Reap What You Sow
by Allaine

Chapter 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11 12  13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Chapter 15 


     "She's going to be all right," Dr. Bartholomew assured her.  "There were multiple shallow cuts, but apparently she was located swiftly, and the blood loss wasn't extreme."

     "Mm-hm," Ivy said absently.  She was vaguely aware of what the doctor had said, which was more than she could say about how she'd arrived at Arkham.  The minutes between leaving the Rydbergii, and seeing Harley asleep in her infirmary bed, were a chaotic mishmash from which she was unable to extract specific memories.  She could have hailed a taxi.  She could have stopped a random driver and greened him.  Maybe she have hailed a taxi, then greened the driver. 

     Gaia, the Batman could have given her a ride on the Batmobile while singing along to the Carpenters on the radio, and Ivy wouldn't know.  She just knew that she was seeing Harley now, and that it was impossible to deny it.  Harley had tried to kill herself.

     "Actually, I'm not entirely sure she was actually trying to kill herself," Dr. Bartholomew told her.

     Ivy's gaze snapped.  She blinked her eyes rapidly and looked confused.  "I'm sorry, what?  She took a sharp instrument to her wrists and you're not sure?"

     "Pamela, it's not as if Harleen was unfamiliar with sharp objects.  Her lover was quite fond of them, as you know.  I don't know how many people were sliced to bits at his hands, and I'm sure I don't want to know.  If Harleen really wanted to kill herself, she would have known to slash the underside of her forearms from her wrists to her elbows."  He smiled grimly.  "Or more likely, given herself a second smile.  It would have appealed to her."

     "Okay," Ivy said slowly, not bothering to correct his use of Harley's real name.  He was irritatingly insistent about that.  "I suppose that makes sense.  So this was what then?  More self-punishing?  She needs to make herself bleed now?" 

     Her anger grew.  "It's like she's built an altar to that fucking clown," she said savagely, "and she keeps trying to sacrifice herself on it." 

     "It's - possible," Dr. Bartholomew replied slowly, as if he hadn't considered that before.  "But no, I believe it's much more likely that this was a cry for help.  That's often the case in these situations.  In fact, this incident could be viewed as a good thing.  It's the most proactive Harleen has been in weeks, and if she wants our help, then perhaps we're finally getting through to her."

     Ivy was getting through to her.  She wanted to believe that.  Of course, she was only seeing Harley maybe six times a month, but that wasn't important.  It was her visits.  "Has she said as much to you?" 

     "No, she's awake but unresponsive."

     "Let me try," Ivy said.  Because it was her doing, after all.  "Let me draw her out."

     "There's no urgency, Pamela, but if you'd like to visit her for a few minutes, she can handle that much." 

     Ivy didn't bother to respond, or even nod her head.  She was too busy resisting the urge to barrel into the infirmary at top speed.  Instead she managed a normal pace as she went through the doors and headed over to Harley's bed.

     "Harley," she murmured as she leaned over her friend.  "Harl.  It's me."

     Harley's eyes gradually focused on Ivy.  But even though she clearly heard Ivy, she didn't speak.

     "You can tell me, Harley," Ivy said, sitting next to the bed.  "No one else can hear.  They all want you to say you were crying for their help, but you can tell me the truth.  Why did you do it?"

     Harley might as well have been a doll waiting for her bottle, for all the comprehension on her face.  But Ivy could see, deep in her eyes, a spark of awareness.

     Two minutes later, however, that spark had failed to ignite.  Ivy couldn't tell if it was because of apathy, stubbornness, or just the sedatives.  Whatever the reason, it dismayed her that she was having no more luck at getting answers from Harley than her doctors were.  And they'd be asking her to leave soon.  She had to know, though.  She needed that validation tonight.

     Ivy sucked in her breath.  She did have one other tool at her disposal, besides their longstanding friendship, that the Arkham staff didn't have - her pheromones. 

     She was perfectly well aware that she didn't need pheromones to make Harley her friend, that Harley had sought her out many times of her own free will.  Her experiences with her mystically charged pheromones, however, had shown Ivy that other women became not just friendly, but overly so, prone to complete supportiveness and the desire to help Ivy any way they could.  Perhaps an extra-strength dose was the only thing to draw Harley out of her catatonic state.

     And that was merely the worst-case scenario.  There was a second possibility with a higher chance of success.

     After that little incident during her shoe-shopping excursion with Selina, Ivy had sought out proof that the impact her pheromones had on a person depended not on their gender, but on their sexual orientation.  She'd surreptitiously visited a gay bar and "greened" several patrons.  The gay males became her new best friends, while the lesbians displayed the same adoring, hopelessly mesmerized behavior that straight men did. 

     She supposed this was a new take on the word "experimenting". 

     Harley, however, was the first bisexual person she'd ever used her pheromones on (that she knew of).  Ivy was of course quite familiar with the incessant rumors about what she and Harley did together behind closed doors.  Men were such disgusting, sex-obsessed, pornographic at any rate, she and Harley did not "get it on", as the swine at the Lounge might say.  Neither woman had ever gone "south of the border". 

