Title: It's Just Allergies (3/??)
Author: Allaine
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the
factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.
Feedback: Well, this fanfic is uncharted territory for me, so reader opinions may very well determine whether I finish it or not. So I would encourage it even more than usual.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.
Summary: When Poison Ivy finds her well-being threatened by the unlikeliest of sources, Harley Quinn proves that Ivy doesn't have to be alone anymore, ever again. My first Batman fanfiction.
_____________________________________________
Chapter 3
Harley looked around. "First one here," she said quietly. Somehow being first to your group therapy session didn't have quite the same thrill as being first to own a particular CD.
"And does Harley have an apple for teacher?"
She nearly jumped out of her slippers. "Ack!" she yelped, turning around. "Professor Crane!"
"Sorry, Harley. Didn't mean to, uh, frighten you." The Scarecrow chuckled and strode past her as if he were still a teacher taking his place at the lectern.
"Yeah, sure," she muttered, but she didn't hold it against him. He wasn't too bad, as inmates at Arkham went. She sat across from him in her usual spot.
"Another stab at this farce they call 'group therapy'," he sighed. The asylum held true to the notion that group sessions were beneficial, when in truth the last thing mental patients needed was an audience of twelve. But they'd decided that only certain inmates were eligible for these sessions. As in all other things, Clayface and Killer Croc, for example, were never to be put in a room together, or else together they could smash their way out of the building. Whereas people like Harley and the Scarecrow and the Riddler and the Mad Hatter were considered manageable without their trademark accessories, and therefore could avail themselves of group therapy.
And Ivy, too. But she wouldn't be here that day. Or any other.
Noting her lack of response to his comment, Crane quickly deduced the reason. "No Ivy to sit next to today?"
"Nope," she said glumly. "Anybody know why they released her yet?"
"The staff isn't saying. And frankly, if any of us would know, it would be you. She said nothing?"
"She claimed she had nothing to do with it."
"Very odd," he concluded. "We're not known for modesty here. If she says no, then she probably means it. Still, our merry class now dwindles to eleven, now that we've lost Ivy as well as the Ventriloquist."
"He'll be back someday," she said. "Anybody who lets their own doll run their life like he's a marionette is permanently certifiable." But she wasn't so sure. His chair had sat empty for months now, and still no reports of him running afoul of the law.
"Possibly," he admitted. "They say they're leaving his chair open as a reminder to us of his rehabilitation, but more likely they expect him back one day or another." As he glanced at the chair in question, however, the Scarecrow's eyes narrowed. "Would you mind not moving?" he asked, standing up.
"Huh?"
But he was already busy pointing to each chair in succession, starting with hers, and bobbing his head.
"Skip your meds today?" she asked.
"There were originally thirteen of us, and one psychiatrist, correct?"
"I think so," Harley replied.
"So there should be fourteen chairs, two of which will remain empty today," Professor Crane continued.
"And?"
"There are only thirteen chairs. One has been removed."
Harley stared at him. He sat down. "Go ahead, count them yourself."
Even as she did so, her mind was racing through the possibilities. She had a reputation for being a bubblehead, but it was something she had cultivated over time. Harley was very good at acting stupid, especially when her puddin' wanted someone to bask in his intellectual brilliance. But she _had_ been a psychiatrist at one time, and she probably could have passed even Professor Crane's course if their paths as "normal people" had ever crossed. So as she discovered there were only thirteen chairs, as he had said, she was already reaching a conclusion of her own. "Why would they leave the Ventriloquist's chair behind, but not Ivy's?"
"Perhaps they really don't expect her to come back," the Scarecrow suggested.
She'd thought of that, too. "Or maybe they'd just like us to forget all about her," she replied. Harley shivered. "Where is everybody, anyway?"
"I think," Crane said dryly, "that your boyfriend's concept of arriving fashionably late has caught on. It's such an attention-getter."
