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Chapter Text

“Ugh.” Harley is welcomed home by a sink full of dirty dishes, a floor that could use a good vacuum and mop, and several empty takeout containers that have overstayed their welcome. The blonde therapist is totally spent, having just come home from a full day of back-to-back clients which began after too little sleep, as she’d stayed out regrettably late at the bar with her friends the night before.

“So much for practicing what you preach”, she flops onto her red leather sofa, the irony not lost on her that she could be a much better example of the self-care and time management she encourages her clients to practice. A stray piece of pepperoni on the sofa from a previous night’s takeout leaves a circular oil stain on her white shirt as she unknowingly lays on it. She pulls out her phone to reply to various texts and Waynestagram DMs from friends and acquaintances. The young woman may be a bit of a hot mess, but one thing she has for sure is a healthy social life, maybe too healthy of a social life, some might say. Tossing her phone on the floor once she catches up on her messages, fatigue takes over. “Just a few minutes to rest my eyes,” she tells herself, immediately passing out.

It’s almost 10pm before a groggy Harley blinks open her tired blue eyes to a pitch black sky, glancing at her phone to check the time. “Fuck fuck fuck”, tonight was the night she had planned to finally dispose of all the empty takeout boxes, clear the stinky food in her fridge, clean her floor and dishes, and get some groceries to meal prep before going to bed early. A little ambitious to say the least, but if it weren’t for her post-work nap, she totally would’ve gotten it done.

Tomorrow was another full day of clients and when her performance review began, which if goes well would secure a generous raise from her employer, something that’d be greatly appreciated by the young psychologist. Sure, her job, skills, and advanced degrees meant she was a decent earner. But years of student loans, poor choices, and the insane credit card debt she’d racked up in a past, super shitty, super toxic relationship with a mega ASSHOLE who took advantage of her generosity had piled up, and Harley, brilliant as she was, wasn’t exactly living as nicely as her doctorate and career might suggest.

Harley sighs and rubs her temples. This is not how things were supposed to go. She’d secured a full ride academic and athletic scholarship to Gotham University after graduating high school as valedictorian. Part way through her undergrad, she threw a huge gymnastics competition for her shitty father’s sake and lost said scholarship. Despite finishing her entire program a year early, the rest of her schooling wasn’t cheap. Of course her father claimed he’d chip in, but the support never came. Years later at the age of 28, Harley was still very much balls deep in student loans and credit card debt which took a significant portion out of her otherwise generous salary. Still, with Gotham’s rent prices and late-stage capitalism doing its thing, she was grateful to have her own place, even if it was in a sketchier part of town. She wasn’t afraid to defend herself against riff-raff, and she was done being roommates with huge men as big as sharks and dudes who left clay everywhere.

Not that her living space by herself was any cleaner. Right. It was 10PM, the apartment's a mess, and she was totally unprepared for the next day. Also — when did she get a grease stain on her favourite white shirt? Before she can even think about how that happened, her phone buzzes with a notification.

“On my way to the bar sexy, see you at 10:30”

Shit. She totally forgot she’d agreed to get drinks with some guy off Winge (shitty but popular dating app in Gotham). This was gonna be a long night.

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Sunlight pours through large, spotless penthouse windows. The birds are chirping their morning tune. It’s 6:15am, and a glorious sunbeam shines on well-rested eyes just right, the perfect start to an early morning. Pamela gently stirs out of her covers, making her bed and sliding on green slippers. Long, red hair gets pulled up into a ponytail as she walks over to start her coffee machine. She begins her morning routine like she does everyday - waking up at the crack of dawn, watering or misting her plethora of plants while her Waynespresso machine brews the perfect cup of coffee.

She sets her mug down on her coffee table (it’s Noguchi) as she sits on a designer couch. She pulls out her phone and opens the calendar app.

