I don't own Harley Quinn, nor do I own Poison Ivy. But after much character-searching and intrigued assessment, I've come to realize how much I love the pairing. Hell, it's made me like Harley Quinn, and I thought that was impossible! Anyway, I've come to love Harley/Ivy way too much and…well, here's my first piece on that subject matter. Enjoy!

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She's a fool.

It's the only thought in Ivy's head, the single, lonely concept. Harley Quinn is a damn fool, an idiot, someone so enraptured by infatuation that life and pain pass her by in a blur.

The all-too-infamous Poison Ivy, is level-headed. She's grounded, passive, and casual. She understands things beyond Harley's comprehension. Her only downfall is passion, and passion applies itself in many places. One of those places is the way her long fingers brush (kindly, gently, always softly) against Harley's pale, bruised skin. It's always so toned, she notes, taut beneath her touch. It's skin, she feels, that doesn't deserve such abuse.

Ivy is different. Ivy would never put up with the things her beloved 'Mistah J' does to Harley. Ivy always lectures Harley ("Like uh professuh," Harley says, in that way that makes Ivy think she should be popping gum) about the importance of equality and—no, not even, how much more Harley means than the stupid clown. "Mistah J," she always defends, always swift, her crystal-clear eyes puppy-dog sad, "Mistah J's just gotta bad tempuh. He'll come 'round, you'll see, Red, you'll see."

Ivy is still waiting for the day someone sees, but she hopes that someone isn't her. It'd be nice, she always thinks, with a tinge of bitter sarcasm, if blind Harley would see.

Ivy just takes her in, feeling masochistic and sluggish at whatever moment Harley enters. When the clown rejects her, Ivy does the same job she does for her lovelies. She tends to Harley until Harley can bloom, flourish. She softens her, proves all the sweetness in the entire world. She prepares her and, inevitably, when the process is done and she's cultivated a beautiful flower, Harley leaves to repeat the process again. New bruises, new cuts will form where the old ones abandon. They'll taint Harley's pretty skin with un-pretty shades of mauve.

"These roses are real pretty, Red." The blonde splays across her couch, the couch Ivy lets her claim for her own, and touches reverently at the deep red petal. Ivy's always pleased with that, it always makes her smile. Harley is, she swears sometimes, more attentive than she knows.

"Carrousel Grandiflora," Ivy says, and looks up briefly from her book to answer, "They're meant to be proud."

Ivy's ability to notice the sudden proximity of the blonde is incomprehensible, but Harley always sneaks up on her in more ways than one. There's a goofy grin plastered to her face, and Ivy knows she's waiting, anxious like a child on Christmas morning, for her attention. She just keeps reading, turns a page, and memorizes the slightly impatient twitch in Harley's breath.

"Like you, Red?" And the rose slips behind her ear, careful, soft. When she finally ventures a full glance up, her green eyes clash with diamond-clear-blue and for a minute her breath doesn't come just right. But Harley's sitting comfortably on the armrest of her favorite chair, her legs crossed one over the other, one hand still touching just behind Ivy's ear.

Pamela Isley takes Harleen Quinzell's hand in her own and brushes a thumb reverently over her knuckles, mapping out purple and red bruises, studying them with only a touch. Harley flinches, but it's only enough to shake her body just plainly that Ivy withdraws her touch and there they are, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy and it's all once more with feeling.

"I suppose," Ivy murmurs, shy all at once. Harley is like a puppy who's just learned a game of fetch. She's eager to please, always jumping for that excitement, always willing to catch the thrown Frisbee. Ivy doesn't want to throw the Frisbee anymore than, she believes, deep down Harley wants to catch it. Ivy desperately wants to know why Harley needs to exist like a parasite with a reverse reaction; like a being who takes in the nutrients from another being but doesn't gain anything for herself.

"Think Mistah J would like one'uh these, Red?" She toys with the petals of the rose again, stroking at it, playing with it still settled behind Ivy's ear. The red-head rests her book face-down in her lap and rests her hands palm-down at her thighs. The breath she inhales is draconic, intense, a flare of the nostrils. She almost realizes how irritated it makes her, the fact that Harley uses that nickname for her so often, like they're old friends, like she has the nerve to think them lovers.

"No, Harley."

Ivy decides something with the simplest feeling.

Monsters shouldn't have beautiful things.