Some idiot had decided that the Joker should be included in these sessions as well, since he wasn't considered to be that dangerous without his guns and toxins. Just to be on the safe side, however, they put him in a straitjacket, leaving him to cut other inmates to pieces with his tongue. At least Harley would still have him to sit next to, and . . . "Damn," she muttered.
"What?"
"I have to sit next to Jervis now, don't I?"
_____________________________________
"So. Is there anybody here who would like to start things?" Dr. Brady asked hopefully. She was a petite young woman who looked like she was still in high school.
Six hands immediately shot up.
"Oh," the therapist said, growing uneasy. "Well then, how about . . . Edward?"
The Riddler grinned at the others, whose hands slowly fell. "How did Poison Ivy get her release? Even I can't hazard a guess to this riddle."
Dr. Brady looked like she had both expected and dreaded this question. "Well, you see, Edward, Dr. Park felt that she was no longer a threat to society," she finally explained.
"Then why am I here?" he replied. "I'm not a threat to society. I'm just a threat to high society."
"Funny, Eddie," the Joker muttered. "This is why I do the jokes and you do the riddles." He seemed to be in a bad mood today, Harley noticed.
She raised her hand again.
"Yes, Harley?" Dr. Brady asked, sighing.
"How come," she said, glancing at the Scarecrow, "the Ventriloquist's chair is still here, but Ivy's isn't?"
The young therapist blinked. "How come . . . oh yes, I see that. I hadn't noticed. Well, Harley, since we left his chair open as a reminder to everyone of his success, I'm sure they decided that it wasn't necessary to do it twice. That way, our circle becomes a little cozier," she added brightly.
"Marvelous," Edward Nigma said. "Getting closer to people who don't wash as often as they should."
"Why don't we all cut the crap?" the Joker growled.
Everyone, especially Harley, stared at him. Such bluntness wasn't regular from him.
"Poison Ivy," he declared, "is insane. Whether you're a doctor or a moron the street who reads the papers, you know she belongs here as much as anyone. So why is she out, and we're in?"
He seemed to be striking a chord with the others. Curiosity about why she had left was replaced by anger that someone who was at least as crazy as they were was free while they were still inside.
"Please," Dr. Brady said out loud, trying to calm them. "I only know what Dr. Park said, and he said he no longer considered her to be a threat."
"What could possibly make Poison Ivy less dangerous?" Scarecrow asked. "I should think the word 'poison' would be a red flag to any man."
"Maybe he fixed her up with another gullible doctor," Nigma chuckled.
"Nah, then she'd be growing killer tomatoes," one of the plain old loonies suggested.
Other than the therapist, who had rapidly lost control of the situation, Harley was the only one who wasn't laughing uproariously as other suggestions, some of them quite vulgar, were offered by one person after another.
"No," Jervis Tetch managed to say through his chortling, "they gave her a one-of-a-kind nose job and made her allergic to pollen!"
Harley sat up while everyone around her cackled. She stared at the Mad Hatter. Did he say allergic?
"Good one, Jerv," the Joker screeched. He looked over at Harley. "This is funny, you bubbleheaded ditz. Laugh!" He tugged at his jacket, momentarily forgetting he had it on as he tried to strike her. Harley never even noticed, and finally he stood up and shoved her out of her chair with the sole of his foot. "Laugh!" the Joker repeated as she lay flat on her stomach.
Harley could never make fun of Red behind her back, of course, but that wasn't why she refused to obey her puddin's orders. She didn't even hear him, nor did she hear Dr. Brady putting an end to this session by summoning the orderlies. She was putting things together.
And if her half-formed theories were correct, then her Ivy was in a lot of trouble. She had to escape right away.
_________________________________________________
But escape was not in her cards that night. Two-Face had been on the run for weeks now, and the Batman had finally chased him down. He was bringing Harvey back that night, she learned, and it never paid to try to escape when the Bat was in the building. Better to wait until he was on the other side of Gotham.
