The late morning sun washed over Harleen and Pamela as they laid in bed. Pamela was awake with the sun, but Harleen was mostly asleep—a treasured moment of calm after so much chaos. Ivy touched Harley's cheek and blue crescents peeked from under Harley's half-lidded eyes.
Harley's hand snaked above the sheets and touched Ivy's lips, her voice husky from the silence. "Remember the first time we met?"
Ivy's heart skipped,her mind echoing Dr. Quinzel's wisdom: Every relationship begins with trust. Time hadn't dulled the memory or the emotions that accompanied it. She exhaled into a smile and kissed Harley's fingertips. "I thought you were crazy sticking your hand in my cell."
Harley hands crept around her waist and pulled her close. Ivy melted into the embrace, relaxing for the first time in several months. Safe and warm in bed, her eyes fluttered shut when Harley ran her fingers through her hair. Ivy couldn't help but smirk as Harley's weight shifted, her breath creeping up Ivy's neck.
No sooner did their lips touch did her phone ring on the nightstand.
Wrong number, she thought. Only a handful of people knew her phone number and the person who called the most was accounted for. The rest knew better than to call right after an escape.
The phone didn't relent.
Ivy ignored it, instead shoving Harley on her back and pinning her with kisses.
"Red," Harley's decadent soprano lingered in her ear. Hearing her voice, her real voice, was a treasured gift. Harley's nails slid down her ribs, but the phone, and her annoyance, kept up.
Ivy snarled as she rolled over, catching Harley's lips twist into a pout.
"Speak."
"Does the name Robert Borland ring a bell?"
In an instant, shock replaced annoyance. It had been years since she had heard that name, a name no one in Gotham knew. She became more suspicious when questioning how Barbara Gordon knew it and its connection to her. Ivy reclined and smoothed her hand over the sheets. "Keep talking."
Harley mouthed angry questions, poking Ivy's thigh for answers. Ivy swatted her hand away.
"Not over the phone. I want to talk to you and Harley in person. GCPD won't pursue."
Mere hours after breaking out of Arkham, and taking most of the asylum with them, Barbara Gordon was offering safe passage? Ivy's stomach twisted like the scar on her wrist. No good could come from this, but then again... her lips curled to a smile. After all the years she'd be able to settle the score with her former colleague, but doing so would require leaving bed—and taking risks that could land her back in Arkham. She twirled her finger around the sheet, dangling between sex-fueled apathy and vengeful intrigue. Between the two choices, a resentment grew in her throat. Of all the things she was, indecisive wasn't one of them.
"Le Petit Cochon in an hour." Ivy flipped off the covers and dropped the phone on the nightstand. As she turned into the bathroom, she caught Harley bolt upright in bed, the sheet dropping from her chest.
"You're meeting her?"
"So are you."
Ivy was halfway to the shower when Harley's pounding footsteps hit the floor behind her. "Are you shitting me, Pamela?!"
She stuck her hand into the stream of running water. Its hiss drowned out most of Harley's words, save for the liberal use of expletives. Harley, Brooklyn born and raised, used the word fuck like a comma. Ivy stepped into the shower and let the water trickle on her scalp and race down her stomach.
"We just get out of shit hole and you tell Gordon we'll meet her?" Harley raged outside the shower. "I cannot fucking believe this. What could she have said that's so fucking urgent that we—Pamela, we!—have to meet her?!"
"Jason's colleague surfaced."
Barbara squirmed in her wheelchair as she studied the traffic on the street. She made sure to be twenty minutes early. Poison Ivy had a reputation for punctuality that would make Deutsche Bahn jealous. Le Petit Cochon was a small bistro on Claverton Street in the trendy Mayfair neighborhood. Ivy was often spotted there on lazy afternoon enjoying a bowl of bread pudding.
Barbara watched a gleaming, red Mercedes Benz park across the street. Ivy appeared first, followed by Harley. Her red mane was pulled into a side braid, while Harley's blonde locks were down. In jeans and blouses, there wasn't a stitch of their trademark personas in their appearance. No one seemed to care—or notice—as the pair crossed the street.
"Ignorance is bliss," Barbara muttered.
Harley took the chair closest to the wall, while Ivy took the seat in front of her. They sat in silence, locked in a staring contest, until the waiter filled their water glasses and left. Barbara wasn't sure if the tremor in his hand was from the cold pitcher or if he recognized two of Gotham's Crime Queens. While he scurried away, she slid a folder to Ivy.
Ivy wilted the moment she opened it, her dazzling green eyes turned mournful as she flipped through the pictures. Harley coiled in her chair like a snake, her ice cold glare sending a familiar tingle up Barbara's arms. She'd stared into those haunting blue eyes countless times, and now caught the glimmer of something new: protectiveness.
