Author's note: RIP Carrie Fisher. You were my kind of princess. May the force be with you, always. And Debbie Reynolds, your talent knew no bounds. Thank you for sharing your voice with us, and thank you for sharing your daughter.
"Ugh—I'm sweating." Harleen nervously fanned herself. "Am I shiny? I'm shiny. And I hate this stupid shirt."
"Well…" Pamela cleared her throat, her voice even as she crossed one leg over the other. "Perhaps you should have listened to me when I suggested you wear the blue."
Harley furrowed her brow in confusion. "When did you suggest that?"
Pamela was watching the door to the soundstage, waiting for the hosts. She was anxious, even if she felt silly admitting it to herself. "You asked if you should wear the blue or the red. I said the blue, you chose the red." She coolly reminded her. "And seeing as how that was no more than an hour ago, I'm legitimately concerned your memory is beginning to fail you. Is there a history of Alzheimer's or dementia in your family?"
Harleen narrowed her eyes, regarding the other woman critically. After a moment she decided: "I think I might hate you."
"Mmm…I've got a wedding ring and two kids at home that would beg to differ," Pam said as the hosts entered the room, all fake smiles and impeccable hair.
"Dr. Quinzel! Hello!" The woman said. "I'm Summer Gleeson, this is Snapper Carr…but I'm sure you already know that."
Harleen was clearly a bit startled at all the energy that had blasted through the door at 6am, but she'd never had trouble painting on feigned enthusiasm, so that's exactly what she did when she grinned and said. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. This is Poison Ivy—,"
"But I'm sure you already know that." Ivy assured her, pointedly not reaching out to shake their hands.
"Ooh, passive aggression! That's fun." Snapper smiled, plopping down in the chair across from Ivy in the crescent arrangement.
"Allow me to apologize for her," Harley offered. "She's not much of a morning person."
"Well, hey, I wasn't either." Summer chuckled. "But then I turned 50, and off to the morning show I went. It's sort of like journalist purgatory!" She delivered her entire line with an eerily wide smile on her face, and Pam glanced at the cameras momentarily to make sure they hadn't started rolling already.
They hadn't.
"So…is it alright if we call you Pamela? Pam?" Snapper asked, watching her expectantly as he took a sip of his coffee.
"Absolutely not." Was Ivy's quick reply.
"Alright," Snapper clapped. "Ivy it is, then."
"How about 'Dr. Isley', actually." Pamela suggested. "My degree is every bit as legitimate as Dr. Quinzel's, after all."
"Fantastic…" Summer was nodding at the cue cards, so Ivy wasn't quite sure what she was approving, but she sat back in her seat anyway, resigning herself to whatever would come next.
"You're not gonna kill us, are you?" Snapper asked. "I mean; you're taking the necessary medication?"
The vine in Ivy's wrist pulsed as the stage manager began to count down.
"And we're live in three…two…" he pointed to Summer, who was somehow able to broaden her smile.
"Good morning, Gotham!" She greeted excitedly. "And man-oh-man, what a lovely day it's shaping up to be."
"Almost makes this job bearable, huh, Summer?" Snapper asked.
"Almost." She smiled. "Well we hope everyone has at least one cup of coffee down the hatch. It's been two already for me." She laughed at her own joke.
"Oh, three for me." Snapper chuckled. "But I put some bourbon in that last one."
Harleen was unable to hide the surprise on her face at that comment, but Snapper quickly waved it off. "I'm just jiving; the drinking starts after the camera cuts." He winked right into the lens.
"But wide awake or sleepy, hungover or still drunk, you are not going to want to miss our chat with this morning's guests: renowned psychiatrist and author of the new book Pretty Poison," Summer held up a copy of the book. "And the subject herself, right here, in the flesh: former eco-terrorist and current member of the Justice League— Poison Ivy. And can I just say," Summer turned to the redhead. "You are absolutely stunning, even more so in person." She delivered her next line to the camera. "I swear, people, even with the vines and whatnot, it is like staring into the sun."
