Sirens Chapter 11: Never Made Real, a batman fanfic

It was a rare treat to sit at the Iceberg Lounge's bar. Normally the throngs of people at the bar kept her holed away in a private booth, but it was all hers for now. In a few short hours, it would be teeming with people, but for now, it was her and the bartender. The kitchen wasn't technically open yet, but one of the perks of being Poison Ivy was that the kitchen was always open. Tonight was her usual: a ribeye-medium rare-with seasonal vegetables, steamed, then tossed with extra virgin olive oil and house seasonings.

The bartender leaned against the back wall, toweling stemware, and looked her over. This was clearly business attire and she looked as if she had worked at 12 hour day. She hadn't bothered to change from her day at the hospital. Not that there was time to. She had stayed later than she should have at the hospital. There was the endless stream of emails to answer, requests to submit for machinery, and several dozen samples that had to be processed overnight. By the time she made it to her car, it was 8:45 and there was the small matter of the 100,000 square foot warehouse that that required tending. Vera needed to be fed, and a handful of her beloved vines had spots-not to mention two varieties had germinated!-when she glanced at her watch again, it was 10:00PM and her stomach was howling.

The phone rang, and she and the bartender froze. This was not the ring that signaled someone on the outside was dialing them. This was the tone when Oswald was on the line.

The bartender picked up and Ivy bit the asparagus in half. That asshole knew she was there. She made a point to sit in the camera's blind spot but the kitchen must've squealed her order wasn't to go. Suddenly a cold turkey sandwich at Stytch's sounded delicious, but highlight is 20/20.

The bartender hung up and paused before he turned to her. He must've known what he had to tell her she didn't want to hear. "Mr. Cobblepot would like a word with you."

Part of her wanted to keep Oswald waiting. It was rude for him to interrupt her meal, but he was the elder. She resented the years of decorum that had been drilled into her. Try as she might, there were moments she was shackled by civility, and this was one of them.

Ivy took one last bite of her steak and left the bartender to dry his glassware in peace. She slipped into the hallways shadows as more staff arrived for their shift. Ivy turned the corner and at the far end of the hallway stood enormous double-doors. The wood's tone was warm and inviting, unlike the man behind them.

And she knew what he wanted. It's the only thing he ever wanted from any of them.

He wanted to talk.

He'd heard something, somewhere, and he needed to know more. This was the dance they all did. The game they all played. All bowed to the law of equivalent exchange. If they gave him a good nugget of information, he in turn, would supply them with something useful. Between them and his vast network of sources, he knew almost everything that went on in this city, legal or not.

Ivy rested her hand on the enormous brass handle and noted the wood grain. At a distance, it resembled rippling waves, but up close it was more of a delicate spider web. Penguin was the wrong name for him. He was more like a spider with an inescapable web. The slightest vibration, undetectable to most, would bring him out of the shadows.

She allowed herself a a shard of hope. Maybe he'd be content with news about her recent escape? She held on to that as she opened the door. They hung weightless on frictionless hinges.

The soft glow from the salt water tank that stretched the length of the wall. Opposite was a long, tufted velvet sofa and leather wingback chairs. There was the glint of of fine crystal and gentle sheen of well-worn brass. Over the bubble from the fish tank came the the soft glug-and-trickle of an expensive booze. It felt...comfortable and familiar, not unlike her grandfather's study. He'd scoop her up in his arms and regale her with stories of the time he saw a tiger in India. Oswald Cobblepot stood near his bar cart, wrapped in his velvet smoking jacket. The man hovered over the bar cart was a fraction of the size Captain Isley of the Blues and Royals was in so many ways. The one thing the two men did have in common was that regardless of the time of day, they were impeccably dressed.

The Elder Statesman shuffled closer and held out a tumbler with two fingers of Scotch.

"To your freedom, Doctor."

Ivy took the glass and took a sip. Oswald closed his eyes as he took a long sip.

"Since when do you call me that?"

He chuckled.

The majority of their ranks held doctorates in one form or another, none of them bothered with honorifics, unless they were trading insults, but his comment wasn't tinged with malice. No...Oswald Cobblepot was on a fishing expedition. He reclined in his overstuffed seat, and wrapped his thin fingers around the armrest.

"Since I hear you're pulling shifts at Gotham General. Harley, too."

There it is.

Ivy took a long swig of Scotch and let it burn her throat. He thoughts in her mind all blurred together. They're working with so many people-normal everyday people- and those people will talk about them. To complicate matters, he could've heard about this a dozen different ways, from twice as many sources.

"What's that about?"

He knew damn well they didn't do charity work and changing the subject was out of the question.

"You know..." Ivy swirled her glass letting the ice jingle. "Enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Some enemy if you're after them." Oswald took a luxurious sip. "But that must be some friend to be keeping you both out of Arkham."

Ivy smiled. Whether he knew it or not, he gave her a perfect misdirection. She stretched out in the chair and glanced over the rip of the glass.

"It's a shame Arkham has such poor medical coverage for dependents."

Oswald's stomach shook as he laughed. "Gotham's great philanthropist! Oh, my dear you'll be screw if they get socialized medicine." He caught his breath and as he leaned forward, the chair gave a slight squeak. "Speaking of, how did Harley pull off that overdose?"

"You know how she feels about her prestiges."

Harley, who would happily instruct anyone willing to listen on the finer points of robbery, was mum about her methods. Furthermore, questions about it would sour an otherwise jovial Mistress of Mischief. In fact, how Harley pulled off escapes and entrances at Arkham was a better kept secret than their relationship at this point.

"The girl had a lethal dose of Seroquel and two hours later orchestrates a blood bath?" Oswald pressed.

"You're surprised?"

Oswald leaned back again, as if he remembered himself and who he was talking about. "She makes me a fortune when she breaks into Arkham."

The elder gentleman stared off into space, a faint whimsical smile tickled the corners of his mouth. In the years she had known him, the only time he had that look was when he was thinking of money. It was his next favorite thing to rumors.

Ivy cleared her throat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work in the morning."

He raised his glass to her and drained it. "Bet you never thought you'd say that again."

Never.

That word. That word she had banished a long time ago had come back once again. She used to have a long list of nevers and impossibles. Things that were beyond the pale of morality or imagination. Lines not to be crossed.

Ivy stood, knowing she was the impossible, the never made real. "Yet here I am."

I live! I know it's been a very long time without an update. I'm busily working on Stytch (the web series!) and I hope to have a little more time to share more stories with all of you :)