You know what I liked about Eden? We were all naked and had a damn good time.
harley quinnxpoison ivy
In this world, there is only life. This is a world of new beginnings, never endings. Never death. Where one tree falls, another grows in its place. Where one branch is broken, two more spring from the stump. Where one gives, the other takes and then reciprocates; each inhale and exhale, giving and taking. The true symbiotic relationship of Nature.
This is the world she has striven for. This is the world that she has wanted for a long, long time, long before Pamela became Ivy. In this world, her world, she bathes in sunlight and tends to the trees and the flowers and blooms with them, in peace. Gotham is gone; Batman is gone. So is Batgirl, so is Robin, so is every damned person who tried to stop her. They had one, final, deadly confrontation (one that nearly cost her everything, life included), but Mother Nature is a patient and cunning mistress and what you sew, inevitably, you will reap. The so called "defenders" of Gotham fell and now they lay somewhere beneath the soil of the world, giving it life. She finds herself thanking them for their sacrifice, whether it was willing or not.
Earth has become Eden once more, and this time, God has no reign on who may or may not enter.
She isn't the only one in her world. She kept the children safe and sound; they only lived in Gotham, they didn't know better. They were innocent and full of life and abused and used and now they aren't. Not in her world. The children are the seeds, and she gives them life and nourishment. In her garden, they know no fear; they may do anything they wish. In her Eden, they may eat any fruit they desire—the plants are their friends. They know this, they respect this. As they live out their lives in her Eden, as they thrive, as they reproduce, they will teach their children how to respect the new Eden and the new human race will grow as it should have, in harmony with Nature.
(And if there are one or two bad branches, she will cut them. For she is God here, and this God will not tolerate pollution.)
Aside from the children, there are gentle herbivores that live in Eden's brush, and shining fish that swim in the rivers and streams. The children will grow to take only what they need from the animals—meat, fur, bones. Nothing will be wasted. And, of course, what cannot be eaten will be shared with Nature, for that is only fair.
The only real carnivores that live here are the mutts; the rest are scattered about, well away from her and the children. But she tolerates them—for though she is a God that will not tolerate pollution, she knows that they only want to live. They are welcome.
And, of course, Harley lives here as well. Harley, who has been much like a flower herself throughout the years, lives by her side; rules by her side—even though she doesn't know it. It's obvious though—the plants give her the berth and respect that only the new God receives. At Harley's insistence, vines will untangle and curl around her fingers, where she will coo and croon and praise them for whatever work they have done. A tree will stand just a little taller when Harley strokes the bark, the flowers will turn up their petals and bask in her childish awe of their beauty, as the vain things they are. Harley can't speak to the plants, she can't hear them, but she loves them and that is enough.
Harley has a lot of love to give—she loves the children, she loves the mutts and she loves Ivy.
It is enough.
She rises with the morning, eyes opening of their own accord. The wind blows through the spaces in between the bright green leaves, mimicking the ocean. Oh, it's just wonderful to hear when she wakes. And Harley's face is the first thing she sees, pale skin vibrant and glowing and free from bruises (and free from greasepaint, free from him). Harley doesn't have the gift of rising with the sun, but that's alright—Ivy lets her sleep and merely watches her, reaching out to move gold strands of hair out of the way, pushing them behind her ear.
"Mm, Red," Harley mumbles, mouth curling at the corners—Ivy waits, her green fingers just ghosting the apple of her cheeks. Harley shifts a little, and a blue eye opens. She lets out a theatrical sigh and slams her eyes shut, letting out a loud snort.
Ivy laughs softly, then tugs at Harley's ear. "Wake up, you."
"Five more minutes," is the whined reply.
"No, not five more minutes, now," Ivy says in a firmer voice. She flicks the shell of Harley's ear and her smile spreads when the blonde squawks, jumping in surprise. "There we go."
"Aw, meanie," Harley says, pouting. Ivy sees the invitation and leans in, capturing that lip between her own and biting down softly. Harley wiggles and sighs against her lips, giggling when Ivy pulls away. Her blue eyes are dark and shining with an emotion Ivy cannot decipher.
