Pam's gonna kill me, Harley thought as she stood starring at the pre-packaged tollhouse cookie dough. "Sustainable, sustainable, sustainable…" she reminded herself. "Oh, fuck it. I'll just tell her they're from scratch."
She grabbed one of the tubes and tossed it into her cart.
Harley was nervous, although she didn't really know why. Ms. Vale was coming to her house to discuss the book, and yes, there were a lot of possible landmines, she hadn't wanted the meeting to be at her house, but unfortunately, there was no going back now.
Ms. Vale probably didn't even eat cookies, but that's what good hosts do, right? They offer people baked goods? Harley didn't even know anymore. It had been a long time since they'd had anyone over who wasn't a member of the Bat-family.
Needless to say, Harley was a little stressed out. It had taken them just over a year to get something on the page that felt "final". There was a lot of handholding required. Many a hard night…it had been a trying process for Pam, reading about herself from this perspective…but little by little, day by day, Harley had pushed her—or—nudged her in the right direction. It was important for Pamela to know that Harley was proud of her. To hear that she was brave and that she loved her and that Pam was helping. That she was integral, imperative and essential to this process. And so Harley told her that, every chance she got…even when they weren't discussing the book. It made Pam feel good, most of it was true, and it always motivated a more open dialogue. Win, win, win.
It was a little awkward getting the front door open while carrying two bags of groceries, she wasn't exactly used to doing that either, as she'd spent the last 25 years of her life either paralyzed or pretending to be. But she managed, kicking it shut behind her and heading for the kitchen.
Pam was there, sitting at the table with Jo as the girl laughed at a stack of photos they were flipping through.
"What are you ladies up to?" Harley inquired, setting the paper bags down with a thud on the counter.
Pam looked up, a smile gracing her fair features. "I brought out those photos you asked for. Jo seems to think the fashions of the time were some sort of joke."
"Oh God, Honey, just wait til you see what I was rocking in the 80s." Harley chuckled. "Mom had it easy." She leaned back against the counter. "You gonna call Selina?"
Nonplussed, Pam furrowed her brow. "Was I supposed to?"
"Well you can't be here when Vicki comes," Harley told her, crossing her arms. "I thought Selina could help you pass the time in case you don't get called in today."
Pam scoffed. "You act as if I need a babysitter."
"Fine," Harley gave a half shrug, leaning down to kiss her wife on the head. "If you want to be anti-social, I'm not going to stop you. Wherever you're going, you need to take Jo with you, though. I don't trust her not to tell Ms. Vale our life's story."
"Hey!" Jo protested. "I can keep a secret just fine, thank you very much."
"Sure ya can, Sweety." Harley pat her daughter on the shoulder with discernable condescension. "But you and Mom are gonna have some special time today. Doesn't that sound fun?"
Jo narrowed her eyes, turning her gaze to Pam now. "Where are ya gonna take me?"
"Well I wasn't aware that—,"
"To the park." Harley answered for her. "And then to get ice cream or something."
"Harleen, it's 40 degrees outside." Pam pointed out the window at the windy, overcast November day.
"Hot chocolate, then." Harley corrected. "Whatever it is, you guys have to go."
"Yeah, alright." Jo grumbled, sitting back in her chair.
"No, I mean now." Harley said, rousingly. "Get out. I love you both, but you have to leave."
Pam rolled her eyes, letting out a barely audible groan. But she did what she was told, Jo following suit. Harley understood, they didn't want to leave the respite of the warm house…but it was nonnegotiable.
Harleen escorted them both to the door, grabbing Pam's down jacket off the hook and helping her into it to speed up the process. Jo zipped hers herself.
"Wallet? Keys?" Harley questioned.
Pam turned around and picked up her purse from the table as an answer, showing it to Harley for proof.
"Awesome." Harley nodded. "Jo? You need a hat."
"No I don't!" the girl protested. "I'm not even cold."
"That's because you're inside," Pam reminded her. "Go get your hat, please."
Jolene set her jaw, pointedly glowering at both her parents before stalking up the stairs towards her room.
Pam waited until she was gone to speak. "Why is it I can't be present for this meeting?"
"Babe," Harley chuckled, cupping the other woman's face in her hands. "You know I love you, but your disguise is horrible. Like…Clark Kent level awful."
That comment succeeded in vexing Pam thoroughly enough that she moved away from the other woman's touch, scowling. "I look a lot better in—,"
"—glasses than that overgrown boy scout?" Harleen guessed with a grin. "And in tights too, right? I get it, Pam. You're better than everyone, especially Superman." With that, she took Pam's purse and fished out her glasses, handing them to her so that Pam could put them on before repossessing the bag.
