Content Warning: Discussion of domestic abuse; discussion of murder

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Though terribly discontent and somewhat maladjusted, Harley found that sometimes she just couldn't speak. Maybe it was because opening her trap was more like playing rock-'em-sock-'em roulette than having a conversation, but it was better than being alone, at least. Without J— who was only a semi sadist, after all—it was just her and the flowers. Callalilies, pansies, Christmas roses and all manner of ficuses that needed her attention, waiting in Cobblepot's Floral Shop storefront and the basement as well, relying on her for their daily mistings and bi-weekly preening. But even then, that strange and interesting plant with its ever-growing, toothy bud had been commanding quite a bit of her attention now. She'd named itLil' J, though she was bizarrely proud to note that it wasn't so little anymore, given all of the special treatment it had been recieving. In fact, between the Lil J's unfortunate thirst for vital fluids and the barbarous dentist who had inspired its namesake, Quinzel was feeling downright anemic, heady and punchdrunk like the bubbleheaded blonde she knew she was.

But even that couldn't explain why the thing was talking to her, unless of course she'd finally had that long-expected premier psychotic break. But whatever the reason, it was damn weird.

The flowergirl pitched back in shock, hitting the storefront's floor with a squeak. "I don't believe this!"

The plant's leaves curled and uncurled sleepily, and its brightly colored "mouth" stretched back in what looked like a yawn, displaying its unsettling rows of "teeth" (barbs, Harley had identified) and a "tongue" (some kind of rough equivalent to cilia hairs, maybe? She would probably have had to dissect the thing to know just what that part was for. At least, that was true a minute ago. Out of the blue, its function suddenly seemed all too clear.)

"Ooh, believe it baby," the thing practically purred, stretching to its full height, which was now close to seven feet, "it talks."

In stunned acknowledgement, Harley began to nod and babble inching backwards on her elbows. "Y-you do! You—you can think and—and moveand—and—"

"Feed me, Harley."

"Wh—I—I can't!" she shook her left hand as if it were an empty bucket, staring up at her botanical finding helplessly.

In a voice which was raspy and, oddly, almost feminine, Lil J continued to press. "But I'm starving!"

"I'll, uh, I can give ya plant food," she offered, receiving a pout—honest to gosh, the plant pouted at her just like a little kid or something— and shook its "head" in disgust. "Must be blood."

"But JJ, that's disgusting."

"Fresh blood."

"Oh lord Jesum no—"

"Come on Harls,"

"But does it have to be mine?"

"Feed me."

"Oh boy," she rose to her feet unsteadily, hands clasped around her neck at the very notion. "Lil' J, I dunno about all this. I mean like, whaddaya want? I can't run out into the street and start mowin' Joe Shmoes down for ya like some kind'a psycho ripper!"

The plant snickered— it could laugh for Christ's sake— seeming almost bored.

"Sure you can, honey. Don't be a sap." Despite the gory matter at hand (at leaf?) the plant was suddenly much less animated. No longer begging, it was worryingly calm and collected. "Besides, who in this whole world has ever really given you the time of day anyways?"

"Well there's— there's always Dr. J…"

The thing's mawlike blossom let out an exasperated sigh. "How do you expect me to keep providing for you without a little TLC?"

Harley's lower lip wibbled, threatening to heave a sob that never came.

"Well there's a big difference between plant care and decapitation ya know!" the girl suddenly shrieked, stamping her foot despite the panic welling up in her chest.

"Hey now Harley, hey." Lil' J lifted its vines (wait, vines? When did it grow vines?) moving them gently in a reassuring motion. "I never said you had to off an innocent, did I? There are plenty of big, fleshy men out there just strolling around causing nothing but trouble. If you want my opinion, you'd be performing a public service if you brought a handful of them to me." Harley's frown remained, but it was closer to a saddened or nervous look than the incredulous affectation she was going for. "Yeah? Well like who?"

Another vine lolled out, stretching to tap her cheekbone indicatively. "The creepo who gave you this shiner, for one. It was that dentist guy, wasn't it?"

The girl shied away, wringing her hands in the face of both a floral monster and an uncomfortable truth. "Leave J outa this, will ya?" she whined. The plant groaned in irritation. "Then how about Officer Friendly?"

This suggestion was met with a confused, blank stare, something like the look a vagrant drunkard gets just before making friends with a careening truck's oncoming bumper. The third vine shot out to guide her to the window. "That one," Lil' J insisted, "the one with the freewheeling nightstick."

Oh. Officer Bolton. Just looking at him, just peeking through the basement's dingy little window at his shiny back boots made Harley mad. She didn't have many friends, true, but the few people around town who were nice to her (along with everyone else, for that matter) lived in mortal terror under his watchful eye. To him, police brutality only came with the territory, same as the uniform and ticket pad, and as such, Harley's little pal Professor Crane was still laid up in the hospital. After a brief but well-intentioned follow up visit from Skid Row's favorite patrolman, theacademic later recalled that in fact, his injuries had been the result of a nasty trip down the stairs. Yes, yes, that was it, he just fell down the stairs is all. There were… a lot of stairs, in fact. It would be silly to press charges against Bolton, seeing as it was all about the stairs. And that went without mentioning what had happened to the poor old man who lived upstairs, or the novelist down the street, or even Quinzel herself. Dr. J wasn't the only one who caused her to "run face-first into walls," as it were.

With new resolve and balled fists, the girl turned to address her plant, trying her damnedest to look it in the "eye," or the sensory organ or… whatever. "Y'said you needed blood, right?"

It nodded zealously.

"Well Lil J, this guy's got more than enough." Harley drove a tiny fist into an open palm, grinding her hands together for good measure. If she thought it were possible, she could have sworn that the thing's "mouth" split into a jagged grin.

"Call me Ivy," it said.

—

1) Harley gets to be both Seymour and Audrey in this; I honestly hadn't even though about what I might write for this when I wrote it down as an option but I'm so pleased that I thought of this.

2) Accidentally implied like fifty different ships with this oops.