Chapter 6
Ivy hated people.
The way that they could slide past your barbs to all the soft parts of you and twist. The way that they could take something you told them— something you’d never admitted to another soul before— and turn it into something ugly.
The way the could be standing right in front of you, covered in bruises, claiming to love that piece of fucking shit asshole, not even good enough to be fertilizer, that Ivy wanted to—
The way Harley would choose Joker, over her.
It had been two days since their fight and Ivy didn’t know what to do. She didn’t do people. If this was someone else, Ivy would have asked Harley for advice. Quinn— what do you do when someone you love is being hurt by their partner? But refuses to acknowledge it? And Harley, like the little psychology nerd she was, would have lit up and gone on six different tangents that Ivy could barely follow but listened to anyway, because listening to Harley talk was the equivalent to fresh blooms sprouting in spring.
Christ. She had become sappy.
Ivy knew she handled it wrong. She had let her jealousy, her anger over Harley’s words, her hurt cloud the logic that Ivy usually held prized above all else.
The problem was, Ivy wasn’t sure how to handle it right.
Two days. No word from Harley.
Ivy was crawling out of her skin.
She knew she should reach out first, but she didn’t know what to say. Was she just supposed to stand by and pretend like she didn’t know what all that makeup was for now? Look at that collar on Harley’s neck and act like everything was fine?
What would you know about love?
Absolutely nothing, was the answer.
Ivy knew absolutely nothing about feelings, or how to handle them. Blame her emotionally consitpated parents. Blame the fact that most people annoyed Ivy before they even opened their mouths.
Ivy had never cared about lacking in that area before, but now she did. She had never felt so helpless, and she hated it.
She hadn’t wanted a best friend, but now Harley was hers.
More than a best friend, if Ivy was willing to admit it.
(She wasn’t.)
Ivy looked down at the various pamphlets and printed out papers she had on her coffee table. She had skipped class yesterday and today, calling various places, going to campus resources. Reading.
And she still felt utterly, completely lost.
----------------------
It was later that night that Ivy got the call.
“Pammy?” Harley’s voice was hushed over the line. Hoarse. “Are you— busy?”
“Harley?” Ivy sat up, her stomach twisting. “What are you doing?”
“I—“ Sniffling. “Come get me, Ives. Please.”
Ivy was off the couch and out of the door in seconds. She didn’t even bother with shoes.
“Where are you, Harley? Tell me.”
Harley rattled off an address and Ivy was driving, hands gripping the wheel so tight they ached. It was less than ten minutes away, but those minutes felt like hours. Another reason Ivy avoided people. She hated feeling, period.
She felt a lot, around Harley.
Ivy pulled up to the curb and a small shadow detached from the brick wall, flinging itself into the passenger seat. Harley curled her legs up tight on herself, a hood drawn up over her head. Ivy drove away without saying anything, without yanking the hood off like she wanted to. The silence stretched between them.
It wasn’t until they were back— safe— at Ivy’s apartment that Ivy turned around, pulling the hood off Harley’s head with one simple movement. Blackened eyes, a scraped cheek, cut through the eyebrow, blood dripping down the side of her face. Harley was holding her left side, also, pain written across her features.
Those delphinium eyes skittered to the side. “I didn’t… know who else to call. He never— it was bad, tonight.”
“Why?” Ivy asked. Her voice was hoarse.
“I…” Harley grimaced. “Got mad at him. Told him to stop complainin’ about my voice all the time and to stop— just stop, ya know.”
“Harley.”
She looked up, her eyes wet with tears.
“Don’t be mad at me anymore, Ives. Please. I can’t bear it from you.”
Ivy broke. She surged forward, bundling Harley up in her arms, being careful around her injuries. Harley melted against her, sobs ripping from her throat. Ivy brought them both over to the couch and they fell against it.
“Y-you’re my b-b-best friend, Pammy. P-please don’t l-l-l—“
“Never, Harley.” Ivy held her as tight as she dared. “Never. I shouldn’t have walked away.”
Harley pressed her face tighter against Ivy’s shoulder. “I said a lotta mean things.”
“Your version of being mean is like a puppy teething, Quinn.” Ivy brushed a hand softly through her hair. “Just— you’re safe here. I’m not mad.”
Ivy wasn’t sure how long Harley sat there, crying, but Ivy let her. It had to be an hour later that Harley finally pulled away, her face a mess of snot and tears and fucking bruises. Harley chewed on her bottom lip.
