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Should I? Thought Poison Ivy. It wasn’t a straightforward question. If she stayed where she was, this would end very pleasantly, but if she took a risk…
If she took a risk this could end in magic.
***
The snow was falling harder—beautiful white flakes drifting down. It was a fluffy snow, and even though Poison Ivy would have preferred warm rain or beautiful sunshine, even she could appreciate how, if only briefly, it made this poison city, Gotham City, seem pure and clean. At least until the plows piled it up in giant drifts and the never ending pollution turned it into a grey sludge that blanketed the city in a very visible filth, she mentally added.
The holiday season was hitting her especially hard this year. For much of it, especially toward the end before they left, she’d allowed herself to entertain the idea of teaching Rose, Hazel, and Thorn about the human holidays, how people became obsessed with commercialism and consumerism, how they murdered trees by the millions, and how they gorged themselves like gluttons on meat and sugar.
It was also about family, and she had expected and hoped to have three excited little girls squealing and opening Christmas presents. She’d looked forward to that, and it had been taken from her. Why did everything she looked forward to get taken away?
She sighed and crossed the street, being extra careful on the thin sheet of ice. Even now, in these conditions, there were cars everywhere, belching exhaust into the air, making it stink to her nose. She hated this city. It was toxic, dead, and so little grew here. Someone honked, and it took everything in her not to turn and obliterate the person in the car.
When she was like this, her rage was a white hot thing, with no positive feelings to temper it, and struck so quickly she did bad things before she even realized it was happening. Gritting her teeth, she hurried across, clutching the straps of her bags so tightly she knew she was white knuckled underneath her warm gloves.
She hated Gotham, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave, because this place was where the battle lines were drawn, where the war to save the Green would be waged. It would be cowardly for her to flee to the Amazon now. She knew these things, but this time of year those reasons—in fact any reasons to stay the course and be motivated—seemed so far away.
The growing things, her green friends, were quiet. Some were dead, buried under a blanket of killing frozen ice. Others were asleep through the long winter, their thoughts sluggish and unfocused, so that nudging them awake was almost more frustrating than letting them slumber. In her safe, warm apartment on Canal Point, where she had the heat cranked up, burning deadwood crackling in the fireplace, and UV lamps to at least fake the sunshine, she felt almost normal, but venturing out in the cold was…difficult for her.
Out here, in the snowscape, walking the multiple city blocks with presents to deliver, she felt so alone…so isolated.
Harley was in New York with her new family, her new boyfriend. Ivy was happy for her—happy she’d found some peace, even if it was her version of it. She told herself she wasn’t jealous, but that wasn’t entirely true. For so long, Harley had needed her strength, and now she…didn’t. That was a good thing, Ivy told herself, repeatedly, even if it was painful.
Selina was out of town, waiting for the heat to die down. As ludicrous as it sounded, she was wanted for hundreds of murders, which Ivy found incomprehensible. As though Selina Kyle had it in her to hunt down and kill hundreds of people--no one was clueless enough to believe that. The cops were looking for her anyway, so Selina was safely in a non-extraditing country sipping umbrella drinks and waiting for her chance to come back and be herself, waiting for the uncreative hacks to stop pushing that silly narrative.
It had been an odd whim, earlier that day when she’d felt the walls closing around her and wanted to see someone, to talk to someone, and she’d spent the day growing something for a gift and collecting some things to take with her. Guests shouldn’t show up empty handed—an old rule of her mother’s. She tried not to think of her, but sometimes the holidays brought those sorts of memories floating back up.
Had she been a better mother than hers? She hoped so, but if she’d been a good mother, the sporelings wouldn’t have left, would they? Darshan had assured her it wasn’t because of her, but at the time he’d been terrified she was going to kill him, so she didn’t entirely trust what he said. He’d been tip toeing around her since, though he’d flown home for the holidays. She was surprised to realize she missed him.
So much for her legendary misandry.
