Harleen watched the minutes on the treadmill slowly tick down. Although, were they ticking down? How the fuck did she still have 20 minutes left?
Her pace was a brisk jog, which wouldn't have been a problem if she hadn't just worked legs for an hour and a half…
"I'm getting to old for this shit," she panted to no one in particular. Selina was doing some yoga bullshit in the corner, and anyway, Harley tended to mumble to herself, so Selina had learned to employ selective hearing in her presence.
Harley tripped when her phone rang, but was able to keep herself upright after a few feet of stumbling. "Yeah?" She answered, hoping her labored breathing wasn't too obvious.
"Would you accept a collect call from Arkham Aslum?" An automated voice asked.
"Yes," Harley accepted, without thinking twice. Although, she realized maybe she should of. This was her private number, and the only person at the asylum who should know it was Joan, and she'd call from her personal line…
"Hello, Dr. Quinzel," Jonathan Crane's voice came over the line.
"Dr. Crane!" Harley was surprised for a number of reasons, namely that he was pushing 70 and still calling from Arkham.
"I'm sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?" He asked.
Harley had to chuckle at that. Always nice when mad scientists care. "No, I'm just—physical therapy."
"Oh yes, that's right." He sounded pleased. "I heard you were back on your feet."
Harleen probably would've smiled if she weren't so exhausted. "And you're back in Arkham…"
"Some things can't be avoided." Harley assumed he was shrugging. "But I do miss our stimulating discourse…" he paused so Harley could agree, she assumed. "In any case, I won't take more of your time than is necessary. I just wanted to tell you I read your book."
"O—oh?" Harley quickly slowed the treadmill down. "How did you—?"
"It's 300 pages of preposterous detritus." He interrupted her question, his tone matter-of-fact. "That anyone would write a book on Poison Ivy's psychology and leave out her history of sexual abuse is absolutely ludicrous. Even I wouldn't, and lord knows I couldn't give a rat's ass about that woman—her depiction or her past traumas. But what you've done is simply disrespectful to the study of human psychology."
"I'm—," Harleen was at a loss for words. "Excuse me?" She stopped the machine all together.
"With all due respect," Crane began. "This reads like a money grab by a pop psychologist. You skirt around everything, broad-stroking the most basic information. And the sexual abuse omission is ridiculous. It's far and away the most interesting thing about her. Clearly your editor doesn't have a background in this field."
"Dr. Crane, how did you even get this number?" She tried to mask the hurt in her voice. "And how did you get a copy of the book?"
"It was a special request. And a waste of one," he humphed.
"Well I'm…very sorry you feel that way." Harley's tone was controlled.
"As am I." and with that, he hung up, leaving Harley a bit stunned.
"Who the hell pissed in his cornflakes?" She asked, exasperated.
"If that was Bruce, tell him Damian had it coming." Selina piped up from her standing bow pose.
"No, it wasn't Bruce." Harley muttered distractedly, hopping off the treadmill and heading towards the showers.
"Hey, you weren't done!" Selina pointed out. "And where are you going? You're old, you have to stretch."
"I'll…do it when I get home," Harley lied, and rather obviously.
All Crane's phone call had done was confirm what Harley already knew: that detail of Poison Ivy's life was important. It was vital to her story, and Pam had squandered it. It was just…the whole thing read disingenuous, and that was frustrating for Harley as it was her name on the cover.
Selina narrowed her eyes. "Who was on the phone?"
Fuck…is this about to be a thing? "Just…" Harley sighed. "A former colleague. They were…less than impressed with my book."
"Oh, good." Selina almost smiled. "Shouldn't have written a book on your wife's psychology anyway. Although it's almost impressive you found a way to somehow be less ethical than before."
It's a thing. Harleen scoffed. "Are you serious, Catwoman?" she emphasized the alias. "Are you really about to lecture me on morals—AGAIN?"
The brunette didn't back down. "More on the conflict of interest."
"Ha!" Harley snorted. "You realize how insane that is, right? Coming from you?"
"Whatever," Selina waved her off, moving into downward dog and then fluidly transitioning into a cobra pose. "I'm not reading it."
Ugh, why did Selina have to look for a fight right now? "I didn't ask you to," Harley mumbled. "But you know what? I'm pretty done with that narrative of yours. How dare I make your friend a better person. How dare I repurpose her powers for a good cause. How dare I force her to actually fucking contribute to society. God, how unethical."
