Sorry! This was meant to be a Christmas in July bit, in honor of those annoying TV specials, but I kinda sorta had a truly wretched case of writer's block, so I hope you don't mind just a holiday chapter in August, er, September. I know, I suck. All I can plead in my defense is unexpected travel, your honor. Also, my lovely reviewers will be spending the weirdly-timed holiday with the character of their choice. Now, on with the story, and enjoy!

Most people wouldn't think Poison Ivy would have a Christmas tree, because she would never kill a living tree for decoration. Most people would be half right. While it's true that Ivy would certainly balk at the thought of murdering an evergreen and putting its decorated corpse in her living room, she did have a Christmas tree. However, it was very much alive. Ivy had always been pleased that her gift could be used in more ways than she could count, and one of those ways was to cause a fir tree outside her house to grow, temporarily, through her living room window, where it would be bedecked with living flowers, mostly orchids and hibiscus. Ivy finished her handiwork and smiled.

Now would usually be the time she made a few obligatory phone calls to relatives (they thought she was a botanist, not too far from the truth), and then curled up in the greenhouse with her traditional tofurkey dinner, watching the snow pile up on the roof and opening any presents that might have arrived, plus a few from herself. It would have been a nice day. But this year was little different.

There was a knock at the door. Ivy, ridiculously overdressed in an emerald satin gown, opened the door to see Dr. Jonathan Crane, carrying a wrapped package and smiling shyly. "Jonathan!" she cried impulsively, wrapping him into a quick kiss. She immediately blushed as they broke apart; outbursts like that were never really her style. But, well, his ears had turned pink from the cold, and the way he was smiling at her, not to mention he was wearing . . . oh, wait.

"Nice sweater," she giggled, glancing at the lumpy, snowflake-covered thing. Jonathan muttered something unintelligible. "What was that?" Ivy asked.

"My grandma made it for me," admitted Jonathan Crane, the man who could bottle fear, desperately grappling in his mind for something more dignified to say to her, until he remembered something. "I have two presents for you," he said, pulling out a psychological report along with the wrapped box. "I liberated this report from Arkham- it's about Victor's responses to my drug. As for the other thing- it just made me think of you. I hope you like it."

Ivy took the report first and almost immediately started giggling. "Subject believes himself to be melting- is incessantly quoting The Wizard of Oz, possibly in the model of our Alice in Wonderland case, possibly unintentionally?" she dissolved into laughter. "I knew Victor was melodramatic, but . . ." she started up laughing again, picturing Victor delivering the Wicked Witch's monologue. "Thank you for this, Jonathan," she said, catching her breath and turning to the box.

Inside was a necklace, no gold or precious stones, but dark green enamel, twisting into a single vine of ivy. It clearly had not been stolen, but thought about carefully. For a moment she was quiet. Why did I get her that? Jonathan wondered. The sentimentality was absurd, and he could have, ahem, acquired something much more valuable. What was wrong with him? But then Ivy said, very quietly, "Thank you," and handed him a small box before she lost the nerve, containing a slim silver pen with "Dr. Jonathan Crane" engraved on it. He didn't say anything, just pushed a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear very gently and smiled.

"Come on," Ivy said, taking his hand. "The tofurkey's ready and I'm starving."

"Tofurkey?" asked Jonathan with a dubious expression.

"Yes," said Ivy, head high, "tofurkey. And you will love it." What's happened to us? she wondered. They were the cool, the deliberate! She did not descend into sentimentality, neither did he! It was like she was turning into Harley! Yes, she thought, seeing Jonathan's doubtful face as he prodded the ersatz poultry, things had definitely changed. But what was really weird was that she thought she might just be okay with that.

o!o

At Kitty's apartment, much to her annoyance, nothing had changed. Edward had to go out of town for something, so once again she was faced with a holiday alone, her silver foil tree that came only to her waist, and ordering pizza while she watched terrible movies. The holidays had never been a very big deal for her, even as a kid, but still, even as a few of the cats curled up around her, it was hard not to feel a little sad.

The pizza was there. Double anchovy, as always. Only- she opened the box and noticed a few green peppers had been scattered on, too. Ick. She'd always hated them. She was picking them off and putting them in the lid when she finally noticed the letters, cut and pasted to the inside of the lid-

All tHat GLitteRs is nOt goLD, buT trY SAYing thAt DoWntoWn.

p.s. CHecK cHANnel 7

Edward! Her eyes lit up. Digging the remote out from under a heap of old jeans and grappling rope, she turned to channel seven.

