When I get over-excited about things, I tend to get impatient. When I get impatient I just…do things…so, welcome the newest addition to the Punsworth family! Indeed, Harvey's got a little tyke of her own, now! I thank everyone so much for reading, but we're rapidly approaching my soon-to-be ending in a good two or three chapters, I think. I hope everyone's enjoying this as much as I'm getting a kick out of writing it. I love all of you!

XxXxXxXxXxXx

It's a boy.

Every godforsaken moment they kept telling me it, Cleave and Ivy were both right.

It's the first time in my life I want to fall asleep and wake up. There's a mixture of depression and relief and sadness and detachment swimming in my veins. I hear, complications and problems and Harvey, Harvey, Harvey over and over.

Ladies and gentlemen, Poison Ivy. She can deliver children, make great soufflés and devise perfumes for Victoria's Secret (that is Victoria's secret, now). I'm dizzy and drugged and just so tired.

I wonder where all the time has gone. I can't put my finger on it at all. It seems like only yesterday I was pestering Ivy to tell me that Cleave apparently showed up to antagonize me. Or to antagonize her in order to antagonize me.

He has ten little fingers and ten little toes and his eyes are a warm, dark shade of green. The beginnings of fuzz on his head shimmer shiny gold in the light, and he's the softest kind of pale. He's the softest kind of anything. That doesn't matter, because I have enough sickened, dizzy epidural running through me to be totally unaware of everything. His eyes are big and naïve and wide and his cheeks are puffy and sweet, like a miniature stuffed toy.

I mumble something out, and I see the blurry flood of red above me move and shift.

Someone tell the newborn to quit crying. His mother's exhausted. I should make Ivy tape this experience and when he's old enough to panic me by smoking pot or getting some girl pregnant, I'll replay it for him and scream SEE WHAT YOU DID TO MOMMY?

This definitely isn't the time to sit around making jokes at myself.

This'll make him premature, won't it? I've been pregnant for about eight months…is there anything wrong? I can't focus. My head pounds to incomprehensible amounts and everything I've ever known swims violently. My iPod plays quietly in the background, linked to a pair of makeshift speakers we managed to rig to her house-wide audio system ("If you get your way, I get mine, too")

If you're not the one then why does my soul feel glad today? If you're not the one then why does my hand fit yours this way?

This is totally unnecessary. Half of me moans and the sound of a quiet coo within the cries resounds, and I can only sit there and listen and feel deathly ill with myself for even putting this song on there.

I don't know why you're so far away but I know that this much is true. We'll make it through. And I hope you are the one I share my life with. And I wish that you could be the one I die with. And I pray in you're the one I build my home with. I hope I love you all my life…

Stop hugging me. I can only lie there and cry hysterically in utter embarrassment when her arms slide around my waist and it all pours out. I have a son, I'm in love with a woman and a man, and I need a few minutes to breathe. When I sob, it more or less feels like I've heaved out my insides.

I can hardly motherfucking breathe.

I can't tell if I'm crying because I miss Cleave or I'm crying because I love Ivy or I'm crying because I've just had a child and oh god damn it I'm a mom.

I can't tell if this is a breakdown or a relief. It feels like a burden lifted, but a part of it is almost similar to my anxiety disorder that won't seem to go away.

I have a son.

I have the Joker's child.

The most frightening thought occurs to me, then, in between the tears and the sobs and the helpless sounds. It occurs to me near the proclamations of "shit, fuck, shit—sh-sh-shit, fuck.." and coughs. He's not going to leave me alone. He's going to come back.

I panic in the midst of my not-so-religious revelation.

He's going to want this little guy.

Over my dead motherfucking body.

"Ivy," I murmur, and she tucks her chin against my shoulder. I wonder where the baby is, considering I've lost all track of time and understanding or space and actual existence (see: life itself). My vision warps, and she murmurs a soft, "Hn?" against my neck.

I'm happy.

And it's making me disgusted.

The happiness shifts. It's a worry, now, a worry I can't shake off. I'm panicky for a few moments, next I feel like my stomach is shrinking in on itself rapidly.

"The B-Batman."

"He's not here, Harvey, he's not going to come for you, I pro—"

"I need to talk to him."

"You want to give up your only son to a man in bat-spandex?"

Stop making this harder than it already is. It's either the man in bat-spandex or the man in purple pants who plans to decimate whole metropolitan areas. My best bet is right where I'm planning to put my money…or my genetics.

Bat-for-brains.

"Why don't you think this through, just for a little while? This proclamation is mad, Harvey, it's not as if anything is going to happen. And if he returns gunning for his child, I certainly won't let him have the boy."

I'm going to be unselfish.

It's a new way of living. Like going on a diet, or giving up your suicidal tendencies.

"F-Find the Batman."