Dress Me Like A Clown
By taste of violets
Disclaimer: Batman belongs to DC Comics, not to me. The song "Dress Me Like A Clown" is the property of the band Margot & the Nuclear So and So's. The songs "Pancho and Lefty" and "Atlantic City," both quoted in this chapter, are by Townes Van Zandt and Bruce Springsteen respectively.
Note: This is set in the DC animated universe and takes place a year or so after the episode "Harley and Ivy," after which it diverts from canon entirely. For geography sticklers—Gotham City is New York City in this fic.
::
part two: everything that dies
(Put on your stockings, baby
The night's getting cold)
::
When Harley had moved in with Ivy for the first time, Ivy remembered, she had been surprised by how immediately natural Harley's presence had felt. Back then they had been all but strangers to each other, yet their life at Toxic Acres had felt familiar from the very beginning. The unexpected happiness of those days—lounging around in pajamas and cast-off T-shirts; Harley drawing pictures or poring through old magazines with a child's fascination while Ivy cooked dinner; washing and drying dishes together with the wordless peace of a married couple—those memories had remained with Ivy long afterwards, souvenirs of a quiet, domestic contentment she had never thought she would feel.
At the time, trying to explain it to herself, Ivy had reasoned that it was just the natural ability of people—even people like herself—to adapt quickly to changing situations. Move a plant to a new pot, to new soil, to a new diet or a new source of light, and it will find different ways to grow in its altered environment. Why shouldn't people do the same thing?
But much deeper down, at the level where understanding grows roots far beneath logic, Ivy knew that wasn't all there was to it. Adaptation meant survival, not happiness; and happy was what Ivy had been. That had nothing to do with biological imperatives.
It had everything to do with Harley.
And Ivy felt the same way now, as she sped along the endless ribbon of Interstate 80 with Harley singing along to the radio by her side: that sense of something dangerously close to bliss, that feeling that even this—this gypsy highway life—could come to constitute something like a home.
Harley had grown tired of snipping at Ivy's hair hours ago. Now she was amusing herself by scanning through the radio, giving only half a minute or so to each station. She cranked the dial and found a far-off, staticky signal, a distant station playing an old country song. Ivy thought she recognized the tune from a long time ago, and she hummed along as she drove.
(Livin' on the road, my friend,
Was gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
And your breath's as hard as kerosene…)
Harley dropped her hand from the radio dial, then lowered her head onto Ivy's shoulder and left it there.
They were quiet for a while, with no sound but the man on the radio singing between them.
(And all the federales say
They could've had 'em any day
They only let 'em slip away
Out of kindness, I suppose…)
Harley sat up as they passed out of range and the radio signal dissolved into static. "I'm hungry," she announced. "Is it lunchtime yet?"
"Who knows?" The clock on the dash was broken, blinking 0:00. "Anyway, where do you think we are, Arkham? There's no schedule, lunchtime is whenever you want." Ivy changed lanes to pass a semi. "What are you hungry for?"
"I dunno…" Harley considered, then snapped her fingers. "I got it! I want a hamburger, a really big greasy one!" She turned to Ivy to entreat her. "Can we go to Mickey D's, Ivy? Can we, ple-e-ease?"
"Harl, that's disgusting!"
"You don't have to watch me eat it. And you can get a salad or something! Don't they have salads there? I know they do. I think they do." Harley grabbed Ivy's arm with both hands. "Come on, Red, pretty please?"
There was no question about whether or not Ivy was being manipulated; of course she was. Something ugly rose in her as she realized it, something that didn't like Harley's phony saccharine sweetness, her calculated coyness. She knows, Ivy thought, staring straight ahead at the road, she knows I'm a fool for her. And she's using that against me, just for fun, just because she can. She's playing me, playing some damn flirtatious little game while I'm—I'm—
"Ivy?" Harley said uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"
Ivy slammed her hand down onto the steering wheel, and at the same moment her anger faded away. Harley was staring at her, and when she glanced back into Harley's blue eyes, what she saw there looked sincere.
She's going to leave me, Ivy thought. Maybe she isn't trying to play me. Maybe she means it all, at least at the moment she says it. But it doesn't matter—in the end, she'll still leave me.
Because she has him and me to choose between, and all I have is her.
She pulled over suddenly to the side of the road. She put her elbows on the wheel and rested her head in her hands. She took a deep breath and wondered what was happening. There was a heaviness deep in her chest, a pain like suffocation, like she was about to cry. But there was no way to let it out.
