Pamela raised herself on the tallest tippy-toes she could manage and swiftly made her way past her parent's bedroom, careful not to wake them. She stole down the stairs, checking over her shoulder with every step and turned a corner into the living room, finally witnessing the tree in all its glory. The white lights twinkled like snowflakes between the branches that strained under the weight of Mrs. Isley's ornaments.

Pamela reached her soft hand out and gently stroked the tree's needles.

"Hello Mr. Tree." She said, just barely loud enough for the tree to hear her. "I'm sorry someone had to chop you down. You must be very thirsty…" A smile spread over her freckled face, her green eyes dancing with excitement at the idea. "I can get you some water, Mr. Tree. Shh…wait here."

She turned around and bounded off in the direction of the kitchen, carefully climbing atop the counter to grab a glass from the cupboard. She filled it to the brim and set it down on the counter as she gingerly lowered one foot, then the other onto the ground. She took the glass reverently between her hands and began to walk as slowly as possible back to the tree, trying not to spill a single drop.

"What are you doing?" Her mother's voice startled her and the jolt of fear resulted in emptying the entirety of the glass' contents onto her nightgown.

"Pamela, you stupid, stupid girl." Her mother chided, crossing the room quickly, her robe flowing behind her, and snatching the now empty glass from the little girl's clutches. "Did you get up on the counter?"

Pamela nodded, her eyes wide with fear, her bottom lip trembling. "Mr. Tree was thirsty."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "A tree is a living thing only in the sense that it requires sunlight and water. It doesn't have feelings, Pamela, and it certainly wasn't thirsty. Go upstairs now and change. Put on the blue dress."

"But mother…" the girl's protest was quiet. "I can't breathe in the blue dress."

Her mother's hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm, squeezing tightly. "It's Christmas, Pamela. We will be taking photographs. Mind your mother or I will be donating all of your gifts to the bum shelter downtown.

Pamela quickly sped up the stairs, followed by a "DON'T RUN IN THE HOUSE!" by her mother. She slowed her pace to a powerwalk and pulled the blue dress that she despised so severely over her head, zipping it at the side even though it restricted her lung capacity.

Pamela had been a good girl this year waiting for this day. She only had one thing on her Christmas list- a pair of glasses. Her mother had refused to buy her some previously, despite a strong recommendation from her doctor. Mother said they were for plain girls, not pretty ones like Pamela. But Pamela had spoken to Santa Claus at the department store and he had told her that if she was a good girl and minded her manners, he would bring her the gift she most desired. And Pamela had been a very, very good girl.

There were 6 gifts in total for her under the tree, and with each one she grew more excited to get to see the world as others did- vivid colors and sharp images. She thought about how brilliant Mr. Tree must look when his edges and needles weren't blurred.

Two dresses, a new pair of shoes, a necklace, a handkerchief…but no glasses, not yet. There was one more gift, but Pamela eyed it apprehensively. It was much too big to be glasses. Her heart sank as she pulled the box over to her. It was wrapped in shiny red paper and Pamela looked at the tree guiltily as she carefully unwrapped the package and tried not to let the sigh of disappointment escape her lips when she found it contained a doll. She flipped the box over to see its face.

Pamela had a lot of dolls, but all of them were meant to look like her, with red hair and bright green eyes. But Pamela didn't want to play with herself…she wanted a friend. That's why this doll made her smile. It had silky hair the color of corn and shiny blue eyes that stared into Pamela's very soul. Its face was pale and smooth and its cheeks were painted rosy, like she'd just returned from a snowy day outdoors. Her expression was molded into a broad smile which Pamela had never seen before in a doll, their faces were usually so placid. Of course, Pamela wished she could fully appreciate the doll's delicate features, but being that she hadn't been gifted any glasses, most of the details were still left up to her imagination.

"Now Pamela, remember, she is made of porcelain, so you must be very careful not to break her." Her mother reminded her.

Pamela nodded ardently, running a gentle finger along the doll's fragile cheek. "I will never break her."

"Hey!" Selina snapped her fingers in front of the other woman's face. "Earth to Ivy. Hello?"

Ivy blinked, bringing herself back to the hospital room with Selina and the sleeping Harleen. She mumbled an apology.

"Where'd you go?" Selina asked.

"Home." Ivy told her as the fog cleared from her mind.

"Huh?"

"No, it's just…umm…" Ivy shook her head. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. What were we talking about?"

"I heard a bunch of people running in here last night. I was asking you what happened." Selina asked, both annoyed and concerned.

"Oh…umm…Harley threw her dinner at the nurse." Ivy told her, watching the blonde as she slept.