She exhaled loudly as she hung upside down from her cot that night. She'd just have to wait until tomorrow night.
Then she heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, and the murmur of her fellow inmates. The Bat was coming down her corridor.
Harley sat up, and fighting off a dizzy spell, she grabbed paper and a marker she had.
As Batman passed her cell, he noticed the paper she was holding up to the window with the word "BATS" printed in big block letters. He considered the hopeful expression on her face for a moment before he shrugged a little and came closer. "Quinn."
"Hey, Batsy. How's it shaking?" she said.
He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said hurriedly. "There's something I gotta ask you about. You heard about Ivy?"
"What about Ivy?" he asked, half expecting a punchline.
"She's not with us anymore," she answered solemnly.
He stared at her. "She escaped? I would have been notified."
"Do they notify you when they let people out?"
"What?"
Harley nodded. "The head doc here gave her her walking papers. She walked out the front door, got on the bus, and drove away."
"That's crazy," he said. "_She's_ crazy."
"Well, duh," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Which is why we're all wondering what happened. Red told me she had nothing to do with it."
He thought for a moment. "Why are you coming to me with this, Quinn?"
She blushed. "Well, seeing as how I'm stuck in here, I thought maybe you could check on her."
"I'm not a messenger service."
"No, I meant . . . I'm worried about my Red, Batsy. She gave away all her plants before she left, and she wasn't happy about leaving." Harley frowned. "She was crying a lot. I could tell."
The Batman looked skeptical. But he did notice that Harley had referred to Ivy as "hers". If they were that close, then perhaps she knew something the doctors didn't.
"I'll pay her a visit when I have the time," he told her. "Any ideas why she was unhappy?"
Harley looked away. "This'll sound crazy, I know, but then the whole thing is crazy. Something's wrong with her and her plants. She seemed almost afraid of them. And now the doctors are all saying she's no longer a threat. Ivy is _so_ not herself, Batman."
He nodded. "All right. I'll go see her."
"Tonight?"
"No, later. Is that all?"
Feeling like he wasn't giving her concerns quite enough credence, she pouted. "Yeah, Bats. You can go." She walked away from the window.
He shook his head. He wouldn't be leaving just yet. He'd need Ivy's new address.
____________________________________________
Ivy sat on her couch, staring into space, with absolutely no expression on her face. It was almost time.
These last two, three days had been the absolute worst days of her life, she decided. And tonight was worst of all. Why?
Because she recognized that tomorrow would be just as bad. And the day after that, and the day after that.
Her apartment was nice enough, she supposed. It wasn't as nice as either of two hideouts in Gotham no one had found yet, but of course, she couldn't go inside either of them. She might not come out alive.
Hoping against hope, Ivy had traveled to a nursery the day after she got out. Maybe it was temporary, or maybe it wouldn't work outside of Arkham, or maybe . . .
She had dashed out of the nursery thirty seconds after she arrived. Her eyes had teared up so much that her vision was practically gone. That, combined with racking waves of nausea and a sudden inability to breathe, had very nearly killed her, she suspected. In her condition, she had almost run in the wrong direction, away from the exit and deeper into the growing trees, shrubs, and flowers. It had been a complete guess which way was out, and thankfully, the sound of an electric eye told her she had guessed correctly.
Ivy couldn't be sure which was worse, nearly dying, or nearly dying from humiliation. How could this have happened to her? She'd been reduced to a sniveling, weak, sobbing nothing. A hundred defeats at Batman's hands were not as mortifying.
In the meantime, she had begun her new job. With the enthusiasm of a zombie, she had delivered dead flowers to her employer's customers. Ivy had wanted to beat them black and blue. You weren't supposed to be happy when someone gave you flowers that had been killed in their prime; you were supposed to be sorry, or appalled, or angry. But then, other humans never seemed to care about the feelings of plants, did they?
If anybody had recognized her, she would have started running, and she wouldn't have stopped until she got to the city limits.
