Work Text:
"If you're done sorting my comic books, you can fix me a lemonade," Harley suggests in honeyed tones. She's lying on the red monstrosity of a couch, legs thrown over the back and head dangling off the cushion, while flipping through one of her ridiculous little magazines.
Wasted paper. All of it.
Ivy keeps her comments to herself. They're not part of the exercise. If she wants Harley to grow out of her own shadow and become her own woman, antagonism is not the answer. It's what Harley's trying to do. She's resisting her every step of the way, aiming to sabotage Ivy's – she wouldn't quite call it an intervention, but her efforts – by taunting her into abandoning the endeavor.
But Ivy's sturdy. She can take whatever Harley throws her way.
She'd had enough time at Arkham to sort out her feelings and decide if it's – if Harley's – worth the time and devotion she so obviously needs. Ivy's made up her mind. There's no more changing the nature of a bristlecone pine than of the sapling Harley's planted in her heart.
Even so, burning shame floods her every time Harley mocks her intentions. The ridicule itself isn't what gets to Ivy but the undertone of rejection: what a fool you are to love me.
Like that, she exposes Ivy, strips her to bare fibres. She knows which strings to pull. Yet she can be however mean she pleases. Ivy's imbued with the patience of nature. Harley will come around yet.