OK…Harley had to level with herself. So maybe not all of this is actually directed at Selina.
"Harl..." Selina was clearly unimpressed. "You need to chill out. And by the way, if that was all you'd done, we wouldn't be having this conversation and you know it."
She's right, Harleen. "God…don't, alright? It's clear you've been building ammunition for this for a while, but I'm late to pick up my genetically modified plant children…you know, the ones I had so my wife could feel included in our family. Yeah, Selina, I'm the goddamn devil incarnate."
"Oh, yes. How noble." The brunette laughed. "Giving your children Pamela Isley's DNA, way to take that bullet. What a horrible curse they've had thrust upon them. The horror! They could cut themselves on their cheekbones!"
Harley chose not to respond, grabbing her gym bag instead and heading for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, bright and early, right?" Selina turned, hands on her hips, to watch her go.
Harleen was confused for a moment…before she remembered she was being interviewed on a morning show the next day…about her book. Fuck. "You'll be watching?"
"Oh, yes." Selina smiled. "Recording it too. So if you fuck up, it will be forever memorialized on Batman's DVR. Just remember that."
That's the least of my problems. Harley left without saying goodbye. It's way too late to fix the goddamn book.
/
"Pam—I—I need you to talk to Anthony about sex."
The redhead uncovered herself, wearing her best "WTF" expression as she detached her mouth, wiping it with the back of her hand. "What?"
"He's a teenager now," Harley's chest was beaded with sweat, rising and falling with each labored breath she took. It had taken Pam a while to get Harley to this point. A long while. "He's interested, and I want to make sure he's got all the right information. Especially since he's so…unique."
"No, yeah, I get that," Pam unwrapped her arms from around the other woman's thighs. "But my tongue was…that's what you were thinking about when…are you serious?"
"Hmm?" Harley's eyes looked out of focus. "Oh, no, you're fantastic, Babe." She distractedly assured her. "Top notch, really."
"D—," Pam began, bewildered, almost at a loss for words. "Do you know who I am?"
"Sure!" Harley adjusted her nightshirt. "Oral technician extraordinaire."
"But you—you didn't finish." Pam realized, mystified as to what was going on. "I didn't—I was getting somewhere, why would you—."
"Oh, you got there, Hon." Harley guaranteed her, offering a double thumbs up. "Seriously, thank you. I really appreciate it."
"Appre—what?" Pam sat back onto her heels. "I wasn't—this wasn't me doing you a favor. You appreciate it when I do the dishes or make the bed, not when I—are you OK? Is something wrong?"
"Ugh, I'm sorry." Harley let the smile she'd painted on fall away. "Just stressed. The first batch of preliminary reviews came in today for the book. I sent it to one of my old psychology professors at Gotham State, and wouldn't you know it, his first question was why you fixated so heavily on weaponizing your sexuality...and I've got that morning show appearance tomorrow…" She sighed. "Anyway, that's not your problem…it just means I have to figure out some way to explain it without mentioning the—you know."
"Right, of course, 'you know'." Pam said scornfully, getting off the bed and heading into the bathroom.
"Hey—oh, no, don't go!" Harley lamented.
Pam scanned the sink quickly before opening the cupboard, coming up empty in both locations. "Harleen, where did you put the mouthwash?"
"Oops," Harley apologized. "Used the last of it this morning. Sorry."
Pam slammed the cupboard shut. "Goddamn it."
"Yeesh, well excuse me for tasting so awful." The blonde huffed
"Typically you don't," Pam acknowledged, closing the bathroom door behind her as she reentered the bedroom. "But this is the taste of failure and disappointment. Simply a reminder of my inability to—,"
"Jesus," Harley rolled her eyes. "You wanna get me there? Fine." She unceremoniously spread her legs. "Have at it."
"Mmm…how romantic." Pam sneered, switching the lamp on her bedside table off, casting the room into darkness before climbing into bed and pulling the covers up over her shoulders, facing away from her wife.
Harley sighed audibly, allowing a pregnant pause before turning to wrap her arm around Pam's waist. "I'm sorry…" she murmured. "It's really not you, I promise. I just have a lot on my plate right now. Not enough brain space to focus. Thanks for trying, though?" she offered.
