"What are you doing?"
Harley was hunched over the outdoor table, pencil in hand, hard at work on…something. "Math."
"Math?" Pam raised an eyebrow, discarding her robe. "To what end?" she stepped gingerly into the jacuzzi, settling down on one of the benches and enabling the jets.
Harley slammed her pencil down in excitement. "Alright, hear me out," she snatched her paper off the table and jogged over to Pam, where she got down into a crouched position behind her. "Look, you see this?" she thrust the paper forward. "I think I'm only one match behind."
Pamela took the paper from her, holding it a more respectable distance from her face so she could attempt to decipher Harley's chicken scratch. "You really should have been a doctor with this handwriting."
"Knock it off, Pammy," Harley implored, tapping on her conclusion at the bottom of the page. "If Canary loses her fight to Steph, I'm in the title match. Right? I mean, check my math, but right?"
Pam exhaled, folding up the paper and handing it back to her. "Dinah won't be losing to Steph, Harl."
"Red, come on! Anything's possible!" Harley's delivery fell somewhere between annoyed and exhilarated…but then she faltered. "What? Do you think I'd lose?"
"The title fight I'm certain you won't qualify for?" Pam wondered.
Harley brought herself up to her full height, crossing her arms in an exaggerated pout. "You're no fun."
Sighing, Pam said, "It's a worthy goal, Harleen, one I'm sure you'll achieve at some point in your career. But this is your rookie season. Just barely missing the title fight is a feat worth celebrating. Now, come here," she pivoted, reaching over to untie Harley's shoes. "I'm naked and not being paid the attention that deserves."
Reluctantly, protest in every movement, Harley kicked off her shoes, dropping her clothes on the patio and climbing in next to her. "I just think you don't get it cuz you didn't play any sports and yer not competitive."
Pamela laughed at that notion. "Everything's a competition for me, Darling, and I'm winning."
Harley's lips twisted into another frown and she slumped backwards, her posture severely lacking as she idly splashed at the water. "Whatever," she grumbled. "I think Steph's got a shot."
She doesn't.
"OK, Sweetpea," Pam cooed, deciding it was better to conceded that point and move on. "We could attend the fight, if you'd like to—," she was cut when her phone vibrated on the table Harley had abandoned. She felt strange, suddenly. Cold.
Harley's head lulled backwards, watching the phone as it continued to ring. "You wanna get that?"
Pam swallowed. "No, I don't think I do."
"Fine, I will," Harley huffed, hopping out of the jacuzzi, and wiping her hands before she slid her finger across the screen, answering the call. "Pam Isley's phone, she's too busy winning the game of life to answer herself." She teasingly wrinkled her nose in the redhead's direction before her posture stiffened and she pulled the phone away from her face to check the caller ID. "No, she's right here," Harley said, tone sobering as she crossed the patio to hand Pam the phone.
She gingerly cleared her throat before taking . "What is it, Mother?" Pam asked without having to look.
"Your father passed," Lillian's voice sounded wrung out. Tired. "I suggest you make travel arrangements; his funeral is planned for Sunday and we'll be reading the will on Monday."
"I'll…check my schedule," were the only words Pam could find.
"No, you won't," her mother said, cold and commanding. "You'll book a flight and be here in time for the funeral." With that, she hung up, leaving Pam alone with her phone pressed to her face.
Harley quietly stepped back into the water, the subtle splash reminding Pam of her presence. "Sorry, I didn't check who was callin', that's my bad."
Pam silently shook her head, standing without a word and heading back towards the house, wrapping her robe around her as she went.
"Hey, you OK?" Harley called after her, though Pam wasn't really listening.
She pulled her laptop over to her on the kitchen island, opening the browser and navigating to her preferred travel site. And then Harley was beside her again, dressed in her now wet t-shirt and shorts, water dripping off her and onto the bamboo flooring, which would have irritated Pamela had she been paying attention.
"What'd she wanna talk about?" Harley asked.
"I have to fly to Leesburg for the weekend," Pam told her, hoping that would enough information for Harley to leave her alone.