The redhead did so begrudgingly, pushing them onto her nose and then adjusting her turtleneck, making sure it was doing its part to obscure her identity.
"My God…" Harley fanned herself. "How about you show me the adult section of your feminist book store?"
Pam raised an eyebrow, amused, but then Jo was galloping back down the stairs, beanie cap pulled tightly over her ears.
Harley kissed them both goodbye, shuffling them out the door and closing it quickly behind them. She glanced at her watch. Vicki was supposed to be here in 40 minutes. How long did cookies take? She supposed the package would tell her.
"Anthony!" She yelled up the stairs.
"Yeah?" He called back.
"Can I get your help down here?" Harley asked.
The boy appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later…shirtless.
"Oh, sorry, Dude," Harleen apologized. "Were you getting in the shower?"
"Nope," Anthony replied casually, starting down the stairs. "I was taking selfies."
Harley's expression quickly turned incredulous and her hands migrated to her hips. "That so?"
"That is so," he confirmed. "My teacher let me into the music room before class, and I was playing Elvis, and I don't know—evidently girls like that."
Harleen regarded him critically, "What song."
"Love Me Tender. I covered it like a ballad. His voice was able to extend over two octaves and a third, see." Anthony explained. "Mine is obviously a bit limited at the moment, but I was experimenting with the lower vocal registers, and—anyway—some girl recorded it and sent it to her sister, and so she texted me, and—,"
"The girl or the sister?" Harley wanted to know.
"The sister. She's a senior so I hadn't had a chance to meet her previously. She's pretty hot, though." Anthony assured her.
"OK, hey, whoa." Harley stopped him. "First up, you literally just turned 14. I wasn't prepared for you to be an actual teenager yet. This time last year you were blushing your balls off because Miss Martian gave you a second look, now you're sending shirtless selfies to Seniors?"
Anthony started to laugh, "Blushing my—what?"
"Just—don't worry about it," Harley exhaled. "Cool your jets. I'm passing the sex talk off to Mom, so please put off further conversations with this girl until she can put together a powerpoint or something."
Anthony looked horrified all of a sudden. "Se—No! That's not—I'm not—,"
A wave of relief washed over Harley as she watched her son stammer before her, his paled skin blushing beet red. "OK, awesome." Harley took a comforted breath. "Stay a child forever, please and thank you. In the meantime, I need you to help me de-Pamify the house. My editor's coming over and we need to pretend like I'm not married to the subject of my book."
Anthony's expression morphed back into that now familiar look of something nearing disgust. "You're a terrible role model."
"Yeah, well, clearly Mom isn't much better." She indicated the boy's bare chest. "Let's go. Chop chop. Family photos…reduce the number of plants to something more appropriate…you know the drill."
He let his discontentment be known with an especially disappointed look, but complied despite his protest, heading for the living room.
Harleen smiled after him before refocusing on the task at hand. "Cookies," she said aloud, making her announcement to the universe so that she couldn't take it back. She quickly popped back into the kitchen, pulling the tube of cookie dough out of the bag first thing. She had to squint to read the package, and actually—fuck.
"Anthony, have you seen my glasses?" Harley raised her voice to ensure she could be heard from the living room.
"On the table, Ma." He called back.
"Dining room or kitchen?"
"How about you look?" He suggested.
Harley decided to let that one slide, as a panty-dropping Mama's boy was basically her ideal child and it was exactly what the lord had delivered. And by "the lord" she of course meant the meta-human she was married to. In any case, the answer was the kitchen table.
With the prescription lenses in front of her eyes, she gave reading the tollhouse package another go. 375…she preheated the oven.
Alright…umm…I guess I could change? Harley looked down at her jeans and plaid shirt. Or I could not. Was the alternate suggestion.
Ultimately, she went with option B and began slicing the cookie dough onto a sheet.
"Is Mom home?" Anthony asked, puzzled by the smell of the baking cookies when he entered the kitchen a few minutes later.
"You know what, Anthony? I find that offensive." Harley crossed her arms haughtily.
"Why?" The boy tried to force the smile off his face. "So Mom's a better cook, who cares? There are plenty of things you can do that she can't. Like…you're a doctor, for example. And she's just a—oh, just a PhD, I guess."
"Young man, you are moving further and further away from access to these cookies with every word out of your mouth." Harleen warned in a tone that said she meant business.
