When I'm sure the Bat is gone (for good measure, I hide under the window, paranoid as Cleave laughs hysterically) I crawl out helplessly and stare up at him on my hands and knees. He grins in delight. I just want to kill him a billion times over. I totally enjoy being mocked all the fucking time.

"Ree-lax, toots. Door here leads out to the hallway, brick in the wall outside opens a mech-oh-nism to just sliiip inside. A trick-door, if you—ah—will. The singular most convenient cliché."

I blink, listening to him talk, but the world twists in and out again. I'm not paying any attention, honestly, of any conscious sort. My mouth is dry. I can still feel my pulse blasting like a rabid monkey. Great way to terrify me. I feel his arms slip around my neck, and he presses against my back with the full power of his scraggly body.

"Aw, is my—ah—munchkin scared of big, bad Battsy?"

In another world, this mocking is adorable. In the next universe over, where fish fly and birds swim and Hillary Clinton is attractive, his reactions to my fear are cute.

"You would be, too, if he tied you all up and just started taking judo shots at you." My voice is venom. It's the get-off-me-I'm-warning-you voice.

"He won't find the trick door. He's got too many cobby-webs in his buuuuuh-rain."

"If he finds it, you're the one taking the judo shots this time."

"If he finds Ivy, he's in for it big-uh-time. He'll be donety-done-done, I can purr-romise you that." My eyebrow arches when he lets go.

I curiously pipe up, "Who the h-hell is Ivy?"

His grin is cocky, but his eyebrow twitches. For a few moments, I think he's legitimately annoyed. I can't understand why, though, and I'm timid at asking Cleave questions I know will anger him. It's like inquiring a five year old with one chocolate bar left for a piece. Not only will they refuse, they'll hold a grand tantrum. Not only will Cleave rage, he'll rage all over me.

"Pamela Is-uh-ley is her name-o. She's a researcher gone whaaaaack­-o. Insane in the ol' membrane, I—ah, tell you. Lives down by the—uh…ah, ya know, the docks, where nobody-uh stays. Six-hund-uh-red-and-six-tee-six west Bay Terrace, if my memory serves. She goes by 'Poison Ivy'. She's got a few screws toe-tuh-lee loose. Some kinda quest to—ah, to save the earth or somethin'. I'm all for green-peace, but she's cuuuuh­-razy."

We've got cuuuuuh-razy deals down at Big Al's Volvo emporium!

I have no clue why that commercial pops into my sick mind the moment I consider the way he says that word. He does remind me of a car-salesman, doesn't he? Cheap suit, big grin, big words. He'd make a great car-guy.

"Got a little villain buddy, Cleave?" I snort back a chuckle. His eyes flicker over. Under the patches and patches of kohl, they flash pure jade.

His tongue is hot, forked, swift. He looks at me with deadly eyes, like he's accusing me of being a complete jack-ass. I think the quip was a little much, especially since it seems like he can't fucking stand this woman. "I'd much rah-ther have a tea party with Bats."

It almost makes me curious as to who this woman is, or why he hates her. I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds something akin to, "Man-hating bitch."

Someone's a little bitter?

Is that jealousy in my stomach, this fictional baby, or chicken katchitori gone wrong?

"So she lives right near here?" I'm a little nosy, I will admit, but to know that we're not the only full-on, evil-doing crazies in all of Gotham is a feel-good thought.

"Not too far, no, not at all. The Bat won't have a lick o' luck finding her, but he can believe whatever he wants to. He's got rocks for brains, I firm-uh-ly think."

"Hey, uh—" I pause, and awkwardly think of how to word this. No, that's a lie, I just can't…squeeze it out of my mouth. "Thanks for—saying you buried m-m-m-me in the ya-ya-ya….yard."

His grin leaps to life again. His whole face does.

"Don't mention it, Harv-cakes. A-sides, if'n I lost you, I'd lose my own little guy, too, right? Then I wouldn't have this perty little fam-oh-lee o' mine."