It wasn't. "What's Leesburg?"
"A town in Virginia."
"Virginia? Why are you flyin' there?"
Pam stopped, her fingers resting on her keyboard. "My father is dead. He just—he just died. The funeral is this weekend. In Leesburg. That's where I grew up."
Harley didn't appear to know how to react right away. Her first move was to place her hand on Pam's back, not patting, not rubbing, just holding her there. Then she moved closer, wrapping her other arm around Pam's waist, looking at her while Pam searched for something else in the room to focus on. "How'd he die?" Harley asked.
"I'm sure in his sleep…or some other needlessly peaceful method," Pam was dismissive, creating some space between she and Harley so she could select her seat.
"Red, I'm—I'm so sorry," Harley offered her condolences.
"I already told you I don't care," Pam snapped. "I'm not mourning, it was a matter of when and it happened today. That's all."
Harley nodded. "Yeah, no worries, Red, I get it. I prolly wouldn't care if my Pop died either."
"Great," Pam muttered, digging her credit card out of her purse. "My flight departs tomorrow at 2pm, will you drive me to the airport?"
"Oh, I—well I was thinkin'…maybe I could come with?" Harley proposed, blue eyes wide and hopeful. "So I can be there for ya, you know? In case you decide to care."
"I don't have enough miles for that," was Pam's response.
"I can pay, Pammy," Harley reminded her. "I've got plenty'a money cuz you never make me spend any. Let me come with you."
The redhead slammed her laptop shut, leaving the kitchen in the direction of her bedroom. She needed to pack. "No."
"Wha—," Harley followed, obviously upset, which Pam hadn't the headspace for. "I wanna be there for you!"
Pamela pulled one of her suitcases from its place in the closet, tossing it on the bedroom floor. "Well, I don't want you there."
"Why not?!"
"Because I don't need another reason to be ridiculed!" Pam exploded. It was out there before she could stop it.
Harley's shoulders deflated, her face sinking. "What's that s'posed ta mean?"
Pamela took a deep breath, gathering herself as best she could. "I'm not ready to—I'm not going to introduce you to my mother. I tried with Barbara Ann, and—,"
"Oh, I see how it is," Harley's laugh was sad. "I'm not good enough, huh? I'm not classy like Barbara, so I don't get an invite."
"Harleen, please don't make my father's death about you."
"The fuck do you care?!" Harley demanded, closing the space between them, her voice loud and angry. "I thought none'a this mattered to ya. Now suddenly me being pissed is interrupting your mourning?"
Pam retreated into the closet without a response, slipping the first black dress she saw into a garment bag.
"What is it about me that's so embarrasin'?" Harley demanded, joining Pam in the closet. "I can change my tattoos for ya, I don't care. I can wear my hair different. I can learn to talk better."
"Please, don't make me have this conversation right now," Pam begged, folding a pair of pants to add to her suitcase. "Whatever I say is going to hurt your feelings."
"Hit me," the blonde implored. "C'mon, do your worst."
Pam threw the clothes she'd been holding onto the floor. "Fuck! Harley! It's not about you! Nothing about me will ever be good enough for my mother, don't you get it? Doesn't matter if it's you or Barbara Ann, I am a godless lesbian who is wasting her life besmirching the family name."
That seemed to successfully halt Harley's rage because her eyes fell to her feet, the extra air escaping her chest. "I don't know what besmirch means," she quietly admitted.
"Tarnish, sully, taint," Pam threw out a few synonyms. "She's an awful, judgmental, nightmare of a woman, and I am a disappointment."
Harley opened her mouth, her brows knitting together, though no sound came out. Seemed Harley couldn't find the words. 'Perplexed' was a good description of her expression. "How could you be a disappointment?" she finally asked.
Pam took a deep breath. "There are things about myself that I cannot change," she said, picking up the clothes one by one and exiting the closet to place them in her suitcase. "And those things…my mother, will never accept them about me."
Harley followed her, sitting gingerly down on the bed like she didn't want Pam to remember how loud she'd been earlier. "I'm so proud of you, Pamela."
