Pamela clacked her heels insistently below the table, her hands trapped under her thighs on the seat. The sun was long past set and dinner was long past cold, the gravy having congealed on her potatoes. But still, she waited. Patience, patience, patience, she sang in her head, ignoring the insistent growling of her stomach and the sharp pain in her bladder.

When the clock chimed nine, her tapping became louder, her rhythm faster.

"Pamela!" Her mother scolded from the other end of the table. "Stop your incessant fidgeting!"

Pamela did stop, her face now hot, switching to squeezing her hamstrings instead. That was silent, at least. "Mother, may I be excused?"

"No."

"Just very quickly, please. Just to use the washroom."

"No."

Pamela's gaze returned to her plate where she studied the thickened gravy, then she looked up excitedly. "Mother, did you use an animal fat to make this gravy?"

"Yes, Pamela," her mother sighed.

"Well…" Pamela smiled. "Did you know that animal fats don't stay liquid at room temperature because their carbon atoms are saturated with hydrogen atoms, so they're able to lie straight and pack neatly into solid arrangement? As opposed to plants, whose missing hydrogen atoms cause kinks in the fatty acid chains, reducing the amount of intermolecular bonding that occurs, therefore allowing it to stay liquid."

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "And what in the world will I or you ever do with that information?"

"I just think it's sort of wonderful," Pamela smiled. "To think of coagulation as atoms snuggling closer together to fight off the cooler temperatures."

"Well I think it's a bit ridiculous," said her mother, glancing up at the clock.

A few moment of silence passed before Pamela asked, "Did you attend a University?"

"No," her mother answered, plainly. "But you will. Seems it's the only way to find a man with any career prospects these days. And I think it will be wise to get you married as quickly as possible seeing as how I'm not convinced you'll age well, given how much time you spend out in the sun, you'll look like a raisin by the time you're 30."

Pamela took her hands out from under her and studied them, scrutinizing their every bend and divot for a blemish that didn't exist. Not a single scratch marred their pale surface.

The front door opened and Mr. Isley walked in, hanging his hat and coat on the hook just inside.

"You're late," Mrs. Isley intoned. "We've been waiting."

He sighed. "So I am, Lillian. I'll take my supper in my study. I've got work to do."

"You were just at work," she reminded him. "And Pamela and I expected to eat dinner as a family."

"Well, Lillian…" He took his plate and silverware from the table. "Seeing as how dinner was your sole responsibility today, I don't feel terrible about giving you the opportunity to experience some adversity."

Mrs. Isley drew her mouth into a hard line. "Very well," she murmured, watching him retreat down the hallway.

"Mother, may I use the washroom now?" Pamela asked, desperate at this point.

"Yes, fine." She waved her off. "Go."

Pamela rapidly rose from the table and began the fastest run she could muster in her school shoes.

"No running in the house!" Her mother bellowed.

The girl forced herself to slow. Knowing what it would mean as she rounded the corner at a measured pace. She was two doors away from her destination when she began to feel the warm liquid trickle down her leg.

/

"Isley." Flash's voice came over the intercom.

Ivy ignored him, comfortable in her seat in the rec room, leisurely flipping through the newest issue of her favorite botanical journal.

"Dr. Isley."

Cyborg stopped mid-pushup. "You deaf?"

"No…" Pam answered, plainly, flipping to the next page.

"…Paging Poison Ivy."

"Oh, goddamn it!" She angrily threw the magazine down on the table and started in a huff up to the main floor. Cyborg snickered as she left and it took all her willpower not to attempt kicking his arms out from under him. "What do you want?" Ivy asked, her arms crossed.

Flash spun around in his chair, and then around again when he failed to stop his momentum. "They need backup in Metropolis."

Ivy laughed. "I think whatever it is, Superman can handle it."

"Superman and Supergirl are off planet for the day." Flash informed her.

Ivy groaned. "Why can't you do it?"

"I'm in charge!" He spread his arms wide, indicating the control panel he sat at. "It's not my job to fix stuff today, it's my job to find the right people to fix it…so…go do that."

The shuttle dropped her off near a smoking, overturned car as civilians fled the scene.

"Excuse me," she grabbed a woman by the shirt as she ran past her, stopping her in her tracks. The woman's eyes were wide with fear. "Can you tell me what the problem is here?"

"It's—it's Livewire," the woman breathed. "Batwoman tried to—"

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Ivy flipped the sky off just in case Flash happened to be looking and shoved the woman aside, rounding the corner towards the flashes of light in the distance.

Batwoman did a back-handspring to avoid a bolt of electricity that left the sidewalk blackened, returning fire with a spray of what Ivy guessed was silica dust, one of the bat-clan's many toys.

"Leslie." Ivy greeted with a smile.

Livewire turned, surprised to hear that name, until she saw Ivy and her lips spread into a wide smile. "Poison Ivy, you slut."

Batwoman was evidently grateful for the break as she was resting with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

Ivy put her hands on her hips. "Oh, come now, Leslie. No need to be crude." She tsked.

"Fine, how about 'traitor?'" Livewire asked, decreasing her electrical output to lower herself to the ground.

"Well that's a bit romantic," Ivy chuckled.

"Mmm…" Leslie was amused. "Ever seen a tree in a lightning storm?"

"Yeah, she has," Batwoman straightened up, circling around her target. "And it makes her really mad."