Anthony chuckled when he noticed the empty packaging on the counter. "Oh, come on, Ma. You at least have to try to hide the evidence."
She sized him up for a moment, imaging there should be a western score in the background. "I'll tell you what: I'll stop pretending I can cook if you stop pretending you earned that body."
His gaze dropped down to his muscular chest for a moment before a sly smile overtook his features. "You know; girls don't really seem to care where I got it." And with a shrug, he added: "they just want to touch my abs."
"Right," Harley nodded. "Just like, at the end of the day, you're gonna eat these cookies whether they came from the store or I made them from scratch."
Anthony considered that thoughtfully for a moment. "Alright, but yours gets you in trouble with Mom."
"Oh, and yours doesn't?" Harley laughed. "Because we all know how much Mom loves playboys, and when women or girls are referred to as a collective. I might get a lecture on sustainable food sourcing, but you're gonna get phrases like "toxic masculinity" thrown at you, and that stink sticks."
Harleen watched as green began to seep up through Anthony's skin, his blue eyes wide with fear. And that is how you freak out a male feminist. Harley grinned, pretending to clap flour off her hands.
She would have reveled in her victory for a bit longer if the doorbell hadn't rung. "Evidence," she said, pointing to the wrapper. Anthony quickly grabbed it off the counter and buried it deep in the trash can.
With a satisfied smile, Harleen headed for the door, performing a visual sweep around the living room to make sure Anthony had done his job. Then, satisfied, she continued on, opening the front door to find Vicki Vale standing on her porch, looking very professional in her heels and blazer.
OK, so maybe I should have changed.
"Ms. Vale, hello!" Harley beamed. "Welcome. So sorry I'm underdressed."
The older woman waved her off. "It's perfectly alright. We're in your home, after all, I want you to feel comfortable."
"Well comfortable I am, clearly." Harleen chuckled. "Come on in."
The woman had just stepped inside when Anthony exited the kitchen, his hands full with four of the twelve cookies the package had produced.
Vicki seemed thoroughly confused. See…Anthony looked a bit older than his age, his musculature and facial features better and further developed than most other strictly human boys in his class. Harley could understand why this might look a bit off.
Yep, still not wearing a shirt. This is going splendidly already, Harleen. "Vicki, this is Julian, our pool boy."
Anthony's face spelled "Really?" so clearly that Harley could have sworn he'd said he word out loud.
"O—oh?" was Vicki's response. Clearly perplexed as to why they would require a pool boy in November.
"I'm sorry, I'm kidding," Harley let them both off the hook, and really wishing she hadn't attempted a joke in the first place. Selina probably would have laughed. "This is my son, Anthony. Anthony, meet Ms. Vale, she's my editor over at S.T.L.I. Publishing."
The boy transferred all the cookies over to his left hand so that he could use his right to shake. "Pleasure, Ma'am."
"Oh," Vicki looked relieved, "Good to meet you."
"Anthony is a classical pianist who recently discovered girls like it a lot better when you play Elvis," Harley told her.
"And we can attribute his state of undress to whoever is on the other end of that message?" Vicki guessed, referencing the cellphone lighting up in the front pocket of his sweatpants.
"I respect her a great deal," Anthony assured, quickly—almost desperately, actually. "The other end of this message, I mean. The girl on the other end. And you as well, Ma'am. I also respect you a great deal."
Harleen laughed at that. "You can go now."
"Oh, thank God," Anhony exhaled, giving Vicki one more polite nod before heading up the stairs.
"Anyway…" Harley turned back to the other woman with a smile. "As you can see, I made cookies, if you've got a sweet tooth."
"You know, I really don't, but I've got a soft spot for home-baked goods," Vicki's tone was easy and good natured and it succeeded in putting Harley at ease.
She retrieved the plate, burning herself on the cookie sheet only once (personal record) before returning to the living room and setting the cookies in between them on the coffee table, Harley sitting on the couch while Vicki chose the arm chair.
"I owe you an apology," was the first thing out of Vicki's mouth. "I met you and your wife some time ago at a gala thrown by Wayne Enterprises."
"And were you rude?" Harley laughed, chewing on a cookie. "What's the apology for?"
"When I first called you last year, I remarked that I wasn't aware you were married to a woman. But you're Paula Irving's wife, right? I once did a profile on her for the Gazette."
Goddamn it, Pam. "Oh…" Harleen pursed her lips. "Paula was my first wife, yes. She passed about 8 years ago, unfortunately."