Selina looked at her too. "Why?"

Ivy sighed. "The nurse handed the food to me and implied that I should feed her. Harley gave her a rather forceful reminder that she still has full use of her arms."

"So she's moved on to anger now."

Ivy nodded solemnly. "She's either angry, asleep, or trying to touch me. Although that has been less and less."

Selina furrowed her brow. "Why does she want to touch you? Give me an answer besides 'look at me.'"

"Her sexuality and self-worth are tied very closely." Ivy told her, putting it as simply as possible. "But I think she might hate me a little bit right now."

Selina leaned back in her chair, avoiding the ray of sunlight as it spilled through the window. "Why?"

Ivy shrugged. "I deserve it. Who else is she going to hate? The Joker? He's gone. She says she has to move forward otherwise the Harley voice will come back."

Selina crossed her arms, watching Ivy as she gazed at Harley. "You seem awfully sane for a woman who spent the entirety of last week on a psych hold."

Ivy brushed a piece of blonde hair off of the girl's forehead. "I'm taking control of the situation."

Catwoman narrowed her eyes. "Control is a lot easier to maintain when she's in a wheelchair, huh?"

"I'm going to formulate some cosmetics tailored to your needs." Ivy changed the subject. "The commercial brands are toxic and I'm not sure you're pulling off the vampire look as well as you think you are."

Selina glanced down at her arms to examine her skin. "I was going more for the Michael Jackson."

Ivy looked over at the brunette, confused. "I thought Michael Jackson was black."

Catwoman couldn't help but laugh, for the first time since that night, she realized. "It's a long story."

"I'll take your word for it." Ivy leaned back as well, lowering her voice slightly. "Why haven't I been questioned for murder yet?"

Catwoman smirked. "Because we're the only ones who know that Joker's dead. Well, us and Bruce, of course."

Ivy arched an eyebrow. "How'd you manage that?"

"I put him back where he belongs." Selina looked pleased with herself. "I barrowed your stash of hydrochloric acid and added it to the tank he pushed me into. It took a little while, but the body disintegrated."

"And you cleaned the house?" Ivy asked, incredulous.

Selina nodded. "I used the rest of that stuff you gave me for the police station thing. What does that stuff do, anyway?"

"Corrodes and distorts." Ivy told her. "So what do they think, he just shot her, beat me and left?"

Selina shrugged. "Pretty much."

"And you were never there?" Ivy was trying to understand Catwoman's thought process.

"Well of course I was. It was book club night." Selina smiled. "We were social acquaintances before you went crazy, remember? Your therapist and I were trying to establish healthy, civilian patterns for you when Joker busted in, shot Harley, beat you and poured the entirety of your labs chemical inventory on me."

"Selina…" Ivy began in a warning tone. "Did you dump all of my chemicals onto the floor of my home?"

Catwoman smiled, her lips pulling back further than made Ivy comfortable. "Maybe…"

"It's a yes or no question." Ivy growled.

"Yes, then." Selina giggled. "Absolutely. I had to, Ivy. You understand."

Pamela's hand clamped down on the railing of Harley's bed. Her breath was rapid as she leaned away from the syringe, straining against the leather straps. The cold smile remained on his lips as he tapped the glass tube with his fingernail.

"Ergot Alkaloids." He announced like he was beginning a lesson in class. "Compounds produced as a toxic mixture of alkaloids in the sclerotia species of Claviceps…have you ever heard of St. Anthony's Fire, Pammy?" He asked, raising his eyebrows at her as if she'd raised her hand.

"Ergotoxicosis." Pamela gritted.

"It's the second time she's done this in the last half hour."

Pamela looked around for the woman's voice and felt warm hands on her face. She blinked, pulling desperately at the restraints, feeling like she was drowning, stuck under a great boulder.

"Pam?" Another voice called, and Ivy swam for the surface, in search of the sunshine. She closed her eyes and felt her hand on the bed's railing and the proximity of another person.

"Pam?" Harleen gave her a concerned and questioning look.

Ivy shook her head back and forth violently, but was forced to slow once the migraine set in.

"Should I call a doctor?" Selina asked.

"No." Harley told her, sleep still thick in her voice. "We don't want her to escalate. Just let her calm herself down."

Catwoman cocked her head, watching as Pamela clenched and unclenched her jaw, clearly still in a world all her own. "What is she doing?"

Harleen was watching too. "I don't think she was ever bi-polar."

Catwoman snorted. "Why don't you tell that to her mood swings."

Dr. Quinzel shook her head. "Her flare-ups only happen when she's triggered and I have never once observed a manic episode from her. Nope…I'm pretty sure Pamela has PTSD."