Author's note: No offense was meant to any Florida residents who might be reading this.

Because Harley didn't expend the amount of energy she once did in her waking hours, she was rarely able to sleep in. Of course, that was totally fine, it was a schedule she'd been used to for some time as she used to utilize these early morning hours to exercise, but now…all she could really do was lay there. Lay and wait for the sun to rise and for Pam to wake up.

The most measurable example of progress Harley could claim with Pam, as a result of their relationship and her therapy, was that she no longer felt the need to comfort herself while asleep. She used to sleep in a tight ball, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, regardless of if Harley was in bed or not. But now, instead, she tended to sleep with her arms wrapped tightly around Harley, like she was some sort of paralyzed human teddy bear. Or just human teddy bear, she supposed, as they couldn't walk anyway. Like with the clam, pointing out she was paralyzed was redundant.

But whatever. I can say whatever the fuck I want in here! …in here…in here…Harley imagined the thought echoing in her head.

Just then, Pam began to stir, retracting her hand from where it was wrapped around Harley's middle to sleepily rub her eyes.

She remembered how Anthony used to do that after Harley would remove his glasses at night. He always forgot to do that himself, but then she'd help him out and he'd reach his little hand up wondering where they'd gone.

"I told her not to go snorkeling," Pam mumbled.

Harley laughed. "What?"

"I said, 'Jo, you can't even swim'."

"Wh—yes she can!" Harley took a closer look and found that Pam's eyes were still closed. "Wait, are you asleep?"

"Anthony's playing the Titanic, meanwhile Jo's in a boating accident," Pam continued, nonsensically. "And who's stuck with the medical bills? Not Selina, that's for sure."

Harley tried her best to sit up, attempting to achieve a better vantage point on her wife. "Pam," she snapped her fingers in front of her face. "Pamela." Harley chuckled when she didn't respond. "Why would Selina pay our daughter's medical bills?"

"She's a terrible influence," was Pam's answer, although it was clear she was only about 20% there.

"Our daughter isn't trashy enough to get in a boating accident," Harley assured her, brushing away the hair that had fallen in front of Pam's closed eyes. "That's only for Florida residents who launch beer cans at the alligators that crawl into their yards."

"Hey, my Mother was from Florida," Pam sounded offended.

"Your Mother was from Virginia," Harley laughed. "And you hated your Mother."

"Oh, yeah," Pam smiled into her pillow before her breathing pattern began to resemble deeper sleep once more.

Harley sighed, looking out the window at the early morning sun. "Babe," she nudged Pam's shoulder. "Hey, I wish I didn't have to wake you up…"

No response.

"Paaammm," she poked her. "Pam."

The redhead stirred, her breath hitching slightly as she was yanked back to the land of the living. "I'm awake, I'm awake," she groggily declared, opening one bleary eye and then the other. "Are you OK? Did I oversleep?"

"Just a little bit," Harley told her.

"Do you—is your bag full?"

Harley had checked it when she woke up, and no, it wasn't in need of immediate emptying. "No. Hey—what were you dreaming about?"

Pam's expression was puzzled as she stretched. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just now," Harley said. "Jo was in a boating accident?"

"No," Pam shook her head, looking equally confused. "She's not nearly trashy enough to be in a boating accident. That's reserved for Florida residents."

Harley laughed. "Hey, your Mother was from Florida."

"No, my Mother was from Virginia…" Pam slowly corrected, her eyes narrowing. "Are you alright?"

Harley shook her head, smiling. "Un-fucking-believable."

Still appearing a bit lost, Pam decided to move on. "Well, good morning anyway," she kissed her on the cheek before sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"I just like that I'm the only person who'll ever know how much of a dork you are," Harley chuckled, putting her hands behind her head in a show of satisfaction.

"Dork, huh?" Pam turned to look at her. "Dr. Quinzel, do you know who I am?"

Harley grinned, "who?"

"Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley, PhD," the redhead answered, climbing back onto the bed. "An eco-terrorist of international prestige," she crawled over her. "A senior member of the Justice League," she kissed her languidly. "Mother Nature's Chosen Protector," Harley giggled below her as she moved her kisses to her jawline, and then down her neck. "A goddess amongst men."

Without thinking, Harley attempted to arch her back as Pam's mouth lingered over her covered breast…only to remember that she didn't get to have this, not anymore. Not in the way she wanted it. Not in the lazy Sunday morning kind of way.

"Pam," she stopped her, placing her hands on her wife's shoulders to gently push her away. "We probably shouldn't."

And Pam actually looked…disappointed? Not apologetic, not guilty, not sympathetic…disappointed. "You're not even going to let me try?"

"I just don't feel like it today," Harley said. "Thanks, though." She leaned up in an attempt to kiss her, but Pam turned her head in what appeared to be an act of purposeful avoidance and climbed off—of both Harley and the bed.

Harley watched her curiously as Pam pulled a pair of jeans from the drawer—the ones she typically wore when working in the garden—and put her hair up into a messy bun. "Umm…hey," Harley began, sensing some tension. "Do you…work today? Up at The Watchtower?"

"No," Pam answered plainly. "I'll set you up downstairs and then I'll be in the garden if you need me."

"Doesn't Anthony have a pitch meeting at the Hall of Justice today? For that Aqualayer or whatever?"

"I believe so."

"Do you know if Kara will be there?" Harley asked.

Pam was curt: "I keep track of my own schedule, it's not my job to memorize Kara's as well."

Yeah…Harley wasn't a fan of this mood shift. What the hell is her problem?

In the old days, Harley probably would have sat there thinking on it for a while. Analyzing the moments leading up to the shift, Pam's body language—every subtle movement…but she really didn't have the patience for that shit anymore. "Hey, what the hell is your problem?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're referring to," Pam told her, pulling a sweatshirt on to battle the crisp morning air.

"I'm referring to your suddenly bitchy attitude," Harley clarified, grabbing behind her for the headboard and yanking herself into a seated position. "Are you disappointed in me because you feel like I'm giving up on the sex thing?"

"Nope," Pam answered simply. "Your body, your choice. Would you like to take your shower now or tonight?" she asked, changing the subject.

UUUGGGGHHHHH, fine! Dr. Quinzel it is.

Alright, so…Pam said she didn't really care for sex. She does it with me because she likes to see me satisfied, and—Oh! Fuck, that was easy. Pam gleans her sexual satisfaction from my satisfaction, so my not taking what she offers leaves her without a stimulus, either mental or physical.

"You're horny."

Pam immediately straightened up from where she was bent over, putting a pair of socks on. "What?"

"Sorry—thorny," Harley laughed. "Pam, this is the kinda stuff you need to actually talk to me about. I'm just going off of the information you've given me, and in the last conversation we had on the subject you told me you only really have sex for me."

"Yes, well, that was—," she cleared her throat and lowered her voice. "That was 8 years ago."

Huh? That can't be right. "I think your math is a little off."

"Jo was 15," Pam murmured, keenly studying her nails in the same way Jo did when she wanted to divert attention. "She's 23 now…that was 8 years ago."

"Wait a minute," Harley frowned. "Are you trying to tell me you haven't had an orgasm in 8-fucking-years?"

Pam blushed a deeper shade of green. "I'm sure there were nocturnal emissions I wasn't aware of…" she said, still refusing to look her wife in the eye.

"Pam, that's nuts!" Harley wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "What the fuck? How have you not torn apart a building or something? And now you're not even getting the secondary satisfaction from me…no, that's unacceptable. Come here. Take that bulky-ass sweatshirt off."

"No, it's fine, Harleen, really," Pam assured her. "I'm a plant, I don't—it's really not necessary."

"Pamela. Lillian. Isley." Harley bored holes into her with her gaze. "Come here. Now."

"No, it's—it's stupid," Pam shook her head. "I hate—I'm not needy."