8:00am – 11:00am: Lab work — plant growth analysis, sample prep
11:00am – 12:00pm: Conference call with Metropolis Green Initiative
12:00pm – 1:00pm: Lunch
1:30pm – 3:30pm: Site visit — rooftop garden assessments for Wayne Enterprise’s new office buildings
4:00pm – 5:30pm: Data entry & analysis, Briefing with research team
5:30pm – 6:30pm: Travel / return to penthouse — listen to new podcast on rare plant species
6:30pm – 7:30pm: Plant care & observation — check for pests, adjust lighting, note anomalies
7:30pm – 8:30pm: Dinner
8:30pm – 9:30pm: Review notes & prep for next day

Taking a long sip of her coffee, Pam mentally prepares herself for the day, finding a sense of fulfillment and harmony in her full schedule. *Ping* her usually dry phone sounds. A text from Selina:

“Pamela. Bruce invited me to a function tonight, some of our classmates from boarding school will be there. 8pm, wear something nice.”

Letting out an annoyed sigh, Pamela responds.

“Selina, I can’t, that’s going to eat into my schedule. Besides, you hate those assholes from boarding school, why do I have to come?”

Immediately, Selina calls her phone.

“First of all, one of them is now the CEO of Clegg Industries — you know, the company that funds your plant research? The one you’ve been complaining about for years, the one that’s been cheaping out on your budget so you’ve had to make up the difference yourself? Maybe if you convince him to get more funding to come through, you won’t be such a workaholic cheapskate and actually live a little. Second of all, when was the last time you did anything for your social life? I’m sure there’ll be some gorgeous, wealthy ladies in attendance.”

“Holy shit Selina, you’re a genius. What happened to the old CEO?”

“I know. Apparently Clegg died in some freak golfing accident. You owe me. 8pm. Sharp.”

And with that, Selina ends the call.

Pam was ecstatic. This funding debacle had been the bane of her existence for years. Clegg Industries was directly funding Gotham University’s Botany department, and while she was able to secure more than her fair share of the funds, it simply wasn’t enough for her advanced research and projects. She’d taken on consultant gigs as an independent contractor to pad the budget out of her own pocket, packing her schedule pretty tightly. She couldn’t even begin to think about a social or love life, not that she really cared anyway. People sucked and would just disappoint her. But despite hating people and avoiding social events as much as possible, Pam could be very persuasive when she wanted to, especially to the male species. Maybe men were just easy like that, the skilled botanist could play them like a fiddle. When it came to business anyway.

Women on the other hand? Very hit or miss. Mostly miss. It’d been almost a decade since her last meaningful romantic relationship. But it’s not like she’d be interested in anyone at these events anyway — not in that way, at least, despite Selina’s suggestion. The women attending were probably all snooty and shallow, impressed only by Pam’s wealthy family background (not that she even talked to her parents anymore; they disowned her ages ago for being queer) or for her looks — certainly not for her intellect, love of plants, or actual personality. What personality? Pam thought to herself, realizing she never let anyone get close enough to find out. At 32 years old, Selina was her only friend, and that was only possible through the years of boarding school and shared experiences of growing up in high society together. Before she could dwell on that stark realization any longer, her 6:45am alarm went off, signaling it was precisely time to get ready for work.

Chapter Text

It’s 7:15pm, Pamela had just returned home 45 minutes ago from a fully jam-packed day of work. She had just enough time to tend to all of her plants, and now she had approximately 35 minutes to get ready for Bruce Wayne’s function. Shit. Why did her only friend have to be dating Gotham’s busiest, richest, most party-throwingest man? Right. She’s going for a reason. Her eyes were on the prize. Chat up the new Clegg Industries CEO, get him to approve additional funding, maybe see if their vegan appies don’t suck, and then she can go home. Pam supposed in that light, she was grateful for the connection.

35 minutes later, Pam emerged from her bathroom — a vision. She wore a form-fitting purple dress that struck the perfect balance between sexy and sophisticated, its subtle cutouts resembling vines and leaves. Her luscious red hair was swept into an elegant updo, a few loose strands framing one side of her face and accentuating her gorgeously regal features. The look was complete with a dark red lip, purple leaf-shaped earrings, and purple heels that she slid into hastily as her Wayneber (Gotham’s go-to rideshare app) arrived outside.

