Flashing lights, raucous music, bubbling laughter.

The Iceberg Lounge was uncharacteristically vivacious that evening, raw energy literally bouncing off the walls and back into the rowdy crowd that supplied it.

Perhaps it was the weekend spirit that lent the club its gay atmosphere. Or perhaps it was the fact that the lounge's most consistent customers – the Rogues – had staged a successful prison break from Arkham just in time to celebrate the holidays. Perhaps it was even the fact that the Bat had just successfully foiled Joker's latest criminal attempt to blow up the city and placed him behind bars just in time to ensure a peaceful start to the new year.

Either way, the lounge was alight with joyful energy.

But Harley had never wanted to go on a murderous rampage more.

Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy. For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistable urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. Yippee.*

It didn't help that the reason for her jealousy lay just an arm's length away from her, casually sipping a double bourbon as she scanned the crowd with an impassioned gaze. Though she rarely enjoyed such outings, Pam always dressed for the occasion. And she had done so with exuberant aplomb tonight.

She wore a black satin floor-length dress for the night, accessorizing it only with simple diamond hangings and the locket Harley had bought her for their anniversary.

Leave it to Ivy to be incredibly alluring without even trying.

But modest though the attire remained, it provided just enough fuel for the masses to salivate over.

And that they did, it seemed, shamelessly and without remorse.

Harley turned her ire towards a fresh-faced frat boy, perhaps newly out of college. He seemed normal compared to the Lounge's more eccentric clients, but that hadn't stopped him from practically eye-fucking her girlfriend from across the crowded dancefloor.

And he had to know who he was ogling, because Ivy hadn't bothered to hide her green complexion at all. He also had to know who she was as well, because the blonde hadn't bothered to stray from her classic red and black, and no way people didn't know she was Harley fucking Quinn by now.

But the foolish boy – for that's what he really was – kept leering all the same.

Harley gripped her glass, imagining it to be his scrawny little neck instead.

"Who are you going to kill now?" Ivy could have been asking about the weather with that infuriatingly casual inflection of hers.

Harley grumbled and downed the rest of her scotch. She'd found herself needing something much stronger than her usual fare if she was gonna make it through the night without getting carted back to Arkham.

"6 o'clock. Stupid frat boy's been undressing you with his eyes since ten."

She didn't miss the satisfied gleam in Ivy's eyes as the redhead turned just enough to check out her admirer. "It's always nice to be reminded I'm a timeless beauty."

"Yeah, and what a reminder it is…" Harley muttered under her breath as she gestured for another glass. She must have been glaring something fierce because the bartender went scurrying into the back room. Probably to piss himself.

But Ivy had the nerve to smirk at her envy instead. "Harls, you do this every time we go out. Why don't you just relax and enjoy the night?"

The sound of glass clinking on the counter caught her attention. To her surprise, a whole, fresh bottle of scotch was waiting for her. A hint of guilt crept up on Harley for her earlier behavior, but she decided to remedy the situation by giving the poor idiot her entire wallet as she uncorked the bottle.

"I'm trying…" And she was, she really was. "But it's hard to relax when practically the entire club wants you to sit on their face."

She only got one good swig of burning scotch in before Ivy gently nudged the bottle to the side. "Darling…" Her voice was low, sultry, her gaze piercing. "You know you're the only one whose face I want to sit on. And vice versa."

Harley was not so successful at hiding her blush. "But they don't know that." She jerked her head towards the meatbag, who had the gall to still be ogling, and apparently laughing about something with his buddies. She could only make out the words, "fucking tease", but it was enough for Harley to lose her shit.

Why I oughtta-

She had no sooner risen from the table when Ivy's warm hand fell over her own, fingers gently intertwining themselves. "Then let's show them." She glanced towards the dance floor, one perfect eyebrow raised in anticipation.

A wicked grin snuck onto her shiny red lips as Harley took another swig. Then she dragged Ivy towards the bright lights and the popping music.