"Gotham News reporting to you live from City Hall, where it would appear that the Throne of Gotham has been stolen. As many of you may know, the Throne is an antique, dating back to Gotham City's founding in the seventeenth century, and is traditionally displayed every year at the holidays at City Hall. The crime appears to be the handiwork of the infamous Riddler, leaving a note that Gotham Police code breakers are even now attempting to decipher. The mayor is currently unavailable for comment . . ."

"Ah, but what they don't say is why he's unavailable for comment," came a cool, bemused voice from the door. Kitty knew her fiance too well to even ask how he'd gotten in. Instead, she just grinned as he elaborated. "As it would happen, he accidentally shattered a mirror when he came running to see the scene of the crime. Deeply superstitious man, our mayor. He's been . . . a little anxious ever since."

"You stole the mascot," Kitty giggled, shaking her head in mock scolding. The Throne of Gotham was so ridiculous, and so was the mayor for that matter (perhaps the only man Kitty knew who could pull off juvenile and corrupt simultaneously), that it was perfect. Besides, Edward was here, looking ridiculously good and distinctly not in London!

"I couldn't resist," he shrugged, coming over to kiss her. "Consider the media blitz my personal gift to the city of Gotham. A little good-natured distress, from me to them."

It felt so good to hear that, thought Kitty. Here was another artist, not in the business for money (not that money wasn't nice), or for politics (not that political convictions weren't a good thing), but for the art. Small wonder they fit so well together. "Hey," she looked up at Edward. "If the mayor is so superstitious and all, how do you think he feels about black cats? Oh, and by the way, why are you back early from that black market thing in London?"

Edward's handsome features lit up. She always knew, didn't she? No surprise they had found each other. "Selina, my mad genius, I think we have to find out exactly how the mayor feels about black cats," his voice got an octave quieter. "And I came back early because I missed you."

Melting a little, Kitty grabbed her coat, giggling a bit on the way out. There was no pile of presents, and no fancy dinner. Just her and her love and a cat or two, terrorizing a corrupt politician. It was hardly a fairy tale. But who needed fairy tales when real life was so much better?

o!o

If you glanced very quickly at the holiday scene at Harley and Mr. J's, it might almost look like a traditional home-for-the-holidays setup, their gaudy-posh living room worthy of any Hallmark card with a penchant for purple. There was a towering tree, bountiful baked goods, a pile of gifts, even a roaring fire. But if you looked a little closer, you might notice that about half the ornaments on the tree were either little mini-bombs or small bundles of dynamite, carefully tied with satin ribbon (New Year's Eve they hauled the tree outside to the yard and blew it up, their personal alternative to fireworks). You might see that the fire was comprised not only of wood, but of newspaper clippings about the exploits of Batman, the Joker, and Harley Quinn. Once you saw the set of machetes lying on the top of the gift pile, you would probably come to understand that all was not as traditional as it seemed. In fact, there were only two innocuous things about the scene: the baked goods, which really were baked goods, and the expressions on the faces of the two people in the room, which were happier in their twisted way than a Hallmark card could really capture.

"Time for your present, Mistah J," giggled Harley. She was totally content- the over-the-top splendor of the holidays was absolutely her element, especially with their twisted touches, and this last gift, if it worked out, would be the harlequin icing on the cupcake.

"Ah, Harley, you didn't have to get me anything. You know that all I want in the world is, uh, a little less order, a little more chaos, and you to wear that French maid outfit I got ya."

Rolling her eyes at the outfit comment, she said, "I know. But this is different." She put two fingers into her mouth and whistled, shouting, "Come on in!"

She grinned as her present entered- a tiny little big-eared mop of a puppy, wearing the little jester's hat she'd found for him at one of those little dog boutiques. She let out the slightest squeal of delight and glanced over at Mr. J.

His expression was unreadable, even to her, and for the first time she wondered if this might not have been such a good idea. Mr. J had never shown any inclination towards animals; what if he didn't like him?

But then something happened: the puppy, which had been frantically circling the room, grabbed one of the newly unwrapped machetes in its mouth, and ran over to the Joker himself, still holding the knife in his little teeth as if waiting for approval. Suddenly the famous Glasgow smile was being upstaged by an actual grin as Mr. J, patting the puppy on the head with slight surprise, said, "He's perfect."

Perfection. A subjective concept to say the least. Perhaps, Harley thought, doting over a dog with a penchant for machetes while the Clown Prince of Crime wrapped an arm around you and suggested all kinds of ludicrous dog names was not everyone's idea of perfection. But it was hers. Always.