She supposed she was depressed. The situation called for getting drunk, she believed, but it struck her as too temporary a solution. Ivy had a better idea, and all it took was one stop at a hardware store on the way home.
As she rose automatically from her seat and went over to where the chair had been placed, Ivy thought one last time about her beloved plants, who now betrayed her against their will. And Harley, who would never know how much she meant to Ivy. She liked being called Red.
She put one foot on the chair.
It was then that she heard the tapping. Ivy bared her teeth. Now what?
She went into the bathroom, where she assumed a faucet was dripping. Instead she found Harley tapping at her window.
Ivy stood and stared for a second, never having expected to see her there, or again. "Harley?" she asked, surprised.
"Hey, Red," Harley said on the other side, and involuntarily Ivy smiled. "Think you could let me in?"
"Oh, uh, sure, Harley," Ivy said, not thinking about what she was saying. She only knew that Harley was here to see her, and she couldn't just turn her away, could she?
"Thanks," Harley told her as she climbed in, duffel bag in one hand. "Nice place."
"You were in Arkham just a few days ago," Ivy said.
"Just broke out tonight," Harley said proudly. "Needed to see you, so we could talk." She brushed past Ivy and headed toward the family room.
Ivy suddenly realized what she had done. Harley was about to see . . . "Harley, wait!" she cried, chasing after her.
She found her friend standing there, staring at the chair in the middle of the room. And the rope, knotted in a secure noose, hanging from the ceiling. Harley's bag fell from nerveless fingers.
Harley finally turned around. "Red?" she whispered.
Ivy looked down, ashamed.
"Oh, my poor, poor Red," Harley repeated, a tear rolling down her cheek. She opened her arms.
The red-haired woman hesitated but a moment before she ran into Harley's waiting embrace, crying for what had to have been the fifth or sixth time in the last week.
"Shh," Harley soothed her, stroking her hair. "It's all right. Harley's here."
To be continued . . .
Author: Allaine
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the
factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.
Feedback: Well, this fanfic is uncharted territory for me, so reader opinions may very well determine whether I finish it or not. So I would encourage it even more than usual.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.
Summary: When Poison Ivy finds her well-being threatened by the unlikeliest of sources, Harley Quinn proves that Ivy doesn't have to be alone anymore, ever again. My first Batman fanfiction.
_____________________________________________
Chapter 3
Harley looked around. "First one here," she said quietly. Somehow being first to your group therapy session didn't have quite the same thrill as being first to own a particular CD.
"And does Harley have an apple for teacher?"
She nearly jumped out of her slippers. "Ack!" she yelped, turning around. "Professor Crane!"
"Sorry, Harley. Didn't mean to, uh, frighten you." The Scarecrow chuckled and strode past her as if he were still a teacher taking his place at the lectern.
"Yeah, sure," she muttered, but she didn't hold it against him. He wasn't too bad, as inmates at Arkham went. She sat across from him in her usual spot.
"Another stab at this farce they call 'group therapy'," he sighed. The asylum held true to the notion that group sessions were beneficial, when in truth the last thing mental patients needed was an audience of twelve. But they'd decided that only certain inmates were eligible for these sessions. As in all other things, Clayface and Killer Croc, for example, were never to be put in a room together, or else together they could smash their way out of the building. Whereas people like Harley and the Scarecrow and the Riddler and the Mad Hatter were considered manageable without their trademark accessories, and therefore could avail themselves of group therapy.
And Ivy, too. But she wouldn't be here that day. Or any other.
Noting her lack of response to his comment, Crane quickly deduced the reason. "No Ivy to sit next to today?"
"Nope," she said glumly. "Anybody know why they released her yet?"
"The staff isn't saying. And frankly, if any of us would know, it would be you. She said nothing?"
"She claimed she had nothing to do with it."