     That being said, there had been - a time when Ivy had been in the middle of a very long dry spell.  And well, no one had ever denied that Harley was quite attractive.  Besides that, she was sweet and funny and enjoyed spending time with Ivy and called her "Red".  Ivy had always been the kind of woman who only settled for the inferior male gender if there were no suitable women around.  Of course, she had discovered what most male Rogues already knew - that there really weren't many suitable women in their world. 

     It had also occurred to her that if a little seduction would help break the hold that beastly Joker had over Harley, then she was all for it.

     So, there had been a night years ago when Ivy had all but invited Harley to share her bed.  Harley had ignored the obvious implication, intentionally or otherwise, and assumed Ivy wanted to have a "slumber party".  A few nights later, Ivy had been a bit more forward, putting her arm over Harley's shoulders while the two watched TV and leaving it there.  Harley had gently, perhaps even wistfully, disengaged herself and gone to bed early.  Ivy could have been disappointed and hurt and infuriated that yet again Harley was choosing "Puddin" over her, but she preferred to think it just showed that Harley was totally, disappointingly straight.

     A week later, however, they had eluded the Batmobile during a particularly intense chase through Gotham.  The Batmobile had crashed, and for a few moments they allowed themselves to imagine that the fool hadn't survived.  It had been exciting and thrilling and, caught up in the adrenaline, Ivy had looked at Harley's joyous face and thought she'd never looked more beautiful.  Their eyes had met and well, suffice it to say they'd twice barely avoided crashing themselves by the time they got back to the hideout.  What might have followed would have been incredible, she was sure, but they'd been so focused on each other that they failed to notice the Bat had caught up with them, and they'd been cuffed and on their way to Arkham before they'd even made it inside. 

     Ivy deeply resented the Bat for it.  She didn't know why he couldn't have waited an hour.  It wasn't like they were GOING anywhere. 

     Still, it was a favorite memory.

     Anyway, she missed her chance.  It would be weeks before she found herself alone with Harley again, and by then Harley had evidently decided she couldn't be with Ivy and still be the Joker's girl.  Ivy's hints and overtures met an invisible barrier, and eventually she'd bitterly blamed the Joker and moved on.

     Still, if Harley was attracted to women as well as men, then there was a chance that Ivy's pheromones would leave her hypnotized and unable to resist telling Ivy anything, including the truth behind her suicide attempt.

     Leaning close, Ivy hit her with a full blast, drenching Harley in a perfume of jungle fruit.  As she did, it occurred to Ivy that if she'd known sooner that her pheromones were sexuality-based, she could have "greened" Harley long ago, made her leave the Joker for good. 

     That thought, however, was immediately followed by the understanding that Harley wouldn't have been a real friend.  She would have been compelled to be one, like Selina had been.  She would have stopped being Ivy's friend whenever they were apart.  She even might have begun avoiding her.  So maybe it was for the best then. 

      Harley's eyelashes fluttered, and some color entered her cheeks.  She raised her head and looked into Ivy's eyes.  "Hiya, Red," she said, sounding tired but upbeat.  "What's shakin'?"

     Ivy's heart skipped a beat.  She couldn't remember the last time her friend had talked to her like this.  "Harley," she said, a genuine smile playing on her face.  "How are you feeling?"

     "Eh, can't complain," Harley said, trying to wave a hand before discovering her wrist was cuffed to the bed.  She looked around.  "Arkham infirmary, huh?"

     "Yes, Harl.  You scratched yourself, remember?" Ivy asked gently.

     Harley looked puzzled.  She stared at the bandages visible on her lower arm.  "No - uh, I didn't do nuthin', Red."

     Ivy sighed.  Either the pheromones and the painkillers were playing with her memories, or Harley was in denial.  Or worse.  She bet on the latter, and breathed more intoxicating fumes into Harley's face.  "Think back, Harley."

     "Red, uh, I don't feel so good.  Is it hot in here?" Harley asked, looking a little dazed.

     "Harley, last night you escaped from your cell, and you broke into a doctor's office, and you cut yourself with scissors.   Don't you remember?"

     Harley's smile became frozen, and she shook her head slightly.  "Nope, not me.  You know, maybe it was that little invisible guy from Family Circus.  You know, he gets away with everything."

     "Harley, tell me, please.  Why in Gaia's name would you ever try to kill yourself?"

     "I never did that!" Harley replied gaily, although her voice was laced with anxiety.  "Red, you're bein' silly."

     "Tell me the truth!"

     "I am!  Sam I am!  I yam what I yam!" Harley said stubbornly. 

     Ivy paused.  It wasn't conceivable that Harley could lie to her under this level of compulsion.  Rage suddenly blossomed in her veins as she considered for the first time the thought that someone had done this to her.  "Then what happened?" Ivy said intently, taking her by the shoulders and giving her an extra whiff of green.  "How did you get those cuts on your arms?  Who did this to you?  Tell me!"

     Harley was motionless for a moment, and then her eyes slid left and right, surveying the infirmary with something close to shrewdness.  Then she gave Ivy a malevolent, toothy grin that made the other woman let go of her and recoil.

     "Why Pammy, when Harley showed up on your door with cuts and bruises all those other times, you never had to ask how, did you?" 

