Chapter 3: A return visit
The cold shower did nothing. The water hit his skin, but his nerves still hummed with the echo of her touch, the phantom sensation of vines and cool, green skin. He scrubbed until his flesh was raw, but the scent of jasmine and rich soil seemed woven into his sinuses. He stared at the closed orchid bud on his nightstand, a silent, purple accusation, before throwing a towel over it.
The workout was brutal. He punished the punching bag until his knuckles split, did pull-ups until his muscles screamed for oxygen, ran the rooftops until his lungs burned with clean, cold air. It was a purification ritual. By the time the sun was high, he almost felt like himself again. Almost.
Arkham in the daylight was worse. The gothic façade looked like a rotten tooth against the grey sky. The usual sounds of screaming and clanging metal were subdued, muffled by something else. As he entered the newly renovated “Botanical Research Wing,” the noise of the asylum faded entirely, replaced by a deep, verdant silence.
Her cell was gone. In its place was a greenhouse. Thick, tempered glass walls contained a micro-jungle, a slice of stolen rainforest vibrating with humming insects and dripping with moisture. The air, pumped through a filtration system into the visitor’s corridor, was still lush and warm, carrying the cloying perfume of night-blooming roses that climbed the back wall.
She was on her knees in the rich, black soil, humming softly as she tucked a sapling into the earth. She wore a simple green tunic and trousers, her hair a loose cascade down her back. For a moment, she looked like any other dedicated horticulturalist. Then she looked up.
Her emerald eyes found him through the glass, and a smile bloomed on her face, slow and genuine. It was more terrifying than any scowl.
She stood, brushing soil from her hands, and walked to the intercom panel by the door. Her voice, when it came through the speaker, was warm honey. “Nightwing. You came to see my new digs. I’m touched.”
“Gordon’s recovering,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended. “Batman kept his word.”
“You kept your word,” she corrected gently. She placed a palm against the glass, her skin leaving a faint, damp print. “I don’t forget a kindness. Thank you.”
He nodded, unsure what to say. The formalities were a thin veneer over the raw memory of the dream. He could feel his cheeks warming.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, her head tilting. “They let me give tours. Strictly supervised, of course.” She gestured to the small, dark domes of cameras in the upper corners of the greenhouse.
Before he could formulate a refusal, a soft hydraulic hiss sounded. The sealed door to the greenhouse unlatched, opening a crack. A wave of humid, fragrant air rushed out, enveloping him. It was the air from his dream.
His feet carried him forward before his mind could veto the move. The door sealed behind him with a definitive thunk.
The humidity was immediate, a physical weight on his shoulders. The sounds were amplified—the buzz of a fat bumblebee, the trickle of a small recirculating stream, the rustle of broad leaves in an unfelt breeze. And her scent. Up close, it wasn’t just jasmine. It was wild ginger, damp moss, and something indefinably her.
“It’s… impressive,” he managed, keeping a careful distance.
“It’s a start.” She turned, leading him along a narrow flagstone path. “This one is a Darlingtonia californica. The cobra lily. It lures insects with scent, then digests them.” She smiled over her shoulder. “We all have our needs.”
He followed, hyper-aware of every movement. The way her tunic clung to the small of her back with sweat. The deft grace of her fingers as she pointed out a cluster of vivid, red pitcher plants. Her voice was a low, captivating lecture on pollination and parasitic strategies.
“And these,” she said, stopping before a trellis heavy with deep purple wisteria blossoms, “are my favorites. Their fragrance is a complex neurotoxin in high concentrations. Here, it’s just… pleasant.”
She leaned in to inhale, and a cascade of her red hair brushed his forearm. The contact was electric. A jolt went straight to his core. He took a sharp step back, his heel crunching on a fallen pod.
Her eyes tracked the movement, a glimmer of understanding in their green depths. “Nervous?”
“Cautious.”
“Prudent.” She resumed walking, leading him around a large, bubbling fishpond. The path twisted, and the canopy of a large, flowering tree thickened overhead, blocking the view from the nearest camera. “You know, they monitor the air in here. Filters, scrubbers. They think they’ve contained everything.” She stopped here, in the dappled shadow. “They only understand the science of particles. Not the poetry of connection.”
She turned to face him. They were completely alone. No camera eyes, no guards. Just the buzzing life of the greenhouse and the thrumming silence between them.
“The dream was a gift, Nightwing,” she said softly, taking a small step closer. The air grew heavier, sweeter. “A glimpse. But a dream is just a whisper.”
He should move. Leave. Report the security blind spot.
He didn’t.
“Why?” The word came out rough.
“Because you’re different,” she whispered. “You have life in you. Not like the stone-faced Bat, or the broken ones here. You feel. I want to feel that, too.” She reached up, her fingers just shy of touching his jaw. “You reek of conflict. It’s intoxicating.”
His body was betraying him again. A familiar heat was pooling low in his stomach, a tightness growing in his pants. He fought to control his breathing. “It’s just your… pollen. Your pheromones.”
“Is it?” Her smile was infinitely sad, infinitely knowing. “Then why did you buy the orchid? Why are you here, in the one spot my garden hides you?” She closed the last inch, her cool fingers finally making contact with his skin. It was a shock, a relief. “The chemicals just lower the walls. What’s on the other side… that’s all you, little bird.”
Her kiss was not like the dream. It was not a conquest, but an invitation. Soft, lingering, a question pressed against his lips. Her mouth tasted of mint and rain. And for a dizzying second, he answered. His lips moved against hers, a reflex of hunger he could no longer suppress.
He pulled back, wrenching himself away with a force that made his head spin. “Ivy. Stop.”
She let her hand fall, her expression unreadable. “You’re fighting the wrong enemy. The jungle doesn’t fight the tree. It becomes it.”
He backed up, putting space between them, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. “This is a prison. You’re a prisoner.”
“And you’re a visitor,” she said, her voice returning to its previous, light tone as if nothing had happened. She gestured back toward the visible path. “A very welcome one.”
He fled the secluded corner, following the flagstones back to the entrance. The humid air felt like a prison now, each breath a struggle.
At the door, she called out, her voice carrying clearly over the murmur of the stream. “The filters turn off at midnight for maintenance. The air gets so much clearer. More… honest.” She was tending to a rosebush again, not looking at him. “If you found your way back in tonight, say… through the old utility vent by the east wall… I could show you something truly unforgettable. No dreams. Just truth.”
He hit the intercom button on his side. “Goodbye, Pamela.”
The greenhouse door hissed open, the cooler, sterile air of the corridor hitting him like a slap.
“Until next time, Dick,” her voice floated after him, sweet as poison. “The roses will be in bloom.”