"And that brought some things up for you," Harleen guessed.

"Well, yeah!" Carrie sniffed, her eyes red rimmed. "I mean…here's this kid, no older than 8 years old, starving on the street. You can see his ribs through his tattered shirt—so of course I bring him home. I have to, right? He couldn't even remember where he lived, but I figured it out, and then when we get there…nothing. His mom answers the door high as a fricken kite with a kid on her hip and another one screaming somewhere behind her." Carrie was slowly getting more animated. "The dad's there too, totally zonked out of his mind on the couch—apartment's a total crap hole—and the mom's first reaction is surprise. And not because I was in costume, either. No, that didn't faze her for a second. She was surprised because she didn't even realize her kid was gone."

Harleen just nodded. When she had everything written down, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and sat back, giving her patient her full attention once more. "Did that remind you of your childhood?"

Carrie scoffed, pulling her sweatshirt tighter around her shoulders. "The only difference being I was an only child." She laughed, mirthlessly. "My parents couldn't even keep track of one kid."

The redhead was looking through her now, rather than at her, so Harleen cleared her throat. "So what did you do?"

Carrie quickly abandoned whatever train of silent thought she'd boarded. "Huh?"

"With the boy," Harleen clarified.

"Oh," Carrie looked relieved. "I called Child Protective Services, obviously. That place was straight up uninhabitable. And those kids just weren't cut out for the street."

"But you were?" Harleen raised an eyebrow, pen poised.

"Well I met you and Mr. Wayne pretty early on, Dr. Q." Carrie smiled charmingly. "It felt good—having a purpose. Still does."

"It always does," Harleen returned the girl's good-natured expression with a kind smile of her own. "How are classes treating you?"

"They're awesome," Carrie told her. "Even worth the lecture I get from Anthony on a daily basis on how film school is just a giant waste of Mr. Wayne's money. You gotta tell that kid to live a little. Or—you know—let the rest of us live, at least."

Harleen's answering chuckle ended with a sigh. "He gets that from his Mother, unfortunately. Not sure it's something we can fix this late in the game. So…maybe you won't get his approval, but would mine mean anything to you?" she took Carrie's shy smile as an affirmative. "I think it's awesome that you found something you enjoy outside of all this." Harleen closed her notebook and got up from her chair. "Not only is it possible to do both, you should do both. It's this single-mindedness that gets people in trouble. Have a life and live it—and not just for the cape."

"Copy that." Carrie quickly rose from her seat to salute her.

Harleen started for the door, implying Carrie should follow—it was a few steps before the girl caught on. "You're taking over for Tim at midnight, right?"

"Yup," Carrie confirmed, bounding a step or two head so she could open the door for them.

Harley continued through the door and out onto the metal bridge that led from Harleen's office down to the Batcave's main computer (where Barbara sat performing a scan of the city). "Alright, well—without trying some 'tough girl' act—are you ready to get back out there or do you need to take a day? You know the drill. No shame in taking a step back."

"No, I think my head's been sufficiently shrunk." Carrie winked. "Tell the Missus I said 'what's up'."

"Yeah, I'll use that exact phrasing. We'll see what she thinks." Harleen laughed after her.

Once it was just she and Barbara alone in the cave, Harleen descended the stairs, taking a seat at the smaller monitor next to the one Barbara was using for her scan.

"All good?" Barbara questioned, without looking up.

"Yeah…" Harleen fired up the image scanner and uploaded her notes page by page into the file labeled 'Carrie Kelley'. "I think it would be better for her to work with Cass tonight, though. I know she and Damian are close, but I want her to be able to put her head down for a bit."

Barbara nodded and opened up the team schedules. "Cass is going east tonight."

"Yeah, better." Harley decided. "Okay," she exhaled. "I'm going home. How's your evening shaping up?"

"Well it's—uhh—,' Barbara fiddled with her glasses. "It's date night, so…I'm just waiting for Bruce to get back."

"Aww, I remember date nights," Harley ruffled Barbara's hair. "You guys…makin' it work. That's what I like to hear."

/

"MOM!" Jolene screeched at a pitch only dogs should have been able to hear as she slammed the greenhouse door behind her.

Bruce shot up from his seat and Pamela had to steady herself to avoid keeling over. "Jolene! You're going to give poor Bruce a heart attack." She scolded.

Bruce shot a hard look back Pam's way as he returned to his seat. "I'm fine." He intoned. "Good afternoon, Jolene."

"Hey, Uncle Bruce." The girl grinned, skipping over, her ponytail bouncing, to plant a kiss on his cheek. "What'cha doin here?"

"Well, Darling…When a man loves a woman very much…" Pam began, distractedly, as she applied a tourniquet to his upper arm. "Or—sometimes—when he doesn't love her at all but feels the need to satiate his more animalistic impulses—,"

"Which doesn't apply in this context," Bruce cut her off.