     Ivy's fury was immediately supplanted by a shock that paralyzed her.  The quiet voice that had come out of Harley's mouth had been an almost perfect impression of

     Harley winked theatrically at her.  "A-hahaha," she laughed softly.

     This wasn't possible.  The very idea was monstrous beyond belief.  To hear an almost exact replica of the Joker's voice, his laugh, coming out of Harley's mouth was a blasphemy. 

     And then Ivy was forced to flee the room as she was overcome with nausea.  She ran for the nearest bathroom and promptly threw up.

     Ivy let her head hang and she panted heavily when it was over.  There was no way this could be, she willed it not to be so!

     But then, very little had happened the way she willed it lately, hadn't it?

     Her mind raced through possibilities.  The Joker, she reluctantly admitted, had been incredibly devious and a genius in certain scientific areas.  But it was too deranged, even for him, to think that he had decided to cheat death some day by somehow imprinting his personality into Harley's brain.  What, did he put his DNA in a microchip and surgically attach it to the back of her neck?!

     Possession from beyond the grave was, she supposed, not entirely impossible, but still far-fetched.  And the voice had been almost like Joker's, but not completely.

     But Harley, Ivy knew, had a largely unexplored talent for mimicry.  She'd practically given herself a new voice when she became the Joker's sidekick.  For someone as obsessed with the Joker as Harley was, how hard it would it be for her to imitate him?  For someone who spent so much time with him, listened to his rants, knew so well how his mind worked…

     Ivy felt herself grow cold.  Obsession - the Joker was the object of Harley's obsessive love.  Harley had killed that object.  Her knowledge of that had been killing her.  What if Harley decided to undo her actions - by making the Joker alive again?

     She was just delusional and determined enough to do it.

     And if Harley kept on doing it, then wouldn't the Joker eventually become a separate personality in her own mind?  Eventually, inevitably, the dominant one, like he'd always been?

     As Ivy lifted her head from the toilet, she was seized by a moment of perfect clarity.  Usually, these moments were the genesis of a perfect scheme that would protect her cherished plants and punish their oppressors, if only that cursed Batman would ever realize he was beaten.  This time, however, it took the shock and revulsion that weighed on her spirit and transformed them into pure horror.

     She saw a figure in a purple suit with green hair and bleached-white skin, cackling insanely in a horribly familiar voice as it dispensed Smilex gas on a terrified group of people.  She saw the figure carrying on a conversation with itself in two different voices, perhaps even trying to shoot itself in the leg in a fit of infuriated madness.  And no matter how much the doctors, or Ivy, or anyone tried to help her, Harley Quinn would belong to the Joker mind, body, and soul, for the rest of her life. 

     Ivy vomited again.

     When she finally stumbled out of the bathroom minutes later, shaken and pale, she briefly considered going to Dr. Bartholomew's office.  But she dismissed it.  What would she tell him?  That Harley hadn't actually attempted suicide, he was already predisposed to believe.  But that the Joker's voice was in her head, and had driven her to mutilate herself as punishment for "trying" to kill him?    He might believe her if there was evidence, but Ivy knew with bleak certainty that there would be no evidence.  The Joker in Harley's mind was already clever enough to make sure that no one else had been in hearing distance when "he" exposed "himself" to Ivy.  Ivy was supposed to be tortured with the knowledge that she could do nothing while the doctors went on treating Harley for depression, when in fact her diagnosis was something much worse.  She would spend the rest of her life a victim of her own self-inflicted torture.

     Ivy was the only person who knew.  Which meant, Ivy realized, she was the only person who could save Harley.  And she had to save her.  What Harley was doing to herself was worse than anything the Joker had done to her when he was alive.  Gaia, this was all her f--uck, if she didn't leave now, she was going to be too late for the bank deposit.

     Ivy started walking briskly out of Arkham.  It wouldn't be as easy to get Harley out of Arkham, but get her out Ivy must.  Get her away from these useless, blind "doctors" and into Ivy's personal care.  She would take great joy in driving that miserable bastard out of Harley's head.

     At last, she'd found something she was reasonably certain of success at.  She'd broken out of Arkham many times.  Breaking someone else out would be no more challenging.

     Still, that brisk walk was almost a run by the time she got outside.

     Jenna glared at the spreadsheets as if she could will the numbers into something more to her liking.  It was easier than answering the question right away.  "It's a blip," she finally said.  "A strictly short-term problem."

     "Well, I'm glad you think so," Stewart Mercury said.  "It's a nice ability, actually.  Because I can never tell if a new problem is going to be a short-term or long-term issue.  But you can look into the future and see that this is just a 'blip'."  

     Jenna bit her tongue.  The restauranteur was one of her largest investors, but she still sometimes thought of him as "Mopey Dog".  It didn't matter what cute nickname she gave him, though.  She could call him "Pretty Butterfly", and he'd still be someone whose opinion she had to listen to.  "It can't last, Stewart.  The basic premise hasn't changed.  Poison Ivy simply cannot run a successful operation.  When they shut down, the others will have no choice but to return."

     "By the others, I assume you're referring to the Rogues and their followers," Stewart replied.  "You saw a twenty-four percent drop last month."