She didn't register the song, nor did she care. As they made their way through the melee, all Harley could think about was showing all the losers – but especially that smug jerk - that Ivy was hers.

She pulled Pam closer than the dance called for, her hand snaking around her waist, posting itself like a vigilant sentry on her hip, ready to fuck with anyone who attempted to get handsy with her girl. Fingers gently stroked the skin underneath the silky fabric before digging into it, hard.

Mine. Only mine.

"Harls," Her tone was lilting, teasing. "No one in their right mind would call this a slow waltz. You're holding me way too close."

"Who said I'm doing a slow waltz? I'm just here to show all of these mother-fuckers you're mine."

Ivy's expression was equal parts endearing and infuriating. "I am, daffodil. You have nothing to worry about."

Harley didn't respond. They'd been together for two years, but Pam still didn't get it. She supposed her sweet, way-too-innocent-for-this-century girlfriend wasn't entirely to blame though. After all, Ivy didn't really do anything to warrant such attention – at least not anymore, not since she'd learned to control her pheromones – but it was incredibly infuriating that even with zero effort, Pam had the entire city swooning over her if she so much as flipped her hair.

And the idiot - sorry, her idiot - really had no idea.

You could just ignore it all, you know. Like most rational adults would. Like Ivy clearly does.

And allow everyone to continue eye-fucking my girlfriend or sliding her their phone numbers as they walk by? Maybe she doesn't care about it, but I do. And if it's a problem for me, then she should understand that, shouldn't she?

Don't you think you're making a really big deal of all this?

Because it is, HAR-leen.

Okay, you know I hate it when you do that, even though it's technically our name and you have every right to say it however you want, but still…not cool. And the point I'm trying to get at is…maybe there's another reason why all of that attention bothers you.

Oh, don't psychoanalyze me, ya dork. I do that to myself already, thank you very much. And there's nothing else going on here except for the fact that I want to be the only one flirting with my lady in public.

…I'm you…but whatever. Are you sure there's nothing else going on? Because it kinda sounds like you're insec-

BLAHBLAHBLAH, I can't hear you so you better stop talking right now or i'm gonna sing "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," and I'm gonna be really obnoxious about it too.

If she could feel Harleen sighing, she was sure she would have. Look, I'm you, so I'm just trying to help. Sue me for caring about – well, us – but I don't want you to screw up what you have with Ivy.

I'm not screwing anything up, they are.

No, you are, with your obsessive jealousy. You're deflecting one emotional hurdle by creating another, Harley. Find the real source of your jealousy, and quickly. Being green doesn't work for you like it does for Ivy.

It was times like this that Harley wished she could stuff Harleen in a trash bin. Who did she think she was? Her therapist?

Well, technically-

Oh, shove it up your ass, HAR-leen.

Again, I feel like I need to remind you that –

Harley didn't bother listening to the rest of that sentence. There were some perks to being in control of their body, as it turned out. Besides, Harleen didn't get it.

They were a couple, Ivy and Harley, two peas in a pod, two halves of one soul. They were supposed to understand each other implicitly and completely, right? Wasn't that the whole point of relationships?

But even after two years of griping and wincing at every ill-conceived pick-up line that got tossed at her girlfriend, Ivy just didn't seem to pick up on her discomfort.

It was never more than a punchline to her, perhaps another odd quirk she assumed came with the package known as Harley Quinn.

But Harley just wasn't a jealous person…or rather, she didn't want to be. She didn't particularly enjoy that cloying urge to throw up or the need to bite off everyone's heads if they so much as winked at her girl.

But Ivy didn't understand any of that…and it was really starting to bother her.

Being green doesn't work for you like it does for Ivy.

Bad joke aside, perhaps Harleen had a point. Because Ivy had never HAD to be jealous of the attention Harley got from randos.

But what if she did?

"You've gone awfully quiet," Ivy whispered, tearing Harley away from her thoughts. "Everything okay?"

She surprised herself by returning a wide, genuine smile.

"Yeah, Pam-a-lamb, everything's just peachy keen."