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[greatfertilizer]

She doesn't even make it to the altar, in the end.

It's the moment Chuck sees her in her wedding dress, slinky and silky and only white because the dress shop couldn't produce a pastel green that didn't look like an Easter egg--that's what does it. She turns around, the wedding photographer's camera clicks, the wedding planner awws, and Chuck looks at her like she's the only woman in the world, plant-based or otherwise.

And all she can think is I can't spend the rest of my life with that.

Which might be the shittiest thing she's ever thought about anybody--for one thing, Chuck's not a that, and for another, he's her fiance. He's about to become her husband. And suddenly the whole idea makes her want to vomit pollen.

The pictures the photographer gets are probably terrible, Ivy's frozen smile turning into a grimace as she mutters, "I--I gotta go," and runs past Chuck and out the door of the hotel room they're using to get ready in. She can't do this. She can't do this. She needs to get out of here, and how is she going to get out of here?

There's only one person in new New Gotham who knows exactly how to get out of a jam she didn't mean to get into in the first place, and it's the one person who wasn't in that room.

(Which, again, Ivy's fault. That stupid argument after the rehearsal dinner--itself a stupid idea, practicing this and then going out to the Olive Garden en masse--where she'd said stupid things like It's not your wedding, okay? Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean you have to be involved in everything! You're the maid of honor, not some kind of...of conjoined bride twin thing. Was that a complete bridezilla move? Was it some kind of casual dining sangria mishap? She really should have stopped after four glasses, but everything seemed easier when the faux-Italian decor felt a little fuzzy around the edges.)

All of that means she has to find Harley, and her best guess is a hotel room one floor down, on the other side of the building, where a sign reading LAIR OF HONOR has been taped to the door. She knocks on the door, then knocks harder, her voice coming out as uncertain as she feels. "Harls? Are you in there?"

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[pornclown]

Harley’s been stewing, the way only Harley can: by pouring herself a big glass of something that smells like lighter fluid and drinking away her woes for most of the night while wondering where she’d gone so wrong.

Sure, she’d been a little over-the-top with trying to help. Sure, she’d demanded to go with the happy couple to see every venue. Sure, she’d had a few “out there” ideas about what sort of entertainment there should be at the reception. And, sure, she’d begged and pleaded with Ivy to pick out the gaudiest maid of honor dress in the history of all maid of honor dresses.

But Harley had just been excited. And hellbent on the idea that her bestie have the most magical day of her life. All of which resulted in Harley getting, admittedly, heavy-handed with her suggestions.

Ok, and maybe she’d been living a little vicariously through Ivy. She had, of course, spent a number of years planning her own royal clown wedding that was now never going to happen. So she’d wanted to get a taste of that sweet, sweet wedding fever.

So what?

So what had seemed to result in Ivy basically telling her what a nuisance she’d been being. Frankly, Ivy wasn’t wrong. It was just that hearing it stung like a bitch. Never mind that it was a grim reminder that their friendship is going to be irrevocably changed forever. Which is ok — it’s ok — as long as Ivy is happy. And if some dudebro with a hang glider makes Ivy happy, well...

What’s Harley supposed to do about it?

That’s luckily a thought that doesn’t really get a chance to take flight. Because, honestly, there’s a lot Harley could do about it... probably nothing that would be particularly appreciated, but still a lot. Instead, her mind’s already pinged back to “where she’d gone so wrong” and whether she should text Ivy and try to salvage things.

Although, at this point, she figures the redhead must already be getting herself all fancied up for the big day. Something Harley had thought she’d get to take part in, even if it was only to give some overbearing makeup suggestions. But after Ivy being non communicado after the mess of a rehearsal dinner, which Harley had slunk off from with her proverbial tail between her legs, she figures the least she can do now is give Ivy some peace and quiet before the ceremony.

Maybe let her have some alone time with the groom.

Which, now that she’s focused on it, that thought sorta makes Harley want to barf more than the vodka had. But that’s definitely not her place to say anything about. What the fuck is she supposed to tell Ivy? You’re out of his league? You’re going to end up bored to death of him? This is a huu-uuge mistake and you’re going to regret it?