Vicki's expression was instantly sympathetic. "I'm—wow, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"It's fine," Harley said, clearing her throat like this was hard for her. "The children were still young. I remarried soon after. We all have our own ways of coping," she smiled sadly.
"And now your wife is—?"
"Retired." Harley said. "Formerly a scientist at S.T.A.R. Labs."
"Oh, and how'd you two meet?" Vicki smiled warmly, clearly trying to shift the conversation into more pleasant terrain.
"Mutual friend," Harley told her, mimicking her expression. "Lillian looks a lot like Paula, if I'm being honest. It's all been rather…easy. And she keeps me young, so I can't exactly complain."
"I thought you said she was retired," Vicki questioned.
"She is," Harley confirmed. "She wasn't bonding with the children like she wanted to, she thought dedicating some more time to them might help. Anthony was 5 when we got married, and he is biologically Paula's, so obviously there was some necessary adjustment time."
"Of course," Vicki granted, reaching for a cookie.
"But you didn't come here to talk about me," Harley rerouted the conversation as skillfully as she could.
"Right," Vicki nodded. "We absolutely loved the manuscript you sent. How you managed to make the more academic portions at all interesting is beyond me, but I'm certainly grateful. Made my job a lot easier."
"I'm glad to hear that," Harley's smile came complete with a blush in her cheeks. "So then we're…good? We're done?"
"Actually…" Vicki reached into her purse for a note pad and pen. "I had some questions for you…Just some extra stuff, all information that I'm sure could be found in the text if someone were to look, but that could maybe help us out during the book tour."
"Book tour?" Harley was intrigued.
"Obviously," Vicki chuckled. "Or press appearances at the very least. A few joint ones, preferably. With Poison Ivy, I mean. Do you think—could you give me her contact information? Or would you mind—,"
"We can figure that out," Harleen assured her. "Let's hear your questions."
Vicki decided to jump right in: "What drew you in, with Ivy. What made you want to work with her? I mean, it's been 25 years, right? I'm not a psychiatrist, but that seems like a long time to work with one patient."
"It is, yeah." Harleen acknowledged. "She just—she challenged me. The truth is, I came to Arkham hoping to get a chance to work with Joker. He was all the rage back then in abnormal psychology community. And yeah—I met him. Didn't turn out to be all that impressive or interesting, really. He was just another asshole without empathy. Another villain trying to create chaos just for the sake of it.
"And Ivy was different," Vicki recognized.
"Ivy was misunderstood. Is misunderstood." Harley expressed her sincerity by sitting forward. "That's something I hope people learn from this book. If nothing else, I want people to realize that they don't know Poison Ivy."
Vicki nodded as she scribbled, easily slipping back into the role of a reporter. "So 25 years, there's still new material?"
"Well therapy is never truly finished," Harley told her. "It's always an ongoing process. Every day presents an opportunity to learn something new about ourselves. And so every day offers a chance for healing. Old wounds, new wounds…sometimes therapy isn't retrospective at all, sometimes it's preventative. These heroes are under constant stress, sometimes I'm just a person that Ivy can talk to. Everyone needs one of those."
"A friend?" Vicki questioned.
Harley chuckled. "Preferably one with a medical degree."
"Right," Vicki smiled, finishing what she was writing.
"And it's not just the public that doesn't understand her, it was her doctors too, for a while." Harleen divulged. "She was incorrectly diagnosed as Bipolar for like 15 years. And believe me when I say ignoring her PTSD, just letting it fester…it was damaging, to say the least. A lot of our early work had to do mostly with tearing down her walls, unlearning her coping mechanisms."
"PTSD…right…" Vicki nodded. "Excuse my ignorance, but isn't that what soldiers have?"
"It's—ha," This happened to be a personal pet-peeve of Harley's. "PTSD is a response to trauma. The source of that trauma is irrelevant. Yes, it's popular among soldiers, but it's also extremely popular in victims of sexual violence, or domestic abuse, or—,"
"So which is Ivy?" Vicki asked.
Harley stopped. "That's—like I said, the source of the trauma is irrelevant. It differs from patient to patient, and the torture Pamela was subjected to as a young woman certainly qualifies as a traumatic experience, I would think."
Vicki raised an eyebrow a bit at the sharpening of her tone, but simply nodded once more, offering a cordial "of course" before clearing her throat. "If you could describe your relationship to Poison Ivy in one word, what would it be?"