Ivy closed the folder and steepled her fingers in front of her mouth. "What's your plan?"
Barbara's chest swelled. With three simple words, Ivy confirmed her suspicions and willingness to help. But, as vital as Ivy was to the success of this mission, she had an immediate need for Harley. Barbara stilled her breath, scraping her fingertips along the papers. "Stop them."
She pulled the papers up and slid them to Harley. Barbara watched the rosy color flee from Harley's cheeks when face-to-face with the ghost of her past. Medical License Renewal: Out of Practice 2 Years with Disciplinary Record.
"I can't practice medicine."
"Who are you trying to fool?" She couldn't help but laugh at the disgraced physician, whose Brooklyn accent had vanished. She always had a hunch Harley hammed it up for the media. It wasn't until that fateful day, when The Mistress of Mischief knelt beside her and whispered, "You don't die today, Batgirl," did Barbara find out how much.
Harley clutched a butterknife, twirling it between her knuckles. The blade spun around, shining light into the dark corners of the cafe. Back and forth, a delicate balance in her hands.
Barbara laid out Harleen Quinzel's storied academic record:
Cornell University. Biology: Neurobiology & behavior, summa cum laude.
Yale Medical.
Litz Prize in Psychiatry.
"Passed your internal medicine boards with flying colors. Your program director at Duke was still singing your praises."
"What did you tell Dr. Dakin?"
The panic in Harley's voice was palpable. It raised a possibility Barbara hadn't thought of before. Harley's hyperactivity on social media was a ploy to keep people from taking a closer look at her private life. Given the rumor mill in Gotham was accurate and ever churning, the fact she and Ivy had hid their affair this long proved her tactic effective.
"Oh." Barbara drawled out her reply. "Nothing. Said it was a reference check."
Harley let the butterknife drop, relaxing in her seat.
With Harley relaxed once again and Ivy appearing eager, it was time to seal the deal. "Do it, and you'll stay out of Arkham with double your cut from Hush." Barbara felt a wave of triumph wash over her, waiting for Harley or Ivy to speak.
"I don't want your money, Barbara." Ivy drummed her fingernails against the tablecloth.
Barbara locked eyes with Ivy, feeling as if the floor had dropped from beneath her wheelchair. Judging by the smile creeping across Ivy's face, she was deriving a pathological amount of enjoyment in turning the tables. Money was the last thing Pamela Isley needed. An heiress in her own right, her family's fortune rivaled that of the Wayne's and Cobblepot's in Seattle.
Caught between a new bio-weapon and Poison Ivy, Barbara had no room to negotiate. She gathered her breath and nodded a man's life away. "Fine, but there won't be a repeat of last October."
Ivy rolled her eyes.
While the Gotham City Sirens battled Hush, a gang war had erupted between the Dragon's Claw and Odessa Mob. While Rogues didn't hide their annoyance, none interfered. The unspoken rules between organized crime and Rogues involved staying out of the other's business. Both gangs shattered those rules when fighting spilled into Robinson Park, triggering Poison Ivy's swift and grand retaliation. A GNN traffic helicopter first spotted her infamous vines hurling gangsters like rag dolls in Robinson Park. It took her four hours to do what the Gotham City Police Department failed to do in weeks.
"The park had a pest problem. I took care of it."
"Anyway." Barbara pivoted the conversation. "Do we have deal?"
Ivy gave a single nod to her head, but Harley remained quiet and still, her eyes locked on mound of paperwork.
Barbara reached into her bag for a pen and held it out. "Do we have a deal, Doctor?"
The world around her faded into the background as Harley took the pen from her hand. She held her breath as the Mistress of Mischief signed her full, legal name to the paperwork: Harleen Frances Quinzel. Unlike the scrawl of other doctors, her signature was legible, even deliberate.
Harley dropped the pen and reached for the water. "We done?"
"No." Barbara tucked the prized papers in her bag and braced for the last bit of news she had to share. Her mouth open and closed, trying to find the right words to say. "When I heard you'd gotten out, I hacked into Arkham's network and… Selina and I saw you release Ivy from her cell."
Harley choked on the water. Ivy's eyes went wide.
There were dozens of questions Barbara wanted to ask, but the one she wanted to ask more than any was the one that could never cross her lips: how was Harley not dead? Poison Ivy's kiss was lethal, absolute, capable of melting flesh from a face. Pathologists found varying amounts of poisons in all of Ivy's victims, hinting that she possessed a terrifying level of control. Yet here Harley Quinn sat, her cheeks rosy from her coughing jag.
"Are we done now?"
Barbara peered in the water glass. Only shards of ice cubes remained near the surface. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, we're done."
(c) Mavreen Smiel 2014-16 / All non-original characters remain the property of their respective owners