Marry The Knight

Ivy grinned a little when she realized the priest had skipped the part about "forsaking all others." According to the science boys, even triads wouldn't be enough to perpetuate the species. As a rare male one-percent-fertile, Wayne would need to marry another six women to meet demand. Shame he wouldn't get the chance. Sounded like it could be fun. Just throw him a sister-wife for the evening and she and Harley could have their fun with the other five.

"...as long as you both shall live?" the priest finished.

"At least that long," Ivy answered.

Harley had been looking over at her with a nervous grin, as if she was worried about a runaway bride. Now, relieved, she clapped a little. Ivy stared her down to listen patiently as the priest spoke to her. She agreed chirpily to stay with Bruce in sickness and in health.

Too bad for him he wouldn't be getting sick. He'd be getting dead.

***

The groomsmen and bridesmaids were all Bruce's friends, most of Harley and Ivy's loved ones serving time. Selina Kyle was the exception, pulling duty as maid of honor. She gave a speech which referred to Ivy as a "cold-blooded slag who likes trees more than any person, even Ryan Gosling" and Harley as a "deranged twit who couldn't break up with her psycho ex if he fired a rocket launcher at her—I know from experience." Then she toasted them and wished Bruce good luck with the "psycho sluts." The people who weren't Harley and Ivy laughed like she was joking.

Dick Grayson was Bruce's best man. He got up on stage and said "Uhh... I have no idea what to say." Then he displayed a notepad. "See? Nothing. I've been staring at this blank piece of paper for the last two months and I still have no idea what speech to give. Would anyone else like to talk? Anyone?"

Jason Todd was a groomsman. He was drunk. "Let me tell you about Bruce Wayne! Okay! Bruce Wayne is the kinda guy who—you get killed by the Joker—he doesn't kill the Joker! What kind of friend does that? Fuck you, Bruce!"

That made Harley laugh. Ivy patted her hand.

Tim Drake tried to take the microphone next, for lack of anyone else wanting it, but bridesmaid Stephanie Brown pretty much tackled him to get to it. "I just want to say that I think it's amazing how three people, who've been evil and dead and crazy and other stuff at one point or another, can finally find happiness together. And speaking on behalf of the youth of America—"

"Please don't speak on behalf of the youth of America," Tim interjected.

"I think polygamy is the coolest! Everyone should do it! Timbo, make an honest woman out of me and Cass. No, make two honest women out of us. Not one Frankenstein woman like that one time you grew a boyfriend clone in your basement. That was weird, but as your wife, I will support you."

"Did you get into the wine coolers?"

"No!" Steph held the microphone away. "I brought some weed. I seriously did not expect this thing to be seven fucking hours long. This is not at all what it is like on any sitcom I've ever seen. Not one person has fallen into the wedding cake." She brought the mike to her lips again. "Not one!"

The ringbearer, Damian Wayne, took the microphone from both of them. "When I heard that Father was getting married, I thought it was a waste of time. A simple breeding program is much more efficient. I was the product of a breeding program, and look how I turned out!"

"Yeah, short," Stephanie piped up. "Who was running your breeding program, Peter Dinklage?"

"Silence! Despite your ample experience with pregnancy, you clearly know nothing of eugenics!" Damian cleared his throat. "Ttcht. As I was saying, Father, I thought it was a waste of time. Then I learned both your brides were career criminals, who had taken many lives over the course of their mad rampages through Gotham. Now I see that although girls are stupid, girls that can kill people are not as stupid."

"So that's your kid?" Harley whispered to Bruce.

"He lives with his mother," Bruce replied.

Stephanie grabbed the microphone and yelled "Bruce/Harley/Ivy OT3!"

***

That was about all the reception Ivy could take. Selina was monopolizing Bruce on the dance floor anyway, so she took her leave to the makeshift coat check room, where a little sigh had the coat check girl leaving her alone to attend to a frantic need to masturbate. Alone, Ivy held herself open before a stained-glass window, letting the glorious facets of light penetrate her translucent wedding dress. It was a meager pleasure, the sunlight still mottled by Gotham's pollution, but it reminded her that the Green was always present, even in this cesspool.

"I knew I'd find you here!" Harley cried, sliding into the room and kicking the door shut with her foot. "I just knew it! Four for Harley Quinn, you go Harl!"

Ivy grinned wistfully at the attempt to cheer her up—overbearing even for Harley. "Married life. Just you, me, and a high-society twit. I suppose it's about what crooks like us deserve."

