The elevator ride had been predictably silent up until this point, though Harley's attention had moved from obscure tiles on the floor to a frantic survey of her surroundings.
It's an elevator, what all is there to see?
She seemed to be most mesmerized by the illuminated floor buttons, her eyes darting from one level to the next as the elevator descended to the basement.
Pam watched her subtly out of the corner of her eye, the young woman's file still tucked safely under Pam's arm. "I find this all goes over a lot easier when people are honest with me upfront," she said, checking their metal reflection for Harley's reaction.
The blonde nodded, her pigtails bouncing almost whimsically with the movement. "Kinda hard to do."
This surprised Pamela, as she hadn't truly been expecting a response. This woman's affect was so…odd. It was as if her mouth had been taped shut, her eyes her only form of expression. But a sentence—well, half of one, anyway—that was a start. "Why's that?"
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open, and Pam took a left into the fluorescent-lit hallway, Harley lagging. "Well, Mistah J says that ain't my job."
Pam glanced back over her shoulder, "What isn't?"
Harley shrugged. "The feelin' good and feelin' better part, I guess. My job's just to hurt people, I don't worry about the rest of it."
Pulling out her keycard as they approached the door labeled "Performance Testing Lab", Pam unlocked the door, stepping inside and holding it open for Harley, the lights automatically flickering on as they entered.
"In other words, you don't know what he has you on?" Pam attempted to clarify as she extended her arm to indicate Harley should have a seat.
Harley first shook her head and then shrugged—god, even her physical vocabulary left a lot to be desired—"Sorry, can't help ya, Lady." She did take a seat, though.
"Well," Pam sighed. "I suppose that's something we can find out together." She left Harley alone for a moment to retrieve her personal protective equipment, stretching a pair of latex gloves to fit her hands and sliding the safety glasses onto her face, discarding her blazer in favor of a lab coat. When she returned, Harley was again surveying her surroundings, her white Chuck Taylor scuffing the linoleum flooring with each swing of her leg.
She appeared a bit…childish, now that Pam had a better look at her. Not in the legal sense, of course, no, Harley was 23 years old, according to her file. But just in the way she held herself, like a teenager at the OBGYN for the first time. God, what a terrible analogy, especially since I'm still going to hit on her.
Pam cleared her throat, regaining some semblance of Harley's attention. "We'll start with two oral swabs," she explained, opening a cabinet at eye level to retrieve the necessary instruments. "Then move on to the blood-work and eventually urine. Open up," she instructed, unwrapping the first of two swabs.
Harley obeyed, but in a shiftless manner, her mouth sort of lazing open.
Rolling her eyes, Pam took the woman's jaw in her unoccupied hand, pressing firmly at the hinge points. "You'll have to do better than that, Darling, I really haven't the patience for coddling you through this process." Harley got the message, her mouth opening quickly, jaw locking open. "Thank you," Pam smiled, rubbing the first swab and then the second inside both cheeks, under her tongue, and along her gums.
Harley's mouth shut immediately, like it was on springs, Pamela's finger nearly caught between her teeth when she pulled away. Pam narrowed her eyes as she placed both swabs in the refrigerator, watching Harley massage where Pam's hand had pressed. The redhead then pivoted, bending over to reach the syringes…and noticing that Harley was not watching her.
Huh.
On a whim, she raised her chosen syringe in front of Harley's face. "Focus on this for me."
Harley blinked, just now registering the needle. "Uh, no thanks, Red, I don't like needles."
"I wasn't asking," Pam set her straight. "Try to focus on this, follow it with your eyes."
With a slight cringe, Harley did what she was told. Or…attempted to, anyway. Her pupils bounced when they approached the edges of their range of motion.
Pam withdrew the syringe. "Did he have you take anything this morning?"
"Jus' vitamins," Harley mumbled.
"Right," Pam was unconvinced and pulled the small flashlight out of her pocket to observe her pupils pinpoint-they did so languorously. After answering that question for herself, she wrapped Harley's arm in the tunicate, taking her blood before Harley could protest and again placing it in the fridge.
The blonde seemed to know what was coming next when Pam grabbed the plastic-wrapped sample cup. "You don't gotta watch me pee, right?"
"As a matter of fact, it's a legal mandate that I do," Pam's tone was clip. "You're not exactly acing this test, Harleen. And we don't work on the honor system here. Bathroom is just there." She indicated the closed door to her right.
Harley grumbled something inaudible as she slid off the exam table, waiting for Pam's keycard to unlock the bathroom door and filing inside, Pam closing the door behind them. "Alright, but you don't gotta watch me pull my pants down."
Pam sighed. "Again, I do. You punch half naked women in the face for a living, why is urinating in front of a medical professional such a sticking point?"
The nervous foot tapping was back. "Sorry." Her eyes drifted back to the floor.