     "Yes, and I've received reports that business at the Rydbergii is up," Jenna said.  "When the Lounge closes and they no longer have that option…"

     "Then we'll have a bigger problem."

     Jenna stared at him.  "What are you talking about?"

     Stewart held up another sheaf of spreadsheets in his hand.  Since Day One they'd kept three separate sets of records - one for the high-profile Rogues, one for the common criminals, and a third for the law-abiding customers.  Under Jenna's business model, the main Rogues had unlimited tabs which they would never be asked to pay.  So did certain hardcore gang members and henchmen who were clearly identified with their bosses, such as King Snake's Ghost Dragons and Scarface's organized crime rejects.  Jenna's didn't want them for their money, and nobody was even sure how to collect money from such people.  Jenna's wanted them for their notoriety.  They were there to be looked at.  On the books their drink orders were listed as "entertainment expense".

     All other henchmen, and all groupies, had to pay.  They were tracked separately from all other paying customers solely because their presence was directly tied to the Rogues, and it was presumed that they would leave if their employers ever did.

     The third group, the ordinary people of Gotham, was who Jenna's relied on.  They were the largest segment of their customer base, and they were the only ones who could be considered "regulars".  It was hard for a criminal to be a regular, after all, when they tended to spend months or years in prison.  And the hope was that they would build a loyalty to Jenna's that would persist even if the Rogues were gone.  That was where Jenna's was supposed to be within three years - criminal-free.

     It was the spreadsheets for that third group which Stewart held up for her.  "Revenues for our target demographic fell thirty-five percent last month, Jenna."

     Jenna winced.  "You know about the incidents we had.  It was bound to make some people nervous.  Give them time, Stewart.  They'll get over their fears and come back."

     "And how will they get over those fears, Jenna?" Stewart asked.  "There are homicidal maniacs in our club." 

     "They've been there from the start!" Jenna burst out.  "This whole enterprise is predicated on their presence.  Why is it bothering you now?"

     "It's bothering me now because the customers were supposed to be safe.  We always assumed that our rational patrons would understand on some level that they were in a building filled with sleeping tigers, and that it wouldn't do to provoke them." 

     "And that hasn't happened, Stewart.  Those three incidents weren't the fault of our paying customers."

     Stewart sighed.  "I see you're missing the point, Jenna.  That's exactly the problem.  What happened to the Rogues wasn't something any of us would consider 'provocation' - but clearly they didn't feel the same way.  Our logical, rational assumptions have held so far.  But these Rogues aren't logical, rational people.  And now there are a lot of former customers out there who have realized that they can be as careful as they like - and they're still in danger!"

     "What do you want me to do?" Jenna complained.  Really, the Rogues weren't rational people?  Didn't he live in this city?  "How do I make them feel safe?  Keep the Rogues out?  I'd like a suggestion as to how I accomplish that!  And even if I could, they'd have no choice but to go back to the Rydbergii, and suddenly Poison Ivy becomes an actual competitor!"

     "No," Stewart agreed.  "We can't make them stay away."  He chuckled bitterly.  "The Rogues are a literal 'elephant in the room'.  Everyone was prepared to ignore it - until it became an enraged elephant bull on stampede!"  Then he glared at Jenna.  "This was your brilliant idea," he said.  "You had to have anticipated the possibility of this happening.  Don't you have any, I don't know, protocols?"

     Jenna hadn't really thought it out beyond "grinding Poison Ivy's club into the ground", which she thought would have happened by now.  She didn't say that, though.  She didn't want the investors thinking that her reasons for opening the nightclub were more than just profit motive.  They might try to replace her.  And that would not be happening.  She'd see the Rydbergii burn before that happened.  Burn with Ivy inside of it.

     "I already know what to do," she said, improvising.  The goal was to ruin Ivy, right?  She thought Jenna's could do that on its own, but the plant bitch had managed to stay alive.  The only silver lining was that Ivy had to be losing money hand over fist to keep the club open.  But at this rate, there was no telling how long until the Rydbergii shut down.

    Therefore, further steps were necessary.  But she'd have to couch them in terms that Mercury could understand.  She had to make it about the club, and not about debasing and humiliating Ivy.

    "We need to drive the Rydbergii out of business immediately," she went on.  "The Rogues may be irrational, but they're also very protective of their own self-interest.  If the Rogues see the Lounge close, they may understand that they can't afford to cause trouble, because their only other option is gone.  And if that happens, word of mouth is going to get around that Jenna's is safe after all."

     Mercury grimaced, but then he nodded.  "Simple logic," he admitted.  "We can't get rid of them, so we neuter them instead.  But it's not our decision when the Rydbergii closes.  Whatever else Ivy may not have, she must have a hell of a lot of outside funding."

     Jenna smiled.  "Yeah, but all the money in the world won't help her if she's back in Arkham."

     "She's stayed out of trouble this long.  I wouldn't rely on the assumption she's going back any time soon."

     "Ivy's like a bull," she replied.  "Wave a big enough red flag in front of her, and she'll always charge.  We just need to find a red flag of our own."  She paused.  "Not a red flag.  Maybe something… green."            

     Raven looked at her watch for the eightieth time.  It was only an hour until the Lounge opened, Ivy still hadn't showed yet, and Raven hadn't decided if that was a good thing or not.