Yeah. That all sounds like a good way to pick a fight and ruin the entire day.

Which is when, while contorting herself to get the zipper of her dress up, she hears Ivy in the hallway. Without even thinking about it, Harley practically vaults over the room’s bed, dress or no, and flings open the door, ready starting to blurt out, “Ive, I’m so s—”

It’s there, in her bare feet, in a horrid bridesmaid dress, with her hair still a mess that Harley freezes. Because, goddamn, Ivy’s beautiful. The white dress is a but cliche, but she manages to pull it off. Harley’s unable to keep her eyes from going almost comically wide before it clicks that, yes, Ivy’s gorgeous, but she’s also upset.

“What’s wrong? Who’s ass do I have to kick? Is it mine? Because I’ll kick my own ass.”

[greatfertilizer]

This is the only thing that's felt right all morning: seeing Harley in what has to be the stupidest dress in the tristate area and knowing that, no matter what happens next, it doesn't have to involve the words I do. What the hell was she thinking? She can't get married. She was going to get married.

She sags a little, already relieved, then straightens back up. Partly, it's an awareness that Chuck will come after her at some point, and this is the first place he'll look--but partly, it's hard to to stay slumped in heels and an updo. The whole look is incredibly elegant and incredibly alien.

None of this is me. Why was I doing this? Because Chuck had dreamed of the perfect wedding far longer than she ever had, and it seemed fun, and somehow, it hadn't seemed permanent until now. And maybe it wasn't permanent, but it was about to get a hell of a lot harder to walk away.

"We have to go," she tells Harley, reaching out to grab her hand. The fact that Harley's shoeless and barely dressed hasn't exactly registered. "Now."

[pornclown]

“Whoa, am I late?”

For a second, Harley’s wracking her brain on the time, on the day’s schedule, on whether she was supposed to be somewhere specific already and, of all people, the bride had had to come remind her to do her maid of honor duties.

Harley‘s a lot of things: reckless, careless, ditzy, sometimes delusional, and often irresponsible. But deep down — some would argue very deep down — lies a very intelligent Harleen Quinzel who truly only wants the very best for the people she cared about.

Even if she often screws up the follow-through on that.

But no, no. This isn’t about being late to the ceremony or something silly. If it was, Ivy would care that she wasn’t actually ready. Ivy seems to just want to go. To get out of here. Now.

And Harley... well, there’s the flicker of something in the pit of her stomach. The excitement that comes before a good car chase. Or the fantastic apprehension that comes during a great heist. More so, Harley feels relieved, which is a weird thing to feel considering her friend’s (presumably) planning on ditching her own wedding. But there it is.

There’s no time to dwell on it anyway. If Ivy wants to go then they’re going. The logistics and reasoning and all that can be figured out later.

“Are you Runaway Briding it!? Because you just made Psycho a shit ton of money, you know.” Not... that they had all been running a pool or anything.

“Forget it. Explain later. There’s this slick as hell bike parked behind the hotel that looks easy to hotwire,” she says, her hand closing around Ivy’s in a firm grip and not even bothering with shoes or the rest of the junk she has strewn around the hotel room. “Let’s go. We can stop at an iHop and you can tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

Should she be encouraging Ivy to sit down and talk and try to figure out how to salvage whatever went wrong? Probably. But that’s not exactly the way Harley’s brain works.

[greatfertilizer]

Harley makes it all so easy--she sees Ivy doesn't have an answer to her questions, and she throws them all out the window. It's enough for her to know that Ivy needs something. And then she has a solution.

Admittedly, it might not be the best solution they could come up with, running to the elevator with Harley barefoot and Ivy in heels tall enough that she's mincing the whole way, but it's something. She leans back against one of the elevator walls as it zooms down toward the lobby, eyes closing, and doesn't think about anything except Harley's hand grasping hers. She doesn't want to think about anything else.