Hearing her full name in Harley's voice was strange.
"You're the smartest person I've ever met," Harley continued. "And if that really is what your mom's like, then you're the bravest one too. You're the only person besides Jared that I've ever loved, and I don't know where I'd be without'cha. If she can't see how awesome that makes you then fuck her."
Pam blinked. It seemed Harley wasn't fully aware of what she'd just said. But Pam was. She was very aware of the implications of that sentence. "You love me?"
"Well, yeah," Harley said like it was obvious. "But anyway, if you're never gonna be good enough, why do you keep tryin'?"
"I'm—I'm not, I don't," Pam defended herself. "I moved three states away so I'd never have to justify another life choice to her."
Harley spread her arms wide. "Then I'm a life choice. You don't have ta justify me."
And so Harley bought herself a first-class ticket.
/
"I've never been on a plane before," Harley was trying (and failing) to tamp down her excitement. "Never been outta New Jersey before, either," she grinned, gripping an issue of SkyMall to her chest like it was The Bible. "Have you ever looked in here, by the way? I wanna buy all of it."
"Please don't do that," Pam was distracted, leaning into the aisle to look for the Flight Attendant. "Hi! Miss? I need some alcohol. It's a matter of personal emergency."
"I googled Leesburg, by the way," Harley was saying, her gum popping in her mouth as she did. "How come there are so many plantations?"
Give me the strength to survive this, Pam silently prayed as she began to formulate a brief history lesson on pre-civil war America.
Harley was asking another question before Pam answer the first one. "If you're from the south how come you don't have an accent like that Justin Timberlake girl on Ozark?"
The flight attendant had finally arrived to take Pam's drink order. "Whiskey."
"And for you, ma'am?" the woman prompted Harley.
"Something sweet enough to mask the taste of the alcohol," Pam ordered for her, and Harley smiled, settling back into her seat. "Did you bring something to entertain you for the hour and a half we'll be in the air?"
Harley held up her headphones as proof. "Yep! I found an audiobook of Bruce Wayne's autobiography."
Pam was incredulous. "Why would you want to listen to Bruce's autobiography? He's such a bummer."
"He was the greatest," Harley explained. "And I wanna win just as many titles as he did, so…gotta start studying."
With a sigh, Pam took her drink from the flight attendant, passing Harley hers before sinking back into her chair and closing her eyes.
She and her father had never managed to cultivate a relationship. He'd spent much of her childhood working, and when he was at home, he was usually in his study, a place Pamela never felt welcome. Robert Isley came from old money and made his personal fortune slaughtering pigs. He'd actually hired Pamela to consult on more sustainable meat production practices for his slaughterhouses once, back when that was her forte. It had been a genuinely traumatic experience for Pamela, and she refused to eat pork to this day. She was almost certain he'd failed to incorporate a single one of her recommendations into his production protocols, and rather than pay her consulting fees, he'd gifted her that Georgia O'Keeffe painting that hung above her dining room table.
He'd been a quiet man, aloof and largely uncaring, more a breathing concept of a father than a physical presence. And now, he was dead.
Harley had tears in her eyes by the time they touched down. "—And so he adopted Dick because he lost his parents too, right in front of him, and—,"
"Yes, Harley, I know," Pam stood to grab their carry-ons from the overhead bin. "He's my direct supervisor, I've heard the story a million times. It's all very inspiring."
"Then Talia goes and just dumps Damian on his doorstep?"
"No one needs to know I said this, but that's perhaps a bit unfair to Talia," Pam said, handing Harley her bag and checking their seats to make sure nothing had been forgotten.
"No way!" a male voice in the row behind them exclaimed. "Are you The Harlequin?"
Harley turned to greet him, slightly apprehensive at first. "Yeah…that's me…I mean, that's what they call me in the ring, anyway."
Pam took a step into the aisle so she could see him too. He appeared altogether normal, which was a relief.