"If that was to placate my narcissism, I thank you, but it was unnecessary." Ivy intoned.
"Doesn't make it not true," Snapper toasted with his coffee mug.
"Well, in any case," Summer re-routed the conversation. "This is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. She has been Ivy's therapist for the last—what is it, 25 years? 26?"
"They all start to blur together after a while," Harley answered charmingly. "But we met on my first day at my first job after medical school, and the rest is history."
"It almost sounds like a love story," Summer remarked.
"Ah, but we don't have any secrets," Harleen pointed out. "And aren't those what make relationships interesting?"
"You are married, though, right?" Snapper asked.
Pamela had to force herself not to roll her eyes. "Is that a question you would ask one of your male guests?"
"Well, this book isn't just about you," Snapper pointed out. "It's a personal story for you too, right?" That question he directed at Harley. "There's a passage in here where you say it was your conversations with Dr. Isley here that helped you realize you were attracted to women."
Harleen's laugh came out a bit nervous. "I honestly didn't think you'd read it, but I'm impressed. Yes, I am married, and yes, the open and honest conversations I had with Dr. Isley as a young woman were certainly illuminating. Everyone needs female friends, Snapper. Even bisexual women."
"Friends. Is that how you think of each other?" Summer prompted. "Isn't that a bit of a conflict of interest?"
"Oh, I don't think so." Harleen assured. "Dr. Isley and I understand our relationship, we're aware of its boundaries. But I don't believe it's possible to work with someone for as long as we have and not develop some degree of bond slightly outside the typical purview of the doctor-patient relationship. By which I mean, I don't invite her to dinner with my children, but it's also not uncommon for me to enter one of our sessions without my notepad."
"Right…" Snapper nodded. "You say in the book that it was important to approach your sessions with Ivy like conversations. So is that the secret to reforming serial killers? Buy 'em lunch? Tell them you understand?"
"All the people I killed deserved to die, of that I can assure you." Ivy gritted.
"Is that so?" Snapper chuckled. "You heard it here first, folks. Poison Ivy is a capital judge!"
He's beneath you. He's not worth it. Ivy reminded herself.
"So, is this a true crime book?" Summer asked Harleen. "Self-help, biography…what's the genre? I couldn't tell."
"Well…I think it's all those things in one," Harleen admitted. "Poison Ivy is a figure that a lot of people know, but few understand. The goal here was to write something accessible that could lead to a better understanding of what most would call the abnormal psychology she presents."
Snapper was already chuckling by the time Harley concluded her sentence. "In other words, normalizing a serial killer because she's the kind of psycho teenaged boys could busy themselves with. Or is this book for the feminists who seem to have no problem celebrating a misandrist. It's OK for women to hate men, just not the other way around, right?"
"I'm here as a curtesy, Snapper." Ivy calmly told him, her grip tight on the armrest of her chair. Beneath you, beneath you, beneath you. "And in the eyes of the law I have absolved myself of what you would call my "crimes". So while I respect my psychiatrist and understand the importance of my support for this project, if the snide or outwardly rude comments continue I will have to remove myself from the studio, as enduring your abuse is not why I am here today."
"Then why are you here?" Snapper asked. "For some softball questions? So you come off tolerable enough to sell a few of these books?"
"No, I'm—," Why am I here? Pam's eyes flitted quickly to Harleen, who seemed to be watching the exchange with interest, but showed no indication that she would jump in anytime soon. She wants you to stick up for yourself. "I'm here as a scientist and an environmental activist, a feminist—but most of all I'm here as—," she cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm here as a woman who has endured probably more than her fair share of hardships, and who didn't handle any of them especially well. I—," you don't have to do this, you don't have to do this. They're call you weak. You'll lose your power, your influence. It's not worth it. "I was a sheltered young woman who put my trust in a man that I considered an inspiration—my college professor." Again, her gaze traveled quickly to Harleen, who was watching her expectantly, her bottom lip held nervously between her teeth. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for her.