     While there had yet to be a night where Ivy simply failed to appear, there had been nights where she might as well have.  Sometimes Ivy had barricaded herself in her office and refused to answer for anyone.  But, as far as Raven could tell, business hadn't been affected in the slightest.  In fact, if she could have, Raven would have advertised that Ivy was secluding herself.  Everyone at the Rydbergii except its proprietress knew that Poison Ivy's presence was the main thing keeping customers away.

     That being said, business was up.  It was up even though Ivy was still here.  Granted, there appeared to be a level of voyeurism to it - male customers wanted to see Ivy working as a glorified barmaid.  But that didn't alter the fact that business was up, and that Ivy had something to do with it.  In that case, Raven wanted Ivy to show up tonight.

     Plus there had been instances in the past where employees, including Raven herself, had been forced to make managerial decisions in certain areas because Ivy had abdicated the responsibility that night.  No one had gotten fired for it, but everyone would feel better if those decisions were left to the one person with the authority.

     Dove came up to Raven's podium.  "Raven, I think there's something you need to see."

     "What is it?"

     "There's a package in front of Ivy's door, and no one knows what it is or how it got there."

     Well, that didn't sound good.

     Raven followed Dove up to Ivy's office.  On the floor was, sure enough, a tall package with no identifying features.  "Ask around," she told Dove.  "Somebody knows something.  Someone had to let the delivery person into the building.  I'll - see if I can figure out what it is."

     Dove left, and Raven stared at the Pandora's Box in front of her.  Everyone knew that Ivy, and Penguin before her, was knee-deep in the black market.  Generally they kept it separate from the Lounge operations, but it was possible that Raven was looking at stolen goods.  If that was the case, that might explain why nobody appeared to know anything.  Thieves, after all, were good at breaking into places.

     If this was stolen property, Raven sure as hell didn't want to know about it.  But she couldn't just leave it in the hallway either.  So she opened the door, turned on the lights, and picked up the box to bring it inside.

     It was somewhat heavy, and she could hear things rustling inside that reminded her of snakes.  Stolen snakes?  Raven was liking this less and less.  She put it on Ivy's desk and began inspecting it more closely.

     Dove returned a few minutes later, just as Raven had been forced to conclude that there was nothing to be seen.  Rectangular box, brown wrapping paper, no addressee, no return address, nothing.  "It was Gina," she said.  "She was in the washroom when I asked around the first time.  She said a courier came to the door a couple hours ago with the package for Ivy.  She signed for it and watched the guy leave it here."

     "A courier," Raven said.  Well, that probably ruled out stolen goods.  She had a hard time believing any of Ivy's cronies would use a public courier service to make a delivery.  One accident with the package, and the police would be notified.

     So what the heck was it?

     "What should we do?" Dove asked.

     See, this was what Raven had been thinking.  This was not a decision for a hostess, but because Ivy was AWOL, suddenly it was her concern.  She sighed.  "Get back to prepping," she said.  "I'll I'll open it.  If Ivy gets here and doesn't like what's inside, Gina can kiss her job goodbye."

     Dove didn't need any prodding.  She clearly didn't want to be part of the plan if it went wrong.  Raven watched her go jealously.  How the hell had this happened?  She used to be the Iceberg Lounge hostess.  She manned the gate.  And now she was Ivy's - sidekick.  She'd become Quinn! 

     Carefully Raven unwrapped the brown paper, but she stopped when she wasn't even halfway finished.  The exterior of the box clearly indicated what was inside.

     Flowers.

     Someone had sent Poison Ivy, world's most famous eco-terrorist, cut flowers.  Dead, mangled, suffering victims of injustice.  It was like sending aborted fetuses to a pro-life activist.

     Appalled, Raven's first impulse was to take the whole thing and throw it away immediately, but she decided to open it instead.  Maybe she could figure out who would be so insane as to provoke Ivy like this.

     Inside the box was a second, bigger shock.  There was a beautiful bouquet of roses inside, easily costing over a hundred dollars at any florist.  Raven would have loved to be the recipient of such a bouquet, except for one thing.

     The roses were black.

     It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that you didn't send people black roses on Valentine's Day.  You were more likely to see them at a funeral.  It occurred to Raven for the first time that the sender wasn't just trying to provoke Ivy.  Maybe they were threatening her.

     A hint of white peeked out from the somber beauty of the roses, and Raven cautiously reached through the petals to take the small envelope out.  She opened it and read it with growing horror.

     Pamela,

     So sorry to hear about your friend Quinn.  Hoping she gets better soon!

     Yours truly, Jenna Leibowitz

     Raven knew why Ivy was missing.  They all knew why.  The news had gotten wind of Harley Quinn's attempted suicide hours ago.  It had to be why Ivy had run out of the Lounge last night like Death was after her.  And when Jenna found out, she'd done - this.  Raven couldn't even begin to imagine a more viciously provocative gesture anybody could have made to Poison Ivy. 

     What the hell was that woman thinking?   Ivy would have exploded if she had seen this.  She'd be infuriated on a level seldom seen in Gotham.  And she'd make a beeline right for Jenna's to try to - what?  Strangle Jenna?  Poison her?  Shoot her?  Something lethal, Raven had no doubt.  She'd even do it if she had to wade through Jenna's entire staff and a hundred customers!