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“So I say to the guy, ‘Listen pal, we’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes when you said the wait was only fifteen. You’re gonna get me and my lady here a 2-top right now, or Señor Mexico's Authentic Mexican Adobe House is going to lose a loyal customer!’ By the way, 2-top is restaurant-speak for –”

“A 2-seater. Got it.” Harley rolls her eyes as her dorky coworker at her second job, Chuck, tells her how his latest Winge date went. “So were you able to get seated after that?” She asks disinterestedly, trying to pass the time while waiting for the function’s food service to start, adjusting the bow-tie on her uncomfortable server uniform.

“Well, I bet they were gonna give us one after that, but ah, unfortunately she said I wasted enough of her time, threw her drink at me, and left. My message bubbles go green instead of blue when I text her so…Anyways! How’d your Winge date go last night? Think he’s a keeper?” Chuck asks enthusiastically to keep the conversation going.

Oh God. Harley can’t even fully remember what happened last night. All she remembers is meeting Mike? Or was it Matt? Jon? Whatever his name was — in a rush at the bar, leaving her messy apartment exactly as she’d promised herself she wouldn’t (again). She gets hammered, goes home with him, has very mediocre, disconnected sex, and then goes straight home. Returning home to her borderline biohazard of an apartment at some ungodly hour, she had barely three and a half hours before her commute to work. Somehow, she managed to scrub off the smell of alcohol and shame, pull herself together, and make it through all eight of her back-to-back clients that day — her supervisor, as far as she could tell, was none the wiser. Honestly, it was a miracle she did it without falling asleep or collapsing.

“Yeah, it was fine, not sure if I’ll see him again.” is all she decides to say to Chuck.

She managed to squeeze in an hour-long nap after work before getting ready for her side job — banquet serving at some of Bruce Wayne’s events. She only took the job once every few weeks when the opportunity came up, since it paid a lot of money for just a few hours of easy work. Plus, the snooty folks who showed up to these things barely ate, so she could almost always sneak home some leftovers. There were a lot worse ways to make extra money, Harley knew that from personal experience.

She knew this gig wasn’t easy to come by. She got it through Selina Kyle, a boujee baddie she met through her toxic, good for nothing, shitty ex-boyfriend Jack Napier. Jack and Selina used to work together on some jobs that Jack would never fully give the details on, but somehow always got Harley to do some of the grunt work for. That asshole didn’t even give her any of the money he got from these “jobs” for her labour. Selina had met Harley numerous times over the years whenever she and Jack had business together. Although their interactions were brief, if at all, it seemed Selina had taken pity on the young, naive girl and pulled some strings to get her the serving job while she was in school, helping Harley make ends meet. Even after getting her license and starting her “big girl job”, Harley decided to keep the gig to help her pay off debt. Also, she liked occasionally seeing Selina and eavesdropping on Gotham’s elite at these events. Although she and Selina didn’t talk or interact much, especially after Jack was arrested and locked away at Arkham, Harley felt a fondness and connection towards her.

How Selina was connected to Jack, what exactly their business was together, and whether she’d had anything to do with his arrest — were all questions from Harley’s past she hoped to get answers to one day. But her life outside work was already a dysfunctional mess, and she was usually too distracted or busy to dig into them. When she worked these events, though, she couldn’t help but hope for a chance encounter with Selina, something that might help her piece together parts of her past. Regardless of what had actually happened though, she was ultimately grateful. In his absence, Harley realized just how much of an abusive asshole Jack was to her, and she was thankful that some kind of divine intervention had pulled her out of a deeply toxic relationship.

“Ope! That’s our cue!” Chuck’s stupid voice snaps Harleen out of her dissociation and back to the present. They grab their plates of very fancy-looking hors d'oeuvres and swing open the kitchen doors into the main area.

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“You’re here. Just in time. Got to hand it to you Red, for a girl who plays in dirt all day, you sure know how to clean up.” Selina coos in her smooth, sultry, slightly condescending tone.

“Yeah. Thanks Selina.” Pamela replies flatly. She pulled up to the function right at 8, glad that the venue was only a 5 minute Wayneber ride from her place.

Bruce makes a few opening remarks, thanking everyone for coming, and invites his guests to enjoy the food and drink that had just begun being offered by uniformed banquet servers making their rounds around the room.

