title: Every Little Thing
fandom: DC Comics
characters/pairings: Harley/Ivy, mentions of Jokey/Harley
rating: G/Teen
warnings: blood and unconsciousness
summary: Ivy reflects on the nature of her attachment to Harley.
notes: for anna_sinistra, for the 4colorheroines ficathon. many thanks to rithy for the beta.

The wisteria were in full bloom, even though it was only February. Their delicate fragrance filled the air lightly; the vines bent toward her as she moved through the space, as if they wanted to touch her. She appreciated their effort, but her attention was elsewhere, for now.

The pawpaw volunteered to strip or restrain their guest, depending on her wishes, but she did the work with her own hands. It was unusual for her to get blood on her skin; the red color looked odd, almost black. She couldn't get distracted by such things, though. Harley was not a plant, she reminded herself. There would be serious repercussions if she lost too much blood. There was a narrow window here. Even so, she couldn't help taking her time.

She pulled back Harley's hood and used a lotus leaf to wipe off the garish makeup. She tugged at the zipper under the white collar, and enlisted the help of a Virginia creeper to pull the nylon/spandex garb off of Harley's pale, smooth skin. In some places, the fabric stuck to her wounds where the small clots that had already begun to form were sealed to the clown's costume.

She ripped away the remnants of Harley's better-known guise and tossed it to the ground, where the grass swallowed it up, so it was forgotten. She didn't need to detoxify Harley here; this was just a greenhouse, her greenhouse. She used Valerian root to put Harley to sleep so she could treat her wounds. Thick, red blood dripped from Harley to water the grass beneath her. She packed each gash and laceration with Echinacea, covering the wounds with the skins of aloe leaves. It was a shame to tear apart a plant like that, especially for a human, but it was necessary, so she eased the plants' pain as much as she could.

Her hand wandered over Harley's skin, the blood drying over her skin in streaks that didn't move with Ivy's touch. Asleep, Harley didn't look innocent at all; there was something wicked about this girl that never went away. Her skin was covered in blood, bruises, and leaves. Green, red, and blue splotches over white, like moss and lichen on Coconino Sandstone.

She blinked, staying her hand. This was an... odd way for her to be thinking.

An odd thing for her to be doing. And yet, it was Harley, so she did it without considering.

Turning away from the makeshift hospital bed, she buried her nose in the wisteria. When she had Harley all patched up, they would have some fun. At least, Harley would. But the first time that damned clown prick called for her, Harley would trot off like a loyal puppy. It was crudely animalistic in the worst possible way.

She should just put Harley out of her misery. She considered it as she breathed in the wisteria. It would be better for Harley, anyway. That jackass was only going to cause her endless pain. How long before the Joker just decided it was funny to see Harley's neck twisted backward? Harley would be dead now, possibly, if she hadn't interfered on her behalf.

Since when did she save humans?

She turned back to Harley, lying there, defenseless, naked, covered in wounds...

Why did she save this girl? Why did she put herself out, use her precious plants, to save this one girl, this pedestrian victim of domestic abuse, a punching bag for a psychopath, this raving lunatic? She reached out to touch Harley's breasts. She should not have these feelings. They were... bothersome. A nuisance. She needed only the company of her plants; she longed to cleanse herself of those animalistic appetites that linked her to the people she hated the most. She had sunshine and water, she had resources and ingenuity, and she had independence and determination. Anything else would be a distraction.

That's what this woman was - a distraction. She made Ivy feel things... things that reminded her of a time when she answered to Pamela. Harley made Ivy's heart pound under her breast... She laid her hand on Harley's heart, and felt the dull thud of the muscle contracting and relaxing.

She was tired of this visceral flesh, this muscle and bone. The wisteria covered her shoulders, dropping down to place flowers on the back of the hand that rested on Harley's skin. Between this flower, and this flesh, which did she desire more? If it were a choice, which would she pick?

Her thumb circled the soft skin around Harley's nipple. She bent down, and placed her lips just over Harley's lips.

There was heat. She forgot about the heat when she wasn't near it, like a fire under the skin. A flame would lick up and burn, but this heat invigorated, it lived.

She regarded Harley coolly. She did not need this. She did not need passion or heat or flesh. She could choose to live however she wanted. If it wasn't a need, if it was only a pastime, a diversion... Did that make it better or worse?

Curling her hand around Harley's throat, she considered her choice. Flesh and heat, or a flower's kiss? Which would she choose?

Green fingers pushed into white flesh, only the flesh wasn't white; it was yellow. The sickly kind of crinkled yellow that indicated a diffuse bruise. So, he'd had his hands here.

She turned away, and asked the wisteria to watch over Harley. She would let the girl live, if only because it was another way in which she could differentiate herself from the animals she was surrounded with; she didn't need to kill the things she loved to be happy.








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