“Betcha regrettin’ being my friend now, huh?”
“Just friend?” Ivy lifted an eyebrow, heart aching. “Thought I was best.”
Harley’s smile was blinding.
“Pammy,” Harley said. “My face hurts like a bitch.”
They spent the next hour cleaning out Harley’s cuts, looking over her other injuries, before Ivy carried the smaller blonde into her bed and pulled the covers up over her. Harley blinked up at her with wide, mock-innocent eyes— because even injured and hurting, Harley Quinn was still a menace.
“Thought you didn’t let broads back into your bed for round two?”
Ivy could only shake her head, exasperated.
But more than that, relieved. Because Harley was here, in her bed, safe. Ivy almost wanted to dig into her ability and erect a wall of vines around them, keep Harley here forever. But then she’d be no better than Joker.
Harley was out in minutes, and Ivy brushed a stray piece of hair off her forehead.
Being a best friend wasn’t so bad, and with Harley Quinn, it certainly wasn’t a consolation prize.
For once, Ivy just wanted to be deserving of the title.
--------------------
Harley woke up the next morning aching like a motherfucker. She didn’t want to think about last night. In fact, she decided to lock last night in a door behind her mind and throw away the key. In psychology, they call that denial. Or maybe it was repression. Harley would have to go back and reread her textbook again.
She turned over in bed, but Ivy’s side was already vacated.
Harley briefly considered going back to sleep— but no. Once she was up, she was up. So instead she laboriously dragged her body out of the sheets, patting the plants all around Ivy’s room on her way out of the door.
“Mornin’, cuties,” Harley said sleepily. “Lookin’ nice and green today.”
Ivy was in the kitchen, red hair in a long braid down her back, wearing only a black t-shirt and underwear. Her long legs were on full display, the shirt barely covering her ass. Sinful, is what it was. Ivy turned around at Harley’s approach and frowned.
“You should be in bed.”
“Early bird gets the worm,” Harley chirped.
“You are not going to class today.” Ivy pointed with her spatula. “You need rest, Quinn. Doctor’s orders.”
“You don’t wanna be a real doctor—“
Ivy silenced her with a look.
“Alright, alright.” Harley lifted up her palms. “Forgot how grumpy you are in the mornin’.”
Harley lifted up her nose, sniffing the air.
“Whatcha making.”
“Pancakes.”
Harley smiled wide. “Pamela Isley, you spoil a broad like me.”
Ivy rolled her eyes, but Harley could see the hints of a smile. She wandered into the living room while Ivy was in the kitchen, humming softly under her breath. It was strange, that just last night Harley was crying her little heart out against Ivy’s chest. Harley never wanted to think about the events that led to that again— Joker’s cruel laugh, his fists— but thinking about Ivy’s soft body and gentle touches was more than alright.
A mess of papers caught Harley’s eye on the coffee table. She had been too distraught last night to notice them.
Harley plopped herself down onto the couch, flipping through the first one.
Then the next. And the next.
“Quinn. It’s ready,” Ivy called from the kitchen. Harley barely heard it.
Words swam before her eyes. Papers upon papers upon papers— toxic relationship, battered women, support groups, how to talk to a friend who—, help line, cycle of abuse—
“Harley.” Ivy stood on the other side of the coffee table. Harley had never seen the other woman look so— nervous. “I forgot those were there.”
“Right…” Harley trailed her fingers over the papers. “What— why?”
Ivy stepped around and came to kneel next to Harley. Her brows were drawn together, that little crease between them that Harley always wanted to smooth out with her thumb.
“I shouldn’t have left, that day,” Ivy said, her eyes searching Harley. “I was a bad friend, Quinn. I tried to warn you from the start.” Ivy let out a breath. “But I want to be better. I don’t— I don’t know how to help you, baby. So that’s what all this is. Research.”
Baby. Ivy was looking at Harley so anxiously, Harley was pretty sure the other woman hadn’t even noticed the slip.
“This is all for me.”
Ivy dipped her head in a nod. “Yeah. There’s— a place on campus. They help students anonymously.”
Harley looked at the papers again, spread out on the table. Ivy, who always claimed she didn’t care about people or the drama they got caught up in, and all the research she did. Harley blinked rapidly.
“I don’t…” It felt scary to admit. Like Harley was at the edge of a cliff, tipping over. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
Ivy reached out and held her hands and Harley took the plunge.