A tall, slightly goofy, but not bad looking male server approaches Pam with a platter of various appetizers. “May I offer you an hors d'oeuvres, m’lady?” B T Dubs, hors d'oeuvres is French for appetizers, in case you didn’t know, ahah.”

“Ummm I did know, and you’re actually pronouncing it wrong. Also, I’m vegan so I can’t have anything you’re offering.” Pam responds, side-eyeing him and the selections on his platter.

“Oh of course, miss, let me get my colleague with the vegan apps over. Uno momento, por favor.” The man turns to face another server across the spacious luxury venue and shouts, “HARLEY! Need you here pronto girl! This lady here needs them vegan apps ASAP.”

Pam flinches at the volume, the shout cutting through the party as some of the posh guests glare at them. Her cringing eases, though, when she spots the cutest blonde she’d ever seen striding towards her, a large platter balanced effortlessly on her shoulder.

“Sooo. What brings you here miss…?” The male server calls back Pam’s attention.

“Isley, Pam Isley.” God. Why’d she give her full name? She was totally distracted by the blonde woman slowly approaching with what looked like a platter full of delicious vegan appetizers.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Isley. The names Chuck. Chuck Brown, but you can call me Kiteman, or Kitey, that’s what all ma friends call me ahahah.”

Pam doesn’t know how or want to respond to that. Thankfully the blonde server approaches just in time.

“Chuck, what the fuck. You can’t just shout in the middle of an event for any reason. Jesus Christ, how’d you even get this job. Your parents get it for y–” the blonde, which Pam presumes is named Harley, seems to forget about Chuck the moment they make eye contact.

“Oh excuse me miss, can I offer you a vegan appetizer?” Harley asks, looking up at Pam with slightly tired-looking but beautiful blue eyes.

“I um, uh, I –” Pam starts stuttering, but before she can even begin to start forming a coherent sentence, she feels someone grabbing her arm and yanking her away in the opposite direction.

“Greg, aka Greg from 11th grade French class, aka the new CEO of Clegg Industries is here. Let’s go.” Selina drags Pam away from that dweeb, as well as the stunning blonde whose face she won’t soon forget.

“Oh my god. Greg Clegg from 4th period French. Why didn’t I make the connection sooner.” Pamela reorients herself to the reason why she was here.

“Yeah, he’s the nephew of the recently deceased Clegg. Gotham is full of nepo babies. Anyway, you know what to do. Use that infamous Pam charm that only comes out when talking to men you have no interest in, but somehow disappears whenever you like someone.” Selina mocks.

Pam cringes once again, being reminded of the unintelligible blabbing she’d just spewed in front of the cute server girl.

Harley watches the retreating red-head walk away with Selina. “Damn. Who’s that?”

“Said her name was Pam Isley. Didn’t ah, get her digits but dayumn she is foine!” Chuck replied.

Harley rolled her eyes, as if Kite Dork had a chance. But then she remembered the current state of her life, and thought the same thing about herself.

Chapter Text

“And done! Good as new.” Nanaue, Harley’s friend/ex-roommate, a large, burly gentle giant of a man who works in IT, exclaims happily through sharp, almost shark-like teeth as he finishes wiping down the tops of Harley’s kitchen cabinets.

“Aw jeez, you guys are lifesavers. Thank you sooo much for helping me clean my apartment, I owe you both big time!” Harley thanks her two ex-roommates on the sunny Saturday afternoon — the day she finally got her ass in gear to clean up her rat-girl living conditions. They start to walk from the now sparkling kitchen to her wiped-down, food free couch.

Basil, her other ex-roommate, a struggling actor who makes ends meet by working as a pottery instructor/experimental clay sculptor replies, “Don’t mention it, good chum! Just come to my next theatre show, West Clay Story, my adaptation of the classic –”

“Oh yeah, totally, for sure! I’ll be there! Anywho, Nanaue, could you help me find someone on the internet please? Her name is Pam Isley. I tried searching for her on Waynestagram but couldn’t find anything. I found a Pamela Isley on WayneFace who I’m pretty sure is her, but her account is totally private so I can’t see anything, not even the profile picture.” Harley asks a little too eagerly, pushing her laptop onto him and changing the subject to the gorgeous red-head whose face she couldn’t get out of her mind since banquet serving a few nights ago.