There are guests milling around in the lobby, but wherever Chuck went looking for her, he hasn't caught up to her yet. They dodge past Gorilla Grodd and Calendar Man and ignore Clayface calling to them, and they get out the revolving door with minimal damage.

Ivy hitches up her skirt as they dash back toward the bike they're about to steal, throwing the train over one arm. "You're going to have to drive," she warns Harley. In this dress, she thinks she'll be lucky to stay on.

But it does look slick as hell. Harley's right about that.

[pornclown]

It might not even be among the top ten solutions that Harley could offered. But it’s the best she’s got, and she can’t deny that she doesn’t really love the idea of Ivy marrying Kitewad. And maybe, in this exact moment, where maybe it would be better if someone offered Ivy an ear to listen and some calming advice, it’s a little bit selfish.

Good lord, though, the sense of relief she feels as she offers Clayface a quick wave before they’re outside is almost palpable. This is what freedom feels like. This was how she felt the first time she’d left Joker. And the second time she’d left Joker. And the third. And well. Every time. But particularly that final instance when she knew without a doubt that she was done with him and Ivy was alive and even if Gotham was fucked at least she wouldn’t have to look at that ugly ass building anymore.

The fact that she doesn’t even have shoes to drive in doesn’t seem to deter her. Instead, Harley pries a panel off the dash of the bike, yanking out a handful of wires and starting to rearrange them and twist a couple together, her concentration apparent from the way her tongue’s sticking out of her mouth. When the motor roars to life — against the backdrop of noise starting to spread through the front lobby of the hotel — Harley puts her hands up in victory.

“C’mon, Red, we’ve gotta blow this joint if you want to get out of here before someone—“ Namely someone on a hang glider “-tries to stop us.” Giving Ivy’s dress a knowing once over (because it’s definitely not a getaway outfit) she makes a little tearing motion with her own, less restricting skirt. “Maybe put a little slit in it,” she adds before putting out a hand to help Ivy on the bike with that dress and those heels.

[greatfertilizer]

"I can't believe I spent twelve hundred dollars on a dress," Ivy's muttering, mostly to herself, as she finds one of the seams and yanks. It doesn't give up easily, but with some effort (and help from a stinging nettle plant at the edge of the parking lot), it splits.

Just in time, too. From here, she can't hear exactly what's going on in the hotel, but the impression of voices is definitely there. If the guests have cottoned on to why she and Harley raced outside, that's their signal to make an exit.

She gets on the bike, still just barely able to straddle it, and wraps her arms around Harley. Her face presses up against Harley's neck--she's not exactly going to blend in with a crowd in this getup, but that doesn't mean she's wild about anyone getting snapshots of her fleeing the scene of the crime.

And besides, it feels like the elevator did, just a few minutes ago: just her, just Harley, nothing in the way. Her voice is lower than usual, too weary to sound anything except defeated, coming in just over the rumble of the motorcycle. "This was stupid."

[pornclown]

One of Harley's eyebrows quirks up, not because she can't imagine spending twelve hundred on a wedding dress (she absolutely can, and has on things way less important) but because she can't believe Ivy had.

Not that her thoughts stay there, as usual, bouncing around in her skull like a game of pong. Straddling the bike and revving the engine, Harley stops at the sound of Ivy’s voice. She’s used to her best friend sounding a bit bored, a bit sarcastic, and calm, even when shit is proverbially hitting the fan. But what sounds like self-doubt? Nope, that’s not her Ive, and it makes the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and her stomach twist.

Right now she doesn’t know that Ivy’s just had a change of heart, and she’s already imagining all the ways someone could have royally fucked the day up. And if Ivy’s fiancé had been the one to do the royal fucking, Harley’s going to have a few choice words for him.

She’d look over her shoulder, but to be honest, the feeling of Ivy holding onto her and pressing her face against her neck feels too good to interrupt. And, ,also to be honest, it’s rare as hell for Harley to be the one who has her shit together out of the two of them. And therefore equally rare for her to be the comforter instead of being the person who needs to be comforted. It’s nice that, for once, she can be the one there for Ivy instead of the other way around. To be the person needed instead of the giant fuck up who can’t handle a bad breakup or who’s about to get tossed in a vat of acid or who'd been encased in a chunk of ice.

