Annnnnnnnd we’re off to the races! Batgirl’s been incapacitated, the evil villain’s making good his escape. There’s only one man who can catch him and make sure he doesn’t harm any puppy-loving, apple-pie-eating citizen ever again, and that’s you! Now go get him!

Man, are you glad you wore your Nikes this morning. Nothing says “victory” like three hundred dollar shoes. Of course, nothing says “poor traction” like three hundred dollar shoes, either. You take off in a sprint, your focus narrowing to a laser beam, all of your awareness trained on that clown who’d tried to knife you. No way in hell you’re letting him get away. Unfortunately, the leftover spaghetti from Benito’s that’s leaking out of that dumpster you just passed? It’s got other ideas.

You just barely catch the edge of the pile of soggy noodles with your foot and the combination of fancy shoes and cheap tomato sauce sends your legs out from under you. Your feet go one way, the rest of you goes in the other, and your middle? Your middle finds the sharp, sharp, sharp edge of the dumpster.

OH! RIGHT in the Mommy/Daddy button!

You crumple. Holy Mary, Mother of God, you haven’t felt pain like that since four summers ago when your Uncle Bubba placed you in a burlap sack and beat you with reeds. “Builds character,” he said. Funny, best you could remember, all you built up was a big ol’ collection of bruises… and a phobia of coarse fabrics.

You lie there for a while, cradling the pulverized ruins between your legs until the throbbing waves of pain eventually stop pounding against the backs of your eyelids. The faint nausea lingers, kind of like the annoying drifter who slops dirty water on your windshield and then tries to swipe it off with an old newspaper whenever you stop at that one red light. Even after you empty your pockets of spare change, he just won’t leave. Yeah. Kind of like that guy. You’ve dealt with worse, though. Anyway, you’re not sure how much time has passed, but as you stagger back to your feet, you imagine it was probably a while. “So… I’m guessing he got away.”

“I’d facepalm if I could,” Batgirl says, still futilely tugging at her wrists.

The two of you stare at each other for several long, pregnant moments. “This is awkward.”

“Ya think?”

“Well, hey, cheer up. He won’t get far, I mean… he’s handcuffed.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Can I get some help with this goop?”

“Oh! Yeah, sure. Um… one sec.” You head on over to get a better look at the situation, and spend the next few moments scrutinizing intensely.

Batgirl’s voice snaps you out of your reverie. “Eyes front, Chief.”

Would that be your cheeks turning red? Why yes. Yes, it would. You cad, you. You lift your eyes from her chest and turn them towards her wrists, instead. Livid green strands of sticky green goop stretch out along the sleeves of her costume and across the fabric of her gloves. You frown and after a moment or two of hard thinking that makes your head hurt even more, you conclude that the simplest plans are probably the best. You gently wrap your hands on top of hers, brace one foot against the wall, set the other against the ground, and start pulling straight back, leaning all your weight into the effort.

“Hey, wait- ow… ow-ow-ow-ow-OW!” She glares daggers at you until you give up on that idea. “You’re going to pull my hands off, but I don’t think the rest of me is going to come with!”

“Ok, ok, sorry!” So much for Plan A. You dust your palms off on your jeans. “Hey, shouldn’t you have something to dissolve that stuff? You know, in one of the eight billion pouches on your belt?”

“Yeah. In the back. I obviously can’t reach it, though.”

“Well, that’s not a problem. I can.”

She eyes you warily, obviously a little distrustful. She’d already caught you peeking at her goods once before, you know. A little mistrust was understandable. Besides, even if it hadn’t been for that, that pesky Y-chromosome made you totally unreliable, anyway. Nothing quite like being genetically predisposed towards evil. “Nice try,” she says with a little glare, “I don’t think so.”

“All righty. Well, you have a nice night, then.”

You make a deliberate show of turning your back and walking off. You even manage to get a few feet away before she sputters out a few words to call you back.

“Dude. Serious? You’re just going to leave me here.”

“Apparently you don’t want my help. Since I’m… completely untrustworthy and all.” There’s so much smug in your voice, your words are practically dripping with the stuff. You’ve got her over a barrel and you both know it, but she’s a stubborn little thing. Always has been. (You know these things. You read her series.) It’s adorable.

“Well, I… I mean, it’s one thing if you’re where I can see you, but you’re going to have to go fiddling around with my belt. Behind me. And… and you could be some kind of crazy person.”

It’s hard not to snicker at that. You laugh, she glares. You cool your jets and spread your hands, all in the interests of diplomacy. “I could. But let’s put it this way. I nearly got my ass kicked by some random loser with a knife. Even in your… delicate situation, you could still probably thrash my butt pretty good.”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Probably?”

“Could you maybe leave me some shred of masculine pride?”

“All right. Since you asked nice.”

“Ok. Now even if I got insanely lucky and managed to take you down, you know what’d happen next?”

She purses her lips together, and the little dimples in her cheeks bob up and down as she tilts her head from side to side, mulling over the question. “You get visited by the ghosts of Christmas Batgirl.”

You snort. “Close. Your boss devours my soul for sustenance.”

“He’s not my boss.” There’s such an air of petulance to her tone that you can’t help but needle her about it.

“Oh, my mistake. I’m sure you finance this entire crimefighting enterprise all by your lonesome.”

She mutters something under her breath, and you grin, knowing you’ve scored a point. “So. As I was saying. Even if I were stupid enough to try and hurt you, I’m not stupid enough to then spend the rest of my very short life waiting for Mr. ‘I AM THE NIGHT’ to come eat me. You can trust me.”

“Ugh. I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“That’s the spirit! So. BG… can I call you ‘BG?’”

“No.”

“So. Where am I looking, BG?”

“I think the solvent’s on my right hip somewhere. No funny business.”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

The look she gives you suggests she doesn’t quite believe you.

“I’ll be a gentleman.”

Ever see that LOLCAT macro, “Skeptical Cat is skeptical?” Pretty much this.

“I won’t fondle you.”

“We’ll see.”