"Very odd," he concluded. "We're not known for modesty here. If she says no, then she probably means it. Still, our merry class now dwindles to eleven, now that we've lost Ivy as well as the Ventriloquist."
"He'll be back someday," she said. "Anybody who lets their own doll run their life like he's a marionette is permanently certifiable." But she wasn't so sure. His chair had sat empty for months now, and still no reports of him running afoul of the law.
"Possibly," he admitted. "They say they're leaving his chair open as a reminder to us of his rehabilitation, but more likely they expect him back one day or another." As he glanced at the chair in question, however, the Scarecrow's eyes narrowed. "Would you mind not moving?" he asked, standing up.
"Huh?"
But he was already busy pointing to each chair in succession, starting with hers, and bobbing his head.
"Skip your meds today?" she asked.
"There were originally thirteen of us, and one psychiatrist, correct?"
"I think so," Harley replied.
"So there should be fourteen chairs, two of which will remain empty today," Professor Crane continued.
"And?"
"There are only thirteen chairs. One has been removed."
Harley stared at him. He sat down. "Go ahead, count them yourself."
Even as she did so, her mind was racing through the possibilities. She had a reputation for being a bubblehead, but it was something she had cultivated over time. Harley was very good at acting stupid, especially when her puddin' wanted someone to bask in his intellectual brilliance. But she _had_ been a psychiatrist at one time, and she probably could have passed even Professor Crane's course if their paths as "normal people" had ever crossed. So as she discovered there were only thirteen chairs, as he had said, she was already reaching a conclusion of her own. "Why would they leave the Ventriloquist's chair behind, but not Ivy's?"
"Perhaps they really don't expect her to come back," the Scarecrow suggested.
She'd thought of that, too. "Or maybe they'd just like us to forget all about her," she replied. Harley shivered. "Where is everybody, anyway?"
"I think," Crane said dryly, "that your boyfriend's concept of arriving fashionably late has caught on. It's such an attention-getter."
Some idiot had decided that the Joker should be included in these sessions as well, since he wasn't considered to be that dangerous without his guns and toxins. Just to be on the safe side, however, they put him in a straitjacket, leaving him to cut other inmates to pieces with his tongue. At least Harley would still have him to sit next to, and . . . "Damn," she muttered.
"What?"
"I have to sit next to Jervis now, don't I?"
_____________________________________
"So. Is there anybody here who would like to start things?" Dr. Brady asked hopefully. She was a petite young woman who looked like she was still in high school.
Six hands immediately shot up.
"Oh," the therapist said, growing uneasy. "Well then, how about . . . Edward?"
The Riddler grinned at the others, whose hands slowly fell. "How did Poison Ivy get her release? Even I can't hazard a guess to this riddle."
Dr. Brady looked like she had both expected and dreaded this question. "Well, you see, Edward, Dr. Park felt that she was no longer a threat to society," she finally explained.
"Then why am I here?" he replied. "I'm not a threat to society. I'm just a threat to high society."
"Funny, Eddie," the Joker muttered. "This is why I do the jokes and you do the riddles." He seemed to be in a bad mood today, Harley noticed.
She raised her hand again.
"Yes, Harley?" Dr. Brady asked, sighing.
"How come," she said, glancing at the Scarecrow, "the Ventriloquist's chair is still here, but Ivy's isn't?"
The young therapist blinked. "How come . . . oh yes, I see that. I hadn't noticed. Well, Harley, since we left his chair open as a reminder to everyone of his success, I'm sure they decided that it wasn't necessary to do it twice. That way, our circle becomes a little cozier," she added brightly.
"Marvelous," Edward Nigma said. "Getting closer to people who don't wash as often as they should."
"Why don't we all cut the crap?" the Joker growled.
Everyone, especially Harley, stared at him. Such bluntness wasn't regular from him.
"Poison Ivy," he declared, "is insane. Whether you're a doctor or a moron the street who reads the papers, you know she belongs here as much as anyone. So why is she out, and we're in?"