"He held me in a basement at the university," Ivy admitted. "He—he raped me, brutally and often, and he experimented on me. He robbed me of my life, my career and my humanity, and I hated him for it. I hated all men for it. But while my assault resulted in me gaining supernatural abilities, I'm very aware that other victims of the phenomena are left with a feeling of overwhelming helplessness. Powerlessness. So yes, I murdered people. I murdered men who raped women and men and women who raped the environment. That's how I took my power back."
Summer looked like she was ready to interrupt, but Pamela continued, as she wanted to get it all out before she lost her edge and realized the damage she was causing to the persona she'd cultivated.
"I was absolved, I am "reformed"," Ivy provided the air quotes herself. "And I try my hardest to be a role model, for girl's especially. I encourage them to go into STEM fields of study, and to learn about how they can aid me in keeping Earth inhabitable for humans. I encourage them to demand attention, demand to be heard, to be taken seriously. And now I'm going to encourage victims of sexual assault not to suffer in silence, and never to back down in the face of misogynist, victim-blaming rhetoric. Don't give your attacker more power than they're worth. In fact—don't give them any at all."
Ivy stood up from her chair, starting the process of removing the microphone they'd attached to her suit. "So though I may be reformed, I will not now, nor will I ever apologize for the actions I took against men and men like him. I'm not sorry my attacker was decapitated, but I am sorry that I didn't get to do it myself, and I'm sure a significant majority of those one in five women who will be assaulted in their lifetime share that sentiment. And actually, to those women—or, "people" I should say, I am aware there are some men who shoulder this burden as well—the justice system is rotten in regards to this issue. Unapologetically, inarguably broken. And so to those who did speak out and were still cast aside like it was their fault, like they should have known better or were asking for it, like they were less than human…let me just tell you that in 1966, I stayed too late in my lab one night. He wouldn't let me leave. He pressured me when I said no. When I resisted him verbally and physically, he implied that I owed him because he gave me a promotion, so I forfeited. But that night was no different than the nights that proceeded it, when he had me strapped to a table with a dirty rag in my mouth. It was rape, it was always rape, and it wasn't my fault." With that, she set the microphone down on the chair she'd abandoned and stepped off of the sound stage. "And this isn't me being immature," she called back. "It's me removing myself from a possibly harmful situation because, unfortunately, I do still have a temper."
/
"Wh—no!" Selina shot up from the couch. "Bruce, are you listening to this shit?!" She twisted around to observe him collectedly setting his newspaper aside.
"Good for her," he offered.
"Good for—," Selina paused the TV. "Are you fucking serious right now? Good for her? There's no way she wanted to share that shit! It's private, she's the most private person I know. On live TV?"
Bruce rose from the table, taking his coffee mug with him for a refill. "It's clearly been hanging over her for a long time. Seems like she's finally working through it. When left to fester, secrets can be a death sentence."
"What sort of poetic bullshit is that?" Selina followed him into the kitchen. "And you're literally the most secretive motherfucker on the planet."
"Yes…" he acknowledged, pouring himself another cup. "And every secret I keep eats away at me daily. You act like I'm some prime example of mental health."
"Oh, don't give me that." Selina scoffed. "You're a drama king, is what you are. No disrespect, but we're all orphans, Bruce. I am, Clark is, Barry is…throw a rock at the Justice League and you'll hit the ghosts of at least 15 dead parents."
Bruce was able to somehow make his sigh sound both aggressive and exhausted. "Is there a point to this?"
"Umm…yeah, Ivy just forfeited like 80% of her persona on live television."
Bruce pursed his lips, leaning back against the counter. "Firstly: I'd say she shut down Snapper's rhetoric pretty effectively, all while plugging her causes. Secondly: Can she still control any and all plant-life on a whim? Can she still filter contaminated air using her anatomy?"
Selina crossed her arms. "I don't see why not."