Harley can’t be 100% sure what Ivy’s calling stupid, though she can guess. Getting married. Having a fancy wedding. Maybe even running off from the wedding. Whatever. Harley will figure it out once they get to their destination and they’ve put some distance between themselves and the guests in the lobby.

“Nah. On a scale of 1 to Harley Did Something Dumb, this is like a negative 5.”

She gives one of Ivy’s hands around her a pat-pat, before both go back to the handlebars and she hits the gas, the motorcycle doing a dangerous 0 to 60 in the space of about ten seconds before roaring out onto the road.

...which if Ivy’s already unsettled... well driving anywhere with Harley probably won’t help that since she doesn’t obey traffic laws, signals, or signs. Never mind pedestrians and rules about who has the right of way. Nope. In her mind they have a Denny’s to get to and anyone in their way is... in their way. And likely to be cut off or flipped off.

And by the time they pull into the parking lot, with a squeal of rubber and the sound of horns blaring behind them, Harley’s already messy hair is a rat’s nest. Helmets might have been a smart thing to consider but what self-respecting supervillain — which they damn well are, thank you very much — would be caught dead in a helmet. Ugh. Please.

“We’re gonna get some pancakes. Or. Uh. Something vegan than no animals had to die for. And coffee and talk so you can tell me what the hell’s going on.”

[greatfertilizer]

For all that Harls is driving like a madwoman, it's an easy ride to take. All Ivy has to do is white-knuckle it, her hands putting brand new wrinkles in the bodice of Harley's gown, and stare at the nape of Harley's neck. She doesn't have to think about anything except theoreticals that don't matter--though at one point, she definitely yells TRUCK, TRUCK, HARLEY, THE TRUCK out of sheer instinct.

Like, what's it matter if they get thrown off the bike? There'll be an explosion, they'll get scraped up, she'll see if she can reach out to any useful plants. Maybe it'll be a near-death experience. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

By the time they get there, her perfectly coiffed updo is more of a tumble of bobby pins, and there's a smoky grey mark along one of the tears in her skirt. But who gives a damn?

"Maple syrup is literally the blood of trees, you know," Ivy points out, but there's no ferocity there--it's an observation, a bland one. Everything seems bland at that moment, possibly because they're at a goddamn IHOP. But some of it is the sensation of being a stranger inside herself, watching everything happen.

They sit in a booth, Ivy flicking off an oddly suburbanite family (those still exist in new New Gotham?) staring at them before she gives the menu a half-assed glance. "I'm not getting married."

That's what's going on. And looking at a plate of Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n Fruity pancakes makes a good excuse for not looking at Harley.

[pornclown]

Under normal circumstances, 120% of Harley’s attention would be on the laminated menu as she pondered over pancakes with a side of French toast or a side of a Belgian waffles with ice cream on top. And she’d ultimately decide she was going to order it all, eat until she got sick, and then whined the rest of the day about a stomachache.

But these are not normal circumstances.

Harley’s aware that Ivy’s hair and dress are wrecked. Wrecked as in Ivy’s obviously not about to change her mind and demand that they get back to the hotel pronto and come up with some ridiculous story to explain why they’d raced off.

Ivy doesn’t even sound upset about tree blood — which, now that it’s been mentioned, is something that Harley’s going to have to work to put out of her mind when she’s shoveling pancakes drenched in the life of trees in her gob.

Seated in a booth, staring at Ivy, said menu forgotten, Harley can’t help but blurt our, “Why the fuck not?”

Is it horrible, truly horrific even, that Harley feels a faint flicker of relief? She’d learned her lesson about being a shitty friend, about ditching the people who care about her because she’s so self-destructively absurd that she almost can’t help herself. And, since then, Harley’s gone out of her way to make sure Ivy (and King Shark, and Clayface, and evening Psycho) knows she’s there for her. That she’ll do anything to protect her, though Ivy isn’t the sort that needs protecting and Harley, in contrast, can’t seem to keep herself out of trouble. But right this second Harley can’t help but think Thank fucking shit in response to Ivy’s admission.

