Melon Rinds

By Megan

Summary: Ivy loses her sense of humor. Harley/Ivy

Notes: No idea where it came from.

Dedication: FOR JEAN, who turned me onto the pairing. Yay for femmeslash!

The vines were gentle in a way she couldn't quite remember. She wasn't even sure how she knew what gentleness was, or how to call it gentleness. She'd never received it from anyone before; she'd never seen it in Red's vines. The restrained, choked, flogged, and speared bodies, yet here they were, craddling her. They lifted her off of the cold floor. Her blood-stained costume ripped in several places, sticking to the black puddle beneath her. The vines grew in number, retrieving the scraps of cloth and trying to put them back in place. Harley almost thought she could grow fond of them, like children. They weren't her own, but she liked them well enough.

Beside her was a pile of rotting food. Apple cores, melon rinds, orange peels. They'd saved it all for weeks before putting the plan into action. Her Puddin always came up with the best jokes. First they'd saved up all the old food, then he'd used her up real good—two arms and one leg broken this time—before throwing her out on it. She'd waited, fighting against the pain for consciousness, while he made the call to Red. It was a great joke she though—one Red would really appreciate.

But then the vines had found her, and the gentleness came, and she was afraid that she'd ruined everything. Puddin would be so mad afterward—he might just break her other leg to prove it. Harley cried out when the vines constricted around her limbs, forcing the bones back into place. Red always took such good care of her. Sometimes too good, she figured, because Ivy was forgetting the joke.

"Why are you crying Red!" she asked, as Ivy stooped down to touch her cheek. Her vision was hazy through the pain, but she could see the ruby sadness in Ivy's eyes and nose. Her lips seemed puffier than usual—but then, so were Harley's. "Come on Red…don't cry…it was a joke!"

Ivy froze, her hands stiffening against the greasepaint. Her eyes narrowed around their tears, and a sudden rage began in her tight stomach, rising like bile through her body. "Tell me," she whispered harshly, watching a thin, white body in purple suit flit among the shadows. She wanted to feed that rage—nurture it and train it, coiling it within her until it was time to strike.

Harley coughed, a little laugh escaping her. "Puddin said you'd laugh, he said it would be so funny…isn't it funny Red?" she stared pleadingly at the red-head, begging for her approval. Ivy only nodded, prompting her to speak. Her eyes were mere slits now, their focus never shifting from the ghostly clown that circled them. "He said that I'd be like his leftovers, and he'd leave me in the compost pile for you…isn't that hilarious?"

New tears sprang into Ivy's eyes, and the rage nearly leapt out of her. The Joker had made a mockery of her feelings, and used it as a farce for his abuse. She was going to kill him. She knew it before the idea even cemented within her mind. Harley could hardly take seeing her like that. "Aww, Red. You can touch me, even if it hurts. We'll go away and have sleepovers and you'll feel better and…oh Red, stop crying like that, you're too pretty to cry so much…." She could feel herself fighting a losing battle against unconsciousness. Something kept her awake though, something that didn't fit right in her mind.

Oh, yes, that's right. The gentleness. She just couldn't wrap her head around it. Harley wanted Ivy to be Red again, to be the ill-tempered red-head that was her best friend. Red was playful about her affection, but this…this was different. This was something Harley didn't think she could trust. If Red went soft, who would protect her from when Puddin got mad? He couldn't help it—he loved Harley, but she just wasn't good enough for her Mr. J. She had to be good, then he'd stop hurting her. How would she learn to be good if Red was so nice now?

The shadow-figure stopped moving, deciding it was time to make his grand entrance. Ivy didn't give him the satisfaction, didn't let him get close enough to show off his smug, painted smile. She hated him more than any other man in the world. More than the bulldozers in the rainforest, more than the acid rain and aluminum cans. He wasn't polluting the world, he was polluting a person. He was polluting the only person she cared about.

When the vines became silent and alert, Harley felt a thick bubble of happiness in her throat. When she coughed, it blossomed deep red, and covered her face. There was a series of familiar sounds, the sounds of a man's death, though she refused to think of whose. The shriek of surprise, wet crack of the sternum, intake of last breath, and gurlge of last exhalation. An end to many things. The end of the gentleness, most of all. Harley laughed again, the bubbles in her mouth like soup, like gravy. Warm and almost comforting. She could see it if she tilted her head right. It was warm and violent and a most familiar color. Ivy stood over her, staring at it in distaste, whiping it from her vines with delicate, green fingers.

Harley laughed. "Now that's the Red I know…."

I've noticed that, as I get older, my stories make less sense. Oh noes! I've got Alzheimers!