“Oh fine, Harls. Let me see what I can do.” Nanaue starts typing away on Harley’s CleggBook Air. 

“And who exactly is this ‘Pam Isley’ you’re so interested in cyber-stalking, young lady?” Basil queries.

“Umm no one really, just someone at a party that I didn’t get a chance to exchange socials with!” Harley squeaks.

Basil looks at her with one eyebrow raised. “Harley, you ask for almost everyone’s WG handle when you’re drunk and at a party. Spill, what’s the real tea?”

Harley’s face drops as she sighs. “Ugh fine, and FYI, I was working, not drunk at another party. I think I actually need to take a break from that. She was FINE dude, she was a thousand-percent my type, like, I’ve never met anyone MORE my type than her. We didn’t even talk, all I did was offer her the appetizers I was serving, which were the vegan ones *Harley makes a face*, so I couldn’t even eat them myself after Selina Kyle dragged her away to talk to some rich bald guy.” 

The sound of typing comes to a stop. “Aaand got it, best I could do was bypass her public WayneFace security settings so you can check out her profile as if you were WayneFace friends. Couldn’t find any linked Waynestagram accounts though, so she either doesn’t have one or uses some secret handle.” Nanaue passes the laptop to Harley.

“Eeeee! You’re the best!” Harley snatches the laptop and excitedly begins to stalk her profile.

Like most people’s, Pamela’s WayneFace page didn’t seem very active, just people posting “happy birthday” posts around the same time every year. Harley noticed she was an Aquarius on the Aquarius/Capricorn cusp, according to the dates. She also saw that they had a few mutual friends, Selina Kyle being one of them, along with a few of Harley’s acquaintances from grad school. There were 3 profile pics she was able to look through, the most recent one from a few years ago, and the other 2 were the same grainy picture from the early 2010s, just one had a filter of “KONY 2012” on it. 

The latest profile picture shows a slightly younger Pamela wearing a black zip-up athletic jacket over a white camisole, green leggings, and her lush red hair softly framing her face, with a sprawling greenspace as the backdrop. Aside from her perfect hair and face, the photo was nothing special, nothing revealing. But something about it catches Harley — the calm, the way she seems like she’s got her shit together, but also seems to have more underneath. Understated, as if she wasn’t trying to show off her beauty but wasn’t hiding it either. Harley leans closer, squinting at the screen, jaw tightening, heart ticking faster in that familiar mix of intrigue and irritation. Unfortunately, this is the extent of Pam’s online presence, and Harley slams the laptop shut so hard it makes the two men beside her jump. “UGGGHHHH,” she groans, throwing her head back dramatically over this mystery woman and her criminal lack of pictures, which only makes her curiosity burn hotter.

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Sound waves of soothing spa music travel across foggy, humid air in Pamela’s penthouse bathroom. The woman lies still in her extra-large, free standing bathtub, her svelte form melting in hot, fragrant water. She takes a deep inhale, feeling the humidity pass through her airway before letting out a long sigh. Her past week was full of lab work, clients, meetings, site visits, and nonstop obligations. Yes, she was a brilliant mind and had a strong work ethic, but that much work would make even the most fervent workaholic break down. Finally, it was Saturday night, and Pam’s only plans were with her bathtub and the expensive bottle of Cab Sav Selina gifted her on her birthday this year. She was saving it for a special occasion, and she figured tonight would be as good as any. 

She’d secured funding by sweet-talking Greg Clegg at Bruce’s party a few nights ago, and now she didn’t have to take on any more extra work. She could focus full time on her research, which was exactly what she’d wanted for years. Her current two consultant projects, Metropolis Green Initiative and the rooftop gardens for Bruce Wayne’s newly constructed office buildings, were in their final stages and set to be completed soon.

