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Wrath

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She’d been an angry child.

She remembers the time she’d balled up her fists at screamed at the boys tearing through the park. They were too loud, and they’d trampled the poor flowers, leaving torn red petals strewn about the grass. She had punched one of them, and it had felt good, right, like she’d done something that mattered. She stood still for a moment, just feeling the rage course through her, until they pushed her down, and she’d had to run away, because there was nothing she could do to stop them.

She remembers how she held those little hands behind her back to hide the scraped palms as she made her way home, disheveled red braids hanging lopsidedly over her shoulders. The hands had been found some hours later, and her father had spanked her. When she ran crying to her mother she had received no sympathy.

They'd told her that fighting was no way for a proper young lady to behave. If that was the case, Pamela didn't think much of being a proper young lady, but over time the reminders had grown harsher, and so the anger grew quieter. No more screaming. No punching. No talking, even, no matter how much she had to say. But the fists stayed balled up, in pockets now, or under long sleeves where no one could see, where even she could forget sometimes.

She remembers his hands, so much larger than her own, pinning her down, forcing her body to comply until she went limp, and finally dragging her, barely conscious, across the concrete floor before everything went dark. She’d come out of that with much worse than scraped palms, and Ivy had realized there was no point in being a proper young lady in a world that only wanted to hurt you.

Because anger is a reaction to injustice, and the quieting of anger is merely the punishing of one's desire to affect change, the quelling of one’s power.

And she wasn’t going to deny the power she had anymore.

Especially not when there was so, so much of it

She unleashes her wrath upon the world, the fury of all nature now added to her own. The earth, she learns, is angry too, and well it should be. She is the terrible avenging goddess of the green, beautiful to all who look upon her, and fatal to those who look too long.

But then there was Harley.

Harley is never angry about anything in particular for very long, and never for the right reasons. Ivy wishes Harley could feel the white-hot rage she feels every time she reveals a new cut or bruise. She wishes she could feel anything other than shame and self-pity because of the man who did this to her. Harley can be better than she is, Ivy knows it, even though Harley herself seems unconvinced. She's angry at Harley sometimes, for not taking care of herself, for not letting Ivy take care of her. But Harley will not listen, and Ivy comes to accept it.

She shows up at her doorstep often these days, skin torn and battered, with dark marks left by his fingertips around her wrist and neck. Cuts and bruises adorn her body like the scattered rose petals Ivy adds to their baths, and Ivy feels sick as Harley tries to explain it away. Ivy cleans each wound, soothes each bruise, and searches Harley's eyes for some sign that she knows how wrong this is, that love should not be about how much pain you can withstand. Harley is always quiet the first night she’s there. Sometimes she’s gone by morning, but sometimes she stays, and Ivy’s house is transformed by her laughter.

She brings the warmth to thaw the cold that has encased Ivy for so long. Cold anger that protects her by never going away. When Harley curls up in her bed and nestles close to her chest, even her anger at the Joker is momentarily forgotten, replaced with a strange warmth she didn't know she could feel. Ivy herself, maybe, is transformed too.

Harley’s hands are soft, scrapes and cuts already healed by Ivy in the days before, and in the evening Ivy’s fingers are warm and wet with the fluids of her lover. They fall asleep, tangled together, Harley mumbling slightly, her breath tickling her collarbone.

She’s heard people say that the reason he hurts her is that she makes him feel weak, that her light shines in his darkness and reveals things he doesn’t want to see, things that he tells himself he's not anymore. He doesn't want to be a human.

But that's no excuse, because that's how Harley makes her feel too, and she’d never do anything to hurt her. All she wants is to hold her until she forgets all about him, until they both can forget the terrible things that have made them who they are.

It's hard to forget.

She hadn't been able to kill Jason. Perhaps this would be enough.

Harley stirs in her sleep when Ivy rises from their bed, but Ivy coos softly in her ear, running her hand up and down her back until the soft snores rise again. She doesn’t leave a note. She’ll be home before she wakes.

She finds him in the park. Stupid, stupid man.

Before he knows what's happening, roots have sprung from the ground and bound him to the spot. The anger was cold, but as she looks at him, helpless now before her, it turns hot. Not an just anger for doing what needs to be done, an anger for doing what she wants to do because it will make her happy. So, so happy, to see the life leave his smiling face.

When she’s done with him he’s smeared across the grass, completely unrecognizable. The red bits of him aren’t like flower petals, except that the sight of them fills her with a calm sort of contentment.

She washes the blood from her hands before climbing back into bed behind Harley, snaking her arms around her waist and pressing a warm kiss to her shoulder.

“Red… where’d ya...” Harley mumbles, pressing her body into the woman behind her.

“Shhh darling, go back to sleep.”

Harley nods sleepily, yawning as she moves her arm to take Ivy’s hand in hers. Ivy knows there will be consequences in the morning, but she doesn’t care. She smiles, tracing Harley's knuckles with her fingertips and thumb.

For the first time in years, the anger is completely gone.