Ivy rolled her eyes and stomped her foot on the ground, summoning a thick vine from beneath the pavement. Livewire was alert enough to zap it before it could wrap around her, and the vine flailed in the air as it burnt. "Bitch," Ivy grumbled as three more burst from the concrete. Livewire gave the first two the same treatment, but the third exploded just before it reached her, the moisture running through it dampening her long enough for Batwoman to aim her silica spray. While her attention was removed, Ivy directed another vine to wrap around the woman's waist and drag her to the ground.

Ivy sighed as Batwoman gave Livewire a thorough spray to finish her off where she lay on the ground. "You're better than that, Leslie. Bring your A game next time." Then she turned to Batwoman. "I thought bats were nocturnal…and lived in Gotham…and had other responsibilities to tend to in the daylight."

"I'm on loan," Batwoman told her. "And cats are useful allies."

Ivy nodded, and, having received all the information she needed, began to walk back to the shuttle before tossing a "be careful" over her shoulder. She knew she shouldn't have told Flash she wasn't rushing to get home at the end of the day. He was so nosy…

She enabled her headset when she returned to the shuttle. "Should I be helping with containment?"

"That's a nugatory, Poison Oakey."

"Ivy…it's Poison Ivy…" She grumbled, strapping herself in.

/

Pamela was late getting home again…on purpose. She was aiming to arrive just as Harleen was putting the children to bed, that way she could relieve her of her duties and there wouldn't be enough time for Harleen to attempt "a conversation" before she left for her patrol shift.

It was 9 o'clock when she walked in, but for some reason, everyone was sitting at the table.

"Mom!" Anthony said excitedly as she closed the front door behind her. "Mama got us pizza with pineapple."

"Well that's…wonderful." Pam hung her coat on the hook. "But what are you doing awake?"

"I was commuting today," Harleen reminded her from where she was cutting Jo's slice into manageable pieces. "And I'm off tonight so everything was sort of pushed back. We were going to wait for you to eat, but—"

"No!" Pam said quickly. "No, I'm glad you didn't."

Harley, Anthony and Jolene were all a bit startled by Pam's sudden outburst on the subject, but Harley cautiously braved another sentence. "I got you a salad. The one with the little oranges," she pointed to a container on the table. "Dressing on the side."

Pam didn't move from where she stood, just looked from Harleen to the children.

"You could…eat it in the greenhouse, if you want." Harley offered, sensing Pam's continued discomfort around her. She watched curiously as Pam nervously squeezed the side of her leg. "Pamela…would you like to hold Jolene?"

When Pam didn't answer, Harley got up from her chair, taking Jolene with her, and walked over to the other woman. "Hey," she said, softly. "Whatever it is, you're here, alright? Your feet are touching the ground, your head is above water…here." Harley handed her the baby. "Just…it's OK."

Pam held Jolene tightly to her body, rocking her side to side like she used to on those sleepless nights when she was an infant rather than a toddler. Pam closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the girl's strawberry-blonde hair. Patience, patience, patience

"I'm sorry," Harleen whispered, for what was probably the millionth time in the last month. "I'm sorry I dragged you back."

Pamela knew she was. At this point, she was sure of it. But she couldn't stop the associations. Her brain made connections too quickly. But that night, for the first time since the incident, Pamela did sleep in their bed rather than in the greenhouse. She did it wearing a long-sleeved nightgown and sweatpants rather than her typical underwear and oversized t-shirt, but it was certainly progress none-the-less.

She sat up in bed and watched Harleen change, speaking up when she removed her shirt to reveal a large bandage on her side held in place by gauze that wrapped all the way around her waist. "Is that a burn?"

"Yeah," Harleen said, a bit nervously, clearly treading carefully in any and every conversation with her wife at this point. "She zapped me pretty good. You came just in time…I was hurting."

"Mm." Pam nodded. "Who bandaged it?"

"Alfred. I think it's a second degree." Harley told her.

Pam just nodded again, laying down in the bed now, pulling the covers all the way up to her chin.

"So…" Harley cleared her throat, slipping into bed beside her, but careful not to touch her beneath the blankets. "It seemed like you might have been triggered by something in the kitchen? Do you want to talk about it?"

Pam almost laughed. "No. Certainly not with you." She could see the hurt in the other woman's features at the comment, but it wasn't Pam's job to baby her on the subject.

"I understand," Harleen murmured. "I wouldn't want to talk to me either." She reached out to tuck the lock of hair that had fallen in front of Pam's eye behind her ear, but quickly abandoned the movement, blushing a bit as she retracted her hand. "I—umm—I got in touch with a realtor today."

Pam was intrigued, but tried not to let on. "Oh?"

"Yeah, Bruce recommended her to me." Harleen said. "Since you went ahead and made the decision for us, moving is pretty inevitable, so I thought I should at least be involved in the process."

"It was the best option," Pam mumbled, rolling to lie on her side facing the other direction.

"That's not the point," Harleen sighed. "The point is people who are married make life changing decisions together."

Pam didn't respond right away, just brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, comforting herself as she'd been forced to for most of her life. "I got excited."

"What?" Harley asked, lolling her head to study the other woman's back.

"About being a doctor again," Pam said. "I got excited and I…I wanted to keep you. I thought…I wasn't quite sure…I just wanted to keep you."

Harleen either wasn't following or didn't have anything to say because instead of responding, she moved forward slightly and pressed her lips to the redhead's shoulder blade. "I love you, Pamela."

Pam's pillow was wet where her face lay, so she quickly reached up and shut the bedside lamp off, refusing to offer her wife another opportunity to perceive her as weak. "Goodnight, Harleen."