"Well," Bruce took a sip of his coffee. "That's really all that matters to us. Yes, Pamela's powers of seduction were effective, but 9 times out of 10 her employment of them would lead to a murder. Seems like every day Dr. Quinzel is in her life, she moves further from Poison Ivy and closer to Pamela Isley, and the latter is a lot easier to handle."
"Bruce!" Selina ripped the mug out of his hand and slammed it down on the counter, thoroughly startling him. "Pam is married to Dr. Quinzel! That's her fucking wife! It's not healthy, the relationship cannot be healthy! There is an inherent imbalance of power there, don't you see?"
Bruce shrugged. "You were my thief, I was your jailer, how is that any different? Pamela is a grown woman. You really think Poison Ivy is going to resign herself to some sort of beta role?"
"No," Selina really wasn't sure why this was riling her up so extensively, it wasn't any of her business, really, but this conversation had been a long time coming. "Pamela is an emotionally stunted genius who understands little about human interaction in the first place. She's a teenager in love for the first time, and she's too busy making fucking heart eyes at her wife to see that Harleen lacks any integrity whatsoever. You know what she told me a few years back? She said that Harley repeated what Woodrue had said while he was raping her, and she did it while they were having sex."
Bruce was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable. "Harleen's methods may be unorthodox, but you can't argue with the results."
Selina took a step forward. "She told me Harleen had apologized profusely. Said she'd never do it again. Said she was drunk and that she didn't mean it…Pamela said she knew it would be different this time. And if that's not the most cliché line an abused woman could use—,"
"Selina, stop it." Bruce snapped. "Harleen is my colleague, my protégé, and my partner and I cannot think of a happier marriage than she and Pam's, honestly. I'm sorry that your friend was raped 60 years ago, but why you feel the need to villainize Harleen because she finally got Pam to start discussing that trauma is beyond me. She's just doing her job."
"I'm—I'm not villainizing Harleen!" Selina was aghast. "She's doing that to herself! You can't write a book on your wife's psychology then parade her around in costume like she condones this shit. I know she doesn't. I'm not stupid, I know my friend."
"Oh, your friend who you sold out to Joker?" Bruce challenged. "That got Harleen paralyzed, Selina. We can blame Ivy for losing her tempter all day, but really, they wouldn't have even been in that situation if you'd—"
"What?" Selina raised an eyebrow. "Bit the bullet? Fucking died? Been dissolved in the vat of acid he had me hanging over?"
"You didn't have to tell him the real address, and he pushed you into the acid anyway. Result would have been the same." Bruce concluded. "But you were angry. Admit it, you were angry at Ivy for getting you into that situation in the first place."
"That was 25 years ago!" Selina shouted. "And in case you haven't noticed, Harley can walk just fine now."
"You're right it has been a while, and Harleen has stuck by Ivy for every single one of those years since She has dedicated her life and her career to that woman, and we're all better for it." Bruce grabbed the mug off the counter and tossed it roughly into the sink.
"Jesus," Selina's face scrunched up in disgust. "What do you have a hard-on for their relationship or something? I'm sorry I don't get off on some twisted nuclear family fantasy like Pam does."
"Why is it twisted?" Bruce asked. "Married, two kids, a house, a fucking garden—does that really sound so horrible? I don't see the problem with striving for normalcy."
"Ha!" Selina exclaimed. "Normal is a setting on a washing machine. We're not normal, you've never wanted to be, you've never even really tried to be. And Pam and Harley? They're not normal either. That—," she pointed to the frozen image on the television of Ivy stalking out of frame. "Is not normal."
"Fine," Bruce exited the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair he'd risen from earlier. "Give Harleen an earful. See if that helps. Just make sure Pam isn't around when you do because given the choice between the two of you, she'd be renewing her wedding vows and you wouldn't be invited quicker than you could say she deserved better."
Selina rolled her eyes. "I would give you a kiss and tell you to have a nice day, but I wouldn't want you to cream your jeans at the domesticity of it all."
"Slacks," Bruce mumbled, heading for the door. "I'm not wearing jeans."
"I'll have supper on the table by 5!" Selina called after him. "A pot roast, yum!"