"Pammy, I have to wait for you to wake up before I can get out of bed in the morning." Harley reminded her. "You empty my urine bag and insert a new catheter into my urethra every morning. You carry me into the shower. You make every one of my meals as I can no longer reach the stove—you wanna talk about neediness? That's neediness."

"Yes, but I'm happy to do all of those things," Pam assured her, her tone sincere. "It doesn't bother me."

"And you think relieving Poison Ivy's frustration bothers me?" Harley laughed. "Babe, have you looked in the mirror lately? It would be my honor. Now please take that sweatshirt off so I can see you."

Pam swallowed before doing what she was told, folding it once it was off and placing it gently on the chair in the corner.

"And the socks,"

She did so one by one, her skin remaining the flushed emerald it got when she was embarrassed or feeling bashful (which were both extremely rare).

"And the jeans, please."

Pam took a deep breath before stripping those off as well, folding them like she had the sweatshirt and setting them on the chair.

Harley smiled lascivious. "How about the shirt?"

The redhead drummed her fingers on her bare thigh a moment before slowly lifting the shirt up and over her head.

See…Pamela—Ivy was an extremely confident person. She was well aware of her beauty and sex appeal, it was what she was most famous for, after all…but she also hated to feel vulnerable. Hated feeling like she was at the mercy of anyone else. She'd simply been hurt too many times. So even now…asking for something like this…to take something without giving anything in return…wasn't exactly something she was comfortable with.

"Ugh," Harley groaned, covering her eyes. "Would you stop being so perfect?"

"You used to like that about me," she heard Pam say as the bed creaked and she climbed in next to her.

"Yeah, but that was back when I was pretty close to perfect too," Harley smiled, taking her hands away to observe her wife where she was now lying next to her. "But your boobs were always way better than mine."

"They've certainly come in handy over the years," Pam acknowledged with a sigh. "And I suppose I should be grateful for their 'buoyancy'. I hear most other women experience significant back pain."

Harley looked at her confusedly. "You mean they're not heavy?"

"No," Pam shrugged. "I noticed no difference in weight after the procedure."

"You mean…your boobs literally defy physics?" Harley didn't even try to hide her wonderment. "I mean—you've got a lot of cool powers, but holy crap, that one takes the cake. I have literally never been more impressed with you than I am right now."

Pam laughed, pulling Harley down out of her sitting position. "I think I'm going to take offense to that."

Harley grinned, turning her head to face her on the pillow. "Alright, I've got one question. Just one, OK? Then we can get started."

Pam sighed again, running her hand distractedly up and down Harley's stomach. "Fine."

"So…I know this whole 'Jessica Rabbit come to life' thing wasn't exactly naturally occurring, so…what did you look like before Woodrue got his hands on you?" Harley asked. "Your body, I mean."

Pam frowned, considering the question. "Are you familiar with the film The Help?"

Harley scoffed. "Of course. You even made me read the book before we saw it."

"Well, I was born in 1933, so it was relevant to my upbringing seeing as I, too, was a young female professional in the 1960s who saw the rise of the civil rights and feminist movements firsthand," Pam said defensively.

"Calm down," Harley laughed, pecking her on the lips. "I liked it. Now go on."

"Anyway…" Pam sighed with considerable exaggeration. "Emma Stone in The Help is the most accurate answer I can give. Even the hair," she admitted. "My Mother would take me into the salon three days a week to straighten it out when I was younger because she found it embarrassing and unattractive, so if you're wondering, there aren't any pictures. Then I took myself throughout high school and college—Sunday, Wednesday, Friday, like clockwork…Woodrue's procedures changed it to the texture it is now—evidently he wasn't a fan of its natural state either, but—yes—it was rather curly. Or—"kinky", as my Mother put it. She used to say that if we still lived in Virginia, they'd have to bus me to…Oh, God," Pam laughed—abruptly stopping her train of thought. "I'm a gay scientist with a PhD and a black grandson. My Mother is rolling in that unmarked grave I fucking buried her in."

Harley laughed too as Pam kissed her excitedly. "Awesome foreplay, Babe. Really. Top notch." Pam's smile was broad against her lips. "And good to know your Mother was a racist too. Finally got bigot bingo."