OK, so maybe she wouldn't be trying her luck with this one. Pam couldn't think of a less sexy introduction.
"Just pee so we can both get on with our day," Pam huffed, averting her eyes for a moment. Harley took the hint, sitting down quickly.
"Thanks, Red."
/
"So!" Selina already had one eyebrow raised in question, Bruce's expression much the same when Pamela entered his office. "How'd it go?"
"Terribly!" Pam exclaimed, lounging dramatically on Bruce's couch. "She might not want to fuck me!"
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Good God, Pamela."
"I know!" she was still exasperated. "What a twist! She might, in fact, be a heterosexual."
"Oh, that's never stopped you before," Selina encouraged.
"Selina, can we please…" Bruce trailed off with a sigh and a shake of his head. "How'd it go in your medical opinion, Pamela?"
"Oh, medically?" Pam feigned realization. "She was high as a kite. Not exactly a great first impression. Pain meds, according to my preliminary findings. Won't know which ones for another day or so."
"Not illegal unless she doesn't have a prescription," Bruce pointed out, falling into that nasty habit of stating the obvious. "Everyone's on opioids these days."
"Yes, well, usually people with a prescription know what they're taking," Pam reasoned. "She said all she'd had today were 'vitamins', and she doesn't strike me as a liar, just an idiot."
Selina scoffed. "That's a little harsh, don't you think, Pam? You're just sour she didn't fall in love with you on sight."
"Love has nothing to do with it," Pam assured her. "This girl and her Dollar Store Bobby Cannavale might be more trouble than they're worth, is all I'm saying."
Bruce laughed. "Bobby Cannavale? That's a bit obscure for you—and you're the one who vouched for her, don't forget that."
"I caught half an episode of Boardwalk Empire, leave me alone. And I didn't 'vouch' for anyone," Pam was on her feet again, arms crossed. "I suggested her. I'm woman enough to admit when I make a mistake."
"No, you're not," Selina shut that down immediately. "Just let us know what the full test comes back with, OK?"
"Fine," Pam acquiesced, already leaving.
"And G-Eazy is the Dollar Store Bobby Cannavale!" Bruce shouted after her.
"I know!" Pam yelled back as the glass door shut behind her. "I already made that joke!"
"To whom?" Selina projected her voice.
"Myself!"
/
She keeps her Moet et Chandron
In her pretty cabinet
"Let them eat cake", she says
Just like Marie Antoinette
Pam increased the speed on her treadmill for the final sprint, watching her heartrate spike on the readout in front of her.
She's a killer queen
Gunpowder, gelatin
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime
"Fuck," she breathed out, allowing her strides to slow as the machine began her cooldown. As soon as she was down to a manageable pace, Pam took a swig of water and picked up her phone, checking for any texts or emails she'd missed during the last half hour.
There was only one, from Barbara, which Pam found marginally interesting…until she realized it was from her assistant Barbara, not her ex who now lived halfway across the world. "Whatever," Pam mumbled, opening the message anyway.
Barbara Gordon: Sorry to text you at home, but could you put me on the ticket list for the Kane v Quinzel fight? 2. My boyfriend's a fan.
Pam read the message curiously. Barbara very rarely asked for things from her, personal favors, especially. And to her knowledge, Barbara's boyfriend was Bruce's eldest son, meaning they always had tickets on hand.
Interesting.
As soon as it's been officially booked, sure. Pam was feeling charitable, but she didn't have enough interest in Barbara's personal life to ask any follow up questions.
She stepped off the treadmill, wiping the machine down with a disinfectant spray and finishing the rest of her water bottle on her way to the kitchen.
Pam ate her dinner at the bar, picking distractedly at a salad as she scrolled, regrettably, through her past text conversations.
Must be terrible, living inside your head. Couldn't possibly be as bad as living with you, though.
She stabbed down with her fork, only coming up with one measly piece of lettuce and a sliver of beet despite her violence.
I hope one of your precious cheetahs mauls you to death.
Pam cringed reading her response. A bit much, Pamela.
With a groan, she locked her phone, tossing it away from her on the counter and getting up to pour herself a glass of wine.
/
Bruce flipped to the next page, then back to the first. "So just the morphine, then?"
"Plus the Oxy and fucking Fentanyl!"
Selina looked disappointed in the corner. "No cocaine?"
"Nope, there's a little of that too," Pam assured. "That coach—or manager—or whatever the hell, he's going to kill this girl."
"Well, talk to him about it," Bruce suggested, closing the cover page and setting Pam's report down on his desk. "The Fentanyl is certainly unnecessary."
Selina shrugged. "Either he takes her off it or there's no contract, simple as that."
"And it's my responsibility to mandate that?" Pam scoffed.
"Um, yeah," Selina almost didn't seem to understand the question. "Of course it is. Why do you think we pay you your ungodly salary? Have Barbara amend the contract with that stipulation and bring it out to them."