It took Harleen a moment to separate the two sides of the person she'd spent the last 25 years of her life dedicated to. Poison Ivy. "Admiration." Harley finally decided. "I admire her a great deal. She's the only Arkham patient I worked with who was willing to change. To better herself, even if that's not exactly how she saw it or why she was doing it. She sacrificed an identity she'd grown accustomed to because she was able to see bigger than herself, able to understand the world on a larger scale. Understand the need for compromise. That's rare for a person in Pamela's situation, with the psychology she developed…"
Vicki was still writing when she asked: "You don't think she was born with any of it?"
"These are all really nurture disorders," Harley took another cookie. "By all accounts, Pamela Isley was meant to be a perfect human being. Beautiful, intelligent, empathetic, wealthy…but she was born to the wrong parents in the wrong time period, and so nurture overrode her nature in many respects. And nurture can be extended to the birth of Poison Ivy as well. Ivy was born out of sickness, and so that became her nature. Perhaps if she'd been provided with the proper mental health care sooner, you wouldn't have to debate your boss on which photo cover makes the former eco-terrorist look more sympathetic."
"Mm," Vicki considered that. "So what is it you believe made Dr. Isley more susceptible to change?"
"She's a woman," Harleen answered truthfully. "And women tend to listen a little better, in my experience. They're more open to suggestion…especially from other women. They don't have to worry about that nagging 'I know better because I have a penis' narrative when speaking with a female doctor. At the time we met, Pamela had been taught to distrust men. It was a survival mechanism. She was able to drop some of her defenses around me because I made her feel more comfortable than the male doctors she'd dealt with. I can guarantee you that if I were a man we wouldn't be sitting here today." She waited a moment for Vicki to catch up before continuing, as this next part was important. "No two patients are the same. You can have two patients—identical twins even, with the exact same mental illness or disorder, and their symptoms could still present differently. Mental health is not a cookie cutter science. It's not like mathematics where there's always a right answer. It's full of gray area and dead ends, wrong turns and educated guesses…and if no two patients are the same, then no two treatments should be either, and no two doctors, for that matter. We need to learn to use our imaginations, especially in abnormal psychology. Mine is a field full of complex, atypical problems that sometimes require complex, atypical solutions. It's up to us—the doctors, the professionals—to troubleshoot, to problem solve with our patients. That's how we make progress. By taking stock, by taking the time to understand our patients, to know them as human beings, and then by attacking the problem at its core."
"And what's Poison Ivy's problem?" Vicki asked. "At her core, I mean."
"Love." Harley stated, plainly. "Wanted it, craved it…had a lot to give, but was never given any."
"That's it?" Vicki almost laughed. "That seems awfully…simplistic, don't you think?"
Harleen smiled placidly. "Oh, Ms. Vale, I don't think there's anything simplistic about love."
/
"She'll have a hot chocolate—,"
"With extra chocolate and even more extra whipped cream," Jolene insisted. "Oh, and chocolate syrup on top."
Pamela was reminded once again of just how grateful she was not to have to deal with the possible onset of diabetes in her children (or her wife). "Yes, that." The redhead confirmed. "And I'll have a green tea, but only if it's organic."
The barista calculated the absolutely ridiculous total (all of Jo's extras costing an additional $2.00), and Pamela had half a mind to take a stand, to say 'no' to the ridiculous capitalist enterprise that was the coffee industry…but the look of pure joy on Jo's face when her drink was slid in front of her made Pam reconsider (just this once).
They elected to take their drinks outside and brave the cold, despite both their physiologies favoring a warmer climate.
Jo had her scarf pulled tight around her, her rosey cheeks and bright green eyes peeking out from between the material on her neck and the beanie cap pulled tight over her ears.
"Did you know there's a gym in Ohio that wants to take me away?" Jo asked as she skipped from cobblestone to cobblestone on the path through Robinson Park, her drink splashing onto the sleeve of her coat with each leap.
"Yes, I did know that." Pam acknowledge, her tone slightly clip as she resisted the urge to snatch the drink away from the girl's hand.
"Would you let me go?" Jo wondered, taking a big gulp from her cup and seemingly severely burning her tongue.
"Well I would miss you," Pam admitted. "But if it's what you truly wanted, and you told me all the reasons why, and you promised me you'd work hard…yes, I'd let you go." She paused for a moment, thankful for the warm beverage that was keeping her hand functional as she clutched to it. "Would you like to go?"
Jo shrugged. "I just want to win a gold medal, is all."