It had been easy that time, the first time, when they had been strangers yet closer than lovers. It had been so easy to be happy.
"Red," said Harley's voice close by her ear, and blindly Ivy reached out and grabbed Harley, held on to her, pressed her face into Harley's shoulder, and still she didn't cry. She felt Harley's heartbeat against her own chest, and she tried to breathe, and for a moment their hearts were beating in rhythm, but Harley's was faster and after a second it left her behind.
"What did I do?" Harley was saying into her hair. "What did I do?"
You made me fall in love with you, Ivy thought. Look what you've done to me, look what you've turned me into. It was you, it was you. Always, it was you.
Out loud she said, "Nothing." She let go of Harley and sat up straight; she was too embarrassed to look at Harley's face. "We can go. It's fine. Let's go."
"No, I don't need a hamburger if it bothers you so much—"
A hamburger. Harley thought Ivy's heart had been broken by a fucking hamburger.
"I don't care about the burger," Ivy said brusquely, and jolted the car into gear. "We're going."
"But—"
Ivy's voice was a snarl. "Turn the radio on and shut up."
Harley jumped with a fearful reflex and did as she was told. The static hiss of white noise filled the car, eventually resolving itself into a guitar's strum and a harmonica's mournful wail.
(Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold
But with you forever I'll stay
We're goin' out where the sand's turning to gold
Put on your stockings, baby, 'cause the night's getting cold
Everything dies, baby, that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies one day comes back…)
Ivy reached to shift gears, and as she did, she brushed Harley's hand with her own. She tried to make her touch say everything that she wouldn't let herself say out loud.
I'm sorry, she tried to make it say. Oh God, I'm so, so sorry.
Harley stared straight ahead.
Maybe everything that dies one day comes back…
They pulled off the highway as the radio sang on.
::
Ivy thought it would be safer to use the drive-through, but Harley was insistent on sitting inside. "Like real people," Harley said. "Like society. That's how we'll do things when we get to California." So Ivy helped Harley comb out her hair until it covered half her face, and they found a pair of oversized sunglasses for Ivy in the glove compartment.
But as they ordered at the counter, Ivy wondered with a jolt of panic if it had been enough. The spray-tanned teenager manning the cash register kept staring at Ivy, her mouth slightly agape. Ivy pushed her sunglasses further up her nose. But the expression on the cashier's face, she realized a second afterward, wasn't really one of recognition. It looked more like amusement.
A few more people seemed to stare with smirks on their faces as Ivy carried her tray to an empty booth, and Ivy felt her face growing hot. They must be able to see, she thought, it must be obvious from my face. They can see I'm a fool for her. They're laughing at the clown.
She set the tray down on a table and slid into the booth. Harley, following close behind, sat down on the opposite side. Her face was burning crimson.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, Ivy," Harley said, her voice small and tentative. "I think it's your hair."
"What?" Ivy said again, in confusion this time.
"Your hair. They're laughing at the haircut I gave you."
Oh. In the car, when Harley had cut it while Ivy was driving. They had been laughing then. That was a long time ago.
She left the booth and went into the women's room to look in the mirror. Her hair looked as if a six-year-old had cut it. It was jagged and wildly uneven, cut down to a few inches in some places and left longer in others, and around the sides random tufts jabbed out like quills on a porcupine. Ivy supposed it might look funny to some people.
She looked at her reflection a while longer, but she didn't feel inclined to smile, or to be upset, or even to wonder how Harley had made such a mess. She didn't feel much of anything at all.
When she went back to the booth, Harley was staring up at her guiltily, her eyes wide and her mouth full of French fries. "Are you mad?" she asked in a tiny voice.
"No, I'm not mad. I don't care."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm very sure."
"Okay," Harley said in obvious relief, and went back to demolishing her burger and fries.
Ivy watched her for a minute, then picked up her cup of coffee from the tray and looked at it. She didn't drink coffee very often. She took a swig; it tasted like dirt. She wasn't sure if that was normal.
"Ah wan' a crown," said Harley, through a mouthful of burger.
"Too bad. That's Burger King."
"Oh yeah." Harley crammed another enormous bite into her mouth. "Do ya really only want coffee? We didn't even eat breakfast, and it's after noon already."
"It is?" Ivy looked behind her at the clock on the wall. Harley was right; it was close to one in the afternoon. It was eleven hours ago that the phone had rung and Ivy had answered. Eight hours ago that she had woken up to find Harley out of bed, and together they had come up with this insane idea. Eight hours—it felt like a year. "I guess I'm not too hungry."