According to her phone, gripped delicately in her gloved hand, this was the building, so she gratefully opened the door into the ground floor lobby and stepped in, breathing in warm air and tugging the door closed behind her.
“Ok,” she said out loud, to no one in particular, “it’s on the third floor.” Her breath was no longer steaming the way it had outside, one of those little reminders that she wasn’t actually a plant and that, technically, she still had a foot in the meat kingdom. She set down her bags, shook her red curls out, damp with melting snow, and unwound her green scarf. Then, picking up the bags, she eyeballed the ancient elevator dubiously.
“No, I think not.” It took her a moment to find the stair well, but once she did, she ascended briskly and found herself in a hallway. It only took a moment to find the right door.
The buiding was an older one, but in good repair. The hall’s carpet was a little threadbare and she could catch a hint of mustiness, of dryrot, but she doubted a normal human would have detected it. It wasn’t particularly serious yet. The door in question was red, with darker red, cracked trim. There was a wreath hanging on it, cheap and plastic, probably a big box store model like Bullseye or Bigmart. Ivy didn’t like plastic everything, but she preferred it to killing plants for trees and wreaths.
She took a deep breath, uncharacteristic anxiety running through her. She didn’t have any idea what the reaction would be—someone like her showing up on Christmas Eve, unannounced. Normally, she strutted through life without even a glimmer of fear, but deep down, underneath the unfailing vanity and narcissism, she knew it was rejection that frightened her the most. In a way, it was Jason’s rejection that set her on this path all those years ago, and Batman’s rejection that had kept her obsessed for the length of her mostly unsuccessful career as a supervillain. Even Harley’s rejection had been a major reason she’d started researching the sporelings.
At the end of the day, she was Poison Ivy. She wouldn’t huddle here, afraid of action. She knocked on Barbara Gordon’s door briskly, and stepped back, clearly visible through the peep hole. From within the apartment, she could hear her calling out, “Just a minute! Hold your horses, Damn it!” The door was flung open, and Barbara was standing in the doorway with a towel around her, a second in her hand, and her red hair damp and dripping from the shower. She looked stunned, her mouth hanging open.
“Ivy?”
“Hello again, Miss Gordon.” Her voice was steady. She was thankful for that as she tried not to smirk at Barbara’s state of undress. “Is this a bad time?”
“What…what are you doing here?” Ivy froze, trying desperately to think about how to answer that question. What WAS she doing here? She suddenly was questioning this whole idea.
“I wanted to…drop your Christmas present off.” It sounded weak to her ears, and she ground her teeth, feeling a welcome flicker of temper driving away the uncomfortable doubt.
“Perhaps this was a bad idea.” She placed the bag with her gifts on the ground. “Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Gordon. Please have a Merry Christmas.” She turned to go.
“Ivy…wait,” the bathrobe clad vigilante said. Ivy turned to her, still holding the second bag. “You caught me by surprise. Come in and warm up?” Barbara looked a little freaked out at the idea, but Ivy walked back and Barbara stood to one side to allow her in.
Barbara’s apartment was small, on the older side, but cozy, Ivy decided. It was a single bedroom, open floor plan, the small kitchen cut off from the living room by a half wall. It was cluttered, a stack of dishes soaking in the sink and the box and tray of a TV dinner sitting cold and forgotten on the counter. Ivy set her bag next to it, and Barbara followed her in, carrying the bag of presents. The living room was dominated by an elaborate computer set up, state of the art home PC, a small TV stand, and a modest flat screen TV with an X-station game system, like Harley’s, connected, a matching controller on the ratty love seat where Barbara had evidently been sitting, because there was a little nest of blankets piled up on it. She was amused to note one was electric and had little Santas and reindeer on it. The single window had plastic stapled over it for extra insulation, and a free standing radiant heater stood out from the wall. Ivy was thankful to notice it was cranked up and the whole room was pleasantly warm.