     It didn't happen very often, but Raven felt a stab of sympathy for her employer.  She didn't like Ivy very much, but it was obvious that Ivy cared about Harley.  And, aside from her Joker-fixation and some over-the-top perkiness, Harley was a sweet girl compared to most of their regulars, and for that reason she was probably one of the old Iceberg's most popular customers.  Everyone at the Rydbergii had been sorry to hear about her suicide attempt. 

     And in the wake of devastating news, Jenna had attacked Ivy in the lowest, cruelest way possible.

     But while Raven may have felt sympathy on Ivy's behalf, mainly she felt a rush of anxiety.  If Ivy was going to make an appearance, fine.  But it couldn't happen until after Raven made all of this disappear.

     Throwing the note back into the box and shoving it closed, Raven took the package and hurried downstairs with it.  She knew just who to give it to.

     "Gina, I've got something for you to do, and you need to do it right now," she said once she'd arrived at the washroom. 

     Gina took one look at the half-unwrapped package in Raven's arms, saw the outside of the box, and gave a little squeal of horror.  "Raven, I didn't - "

     "I know you didn't, but you let it in, so you can take it out.  I don't just want it thrown in the garbage.  I want you to take this and throw it into the river.  Or burn it, if that's easier.  Just make it not exist, okay?  In fact, make it never-was.  Capisce?" 

     She unceremoniously shoved the box into Gina's arms and headed back to her podium.  That was all she wanted, the damn podium.  Not to have to worry about this shit any longer.

     That, and for Ivy to stay away for another few minutes.

     "Miss Selina has asked that you wait for her in the morning room," Bruce Wayne's butler told Ivy.  "She will be down shortly."

     "Er, okay," Ivy said.  She followed the butler and his very subtle air of disdain.  It wasn't okay, she wanted to meet with Selina, now, she didn't want to wait, there wasn't any time.  But she didn't say any of that.  She just meekly followed a man and sat where he indicated.   

     There was a vase of cut flowers in one corner of the room, but Ivy swallowed her ire.  This wasn't the place to lecture Selina.  Even if it was possible that Selina had purposely left them there, making a show of her careless massacre of plantlife just to keep Ivy in her place.  Ivy had called Selina.  She had said Selina was "the only friend that can help now".  So if Selina was making a show of her power, it was only because Ivy had given it to her: She said Selina was the only one who could help her, she insisted on coming over to talk, Selina had said yes.

     So she pretended not to see the flowers.

     When Selina finally came in, Ivy was so frazzled with Harley and the Joker and the Rydbergii and "not seeing the murdered babies" that she lurched from her chair and offered Selina her hand like she was applying for a job – or a bank loan – a job or a bank loan she really, really needed. 

     Selina didn't know what to do with that—the gesture, that is.  The hand she shook, it was the only civilized thing to do, but the sheer alien wrongness of Batman’s two greatest foes saying hello with a handshake as if they were rival insurance salesmen from Ipswich, it broke both their rhythms.  Neither really knew how to proceed after such an opening, and an awkward joint sideways walking led them back to the chairs.  Ivy was once again in the visitor’s chair she began in.  Selina took a seat behind a large writing desk—which was worse than the handshake for making Ivy feel like she'd come for a free legal consultation, leading to another 10 seconds of awkward silence.

     "So," Selina finally said.  "I heard about Harley.  I'm very sorry."

     Ivy winced.  It did break the silence and even introduced the subject she had no idea how to broach, but just the name evoked a dark cloud. 

"Thanks," she muttered uncomfortably.

     "Is she… How is she?  Stable at least?”

     Ivy surprised herself, and probably Selina too, by bursting out into hysterical laughter that left her almost breathless.  She clapped her hands over her mouth.  "No," she choked out.  "No, she's not stable.”

     “Ivy… Pammy, I didn’t mean that way, I meant, well you know, after the blood loss.  Stable as in pulse and blood pressure and all the rest of it.  Out of danger.”

     “I know what you meant,” Ivy said dully.  “And she’s NOT.  She’s not out of danger, Selina.  She’s not stable in any sense of the word.  She’s not going to be all right if any of this is allowed to continue."

     "Well, at least she’s in a hospital.  I'm sure her doctors…"

     "Her doctors don't know anything!" Ivy burst out.  "They don't know.  They don't know - what I do.  And that's why I asked to speak with you."

     "Okay," Selina said slowly.  "What do I have to do with it?"

     Ivy sat up straight and looked her in the eye.  "I need to hire Catwoman for a job," she said.  "I need to get Harley out of there.  I need you to, well, steal Harley from Arkham."

     Selina blinked.  "Say that again?"

     "Harley can't stay there, Selina" Ivy said.  "She’ll die if she’s left in there with those, those stupid, stupid MEN who have no idea what’s really happening to her.  I have to get her out, and I need your help for that."

     "Okay well first, I don’t see how mental hospital in the care of doctors is such a bad place for a suicidal person, and we’ll get to that next.  But first, Ivy, not to belabor the obvious, but you've broken out of Arkham thirty-eight times without any help from anybody.  Why do you need me?"