“What happened? Did Kite douche—” A deliberate cough. “—Kite Man do something? Do I need to beat his teeth out with my bat?”

[greatfertilizer]

"No." She looks up at Harley, insistent on this much. "No, it's not Chuck's fault--God, he's going to be devastated."

She made him propose multiple times, they didn't get that stupid corn factory and had to settle for a nice hotel, she made him do the cake tasting on his own...this was his dream. His stupid, stupid dream. And she'd been able to go along with it, figuring any doubt was just pre-wedding jitters, trying to see what he saw when they made plans together.

Parts of it had been kind of fun. Being with Chuck usually was, once she got over herself--and she'd figured being a little more clear-eyed about everything was good, even if she wasn't swept up in the magic. She could protect him from getting fucked over. They got a great deal on the photographer, after all, and they hadn't even needed to talk to a florist.

"Sorry--should I come back?"

It's only hearing the voice of the IHOP waitress that makes her realize she's got her forehead resting against one hand, staring at a picture of an omelet dripping bacon and cheese. Gross. Ivy glares up at the woman--and let's be real, Harley probably tells her to fuck off--and they get a moment's peace.

"I couldn't do it, Harls." She sighs, pushing a fallen lock of hair behind one ear. "Chuck's a good guy, and I--I care about him. But is it love? For-the-rest-of-my-life love? I don't...I don't think so. And if it's not, I can't do that to him. Or me."

[pornclown]

Harley does tell the waitress to fuck off, or, more exactly: "Fuck off, lady, can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

Normally, she's a little less... well, rude isn't the right word, since Harley's default setting is typically rude without meaning to me. Neither is abrasive, since liberal use of the f-bomb tends to make people widen their eyes at her and back away. But she normally wouldn't snap at a waitress (never mind a waitress with power over her future with a double stack of pancakes). Except this is Ivy. And Ivy looks miserable. And worse than miserable, Harley's worried that Ivy's hurt or feels guilty or is in pain.

And God -- God -- she understands that confused feeling where her brain won't stop second guessing itself and she's not sure if up is up or up is down and whether she's about to crash face first into whatever up happens to be.

The last thing she wants is Ivy feeling that way, or like she made a mistake by agreeing to marry Chuckles, or like she made a mistake by running out on the guy. Sure, maybe she should have a twinge of guilt about Kite Man. The guy’s probably sobbing into whatever cheap suit he's wearing. But right now Chuck’s forgotten, pancakes are forgotten, bitching out the waitress is forgotten, the fact that Ivy had to ruin her dress to ride a stolen motorcycle is forgotten.

She’s up on her feet without considering it and sliding in on Ivy’s side of the booth next to her, slinging an arm around her. Is Harley the best person to give love advice? Or even to comment on it at all? Fuck no. Then again do they know anyone with healthy relationship tendencies? Other than Ivy and Kite Man, which apparently wasn't as healthy as Harley had assumed it was.

”...maybe a few days before your wedding day would have been a better time to think ab --” Ok, no. No. That's not the direction she wants to go with this. It doesn't even fucking matter. It's better to realize this late than never. Even if ”late” had been pretty damn close to ”walking down the aisle.”

”The point — the point is that you figured it out now before you had a bunch of babies with kites strapped to their backs. I mean... Imagine if I had a bazillion clown rugrats running around before that fucking purple building bullshit went down? No, now is the time to know. Before all that other crap people do to be normal and shit. And, hey, you'll always have me!”

Which isn’t the same thing, and Harley knows it.

ten thousand years later, let's go full au

[greatfertilizer]

How long has she been thinking about this? God, she doesn't even know at this point--maybe she knew all along and just didn't want to admit it. Maybe taht first instinct of you gotta be kidding me was right when it came to Chuck proposing.