Pam sighed, knowing that was impossible. Knowing she'd be disqualified as soon as they ran her blood. But Jolene was still speaking.
"Because Mom never won one, ya know? And that's sad, I think." Jo's tone was somber.
"Darling, if you want a gold medal, you should want it for you, not her." Pam said (against her better judgment). "You need to set your own goals. Have your own dreams."
"Oh, I do." Jo assured her. "I want a gold medal because I'm the best at what I do. Best in the country. 'Member that website? That's what it said, that I was the best in the whole country."
Pam was about to tell her that yes, she did remember that, but then she heard her name being shouted from somewhere behind her.
"Lillian!" Sounded an excited female voice.
Pam and Jo both spun around to find—Supergirl—err—Kara. She was dressed just like Jo, wrapped in a scarf, a colorful down jacket making her stand out in the gray of the November day. Beside her was a woman dressed in an expensive, expertly tailored black trench coat, her delicate hands covered by leather gloves and her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
"Lillian, hi! It's me, Kara!" the blonde called out, as if they she hadn't recognized her the first time.
Pam glanced around quickly. While it was true Kara had used the proper name for the setting, it was still a bit frowned upon to act so friendly with each other out in public. But the coast was clear, the weather having kept most of the normal park-goers indoors. Pam turned her look of discomfort into a friendly smile as the young woman approached, meeting them in the middle, the woman she was with following behind her at a slower pace. "Ms. Danvers, what a pleasant surprise. What are the chances?"
"I know, in this whole big city." Kara grinned. "I just had to see what Poison Ivy had done with the place."
Pam's lips remained upturned while her eyes flitted questioningly to the raven haired woman beside her. Pam could have sworn she'd seen her before…She looked so familiar…
"Oh!" Kara realized she was being rude. "This is my—uh—Lena. She's on business so I'm on business—not on business, I mean, just also here—because she's here."
Jo began to laugh at the woman's awkward bumbling. "You're her girlfriend, ain't'cha?" She directed the question at Lena who seemed to be taken aback by the directness.
"Aren't you." Pam corrected, quickly.
"Well, I…" Lena started.
"It's OK," Jo's grin was wide and toothy. "I've got two moms; I know all about girlfriends."
It only took a moment's further inspection before Pam realized that Lena was Lena Luthor, younger sister of famed supervillain Lex Luthor, arch enemy of Superman. Well if that wasn't one of the more bizarre couples she'd seen…But then Pam reminded herself that she'd married her psychiatrist and Batman's live-in girlfriend was the city's most notorious thief. Even so, this revelation was a bit jarring. Kara had always seemed so…perfectly girl-next-door.
"Ms. Luthor," Pam finally found her voice, reaching out to shake the woman's hand. "It's truly a pleasure to meet you. Dr. Lillian Rose," she introduced herself. "I have been so incredibly impressed with the sustainable innovations you've made to Lex Corp since taking over as CEO."
"Well, it's L-Corp now," Lena smiled, her green eyes twinkling having evidently found her footing as well. "But I thank you."
"Lillian is a botanist at S.T.A.R. Labs," Kara told her, seemingly trying to explain away Pam's interest in the environment in a way that didn't raise suspicion.
Lena chuckled. "A botanist named 'Lillian Rose'? How appropriate."
"Either my parents had a wicked sense of humor or I did," Pam remarked, earning her another chuckle from the raven-haired woman.
"And who is this darling LGBT activist?" Lena asked, looking to Jo now.
"Oh, of course." Pam was just so used to Jo being assertive…now she felt a bit silly. "This is my daughter, Jolene. Jo, this is a friend of mine from National City, she interviewed me for an article some time ago."
Jo could tell something was up, that was obvious in the conspiratorial nature of her nod. "Alright…" she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I like your hat."
"Thank you," Kara grinned. "And you are very pretty, just like your Mom. Or…" she furrowed her brow. "Just like your Mom…"
"She's biologically Harleen's," Pam informed, her heartrate rising ever so slightly.
"The Missus, I assume?" Lena raised a dark eyebrow. "Could have fooled me…unless your wife has your same eyes."
"No," Pam smiled. "Just a carefully chosen sperm donor."
"I'm sorry…" Lena seemed to suddenly realize this conversation might be inappropriate. "This probably isn't—,"
"No, I love science." Jo grinned. "And I know I'm the prettiest science experiment around."
"Oh, definitely." Kara nodded in ardent agreement.
Jo giggled at the blonde. "You're like me but a grownup."