anonymous asked:

Possible Fic Prompt: Ivy has a weird dream (not bad, just weird), and Harley tries to psychoanalyze her. This was brought on by a dream I just woke up from where I was fighting a giant, eight-headed lava-breathing hydra. Beware tater tots before bed.

Oh my god, this ask is from December 28th; anon, I’m so sorry!!!

Also I’m so, so sorry, but apparently I only know how to write sadly sweet things for these two. I think this might take place before the Gotham City Sirens timeline, because while I love writing Selina, I think in this case she would only get in the way. Also, their tentative dynamic (Friends? Lovers?) prior to the events of GCS is something I haven’t touched on, I think.

***

Usually, it was Harley who had bad dreams. Vivid ones, ones which could make her get out of bed, and fly around the room, throwing things and screaming and sometimes even hurting herself, still asleep. She told Ivy she didn’t remember those dreams, mostly to put her bedfellow at ease. For a reason Harley just couldn’t identify, Ivy seemed to hurt most when Harley was hurting. Not that Pam ever seemed too bothered about much of anything.

            Pam had gone to bed uncharacteristically early. The redhead usually stayed up until the wee hours of the morning in her greenhouse, slaving away until she reeked of soil and dew.

            It was as if the older woman had learned to bottle springtime and doused herself in it. Joker smelled like matches and blood and something a little zanier beneath. Drugs, for all Harley knew. Puddin’ had problems; Harley understood. It didn’t stop her from gaining a contact high in his presence.

            Pam, however, smelled like gentle mornings at the park, when Harley’s hands were little and would grasp at her mother’s dress, the effort so small it should go unnoticed, but mothers always notice their young. If Joker was her high, then Pam was her gentle slide down. Ease. That was the word for it. Being near Pam, like when she rolled over in her sleep and let Harley in close, made her muscles liquefy. Harley never realized how tightly wound she was until she found herself on Pam’s doorstep, in her bed, and her whole body would slacken. It was a special feeling, but Harley was not strong enough to give it a name.

            At the end of those long nights, Harley would move in closer to wherever her roommate would flop facedown onto the bed, and bury her face into that long, spring-scented hair. Joker was all angles and edges; Ivy was soft and pliant, it was easy to settle into the softness of her. Harley would stay there until Pam rose early in the afternoon—always first to wake, did she ever really sleep?—and Harley would pretend she was still in slumber when her roommate pulled away.

            The second rerun of I Love Lucy was beginning when the screaming started.

            Screaming. Just screaming. Harley vaulted over the back of the couch, grabbed up the bat by the door, and charged upstairs to the master bedroom she and Pam shared. Only one bed, of course. When would Pam ever have visitors at Toxic Acres, Harley aside?

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