Maybe she just hadn't known how to stop any of it. If there'd been an easy time to get out of this, she'd missed it. (Probably because it wouldn't have been easy. It would've been awkward and embarrassing and emotionally vulnerable in a way she hates.) And the longer they were together, the crazier it had seemed to call it off. You can't just cancel a wedding, right?

Nope, looks like your thing is running away.

"Yeah." It's half-hearted, but what about her isn't right now? She feels like she just spent a month in a cave; she's going to need some sun before she recovers. "I'll always have you."

And as frustrating as Harley can be? This morning, she's been everything. Just sitting beside her right now helps, somehow, the weight of her arm a kind of reinforcement of everything she's said. Ivy turns her head, and the whole idea is to kiss Harley's cheek and say something about thank you for being a friend, then chase it with a Golden Girls joke so it doesn't feel too sappy--

--but the thing is, she misses Harley's cheek. Her kiss hits Harley's lower lip instead.

Re: ten thousand years later, let's go full au

[pornclown]

There’s probably not a great time to kiss your best friends who’s supposed to just be your best friend, when best friend is engaged (had been engaged?) to someone else. It’s a worse idea in the middle of an iHop on the day of your best friend’s wedding after said BFF had run off before the ceremony.

And Harley’s sitting here, maybe a little closer than strictly necessary, with her arm around Ivy in a way that really (really!) is meant to be comforting because clearly Ive’s not having the best day. And when someone’s having a crap day, or at least when someone she cares about is having a crap day, Harley wants to do everything in her power to make it a little bit better. Through a horrible joke. Through a bonding experience that’s likely illegal. Through something even that’s at her own expense. Just to get even the barest hint of a smile.

She’s about to say something to that effect. Something like who else is better to crash a bat mitzvah with than your buddy Harls, amirite? Except she doesn’t get that far.

Instead, she’s momentarily stunned by the feeling of Ivy’s soft mouth on her lower lip. And, sure, if she’d had time to really process it, it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise. In fact she’d realize she’d wanted to do something similar for awhile now. Except Ivy’s been her confidant, her hero, her rock.

And someone else’s fiancée.

While Harley hardly looks before she leaps or worries about consequences, one consequence she would give a flying fig about is causing trouble for Ivy.

So maybe she should be pulling back with an awkward smile, reassuring Ivy that it’s been a long, confusing day and jeez they’ll laugh about this later. Easy peasy. What she actually does is lower her head just the slightest bit so she can press her lips fully against Ivy’s, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

If nothing else, at least she has the self-restraint not to turn this into some sort of pancake porno.

[greatfertilizer]

Even at the best of times, pancake porno wouldn't be happening. And now's not the best of times. It's the most confused of times, more like, Harley's mouth and the smell of fake maple flavoring and the clatter of silverware and the knowledge that she's supposed to be getting married right now. Maybe not literally this second, but she's pretty sure it'll be matrimony time by the time they get their stupid pancakes.

But that's done with. And this--God, fuck, why the hell is she kissing her best friend? Her only friend?

"Shit," she mutters, pulling away with you're going to end up alone ringing in her ears. "Fucking cuntcakes, God, Harley, I'm sorry."

You know. For kissing you, and--

Somewhere behind her, an old lady makes a noise that probably means the word 'cuntcakes' is extremely inappropriate for this setting and Ivy doesn't give a fuck. She just kissed her best friend. She's supposed to be getting married to pretty much the only other person in the world who gives a damn about her. And the fact that that was one of the best kisses she can remember makes all of this about a thousand times more of a mess.

[pornclown]

Harley's not thinking that Ivy's going to react poorly (well, maybe she would have thought that if she had tried to make pancake porno a thing); she's thinking that, duh, obviously this is right and perfect and oh, wow, her hair smells really nice and shit, her lips are soft. She's thinking that this all has happened for a reason, and clearly this is why Ivy ran off from her wedding, because she couldn't possibly go and marry Chuck when her very best friend is right here and waiting and this is clearly what Harley's been feeling the undercurrent of but hasn’t quite been able to pinpoint. It’s sexual tension at its finest: both of them being right there this whole time but just not realizing what that could mean.