Pouring herself the last of the wine into a crystal glass, Pam lets the warm haze of alcohol and steamy air settle over her. The serene vibe is suddenly shattered when the music starts skipping, so she reaches for her phone to get it to stop. “For the ding of fucknuts…can’t I just have my relaxing night in peace.” She mutters to herself. She forgoes the music entirely and briefly stares at her phone in hand. Harley, the attractive blonde server at the party, pops into her mind again. “Fuck it.” Pam murmurs to herself as she begins to type “harley” into Waynestagram. She usually has zero interest in most people, let alone looking them up on WG, which she barely uses, but the alcohol and space freed up in her mind have taken over. The search yields a few options, and she recognizes the blonde’s face in a profile pic under the handle “harleyquinzel”. Unfortunately, the account is private, but she sees that Selina is following her. She’ll have to somehow borrow Selina’s phone next time she sees her. Assuming that’s her last name in her WG handle, she opens up WayneFace to search, “Harley Quinzel”. Nothing pops up, so she searches under Selina’s friends list. Aha — “Harleen Quinzel” pops up with the same profile pic as the one on WG. The app’s interface allows Pam to tap the photo to see the full picture, which now fills up her entire phone screen.

Wow. Looking at this photo of Harley (Harleen? Pam deduces that’s her full name) stirs a lot in her. The photo was updated less than a year ago, and is a shot of Harley taken from a slightly higher angle pointing down. It looks like she’s outside, at a fair or carnival or something. Her hair’s in pig-tails with two money pieces framing either side of her face. She’s looking forward with a big, bright smile that reaches her eyes. It’s weird, but Pamela feels happy when she looks at it. It’s as if she feels lighter, like maybe life isn’t so serious and that there’s more to it than work and perfectly structured routines. The feelings stir something in her heart and belly.

She continues to study the photo. The angle includes Harley’s entire torso, her ample cleavage peeking out the top of her low-cut red and black top. Her abs. Dear god, her abs. Taut stomach muscles visible within the feminine curves of her toned yet shapely waist that lead to athletic and full hips. Not what she expected to be underneath that server uniform. The sensations within her intensify, and she starts to feel a warm ache below her belly now. “Shhhiiiiit.” Pam sighs. She knows herself well enough to know where this is going. In the back of her mind, she feels that it’s wrong to masturbate to a person who she doesn’t know. Pam doesn’t even watch porn, because she’s highly against the exploitation of women and girls. Ok fine, there are a few amateur lesbian creators she watches ONCE IN A WHILE but that’s totally different and besides the point. You know what? She’ll probably never even see this Harley chick again. Sure, her best friend might follow her on socials, but Selina knows a lot of people. It’s not weird, and God, has it been a while. She is so tense. So much responsibility, tension, and stress has been building up inside of her for weeks with no release, nowhere to go. She can’t even remember the last time she truly let herself go and relax. The combination of steam, alcohol, and whatever looking at Harley’s image stirred inside of her carried Pam’s entire being into a heady, entranced state. Her body completely takes over without the input of her mind, and slender hands find themselves starting to glide across slick, slippery skin under the bath water on their own. 

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By the time she steps out of the now room-temp bath water, she feels like mush. Hair still damp and without bothering to put her pajamas on, Pamela lands in her bed the most relaxed, mellow, and soft she’s been since she can remember, falling completely and utterly into the depths of slumber.

Chapter Text

Harley walks through the streets of Gotham, horns honking and pollution hanging in the air as she makes her way to Wayne Office Tower 1. The sound of her heels click-clack on the sidewalk as she passes a glass building that reflects her external appearance — blonde hair styled neatly in a low bun, a deep scarlet dress shirt tucked in a black pencil skirt that fits her just right. Dr. Quinzel, a real example of professionalism and responsibility, Harley thinks to herself sardonically. She’s actually on her way to meet what’s-his-name from Winge before work. Maybe if she weren’t such a total freaking mess, she wouldn’t have left her wristwatch at his condo during their drunken hookup last week. 

Look, she wasn’t gonna save the number of a guy she was supposed to see once and never talk to again. She’d already deleted Winge the morning after that night, so she wasn’t gonna re-install the app just to go through all her convos and find out what this dude’s name was. All she needs is to meet him at his office, grab her watch, and get to work before her first client, which thankfully wasn’t til 10am. So she had plenty of time, plus, this guy’s office was kinda sorta on the way to work anyway, and it would save her from agreeing to another “date” with him to get her watch. See? Real responsible. 