"Aww, Red, it won't be so bad." Reaching behind her back, Harley produced a bottle of champagne. "Look what I lifted already!"

Ivy grabbed Harley's offer and checked the list of ingredients; ever since her transformation, she'd been very tolerant of watered-down alcohol. Then she decided, to hell with it, and took a swig. It burned a little before it felt good, just like the rest of the wedding.

"That's the spirit, Red! Booze it up!" Harley took a seat on the floor, all the better to gaze up at her beautiful Ivy with the light shining past her. "Now that you're married, you don't have to watch your weight so much."

Ivy just stared at her. "That's a five-thousand dollar dress."

"Is it?"

"You're sitting on the floor in a five-thousand dollar dress."

Harley looked abashed before grinning. "I think it's going to end up sitting on the floor anyway."

Ivy snarled her way through another gulp. "Don't remind me."

"What's wrong, Red? Don't you like Mistah Wayne?"

"What can I say? I'm getting my seven-year itch early." Ivy passed the bottle to Harley. She hated drinking alone. "I've never minded sleeping with men, but it helps a lot if I get to rob them."

"We are robbing him! He's gonna pay for our food, our drinks, our rooms, and what's he getting' out of it?"

"Babies."

"Oh, right." Harley leaned back. "I'm gonna be a wonderful mother. I can just tell. I'm great with my hyenas."

"I don't think it'll be coming to that." Ivy leaned against the wall over Harley, her shadow covering the jester girl like a blanket. "If anyone's going to get you pregnant, it'll be me. If Wayne touches you, it'll be for the last time." Ivy licked her lips in pleasure. "And they call me poison ivy..."

"Whaddya talkin' bout, Red?"

Ivy pulled up her skirt in reply.

"Aww, Red, we already did that! Shouldn't we save a little for hubby?"

Fixing Harley with a stare, Ivy revealed her garter belt, with a small vial enclosed in it. "Something I won't be giving to the next man to get married." She held out the vial to Harley. "A custom-made STD by yours truly. The minute that man penetrates you, his days are numbered."

"But, uhh—I kinda prided myself on always having safe sex."

Ivy patted her on the head. "Don't worry about it. You'll just be a carrier. The virus will have no effect on you, and in twenty-four hours, it'll pass through your system. You just have to bed our dearly to-be-departed husband before then."

"Righto!" Harley saluted smartly. "Is it fruit-flavored?"

Ivy smiled. "Harl, you ask the most incisive questions. Find out."

Harley obediently guzzled the fluid down. "Ick! It tastes like mold!"

"I only used a little. Wash it down, dear."

Harley even more obediently guzzled some wine.

"Good girl," Ivy praised. "Now let's go find Wayne and start our married death together."

***

Bruce Wayne's was possibly the first Lamborghini Veneno to drive with tin cans tied to the bumper and a Just Married sign over the license plate. Bruce proudly sat in the driver's seat, swaying the wheel with a race car driver's finesse, while Harley sat in Ivy's lap in the passenger seat.

"Sorry again, ladies, that the honeymoon has to be postponed. I knew you were looking forward to Kooey Kooey Kooey, Pam, but the problem with private islands is that once one person steps foot on the place, it's booked solid."

"That's okay, dear." While Harley marveled out the window at the city blurring by, Ivy was leaning over the gearshift to rest her chin on Bruce's broad shoulder. "I don't need an untouched tropical paradise to be happy. I just need you."

"Well, you'll get me." Bruce winked at her. "All the me you can handle."

"You're incorrigible!" Ivy giggled. Her own mask was as flawlessly concealing as his. "But speaking of... you, have you thought about trying a few pheromones for our wedding night? They can make you go longer, harder, faster... bigger."

"I think you can trust Gotham's most eligible bachelor not to need any help in that department." Bruce went wide-eyed. "Wait—guess I'll have to stop calling myself that."

"Lots of guys use pharmaceutical enhancements," Ivy argued. "And they don't have two brides to please."

"Sorry, my dear, but the board just won't hear of it. Some foolish notion that if I didn't keep getting my booster shots, you might control me."

"Perish the thought!"

"And obviously, a billion-dollar company can't just have their president vulnerable to that. Why, if they didn't know better, they might think you brainwashed me into marrying you in the first place!" he teased.