It all makes perfect sense.

So when Ivy pulls away — pulls away and apologizes — Harley can’t hide the expression on her face. She wears her heart on her sleeve during good times. So, at a time when she feels like she’s just been sucker punched, the confusion and disappointment and sheer desire to be kissing Ivy again (even if it is in an IHOP) is plainly written all over her expression. From the wide eyes, to the slightly parted lips, to the flush that’s even more apparently on her clown-makeup white skin.

The word cuntcakes doesn’t even register, even though it’s something she’d normally be laughing about, especially when another patron chimes in about it.

Her mouth opens a little wider, like she’s about to say something, then shuts again, comically guppy-like.

Because, of course, there she’d gone again, doing her “crazy Harley” thing, assuming all sorts of shit that’s not even real. Assuming Ivy saw her like that, instead of Harley having taken an innocent, accidentally missed cheek kiss the wrong way. Believing in true love and all that nonsense that never actually seems to materialize no matter how much she wills it to.

She honestly looks more like she’s just been slapped instead of kissed.

Harley drops the arm she has around Ivy and scoots back on the booth, flapping her hands at her friend. “Christ, you get us around some fucking imitation maple syrup and we start doing crazy shit!”

There was another cleared throat from the aforementioned cuntcakes lady.

“Haha! Right! You run off on your wedding day and then we do a big make out scene in a pancake joint like some rom com. Have we been watching too many movies or what?”

[greatfertilizer]

Harley stares at her, and Ivy's not sure if it's the kiss or the apology or the old lady who doesn't like perfectly good words like cuntcakes--they're at an IHOP, for God's sake, it's mildly clever wordplay--but she looks like she got lost and doesn't know who to ask for help. There's something weirdly sad in her eyes, an unexpected...loneliness? Is that what it is, or is somebody projecting like an IMAX while her best friend looks on?

It feels weird. All of this feels weird. And that kiss had no right to be as good as it was.

Ivy doesn't know what to make of it, or of the way Harley flails her way back into a quip, except that she'd bet cash money that Harley's trying to cover something up. Even if it's just the complete and utter awkwardness of the moment.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's just...order, or something," she says, turning back to the menu. "What's the thing you usually get?"

Kissed, her brain supplies, which is not only completely unhelpful, but doesn't even make sense in context. She can still feel the phantom sensation of Harley's lips on hers, the place where Harley's arm was wrapped around her, and it's not making it any easier to focus.

[pornclown]

Cuntcakes is exceptionally good wordplay given their current location and situation. And, well, current state of being on two entirely different pages. Hell, from Harley’s perspective they’re not even in the same book.

She’s not one to embarrass easily but, oh god, she’s starting to feel sort of mortified. Because Ivy seems — from Harley’s POV — calm, cool, and collected. And, sure, Harley should recognize that or something as a way to deflect an uncomfortable and potentially important conversation. But she’s not exactly in an analytical frame of mind.

She’s in a I just kissed my best friend and fuck fuck fuck I want to kiss her again except she’s more concerned with a rooty tooty fresh and fruity or whatever the fuck it is frame of mind.

“Uh...” Harley’s also not usually at a loss for words. But she’s definitely struggling now. “I usually order one of everything that goes with syrup. You know. Pancakes.” Cuntcakes. “Waffles. French Toast. And hash browns which no one ever thinks is a syrup contender until they try it. So.”

She’s sort of scooting back, like she can’t figure out if she should move back to her side of the booth or if that will just make things weirder. Like moving too much will draw even more attention to what just happened. Even though not moving seems decidedly bad and unwelcome.

Shit.

“We, um, were talking about you though. Right? Right.” Harley laughs almost nervously, in a way where it gets partially stuck in her throat and dammit it feels like having a lump in her throat like when she watches too much Reese and she gets stuck on the really emotional parts.