     "Because all those times I had a plan, Selina.  I would plan for days in advance.  I don't have that here, nor do I have days to come up with one.  And even if I did, I… I don't have the resources."  Ivy smiled bitterly.  "I don't exactly have killer vines or a fully-stocked lab in my apartments above the Lounge, and there are reasons I can’t resort to greening any Arkham staffers right now."

     Selina tapped her fingers on the desk.  "Okay, well, that’s a breakthrough of sorts, I suppose.  Maybe take it as a sign.  Pammy, I know you've always thought you know what's best for Harley, and maybe that was true when Joker was alive. But now… Pamela just think about it.  She opened up her wrists.  She’s where she needs to be."

     "She didn't attempt suicide."

     "Come on, Pammy, she didn’t cut herself shaving.  Even if it wasn’t an aggressive, serious attempt, she still—"

     "No, Selina," Ivy cut her off.  "Well, yes, you’re right that it wasn’t a ‘serious’ attempt… You’re right in the worst way possible, in fact.  You do remember who was never ‘serious.’”

“I don’t follow,” Selina said quietly.

“She wasn't serious about killing herself, Selina, but it wasn't a 'cry for help' either.  It’s not what Dr. Bart or any of them up at Arkham think.  Selina...  The Joker did it."

     "Ivy," Selina said with exaggerated gentleness, "the Joker is chopped-up little pieces now."

     "I know that!" Ivy retorted, irritated.  "And Harley knows that too—or at least she did.  But she doesn't want to know it any more.  She wants to believe the Joker is alive.  And so she’s… she’s made it so that he is.  If she has to start carrying on a conversation with herself in two different voices to make it so he’s still right there with her, then she's going to do it!  And if she can carry on his end of the conversation, she can wield his end of the knifeblade for him."

     Selina leaned back in her chair, dumbstruck. 

     "So you're saying that Harley hurt herself… because she’s spun off a piece of herself to be Joker?  You’re saying she did this so she could tell herself that Puddin' did it to her?"

     Ivy nodded.  "So you see why I have to get her away from there!"

     “No, I don’t see that, Pamela!  You’ve just described a whole new level of fucked in the head that says Arkham is where she belongs.”

     “HER DOCTORS DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT’S WRONG WITH HER!” Ivy screeched.

     “So tell them.”

     “No.”

     “No.  Pammy, I’m sorry, your logic is just whacked on this one.  And even if I did see it your way, even if I wanted to help you, there’s just no way.  You're not the only person who needs a plan before they break into a maximum security building.  I broke in ONCE to drop off Joker that time, that’s it.  Shouldn't you be recruiting someone who has, I don’t know, been a patient or something.  Has something closer to your experience breaking OUT of the place? "

     "No," Ivy said quickly.  "That's not possible now."

     "What’s not possible?"

     "I'm sorry, Selina, but you're not the first person I went to see about this," Ivy admitted.  "I went to Harvey, and he… he turned me down.  Without benefit of a coinflip, mind you.  It seems he is not ‘of two minds’ where I am concerned.  He said that he was sorry about Harley, but that… that he would swallow his coin before he would help me open a jar."

     Ivy almost choked on the memory of what else Harvey had said.  You reap what you sow, Pammy.  You appreciate gardening metaphors, don't you?  You reap what you sow.  You don't demand help because you're a fucking goddess.  You EARN it, Pammy.  So look in the goddamn mirror and ask yourself when's the last time you were there for anybody when they needed it?  When was the last time you did a favor for ANYONE?

     She'd done more than enough looking in the mirror the day before, thank you very much.  But she already knew the answer to that question.  The only person she'd ever done a favor for was Harley.  Why should she do a favor for some stupid, smelly man?  What had they ever done for her? 

     For the first time, Ivy had realized that went both ways.

     Before she knew it, the memory of Harvey's harsh words brought tears to Ivy's eyes. 

     "Ivy?"

     "You have to help me, Selina," Ivy said, rubbing her eyes.  "I'll give you all the technical information you need about Arkham, anything at all you need to get in and out.  You ask, it’s yours.  I'll walk you through everything.  I'll do whatever it takes.  I just want Harley out of there, and I want her out now."

     "You can't always get what you want, when you want it, Pammy," Selina told her, and her words were close enough to what Harvey had said that the last remnants of Ivy's self-control snapped.  "Why not just do what I said earlier and warn her doctors?  Why does it have to be you?"

     "Because it's my FUCKING fault, all right?!" Ivy shrieked.  "Those brainwashed, mesmerized fools killed the Joker because Harley told them to!  On some level Harley knows that, and she's been blaming herself for it ever since!  So much so that now this Ghost of Joker she’s resurrected is punishing her for it.  And it all happened because of me!  I could see what was happening that night, but I wanted the Joker dead and Harley free, and I didn't stop them.  I could have.  You know I could have.  Harley's the only person left in this miserable, dying, plant-hating world who I still care about, Selina!  And this is what I've done to her?!"

     And then Ivy burst into bitter, helpless tears.  She wept even though Selina was right there with her, although she barely noticed Selina slipping out to give her some privacy.  A goddess didn't show weakness in front of other people, but fuck it, she'd be a mortal for one day. 