"Boy, I sure was," Harley said as she swallowed the last of her burger. "I still am." Harley's face lit up. "Hey, can I get a milkshake?"
Ivy reached into her pocket for the six one-dollar bills folded up there. Earlier, in the car, she had peeled them off the roll of bills hidden in a Ziploc bag in her purse. Now she handed two dollars to Harley. "Get the smallest size. We're on a budget."
"How much money do we have?"
"Enough," Ivy said quickly. "But just to be on the safe side, okay?"
"Well, sure, but how much—"
"Hold still, there's something on your face." Ivy leaned forward and wiped at a spot next to Harley's mouth with her hand. Her fingers came away sticky and red; she showed them to Harley.
Harley looked aghast. "I'm bleeding?"
"No. Ketchup. Go get your shake."
Harley left with her two dollars. Ivy watched her go. Then she licked her fingers.
::
They had crossed out of Pennsylvania and were making inroads into Ohio, still coasting on the remains of the tank of gas they had been stretching out all day. They had stolen it from the garage at the motel, long ago this morning, after Ivy had kissed the clerk into dazed acquiescence. That had been, she and Harley had promised each other, their final theft, and Ivy's initial burst of joy upon hitting the interstate this morning had come in part from the adrenaline rush accompanying that vow.
In the old days it had been crime, not honesty, that used to give Ivy a rush. But that had been before Harley.
Harley. Lying curled up in the seat beside her, just waking up from an afternoon doze. "Feeling all right?" Ivy asked her.
"Uh-huh." Harley let out a huge yawn. "You must be tired too, huh, Red? You want me to drive while you sleep for a while?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Really? You sure?"
"Yes."
"Because it's startin' to feel like a long day, and I know—"
"Leave it, Harley; I said I'm fine, goddammit."
Ivy wished she could take it back as soon as she said it. Through the silence that followed, she kept her eyes on the road. She was feeling sick, and she was trying to fight it down.
When Harley spoke again, it was with an edge to her voice. "Do you not trust me enough to let me drive? What do you think, that I'm gonna turn around and drive back?"
"What I think," said Ivy, staring straight ahead, "is that there's a reason why you haven't let me cut your hair yet."
Out of the corner of her eye, Ivy saw Harley flinch. In all her life Ivy had never met someone whose face was so easy to read.
"I told you," Harley said, a tremor in her voice. "I do want you to cut it. I'm just waitin' till we get to California, that's all."
"Sure." Ivy's voice came out sounding oddly flat, not sarcastic as she had intended, but devoid of any affect whatsoever. "Sure you are."
She glanced over her shoulder and began changing lanes to pass a semi. She noticed that her hands seemed to be trembling slightly on the steering wheel, though from caffeine or hunger or lack of sleep, she didn't know.
She observed them detachedly, as if they belonged to someone else. As she moved back into the center lane, Harley's left hand covered one of the hands on the steering wheel, and Ivy was vaguely surprised that she could feel it, that her hand didn't belong to a stranger after all.
"Red, pull over for a minute, willya?"
"Why?"
"Your hands are shaking like crazy. Trust me—just for a second, can'tcha just trust me for one second? Pull over, just do it."
Ivy did it. As soon as Ivy stopped the car, Harley took both her hands and held them. They were shaking, and shaking badly. Ivy could feel it now.
"Ivy," Harley asked her, "are you okay?"
Ivy wondered if Harley knew that it had been over a year since anyone had asked her that.
It was the kind of question that invited a lie in response. But a year was a long time. A long time to be working alone in a city full of enemies. A long time to pretend not to be in love with the girl you left in the loony bin. A long time to be on your own.
Ivy didn't want to lie anymore.
Trust me, Harley had said. So Ivy did.
"I don't really know anymore," she said. "But I think I could be okay, as long as you're with me."
She looked at Harley's face, always so instantly readable, to see what response was written there. Searching for a smile that meant that Harley was about to laugh it off, make it all a joke. Or a flash of fear that would tell Ivy that she had gone farther than Harley knew how to handle.
But all that Ivy saw in Harley's expression was something that looked like determination.
"Okay," Harley said.
And that was all. After a second Ivy gave a tiny nod, and Harley released her hands and let Ivy pull back out onto the highway.
Neither of them said, This isn't going to work. Neither of them said, Two breakdowns in one day means things aren't okay.
Neither of them said, Do you need me like I need you?
::
(Tonight we'll drink into an early grave
We'll laugh and we will not be saved
Someone has dressed us all like clowns)