“God fucking damn it Harley, let’s not do this again,” she mutters to herself as she walks through large, revolving doors of the shiny new office building. Harley notices the concierge desk is empty, so she walks straight to the fancy new elevators which leads her to the floor of Al Ghul and Associates which is apparently where this guy works at. Jeez, working at a place like that you’d think he could afford to take her somewhere nicer than Noonan’s. The doors slide open to a large, modern office space where most cubicles sit empty, a few scattered with boxes. Looks like the building isn’t fully operational yet. Harley heads towards the cluster of cubicles with the most boxes.

“Hey hotstuff.” A male voice suddenly breaks the silence. Winge guy pops up from behind a desk.

Harley rolls her eyes before turning to face him, as far as she knows, he doesn’t know her name either. “Hey. Thanks for meeting and bringing my wa–,” 

“You look even better than I remember, you sure I can’t take you out again?” he interrupts, eyeing Harley up and down too obviously.

Frustrated that she’d already declined over text and made it clear why she was here, Harley exhales, extending her palm forward. “Like I said, no. If you could just hand me back my watch, I still have to get to wo–,”

“C’mon, just one more date, how much do you want this back?” He interrupts again, dangling her watch beside his face.

Fed up, Harley drives the point of her heel on his foot, grabbing her watch as he drops it and reaches down.

“Fucking bitch!” He shouts in pain, hopping on his good foot while holding the other.

“That’s what you get for being a dick head, dick head,” she retorts, flipping him off as she heads back to the elevators.

She gets in and presses Ground, checking her watch — 9:20am, still on schedule and even has time for an iced coffee! But her thoughts are interrupted when the elevator makes an odd grinding noise before a sudden “clunk” and Harley is thrown off balance as it makes an abrupt stop. It looks like it's stuck between floors 21 and 22. 

“Fuck me”, she sighs, removing her glasses with one hand and rubbing her temples with the other. “I have got to stop fuckin' these guys.” 

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The sounds of Gotham’s busy streets hum distantly below. Up here, it’s just the sound of a waterfall, one piece of the living tapestry of flora that fills the indoor garden spanning the top floor. Pamela checks boxes off her checklist, finally closing out her work on the rooftop garden of Wayne Office Tower 1. After snapping a few photos to send to the building manager, she walks towards the elevators to head out. 

Analyzing the photos on her phone, she glances at the time, 9:20am. Excellent. She’ll be back at the university before 10 to begin lab work just in time. The timing is —

“Shit.” Pamela deadpans as the elevator comes to a sudden halt, around what appears to be the 21st floor. She presses the “HELP” call button to no answer, as the building is not yet regularly staffed. Her phone, of course, has no signal. She tries pressing the different buttons, but nothing. 

*thud* “Damn it!” The sound echoes beside her, coming from somewhere in the elevator shaft.

“He-hello? Is someone there?” Pam asks loudly, voice directed toward the sound.

“Oh my gosh! A person! Are you stuck too?” The voice answers back. It’s of a higher-pitched woman’s voice, muffled by the two metal cages that separate them.

“Yes! How long have you been stuck? Are you able to get help? Do you have cell service? Pam asks with urgency.

“Umm about 30 seconds ago, no, and no. I was trying to kick the door open just now but I don’t think that’s going to work. I also noticed there was no concierge downstairs, and I may have pissed off the only person who knows I’m here. Soooo don’t know if we’ll be able to get a hold of anyone.” The voice responds.

“Fuck, I can’t be late for my next commitment. Do you think someone will know that the elevators are stuck? This building’s not occupied yet.” Pamela laments.

“Yeah, you and me both, girlfriend. I got a 10am I cannot miss. Don’t worry, someone’ll find us. There’s an asshole with a possibly fractured foot on the 31st floor who I’m pretty sure is gonna need the elevator soon. And since we’re usin' both, he’s gotta call someone. Unless he uses the stairs. Which I really don’t think is happening. So yeah! I think someone’ll get us outta here in a jif.” The voice chatters — comfortingly, if Pamela’s being honest.