He seemed to be striking a chord with the others. Curiosity about why she had left was replaced by anger that someone who was at least as crazy as they were was free while they were still inside.
"Please," Dr. Brady said out loud, trying to calm them. "I only know what Dr. Park said, and he said he no longer considered her to be a threat."
"What could possibly make Poison Ivy less dangerous?" Scarecrow asked. "I should think the word 'poison' would be a red flag to any man."
"Maybe he fixed her up with another gullible doctor," Nigma chuckled.
"Nah, then she'd be growing killer tomatoes," one of the plain old loonies suggested.
Other than the therapist, who had rapidly lost control of the situation, Harley was the only one who wasn't laughing uproariously as other suggestions, some of them quite vulgar, were offered by one person after another.
"No," Jervis Tetch managed to say through his chortling, "they gave her a one-of-a-kind nose job and made her allergic to pollen!"
Harley sat up while everyone around her cackled. She stared at the Mad Hatter. Did he say allergic?
"Good one, Jerv," the Joker screeched. He looked over at Harley. "This is funny, you bubbleheaded ditz. Laugh!" He tugged at his jacket, momentarily forgetting he had it on as he tried to strike her. Harley never even noticed, and finally he stood up and shoved her out of her chair with the sole of his foot. "Laugh!" the Joker repeated as she lay flat on her stomach.
Harley could never make fun of Red behind her back, of course, but that wasn't why she refused to obey her puddin's orders. She didn't even hear him, nor did she hear Dr. Brady putting an end to this session by summoning the orderlies. She was putting things together.
And if her half-formed theories were correct, then her Ivy was in a lot of trouble. She had to escape right away.
_________________________________________________
But escape was not in her cards that night. Two-Face had been on the run for weeks now, and the Batman had finally chased him down. He was bringing Harvey back that night, she learned, and it never paid to try to escape when the Bat was in the building. Better to wait until he was on the other side of Gotham.
She exhaled loudly as she hung upside down from her cot that night. She'd just have to wait until tomorrow night.
Then she heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, and the murmur of her fellow inmates. The Bat was coming down her corridor.
Harley sat up, and fighting off a dizzy spell, she grabbed paper and a marker she had.
As Batman passed her cell, he noticed the paper she was holding up to the window with the word "BATS" printed in big block letters. He considered the hopeful expression on her face for a moment before he shrugged a little and came closer. "Quinn."
"Hey, Batsy. How's it shaking?" she said.
He turned to leave.
"Wait," she said hurriedly. "There's something I gotta ask you about. You heard about Ivy?"
"What about Ivy?" he asked, half expecting a punchline.
"She's not with us anymore," she answered solemnly.
He stared at her. "She escaped? I would have been notified."
"Do they notify you when they let people out?"
"What?"
Harley nodded. "The head doc here gave her her walking papers. She walked out the front door, got on the bus, and drove away."
"That's crazy," he said. "_She's_ crazy."
"Well, duh," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Which is why we're all wondering what happened. Red told me she had nothing to do with it."
He thought for a moment. "Why are you coming to me with this, Quinn?"
She blushed. "Well, seeing as how I'm stuck in here, I thought maybe you could check on her."
"I'm not a messenger service."
"No, I meant . . . I'm worried about my Red, Batsy. She gave away all her plants before she left, and she wasn't happy about leaving." Harley frowned. "She was crying a lot. I could tell."
The Batman looked skeptical. But he did notice that Harley had referred to Ivy as "hers". If they were that close, then perhaps she knew something the doctors didn't.
"I'll pay her a visit when I have the time," he told her. "Any ideas why she was unhappy?"
Harley looked away. "This'll sound crazy, I know, but then the whole thing is crazy. Something's wrong with her and her plants. She seemed almost afraid of them. And now the doctors are all saying she's no longer a threat. Ivy is _so_ not herself, Batman."
He nodded. "All right. I'll go see her."