"Ah, then congratulations are in order," Pam kissed her again and Harley sighed, truly impressed that Pam had yet to run out of 'seriously, my Mom was awful' stories.

"So you started out a Skeeter and ended up a Celia, huh?" Harley chuckled, nuzzling their noses together.

Pam gave herself a moment to mull over the comparison. "Sure," she finally decided. "If Celia happened to also have the abs of a fitness model, and the intellect of—,"

"—fuck, alright, we get it, you're awesome," Harley rolled her eyes affectionately. "Now are ya gonna climb on or what?"

"Well if you insist," Pam smirked.

/

"Wait! K—Ms. Danvers! Excuse me!"

Kara stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning around to find the owner of the voice running towards her before skidding to a stop a few feet in front of her.

"Hi," he breathed. "So glad I caught you. It's—I'm Anthony Quinzel, it's a pleasure," he transferred the stack of paper and presentation board he was holding into his left hand so he could shake with his right…

…which Kara happily reciprocated. "I know who you are." She grinned, making sure not to grip his hand too hard. "You're Dr. Isley's son."

"I'm sure 'Pamela' or 'Ivy' is fine," Anthony assured her. "But don't quote me on that. She might prefer the formality. Her bark is worse than her bite, is my point…well…for the most part."

"Oh! And you're Karen's husband!" Kara realized, embarrassed for not having made that connection earlier. "You two have that adorable little boy."

"Ah, well, 'Partner', but yes," his eyes smiled along with his mouth as he straightened his already perfectly straight glasses.

Kara grinned. "You could be a superhero too, I think. You've got the glasses and the jawline. My wife, Lena, says those must be the two main requirements."

Anthony looked almost surprised as he laughed. "I had no idea Lena Luthor had a sense of humor."

"Oh, she doesn't," Kara told him earnestly—even if it wasn't true, "She's completely serious about that."

"Then I shall take it under advisement," he decided…and Kara decided that Anthony reminded her of Clark and James, maybe, and that there should be more men like them that use their handsomeness for good and not evil.

"So what were you running around for?" Kara asked. "Seemed like you had something important on your mind."

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry." He quickly apologized, kneeling down to place his papers on the floor so he could better show her his presentation board. "The League occasionally contracts me to design and manufacture suits for its members," he indicated the image of Aquagirl on his board wearing what she assumed was his new design. "Like for Mareena here—she gets dehydrated quickly and becomes less effective the longer she stays out of the water, so this design includes an "Aqualayer" which essentially traps water against her skin and filters it throughout the day, so she doesn't need to charge in her sea tanks for as long in between missions. Instead, all she needs to do is fill her suit back up."

"That's such a good idea!" Kara said enthusiastically. "Should I…should I wish you good luck on your pitch? Or…"

"Oh, no," Anthony chuckled warmly. "Thank you, I already got the go ahead. No, my Mother—Harley—,"

"Dr. Quinzel," Kara nodded.

"Right," Anthony smiled. "Dr. Quinzel. We were just really grateful you took time out of your schedule to come to my Sister's wedding, and changing into your suit so that my Mother—,"

"Dr. Isley." She was invested in his story and wanted to make sure she was following correctly.

"Dr. Isley," he acknowledged. "—would feel less alone was exceedingly kind. So, in return, I would like to formally volunteer my services. Mine and Karen's. We'd like to update your suit, if we could."

Kara furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? Is it outdated?"

"Well…no…"

"It works just fine," she guaranteed. "Blocks bullets…that's really all I need. Besides, my good friend made it for me." But Kara had seen the suit Anthony made for his Sister and for his Brother-in-law…and that Aquagirl one looked pretty cool, so… "But—just out of curiosity," she began, trying not to tip her hand. "What would you change about it?"

Grinning, Anthony turned presentation board around so that she could see the back…which displayed a large sketch of her that he must have done in pencil. "Pants." He answered triumphantly.