Barbara had a small, four foot, artificial tree. One of the pre-lit ones, it was twinkling merrily—a pile of wrapped presents underneath it. There was a single stocking hanging from a book shelf labeled ‘Babs’ in glitter pen.
“Just, uh, just get out of your wet things and toss them on that coat rack in the corner. It’s near the heater, it will dry ‘em out.” Barbara was in the kitchen, throwing away clutter and nervously trying to make space. “Can I get you anything? I have, lessee, milk, water, diet soda, OJ, hot cocoa, coffee?” Ivy strolled over to the rack and began unwinding her wet scarf, then took off her gloves.
“That’s alright, Miss Gordon. If you’ll look in the bag I placed on the counter, there are three bottles of wine.” She saw Barbara fish in the bag and start removing items. Wine she’d grown and bottled herself, a bag of homemade baked and seasoned kale chips, a small quart container of hummus she’d made earlier than afternoon, and a tin of vegan chocolate chip cookies.
“Oh wow, Ivy, this looks good,” Barbara said once everything was laid out. Ivy shrugged out of her heavy coat. Underneath she’d dressed in simple jeans and a green turtleneck, and she tucked her sleeves up and walked into the kitchen.
“It’s an old habit of mine to bring something if I visit someone. I may have overthought it. I do that a lot, Miss Gordon.”
Barbara seemed to still be getting used to the idea this traditional enemy of hers knew her civilian name. “You know, Ivy, you should just call me Barbara. Or Babs. I think we’re beyond being so formal.” Ivy nodded.
“Babs,” she said, trying the name out on her tongue. Barbara blushed and smiled, acting a bit nervous again.
“So, let’s uncork one of these bad boys?” She started to rummage around in a drawer, and Ivy sat on her stool, shaking her damp hair out and crossing her legs.
“I should warn you that I don’t actually get drunk. I like the flavors and the challenge of blending and fermenting. The chemistry involved is fascinating.”
Barbara found her corkscrew and began opening a bottle. “What made you decide to come by? How did you know where I live?” She asked, distractedly, as she worked the cork out.
“Well,” Ivy began, fiddling with one of Barbara’s salt and pepper shakers, “I was out to drop off some packages anyway, and I’m alone this year—Selina’s out of town and Harley’s in New York. I heard Nightwing was back, so I…asked him.”
Barbara blinked at her and paused before pouring. “And he just told you?”
Ivy gave her an even look. “I can be persuasive, we both know that. I didn’t mean any harm, I wanted to surprise you. I apologize if I overstepped.”
Barbara shook her head. “You know my name now. If you really wanted to hurt me you could have done it already.” She poured two glasses and handed one to Ivy, who accepted it delicately. “Batman—”
“Bruce.” Ivy arched a delicate eyebrow in challenge.
“So—you know him too?” Barbara pinched the bridge of her nose.
“It’s nowhere near as difficult to work out as you might think, Barbara. I’ve known for years. I strongly suspected the first time I met him—a night I kissed him as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. I know how people kiss, and I’m amazed he thinks we’re all so dense. Some of them are too far gone, but I’d bet my last seed somewhere in his fractured mind the Joker knows. Two Face. Penguin. Eddie overthinks it. Harley, too—she worked up a psych profile on who the Batman might be one night while a little drunk and it read like a Bruce Wayne dating profile. I knew you right away but didn’t have a name to put to your face. Barbara Gordon isn’t as famous as playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne.”
Barbara nodded. “I guess I never really thought about how easy it might be to figure it all out.” She offered her glass. “So, to a less lonely Christmas Eve for both of us?”
Ivy tapped her glass to Barbara’s with a light ting and took a sip. “Thank you for inviting me into your home. My place never really seemed to quiet, before.”
Barbara took a drink and made an MMM sound. “Wow, Ivy, this is really good. And of course. This is…nice. I know you’ve been staying out of trouble and it’s a relief not having to worry about you, not with everything else going on in the city.”