     She could go back to being a goddess when Harley was out.

     Bruce was just slipping out from behind the grandfather clock when Selina arrived.  He'd seen and heard everything on the cave cameras, and when he saw Selina leave the room, he'd guessed she was coming to speak with him.  "Is it safe to leave her alone like that?" he asked.

     “It’s okay, Alfred’s in the hall, but we won’t need him.  A crying jag like that, a normal person will take five minutes to get themselves together. But Pammy?  Bruce, Pammy has never lost it before, that I know of.  I think we’ve got a good fifteen minutes before she’s open for business.”  Then she shook her head.  "You heard?"

     Bruce nodded.  "Just what we suspected about Joker's death.  I suppose I should be relieved to have it confirmed.  There’s no forensic or anecdotal evidence of greened victims obeying anyone but Ivy, but those DEMON assassins were so new to Gotham.  They simply didn’t know her voice.  They probably would have followed orders from the coat check girl."

     "’Should be relieved’ then, I agree.  Is dotted, Ts crossed.  You should be one happy detective… but you’re not.” 

     “No.”

     “Because of what Ivy said about Harley?  Do you believe her when she says Harley is trying to resurrect the Joker in her own mind?"

     "Yes, I believe it," Bruce said quietly.  "She has no reason to lie. Whether Harley is suicidal in the usual way or if she has this emerging personality, the situation is equally urgent from Ivy's point of view.  There’s just no reason to add a detail like that if it wasn’t true… unfortunately." 

     “Unfortunately for Harley or…?”

     “Or for the rest of us?” Bruce winced.  “Both.  Arkham doesn’t exactly have a sterling track record with multiple personality disorder.  But the thought of Quinn copycatting Joker is just as bad for Gotham.  With her years of experience as his sidekick, she knows his methods, his ‘reasoning’ for lack of a better word.  And she has a third party’s perspective on how vicious he was.  It’s buried pretty deep under all that ‘affection’ she had for him, but somewhere in her subconscious is Dr. Harleen Quinzel’s knowledge of the psychopath.  She could, potentially, be a more lethal Joker than Joker was.

     "Poor Gotham,” Selina sighed.  “And poor Harley.  Damn, we do seem to be going from bad to worse since Joker’s… you don’t think he pulled a Mercutio, left some curse dangling over us with his dying breath or something?”

     Bruce scowled.

     “Yeah, okay, not funny,” she conceded.  “Still… It’s Ivy who’s bothering me in all this, not Joker.  Bruce, when's the last time you heard Ivy take responsibility for something?"

     None of Arkham's most famous repeat visitors were exactly known for admitting they were wrong.  Generally they blamed all of their mistakes on him, and Poison Ivy was no exception. 

     "Never," he admitted. 

     "Neither have I.  Despite the screeching, that scene in the study just now was the most rational, sensible, normal thing I've ever heard come out of her mouth.  Don't you think we should, I don't know, reinforce the behavior somehow?  Give her a biscuit?"

     "Selina, you're not actually considering - "

     “Breaking into Arkham so I can steal Harley?  Hell no.  Woof in fact.  But I am ready to give Pammy the benefit of the doubt that Harley needs saving and that Arkham isn’t the best place to get that result.  Maybe… I don’t believe I’m about to say this, but maybe Pammy actually is. I mean, the goddess just faced up to reality for the first time in her life. If Harley’s situation brought that about, maybe we could try keeping those two wacky kids together by, I don’t know, steering Ivy in the right direction somehow."

     "We," Bruce repeated.  "By 'we', you mean Batman.  You want Batman to help Poison Ivy."

     Selina bit her lip. 

     “No, I don’t think I do. Bruce Wayne maybe, and helping Pamela, not Poison Ivy.”

     “That’s NOT what you mean.  Look, Selina, if I allow that she has a borderline reasonable goal: Harley out of Arkham, she is still approaching it with a rogue mentality.  Approaching another rogue to break someone out of jail is hardly the way sane rational people go about achieving their ends.”

     “Exactly, she’s in unfamiliar waters and she needs direction.  She needs handled, Bruce.  Think of it this way: it probably does save Harley's life if we get her out of Arkham.  If we do it in such a way that Ivy maybe becomes a better person, win-win for Gotham, right?   Laissez faire approach, on the other hand, leads to Harley impersonating Joker and Ivy having a total meltdown.  The Harley part might be speculation, but Ivy’s breakdown is a done deal. She’s already started, and she started in your house. Bruce Wayne may still be on the fence here, but I really think Batman’s decision has been made for him.”

     It was a persuasive argument.

     The fact was, Bruce was more pessimistic about Arkham’s chances with Harley than either Selina or Isley were.  It wasn’t the fact that Quinn's doctors seemed completely unaware of her condition, it was the track record.  Year after year, rogue after rogue, they went in bad and they came out worse. 

     "All right,” he said finally in an ominous gravel.  “Assuming Ivy is the kind of person who CAN be helped."

     "Well, I guess we'll find out," Selina replied.  She smirked at him.  "Who knows, it might even be fun."

     He grunted.

     To be continued…

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