"Anytime," Pam mumbled.
Harley gave her one last squeeze. "I'm gonna take a shower." She kissed her on the cheek and slid out of the covers, closing the bathroom door behind her.
Pam pulled her knees to her chest when she heard the water turn on. Woodrue…ruined my life, now he's ruining my sex life. You can't satisfy your wife because you're a coward, Pamela. A coward who is still letting that asshole dictate your life.
She heard the shower door creak slightly, and the sound of the water change, landing on Harley now rather than pounding on the tiles.
Imagine having to misrepresent scientific findings, Pamela. Having to lie through your teeth in a published work of academia. You wouldn't. You never would, and you wouldn't if she asked you to, either.
Pam tightened the grip on her knees, slamming her eyes shut.
/
Christ, that was painful.
Look, I'm not an asshole, OK? I'm not…unethical. Why Harley felt the need to convince herself at this point she wasn't sure. She was Pamela's wife, yes, but she was also Poison Ivy's doctor. There were decisions that had to be made, and sometimes that required the blurring of lines. Harleen had to employ every weapon at her disposal. Or…maybe not "weapon", that might be a bit harsh. Method? Sure, method.
But Harley was so sensitive at this point watching the cartoon Robin Hood could have done it for her (there was just something about that pants-less fox…).
She'd been edging for like an hour straight, and God, it was horrible. She'd had to close her eyes for most of it, as the sight of Poison Ivy between her legs was usually enough to get her at least halfway there. And she just fucking knew Pam was giving it her all. Her wife was nothing if not talented in that department.
The only way she'd made it without giving Pam the satisfaction was imagining their kids walking in on them…or imagining Pam explaining sex to Anthony. There was nothing less relaxing than that image, and it managed to do the trick.
Harley felt bad, of course. She appreciated that her wife still put effort into these moments. Pamela Isley was not one to phone it in. Like…ever. It was inspiring, actually, how much pride she took in her abilities. But that was just it. See…Pam was a giver. She liked to show off. She gleaned satisfaction from the knowledge that she could satisfy Harley. She craved it, that feeling of power she got hearing Harley's sated sighs as they basked in the afterglow.
Pamela wouldn't get that tonight, and Harley had told her why as plainly as she could while attempting to avoid heavy handedness. There was a direct cause and effect now between Pam disappointing Harley sexually and letting her fear discredit her psychology. Harleen had abandoned their bed to give Pam space to think on that. To reflect on her choices surrounding a certain omittance of information.
Harleen wasn't trying to be vindictive…This wasn't for her, after all. It was for Pam. It would be good for her to get that all out in the open. Harleen knew it would be, and she was a mental health professional, after all. Pam might not think it, and Selina might not agree, but Harley knew what was best for her. This secret had dictated Pamela's reality for far too long, and she would never be able to fully heal until she stopped holding her cards so unbearably close to her chest. It was too late to get it in the book…but maybe at a press conference, if Poison Ivy herself told the world in her own words what he'd done to her, then maybe—finally—she'd get the sympathy she deserved.
Harley closed her eyes as the warm water cascaded over her. Poison Ivy was wearing that cocky smirk…slowly, she got up from the reclining chair, sashaying towards her in her Arkham uniform. Grabbing a hold of Harleen's tie and tugging her forward, their lips met. Strong vines slithered around Harleen's wrists, pulling them back behind the chair, leaving her helpless and exposed. Long, green fingers traced teasingly downwards, threading through the buttons of her blouse before it was ripped roughly open…
And…yeah, it didn't take much.
Harley braced herself against the wall of the shower, her nostrils flaring as she gulped down chestfulls of air.
She washed quickly, not bothering to shampoo her hair as it was already clean. There had been a purpose to this shower and she'd achieved it, so…the rest was just for show. I'm not an asshole, though. She repeated over and over again as she climbed back into bed, smiling as and snaking an arm around Pam's waist, pulling her flush against her.
"I'll do that interview with you tomorrow," Pam mumbled.
Yessss… "Oh, Babe…you don't have to." Harley's voice was muffled slightly by Pam's hair.
"I don't want anything to be misrepresented," Pam told her, gruffly. "And I'm proud of you, so I want to be there."
Harley grinned, nuzzling her face under the layers of curls in order to place a few gentle kisses on her wife's neck. "Well if you insist…"