"Tonight?"
"No, later. Is that all?"
Feeling like he wasn't giving her concerns quite enough credence, she pouted. "Yeah, Bats. You can go." She walked away from the window.
He shook his head. He wouldn't be leaving just yet. He'd need Ivy's new address.
____________________________________________
Ivy sat on her couch, staring into space, with absolutely no expression on her face. It was almost time.
These last two, three days had been the absolute worst days of her life, she decided. And tonight was worst of all. Why?
Because she recognized that tomorrow would be just as bad. And the day after that, and the day after that.
Her apartment was nice enough, she supposed. It wasn't as nice as either of two hideouts in Gotham no one had found yet, but of course, she couldn't go inside either of them. She might not come out alive.
Hoping against hope, Ivy had traveled to a nursery the day after she got out. Maybe it was temporary, or maybe it wouldn't work outside of Arkham, or maybe . . .
She had dashed out of the nursery thirty seconds after she arrived. Her eyes had teared up so much that her vision was practically gone. That, combined with racking waves of nausea and a sudden inability to breathe, had very nearly killed her, she suspected. In her condition, she had almost run in the wrong direction, away from the exit and deeper into the growing trees, shrubs, and flowers. It had been a complete guess which way was out, and thankfully, the sound of an electric eye told her she had guessed correctly.
Ivy couldn't be sure which was worse, nearly dying, or nearly dying from humiliation. How could this have happened to her? She'd been reduced to a sniveling, weak, sobbing nothing. A hundred defeats at Batman's hands were not as mortifying.
In the meantime, she had begun her new job. With the enthusiasm of a zombie, she had delivered dead flowers to her employer's customers. Ivy had wanted to beat them black and blue. You weren't supposed to be happy when someone gave you flowers that had been killed in their prime; you were supposed to be sorry, or appalled, or angry. But then, other humans never seemed to care about the feelings of plants, did they?
If anybody had recognized her, she would have started running, and she wouldn't have stopped until she got to the city limits.
She supposed she was depressed. The situation called for getting drunk, she believed, but it struck her as too temporary a solution. Ivy had a better idea, and all it took was one stop at a hardware store on the way home.
As she rose automatically from her seat and went over to where the chair had been placed, Ivy thought one last time about her beloved plants, who now betrayed her against their will. And Harley, who would never know how much she meant to Ivy. She liked being called Red.
She put one foot on the chair.
It was then that she heard the tapping. Ivy bared her teeth. Now what?
She went into the bathroom, where she assumed a faucet was dripping. Instead she found Harley tapping at her window.
Ivy stood and stared for a second, never having expected to see her there, or again. "Harley?" she asked, surprised.
"Hey, Red," Harley said on the other side, and involuntarily Ivy smiled. "Think you could let me in?"
"Oh, uh, sure, Harley," Ivy said, not thinking about what she was saying. She only knew that Harley was here to see her, and she couldn't just turn her away, could she?
"Thanks," Harley told her as she climbed in, duffel bag in one hand. "Nice place."
"You were in Arkham just a few days ago," Ivy said.
"Just broke out tonight," Harley said proudly. "Needed to see you, so we could talk." She brushed past Ivy and headed toward the family room.
Ivy suddenly realized what she had done. Harley was about to see . . . "Harley, wait!" she cried, chasing after her.
She found her friend standing there, staring at the chair in the middle of the room. And the rope, knotted in a secure noose, hanging from the ceiling. Harley's bag fell from nerveless fingers.
Harley finally turned around. "Red?" she whispered.
Ivy looked down, ashamed.
"Oh, my poor, poor Red," Harley repeated, a tear rolling down her cheek. She opened her arms.
The red-haired woman hesitated but a moment before she ran into Harley's waiting embrace, crying for what had to have been the fifth or sixth time in the last week.
"Shh," Harley soothed her, stroking her hair. "It's all right. Harley's here."
To be continued . . .