Ivy set her glass down and idly ran a fingertip around the edge. “I don’t have any interest in being a ‘villain’ anymore, Barbara. I want to research and focus on activism, I’ve realized I can’t kill or frighten people into treating the environment with respect, so I hope to find another way.”
Barbara was watching her finger, and Ivy noticed, and with a grin, moved it to her mouth, sucking on the tip. Barbara was riveted.
This might end up being a fun night.
***
They’d moved into the living room, crashing on Barbara’s couch and her heated blanket, which Ivy appreciated, and journeyed into their second bottle. Barbara had loved her gifts--some of Ivy's homemade, vegan makeup, shampoo, bath beads. Barbara spent ten minutes just smelling the rose scented body lotion she'd made especially for her.
“…so then Batman is all, ‘Dick,’” and Barbara affected a deep, growly voice that was in no way deep or growly, coming from her, but which made Ivy snicker, “’Maybe you should have left the guinea pig at home.’ And Dick goes, ‘But what will I do with all these pine chips?’” Barbara fell over, giggling uncontrollably, and Ivy helped prop her up.
“Oh, I think we may have gotten you a bit drunk, Barbara.”
“I’m WAY drunk, Iveeeeee.” She giggled some more.
“I can see that.” She was still propping Barbara up, one hand on her arm, and she placed a hand on Barbara’s bare knee. Time stood still. For a long moment, Ivy felt the tension in the air thicken, and Barbara stopped giggling, her unfocused gaze resting on Ivy’s face, her eyes, her lips. Ivy broke the spell. “At any rate, it’s late, Barbara. I need to get started before the storm gets any worse.” She started to stand, but Barbara grabbed her hand.
“No, wait. You should stay the night. It’s too cold to try and walk all that way. Why don’t you couch surf, and we can have breakfast in the morning?” Barbara tugged her down, closer. Ivy liked her hand—small but strong, soft but calloused.
“I don’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense, I’ll grab you some blankets.” It didn’t take long after that. They cleaned up their snacky mess, Barbara brought her sheets and blankets that smelled faintly from being folded up in a closet for some time but weren’t entirely unpleasant, and after a bedtime ritual, Barbara bade her good night and closed her door with a soft click.
Ivy lay on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the heater, and listened to the building settle around her. Barbara had sobered considerably before bed, and just before retreating to her room, Ivy had seen her peeking at her, watching her, as though she expected something.
This evening had been nice. They’d chatted about many things, and Ivy’d even opened up about her sporeling girls, talking in a halting voice about how attached she’d become, and Barbara had hugged her in sympathy, not pity. She stared at the door, unable to sleep.
She wanted this, but she wanted what could be more. Ivy was a planner and had an analytical mind, and she watched the door and considered several different scenarios. She was definitely not the gambling type, but one thing was becoming more and more clear.
If she wanted more, she was going to have to take a risk. She stood and carefully removed her clothes, taking her time to fold them up neatly on the couch. Naked, she wrapped the sheet around her and gently padded to the door. The knob squeaked quietly when she opened it, and she stepped inside.
She immediately heard Barbara stir and sit up, and then her bedside lamp clicked on. She didn’t look like she’d been able to fall asleep right away either.
“Ivy, is everything ok?” She asked, a note of concern in her voice.
In response, Ivy dropped the sheet, allowing it to pool around her bare feet. Barbara’s gaze raked up and down her sleek, nude body. Ivy took a step forward. “I want you to know, you can say no and it won’t hurt my feelings or change anything. I understand if you don’t want me to stay.” She stepped close to the bed, putting a knee on it, and leaning forward to rest her hands, prepared to crawl in. She searched Barbara’s face.
Barbara stared at her for a long moment—long enough to make Ivy question this choice. Finally, she licked her lips and said quietly, “No, I want you to stay.”
So Ivy did.