"My daughter and I are huge fans!" he said, grinning. "Check it out, I got this one after your fight with The Demon's Daughter." He pulled his shirt sleeve back, revealing he'd tattooed the word Rotten onto his medial deltoid.
Harley couldn't believe it. "Holy shit! That's awesome, Red, check it out!"
"I'm checking it out," Pam assured her, checking her phone. "Our cab is already waiting for us."
"Well, hey, I don't wanna keep you, but do you think you'd sign something for me?" he asked.
Harley was happy to oblige. "Of course! You got a pen?"
The man checked his pockets but came up empty, so Pam produced one from her purse, trying to speed this interaction along. He asked that Harley sign his arm, telling her he'd get his guy to go over it with ink later. A request and statement Pam found a bit creepy, but whatever, he was here for Harley, not Pamela's opinions.
"I'm really hoping Canary loses on Sunday," he said as Harley wrote her name on his arm. "I'd kill to see you get another shot at Batwoman in the final."
"No need to kill anyone," Pam felt the need to make that clear. "There's always the chance of an upset."
"Yeah," the man agreed with an enthusiastic nod of his head, smiling at Harley the whole time. "You're so awesome."
Pam grabbed Harley by the arm. "She certainly is, it was a pleasure to meet you."
"I've never run into a fan like that before," Harley said once they'd left the plane, still basking in the moment. "He had a Rotten tattoo! I don't even have a Rotten tattoo yet!"
"I think we should probably stick to sharpie for that one," Pam suggested, guiding them through the airport and out to the curb where their cab was waiting, the driver holding a sign that said Isley.
He popped the trunk once Pamela waved at him, and Harley helped to load their bags into the car.
Pam knew from experience the drive from Dulles International Airport to her childhood home would take about 30 minutes, so she'd have time to mentally prepare herself before having to come face to face with her mother, something she hadn't subjected herself to in nearly two years now. That altercation had been on Pamela's home turf. This would be an entirely different ballgame.
"Do you think I'll ever be rich enough to fly in a private jet?" Harley asked, interrupting Pamela's train of thought but not pulling her attention away from the passing scenery.
"Sure, why not," Pam offered.
"Were you so rich that you grew up with horses and shit?"
"Yes, though I didn't much care for them. They were far more important to my mother."
"And, like, did you have a butler?"
"Yes," Pam exhaled, long and loud, hoping Harley would get the hint, but of course that was a pipe dream.
"What was your dad like?"
Pamela shook her head. "I don't really know."
Harley's face was pressed against the window when they finally pulled into the Isley's long driveway, their path bracketed by a row Tulip Poplars on both sides. "Holy shit, Pammy. You never told me you were raised on a fuckin' nature preserve."
"It's beautiful," Pam admitted, studying her own hands folded in her lap rather than the estate. She knew the driveway would circle around the back of the house before taking them around to the front. She hadn't been home since she'd moved to Gotham to work for Bruce and Selina nearly 4 years ago now, and yet she could conjure every detail of this dreadful place without prompting.
Harley whistled as the car stopped out front. "This some Django Unchained shit."
The driver popped the trunk again and Harley got out to unload the bags while Pam paid him. She added a tip as well because he hadn't tried to talk to them, which was the exact type of cab service she preferred.
The trip up the front steps felt far too brief, and before Pam knew it she was standing on her porch, a few feet from the grand front door. Harley had carried both of their bags, meaning Pam would have to be the one to knock.
Pamela breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, shifting her weight subtly from her heels, to her toes, and back again. She shook out the tension in her shoulders and then cleared her throat, raising her hand to the doorbell.
"You got this," Harley encouraged beside her.
"I've got this," Pam quietly repeated, gathering all her strength to press the doorbell, that familiar chime echoing beyond the door.
She glanced over at Harley as they waited, the blonde offering an awkward double thumbs up as a show of support.
Pam chuckled, and that's when the door swung open, revealing a woman dressed in what Pam recognized as the live-in housekeeper uniform. Yes, her parents still employed a live-in housekeeper.
"Hello," Pamela greeted, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "I'm here to see Lillian."