"That's a laugh!" she teased right back. She settled her head against a weighty bicep and rubbed his leg. "Oh, Bruce... you've been so good to us. I wish I could be just as good to you. I want to have you in this car, right now. But when I think about what Woodrue did to me... I'm just not ready yet."

"Perfectly understandable, Pam. There's a reason I didn't drive a car with a backseat." He kissed the top of her head. "You take all the time you need. I didn't marry you for your body."

"Oh?" Ivy asked, rubbing her breast against his elbow.

"Well... not exclusively." He turned his head to let her kiss him. "I think you can do a lot of good in the world, dear. We can do a lot of good, together. In fact—I hate to bring up business on our wedding—but I've been thinking about what we can do, all three of us, moving forward. After all, you can't just sit around Wayne Manor eating cereal all day."

"We can't?" Harley asked, sounding horrified.

"Not all day," Bruce replied. "Harleen, I know you were stripped of your license, and even someone as powerful as I am can't convince your peers to let you work again. But Gotham does have a thriving film industry, and a lot of pictures could use a consultant."

"You want me to be in pictures!" Harley cried brightly.

"Of course! You'd be a joy to work with. And you could advise them on psychology, medicine, the underworld, Arkham Asylum—I can see hundreds of films benefiting from your hard-won expertise."

"I wanna meet Hugh Jackman! I wanna meet Hugh Jackman!"

Bruce reached across Ivy to give Harley's shoulder a squeeze. "I'll see what I can do. And Pam, Wayne Enterprises' biochemical division could use a woman of your talents. I can't just hand you a job, now, but I can get you an interview with Lucius Fox a week from Tuesday."

She eyed him ruefully. "I could see myself doing that."

"To say nothing of speaking on behalf of environmentalist causes and rehabilitation efforts. You two could be models of good publicity. With your handsome, debonair husband at your side, of course."

"You know what that means, Red? Parties! Free food!"

Bruce chuckled good-naturedly. And suddenly, Ivy felt sandwiched between two people on an entirely different wavelength from her.

The sooner Wayne was dead, the better.

***

As requested, Bruce pulled up to the front steps to find Alfred waiting with a tidy stack of suitcases. After telling the girls he'd just be a minute, he hurried up the stairs to wish Alfred off.

Alfred, as could be expected, was not in the best spirits for a vacation. "Are you quite sure about this, sir?"

Bruce rolled his shoulders. "Not a hundred percent, no. But I can't keep throwing these women in Arkham time and time again, letting their mental condition deteriorate each time. It's time for a game-changer. If Selina can be brought back from the brink, maybe—"

"And is it necessary to... expose yourself as much as you've done? I could stay a few days."

"The first few days will be the worst." Bruce shook his head. "I don't want you in the line of fire. Besides, you could use a vacation."

"Dearly so, sir. As does Dr. Thompkins. And San Francisco boasts both a splendidly reviewed revival of Shakespeare's history plays and a long-overdue tour of Master Drake's new residence. I'm quite eager to finally be introduced to his friends in the Titans." A long-suffering sigh, as it usually did, signified that Alfred had acquiesced to his employer's wishes. "I have prepared several meals that simply need to be heated up; they're waiting in the refrigerator. And tonight's dish is in the slow cooker. I warn you—it's vegan, in deference to Ms. Isley's wishes. And there is canned soup in the pantry, the names of several quality restaurants by the phone, all of whom deliver—"

"I think I can manage," Bruce said.

Alfred's withering look conveyed how much he believed that. "Also, Master Grayson has left some frozen pizzas in the freezer. If all else fails. Now," and Alfred lowered his voice significantly, "may I ask one last time whether you're sure this is a wise course of action, if your customary death wish has escalated into a decision to go out 'with a bang,' as it were?"

Bruce had a wan smile that Alfred thought only he and a select few had ever seen. "Oh, they're absolutely going to try to kill me. I'm just not going to let them." Sliding his smartphone a few inches from his pocket, he displayed the screen to Alfred. "Barbara's heading them off at the pass."

That did not do much to quell Alfred's worry. "Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Just one more thing." Bruce tossed Alfred the keys to the Lamborghini. "Fill up the tank before you get back."

For once, Alfred was shaken. "Sir, I couldn't possibly—"

"Alfred, you can't talk me out of dressing up as a giant bat and fighting psychopaths. Do you really think I'm going to budge on this? Here, let me get your bags."