"Ohhhh, I see what this is," Jo snickered. "You're refilling your boner meds."

"That's Harleen's daughter," Pam mumbled an apology as Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You're going to feel a slight pinch." She warned him, readying the syringe.

"I'm Batman," he deadpanned. "I think I can handle a little—hey!"

"Oops," Pam smiled, cheekily. "Missed the vein."

Jo laughed at that as she plopped down on the bench. "Congrats on keeping your woman satisfied, Mr. Wayne. But Mom, I need you to pay attention to me right now, please and thank you."

"I'm afraid my attention will need to remain divided…" Pam murmured as she placed a drop of Bruce's blood on a microscope slide and gently maneuvered it under the lens for examination.

Jolene groaned. "OK, fine. Buuuutttt," she slapped an opened envelope down on the counter. "Guess who just got an invite the Olympic trials? I'll give you a hint: she's got two thumbs, two moms and she's like, really, super adorable."

Pam stopped immediately, ripping her focus away from the eyepiece to look at her daughter. "You…you…"

"Oh my God, Mom! Great guess! You're so smart," Jo laughed. "Yeah, look. Read 'em and weep." She tore the letter out of the envelope and held it up so Pam could get a closer look. "Says right there: Jolene Quinzel. That's me!" She giggled, getting up from her seat to throw her arms around Pam's neck.

"That's…fantastic," was all Pam could muster. "Have you…"

"Told Ma?" Jo guessed, allowing Pam some breathing room. "No, not yet." her grin stretched from ear to ear. "I wanted to do like a big surprise thing or something. I mean…she's gonna freak, right?" Jo was giddy at the idea. "Like, go all Aunt Sue on us or something."

Pam pursed her lips. "Well perhaps you should wait…just until tonight. When we're all in one place."

Jo thought it over for a moment before nodding, that wide smile still stretching her lips. "Yeah, alright. Sounds like a plan. I gotta start mapping my routine anyway."

Bruce's eyes narrowed at Pam as soon as Jo left, but Pam averted her gaze quickly, returning to her work. "I take it blood flow has been satisfactory?"

"The Olympics are for humans, Pamela."

"What about endurance? Are you still able to ejaculate?"

"Pamela," Bruce tried again, his expression austere. "Does she know she's cheating?"

The redhead cleared her throat lightly, shutting the light on her microscope off and removing the slide from the stage. "She does not understand the extent to which her physiology enhances her athletic performance, no." Pam admitted, still refusing eye contact.

"When were you planning to tell her?" Bruce wanted to know. "She's 15, Pam. She's been competing since she was 7. Her Mom was a collegiate gymnast…did you really not know this was likely her goal?"

"No, I knew." Pam untied the tourniquet. "I'm just assuming Harley will talk to her. She went through the same disappointment, after all."

Bruce's phone vibrated on the counter, but he ignored it. "Have you talked to Harleen about that?"

"Oh, well…no." Pam left his side to move deeper into the greenhouse. "But that's the only feasible plan of action. Why in the world would she think it was a good idea for me to talk to her? Harleen is a psychiatrist. She went to medical school in preparation for moments like this."

Bruce angrily snatched at his phone when it lit up with another text message, and he only seemed to get angrier from there.

Pam ignored him, continuing with the task at hand. "Because of your advanced age, I'd highly recommend we go with the oral tablets again. I worry about collapse with intravenous."

"They graffitied your billboard again," Bruce growled at his phone.

Pam rolled her eyes. "Please tell me they at least came up with something more original than 'slut' or 'whore'. Honestly, it's like these people have never owned a thesaurus. 'Harlot' would convey their message, as would 'floozy', 'tramp', 'trollop', 'fille de joie', 'bimbo', 'hussy', 'Jezebel', 'wench', 'doxie', 'minx', 'chippie', 'street walker', 'ho', 'tart', 'strumpet'—or, if they'd rather—'cum rag', 'cum dumpster', 'c—,"

"Ivy!" Bruce had to shout to stop her.

"Hm?" Pam turned to him, puzzled at the interruption. "I only mean the English language provides us with an impressive variety of ways to express ourselves. It's the redundancy that I find most offensive, at this point. Next time you want to call a woman a 'whore', Bruce, try 'trollop' instead. You might just make her day."

"They didn't write anything…" Bruce mumbled. "They just drew a…in your…"

"Oh, in my mouth?" Pam laughed. "Are they so illiterate that they aren't aware my saliva is toxic to any human with a last name other than Quinzel?"

"I just sent a cleaning crew," Bruce was saying, although Pam wasn't listening.

