to incompetent museum security and more to appease a paranoia that’s buried deeper inside of him than even Bruce’s teachings can reach, but that might be a bit too much to say in casual conversation. So, he winks and adds, »Or, you know, give them a reason to suspect that you can write with your non-dominant hand.«
»What, you’re telling me not even Batman knows?« Barb still doesn’t sound convinced. Dick can’t really blame her – it does sound unlikely if she says it like this.
»Yes,« he answers nevertheless. »And even if he did – he still hasn’t seen it. Lots of nice fireplaces around the house, very cozy and useful. You know how it is.« She probably doesn’t, actually, not if police commissioners don’t get paid a lot more than Dick thinks they do, but on the flipside, she also doesn’t live with someone who thinks the answer to anger management issues and grief is illegal crime fighting, so – win some, lose some. »Also, I doubt they’d give this one to Batman. It’s not like we’re stealing a Rembrandt here.« He wisely chooses not to say anything more explicit about the relative popularity and importance of the Heraion of Argos and the artifacts found there, suddenly sure that Donna will know if he does.
»If you say so.« Barb unfolds her arms and pulls something out of a pocket of her suit.
Just in time, Dick remembers to catch the pen with his left hand, since his right one is still occupied with holding the stupid clasp. »Thanks,« he says through the feeling of triumph over having won their argument, before he remembers that he still needs something else to successfully write a note. »Hey, what are the odds of you having some paper somewhere in that suit of yours, too?«
Barb rolls her eyes. »Boy Wonder more like boy do I wonder how you get anything done without me.« She still leaves her spot next to the door to come over to him, though.
Dick nods gravely. »Many a museum director has already had to lament the fact that there was no note to be found to inform them about all the ways their security let them down,« he lies, coating his every word in pathos. »But now, those hardships are over, thanks to the one and only …« He pauses for dramatic effect, biting back a grin when he sees Barb open her mouth, probably in anticipation of his next word. »… Robingirl.«
»What was that?« Barb tilts her head and raises one hand up to her ear, acting as if she couldn’t understand him. »You wanted me to take away the pen and tip off the GCPD? What a strange request.«
Dick sighs. »It’s simply the better name,« he protests, not willing to give this up as a lost cause just yet. »But if you insist …« He’s pausing again, waiting to see if she’ll give him any sign at all that she’s fine with him not continuing the sentence. None is coming, though. He sighs again. »The one and only Batgirl, is what I meant to say. Obviously.«
»Obviously,« Barb nods, finally handing over a piece of paper. »You’re welcome.«
»Thanks.« Dick takes the paper and lays it down on top of the display case. It’s small enough that he has to concentrate to make the whole note fit – he said that he can write with his left hand, not that he is particularly good at it, and it’s so much easier to write big letters than it is to write small ones –, but it’s fine. He simply makes a list instead of writing whole sentences. It reads:
What not to do to avoid future robberies:
• no(?)/not enough video/audio recording
• no(?) guards/not checking rooms regularly
• combination locks
• codes = years of digs = clearly visible
• no authentication except for code
When he looks at it written down like that, it reminds him of his toddler analogy from earlier. This place really basically asked to be robbed. They should be glad that it’s just Barb and him, and that they only wanted to take something small, not everything. All these exhibits are comically, almost suspiciously badly secured. They could’ve gone for something much more valuable than this one little silver clasp, even if it’s a few thousand years old.
He makes a mental note to keep an eye on this place. Just in case. Maybe, they are an actual museum and just really bad at their job. But maybe, there’s something else going on here – something that needs a front, but hasn’t given said front the necessary attention to detail. It won’t hurt to discreetly make sure it’s not the latter.
Frowning, he reads the list again. But no, he’s reasonably sure that those are the main problems he noticed. That leaves some space empty, and for a second, Dick considers drawing a smiley underneath the last bullet point or signing the whole thing with some made-up name or writing something silly, like ›Thanks!‹ But that might seem too much like taunting – like something a brandnew supervillain would do to announce their presence – and then, the GCPD might actually ask Batman to take a look. And even if B isn’t able to recognize Dick’s handwriting, it’s better not to push his luck.
So, he simply hands the pen back to Barb, who takes it and nods. »Cool party trick,« she remarks.
Dick doesn’t really know how to react to that except shrugging. »Alright,« he says after one last look at the paper on the display case, »let’s get out of here.«
When he looks up from stowing away the clasp in one of the pouches on his belt, Barb’s already gone. Grinning, he shakes his head and reaches for his grapple gun. Time to go find a place for his new, ugly possession.