"I s'pose getting up this early in'nt such a bad thing," she says in a soft voice, and her pale hand reaches out and pets Ivy's hair. The strands of red hair curl around her fingers, and she lightly scratches Ivy's scalp. A low purr rumbles through her body, and Harley scoots closer, so that they are touching in all the right places in all the right ways. Heat blooms between them, like it always has.
"You'd learn to like it," Ivy says, her hand trailing over the nape of Harley's neck. "If you didn't stay up so late."
"If you didn't keep me up so late, you mean."
"You never say no."
"Only 'cause you keep offering."
"Learn to resist the temptation then."
"Eve couldn't. Adam couldn't. I bet Steve wasn't so great either."
"But you aren't any of them, so you have no excuse."
Harley kisses her then, long and deep, and rolls them over so that her knees are on either sides of Ivy's hips. When they break, Harley looks like she's about to cry.
"I love you," she says in a small voice. Where her fingers stroke Ivy's cheeks, they're soft, almost trembling. The pressure is nonexistent, like she's expecting the green to wipe off and reveal white skin (ugly ugly white skin, stretched over ugly bones and filled with ugly smiles and ugly words). It's almost like she expects Ivy to throw her head back and laugh, shrill and loud. Oh Harl, your punchlines are just plain tacky. Now leave the jokes to your Puddin. (because he never really leaves—he can't. They both wish he would though.)
"I know," Ivy says, and she captures the fingers lingering at her cheeks and presses them hard against her skin. "Baby, I know."
It's like a seasonal orgy when they make love (because that's what it is, it's love)—snow falling on spring meadows, fall leaves curling with summer sunshine. The canopy above sprouts dozens, hundreds, thousands of blossoms—they're wont to do that when their God is pleased. And, certainly, God is pleased.
She has everything she's ever wanted.
And then the dream ends.
Harley's face is still the first thing she sees when she wakes up. It's still free from greasepaint, but there are black and purple bruises around her left eye, and a cut above her right eyebrow. Her face is pale, paler than it should be. Her wrist is wrapped in white gauze. Underneath her pale blue nightgown is more bandages and more bruises, more scars. More untold stories and more than what she says; "Aw, Mistah J wasn't that mad. He just, y'know, he just forgot he had that tire-iron when he swung at me, that's all."
Tire irons don't give you fucking teeth marks, Ivy thinks darkly. Her blood is boiling. Oxygen (of course not carbon dioxide, that shit's for humans) steams out of her nostrils and she bristles and she grinds her teeth and she aches inside. Eden is still swimming beneath her eyelids, and oh, she wants to return. She wants to go back to that place, where the plants sing and bloom in peace—where the children aren't used and abused—where the mutts are happy to frolick around and not water her babies—where there is no Batman and Robin and Batgirl and him.
Where Harley isn't hurt. Where Harley is happy.
But she can't. Dreams are just dreams. Were she of weaker will, she would have gladly went back to sleep. But she isn't weak. No, not Poison Ivy. Isley, sure. But not Ivy. No fucking way. She had changed, she had evolved, surely.
Harley's unbruised eye opens. Her injured wrist nears Ivy's face and Ivy turns her face away, rolling out of their bed and rising up. Harley says her name in a feeble voice, and Ivy simply tells her to go back to sleep. Because Harley's will is shitty and whatever dreams she has, she can return to in an instant. If Ivy weren't so damned selfish, she'd probably encourage Harley to stay in those dreams forever. They must be nice ones, after all.
As she presses her forehead against the window, scanning the towering darkness of Gotham's skyline, Ivy longs for Eden; a paradise and a place where Harley can smile freely, without fear of getting her teeth knocked out. She wants children to grow up as children, not selfish politicians or drug addicted lawbreakers. She wants to stop hearing the plants scream every damned minute of every damned day. She needs it just like she needs Harley to breathe.
So fuck you, Eve. Fuck you, Adam. And fuck you, Steve, for good measure.
Apples aren't that damned good.
a/n: you know, this had a happy ending once.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman. Therefor I don't make any money off of the franchise, or this work of fan-based fiction.