***

With Alfred safely departed, the three newlyweds faced the cavernous depths of their home. As many times as Ivy had seen the mansion during her 'courtship,' she still felt like gawking as much as Harley. It was hers now. A home that seemed so much more real than anything the Broker could get her.

Bruce broke her out of her reverie. "Shall I carry you over the threshold, my lady?"

Ivy gave him a challenging glance. "I'll carry Harley. You can carry the luggage."

"No need!" Bruce exclaimed, wrapping one muscular arm around Harley's waist. To her squealing delight, he had her over his shoulder in a fireman's hold momentarily. Then he reached for Ivy.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, Ivy allowed the audacious mammal to lay his hands on her and sling her over his other shoulder. Heads dangling down to an ass like a marble sculpture covered by Saville Row, Harley and Ivy were carried together onto the premises.

"He's so... so strong!" Harley muttered joyously.

Ivy resolved that Wayne would die painfully.

After he'd set them down, Bruce let the newlyweds into Wayne Manor's first extension in one hundred years. The south wing, as Bruce explained, was for them. As he was giving them a piece of his heart ("Oh please," Ivy muttered), so too was he giving them a piece of his home.

There would be a gym for Harley, a lab for Ivy, a pool with attached sauna and hot tub, a combination arsenal and panic room just in case any old friends or exes showed up looking for them, adjoining bedrooms just waiting to be furnished according to own taste, and the piece de resistance—

"I put down on the wedding registry that you collect antique toys as well as action figures," Bruce explained. "And since none of my friends knew what to buy me..."

He called it the toy room. When she saw it, Harley simply gaped for a moment. It looked like, quite literally, her subconscious. Water guns. Teddy bears. Barbie dolls. Masters of the Universe. She took a single step forward. "Is that a Teddy Ruxpin? Is that a goshdarn Teddy Ruxpin?"

"Still has the original tape in it," Bruce nodded.

Harley hugged it, and him, in turn. Even Ivy made a vague sound of assent.

"Well, I'll leave you two to get your bearings," Bruce said, smiling despite himself at the sight of Harley making a sort of snow angel in a pile of stuffed animals. "Next time we get married, remind me to give the butler time off after he grabs our luggage!"

When Bruce disappeared, so did Ivy's patience. She reached down and grabbed Harley by the wedding gown. "Remember the plan."

"But, Ivy—look at how nice he's being. Maybe we should give him a chance. I could take care of, ya know... all the wifely duties."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you!" Ivy hauled the so-called Cupid of Crime to her feet. "You do all the wifely duties you want, just make sure it happens tonight. The sooner he's sick, the sooner he's dead. Then you and I can be together. Don't you want that?"

"Course I do, Red! I just—okay. You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right. Go to him, without the dress. I'm going to burn mine..."

***

Bruce was expecting Ivy to send Harley after him to make a play, but he didn't know she'd have so little patience. Returning to the south wing with their bags, he ran across Harley in one of the rooms set aside for their needs. A spacious office with posh leather furniture, a sprawling glass coffee table, and some unimposing antique artwork. The former 'Clown Princess' looked surprisingly well-fitted to the luxurious surroundings with her usual accoutrements replaced by the classy mint green wedding gown—a look in homage to her fellow bride.

There'd been many reasons for Bruce to marry her, and he'd admitted most of them to himself. But there was one he hadn't been honest about. She was beautiful, and a contradiction every bit as intriguing as Catwoman. Her big blue eyes protested her innocence, while her dark red lips admitted it was a lie. She took off her veil and held it in her hands to fidget with. Her blonde hair had been dyed with a red streak—another tribute to her best friend and lover, Ivy.

"Hey Brucie," she said weakly. "Sure has been a crazy couple months, ain't it? You springing us from jail and telling us we could turn our lives around and all. It's been fun, ain't it? Seein' everyone running around like chickens with their heads cut off, tryna figure us out."

"It's been a real relief, thinking that I'll have you two to keep me company from now on." He smiled reassuringly. "Harleen, you don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. As far as I'm concerned, as long as you're not hurting anyone or breaking the law, you can stay here as long as you want. I won't ever ask anything of you that you're not prepared to freely give."

Harley shook her head emphatically. "That ain't it. You're really nice. I should be with a sweetie like you. It's just, ya know—sometimes it's hard to tell if something is too good to be true or not. In Gotham, it usually is. So if you had a friend, a really good friend, who's out to take care of you and make sure you don't get played for a sucker, you should listen to her. Right?"

"Sounds reasonable."