"How terrifying it must be to feel the ground shifting beneath you," Pam laughed. "Perhaps the white man is not as dominant as he once was. Perhaps, for the first time in 6,000 years, the rest of us have cleared enough space so that we can breathe—finally. They can't oppress or hate or violate so openly anymore because somewhere down the line, the rest of us realized we were allowed to take offense to the actions or words of an oppressor that imply we are unequal in some regard. Weak or stupid or useless or sick or wrong or inhuman, even. And all of that—every last drop of that abuse comes out of their fear, and that phallus they felt the need to spray paint into my mouth is very much the same animal. Because, Bruce, when you're accustomed to privilege, even the implication of equality feels like oppression."

Both greenhouse occupants turned, startled, when a slow clap emanated from the doorway.

"That was a good one, Babe." Harley complimented, smirking as she pushed off of the doorway. "I wanna go march on Washington now or something."

Pam just sighed, kissing her quickly before opening a cupboard and tossing Bruce a nondescript pill bottle. "You're welcome." She reminded him. "And that goes for Selina as well. Make sure she's aware it wasn't my goal in life to provide this service."

"Thank you," he granted. "And I'm sorry about the graffiti situation. I'll tighten our roof-access security at night."

"Well…no means yes, right?" Pam let a ray of depression slip by her sarcastic smile.

"Right," Bruce said with a similar exhaustion. "Good luck with your parenting responsibilities." He left after a wave, shutting the door behind him.

With another long, drawn out sigh, Pamela began to clean up her workspace.

"Shit day?" Harley wanted to know.

"Actually, all was going fine until very recently." Pam told her.

"Ooh, well I know what's sure to fix that," Harley looped her arm around the other woman's. "A big ole' cup of green tea. Or, you know, hot chocolate if you're sane."

Pam allowed herself to be pulled along back to the main house. Jo was sitting at the kitchen table when they entered.

"Hey, Ma!" she greeted animatedly, her excitement a stark contrast to Pam's glowering. "Everything running smoothly down at the super-secret place we're not allowed to talk about?"

"As a matter of fact…" Harley chuckled, filling the tea kettle and lighting the stove. "Oh—hey," she turned back around once the kettle was heating. "Have you guys ever wondered if Anthony and Carrie might ever…you know…or is that like incest or something?"

"Well on a purely biological level—," Pam started to answer, but was cut off when Jo, brow furrowed, said: "I thought Carrie was gay."

Harley crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. "Is she? I thought that was just how all people that went to film school looked—gay or straight."

"I'm not familiar with that particular aesthetic," Pam admitted. "But to answer your initial question, Harleen: no, that's never crossed my mind."

"Well alright," the blonde shrugged. "What about you, Jo?"

Pam felt uncomfortable the moment the subject was broached.

"Me and Carrie?" Jo asked. "I mean…maybe. But, she's sort'a too similar to me and too similar-looking to Anthony for it not to be creepy, right?"

Harley laughed. "No, I just meant dating in general…but you seem to have put some thought into that one."

"Oh," Jo giggled. "Well, some senior did want to give me a ride on his motorcycle the other day."

Pam hoped her face didn't look as hot as it felt. "Had you—had you ever met him before?"

"Sure, yeah." Jo reassured her. "He's sort of a dickhead, but—actually—," she laughed. "It's funny cuz he sort'a looks like Babs' Dick. Except this guy thinks he's some kind'a badass. But anyway, I didn't accept. I was late to the gym...and he didn't have an extra helmet."

Pam could tell Jo had added that last bit just for her.

"You sound so smitten," Harley mocked, playfully.

"Nah," Jo smiled. "I've only got room for one special someone in my life, and right now that's gymnastics. Speaking of which..." she slid out of her chair, throwing a wink Pam's way.

Harley raised an eyebrow. "Are you…sending us on a cruise or something? I hope you had Mom marked as my daughter on the…" she trailed off when Jo held out the envelope to her.

Pam panicked internally, realizing they'd neglected the conversation that was supposed to serve as a precursor. She'd asked Jo to wait for a reason, and that reason was so they could avoid this exact situation.

A smile spread over Harley's face when she saw the return address, and it grew as she read the letterhead, becoming practically face-splitting by the time she was through with the text on the paper. Tears gathered in her eyes as she looked at her daughter, and Pam had to avert her gaze from the scene altogether for how it racked her with guilt.

"Jo!" Harley exclaimed, pulling her into a tight hug. "Oh my God, I…it feels like just the other day you were kicking Mom in the face on Christmas," she laughed, but it came out an odd mixture of that and a happy sob. "I'm so proud of you. So proud."

Pam was a bit lost on Harley's strategy here. It seemed like she was building her up pretty high just to tell her she wouldn't be allowed to compete, but she wasn't about to doubt her wife's skills in this area. Harley had been explaining difficult concepts to their children for the last 21 years.

"Pam, can you believe it?" Harley asked as she separated from the girl, wiping her eyes. "This one," she indicated Jo. "The littlest one. The girl one. She's—Jo, you got there! After all your hard work—this is it!"

And it occurred to Pam then, as Harleen stood there bursting with pride, that her wife had no idea they would have to crush their daughter's dreams.