“Oh…okay…umm, so…what were you doing here? Your office moving in? You mentioned there’s a guy on the 31st floor…is that your coworker or something? Is he hurt?” Pam asks to get her mind off being stuck in an elevator and to try to feel some sense of control.

She’s pretty sure she hears a deep sigh. There’s a brief pause before the voice answers back. “Well. To be honest, I was just stopping by to pick up my watch from 31st floor dude. Uh, I may have left it behind at his condo when we…hooked up last week. I was drunk, tired, and it musta slipped my mind…and wrist. He was being a real dick about it though so I took matters into my own hands. Plus, I still gotta go to work. Thought I’d be great for time, but now I’m not so sure.” 

“Oh jeez, that sucks…I’m…sorry to hear that.” Pam isn’t sure what to say—she hasn’t hooked up with anyone since undergrad, and she hardly goes out—so that’s all she offers.

“Don’t be. I’m sure it’s the universe’s way of telling me to stop hookin’ up with random guys, or maybe to stop dating men in general haha...anyways, what were ya doing here before gettin’ stuck in this metal deathtrap?”

“Fair. I’m not all that fond of men myself.” Pam states, unsure of why she felt compelled to share something personal. Maybe it was the anonymity of it all, the possibility she might die here, or the way the other woman spoke with such easy candor. “Well, I was finishing my work on the rooftop garden. It’s done now. And I’d really like to get to my next thing because I have very important work waiting for me.”

“Ooooh there’s a rooftop garden in this building? If I’d known I totally woulda stopped by to check it out after crushin’ that guy’s foot. ‘Specially if these elevators woulda been busted anyway. Sooo…you like a gardener or somethin’?” The voice asks earnestly.

Pamela can’t help but smile softly at the woman’s warmth that comes through, even muffled. “Um well, I’m actually a botanist. But I guess some of the work I’ve been doing is a bit like that of a glorified gardener. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love seeing something I’ve created come to life, and Bruce Wayne does pay well…for this at least. Maybe not for elevators haha. But I’m really more into sustainability research, conservatism, restoring endangered species, plant geneti—” Pam stops, suddenly feeling self conscious, fearing she’d blabbered on too much and bored the other person.

“Oh wow! That’s really interestin’! It sounds like you’re makin’ a real difference in the world. I don’t think I’ll ever come back here, ‘specially after today LOL, but if I do I’d definitely check out your garden.” 

Surprised by the other woman’s response to her passions, Pam feels her cheeks redden. “Th-thanks. Um, what about you? What do you do?” 

“Me? I’m a psychologist, yup. I got a client at 10am and if I don’t get my ass on the next bus outta here, I can kiss my promotion goodbye.” 

“I mean, your boss can understand, you were in an emergency situation, and I’m sure your performance otherwise would make up for it?” Pam offers, for some reason wanting to comfort the stranger, surprising herself with her show of sympathy.

“Ah that’s sweet of ya to say, but I can’t risk it. I really gotta secure the bag, ya know, girls gotta pay her bills and all that. Anywho, what’s your name? I’m Ha—”

Loud mechanical noises cut in and drown out her words, the elevator suddenly moving again. 

“My elevator’s moving! I think I’m making it down now. Is yours?” Pam shouts, but doesn’t hear a response back.

A few moments later, Pam finally touches down to the ground level. As she steps out of the elevator, she sees a concerned man in a grey technician jumpsuit approaching her, and a blur of a blonde woman in a red dress shirt and black skirt running towards the exit, not in time to see her face but just the back of her shapely figure.

“It was nice talkin’ to ya but I gotta catch that bus! Good luck with your plant stuff!” The woman shouts out without looking back as she rushes towards the revolving doors, where a bus just pulled up in front.

The man in the jumpsuit starts asking Pamela questions about what had happened, but she isn’t listening. She zones out watching the woman catch the bus just in time. The blonde moves deeper inside, then turns, and for a brief moment, their eyes meet as the bus drives off.