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It's late. Too goddamn late for someone to be practically banging Ivy's door down, especially when it's pouring outside. She stumbles out of bed, fully ready to wrap whoever it is up in vines and throw them out of a window.
At least, she's ready until she sees who it is. Harley's shaking and wrecked, tears streaking down her face, her nose bleeding, strands of wet hair plastered to her face, that fucking clown suit dirty and torn. She looks at Ivy like she only half-recognises her, then literally falls over the threshold.
Ivy catches her. Of course she does, even exhausted and confused and panicking. Harley buries her face in Ivy's chest, the apartment door not even shut behind them, and sobs.
Ivy takes a breath and gets ahold of herself. Methodical. That's what she needs to be right now. She's not gonna freak out, or barrage Harley with questions, or storm out the door to murder the asshole who she already knows is the reason behind the state her friend is in. No. Ivy's going to keep her cool, because one of them has to.
She steers Harley towards the couch, half-carrying her weight, and settles her on to it, then goes to shut the door.
When she turns back around, Harley's bent forward, head in her hands, crying, her shoulders shaking, her breaths so fast and shallow that Ivy has to work hard to tamp down the fear that wants to surface.
“He–” Harley manages, and then sobs again, her whole body heaving with it.
Ivy crosses the room and drops down in front of her. “Harls. Breathe.”
“Can't,” Harley chokes. “He left– Ivy, he left–”
Ivy wants to scream. She hates the hold he has on Harley, hates it so much. The fact that she's sitting here, bleeding and shivering, and the thing that she's most scared of is the fact that he's gone. Gone wherever the fuck he goes, like he does, ditching her like she's nothing.
Every time, Ivy hopes he won't come back. Harley might be heartbroken, but it'd be better for her if he never did. Every time, he does, and she leaves with him, and every time, he hurts her again. It's the thing that makes Ivy feel more powerless than anything else in the world.
“What 'm I gonna do?” Harley says, barely intelligible. “I don't know how– Ivy, I don't know how– I've got no one else–”
“You have me,” Ivy says. It doesn't get through. Nothing she says ever really can.
“Gonna be alone. Why does he– why would he–” Her words are tripping over each other now, her breath coming too fast and harsh for her to properly get them out. What started as on-edge crying is tipping into a full-blown panic attack.
“Harley. Breathe,” Ivy says again. “Come on. Do it with me.” She inhales and exhales, slowly, and Harley tries, three ragged breaths to Ivy's one, but she shakes her head.
“C-can't, Ivy, I can't–”
“Okay, okay,” Ivy says, looks around. She rarely has to take care of any person other than herself, wishes she knew better what to do. “Uh, tell me five things you can see. That's meant to help, I think.”
Harley shakes her head.
“Come on. Harls. Five things.”
Harley looks up, breathing shakily. “The... the plant.”
There are a lot of plants, but Ivy lets it slide.
“Couch. TV.” The way her voice shakes over the words breaks Ivy's heart, and she balls her fists, presses all the anger back inside her chest. “The, uh, the... table. And...” She looks at Ivy, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. “You.”
“Okay. That's good. Four things you can...” Ivy hesitates, unsure what comes next. “Touch, I think.”
Harley casts about, her hands twisting together in her lap, then reaches out. “The cushion. My clothes.” She looks down at the red fabric and her breath catches, fist clenching tightly around it. “Fuck.”
“Harls. You're doing great,” Ivy says. She doesn't know what else to do, honestly doesn't. “Come on.”
“You,” Harley says again, reaching out, brushing Ivy's shoulder. She half-turns, fumbles at the leaves of the plants behind her. “That.”
“Three things you can hear,” Ivy says, feeling a little silly, but it seems to be working. Harley's still crying, tears rolling down her face, but her breathing's more even.
“There's– there's someone shoutin' outside. The rain. Myself.” She half-laughs, humourless and broken.
“Two things you can smell.”
“Dirt,” Harley says, gesturing at the plant pots, her voice steadying. “Your shampoo.”
“One thing you can taste.”
Harley shakes her head. “Fuck. Stop it. I don't need this. I can't taste shit, Ivy, I haven't eaten anything since...” Her face crumples around a memory, and Ivy reaches out, pressing a hand to her knee.
“Harls. Come on. You're freaking out. Tell me one thing.”
“Fine.” Harley almost spits it at her, shaking her head again, too hard. “Blood. Happy?”
Ivy draws in a breath, exhales, doesn't rise to the bait. “Okay. Now try and match my breathing again.”
This time, she can. There are still tears in her eyes, and she's glaring at Ivy, now, because moments like this, her anger never really goes where it should. Ivy understands that, kind of. Sometimes it's easier to blame anyone other than the person who hurt you.
After a minute or so, Harley stands up. “I gotta go. Ive. I gotta find him. I need to... I have to...”
“You need to rest,” Ivy says, firm as she knows how. “And you need to get out of those clothes. And you need to tell me where else you're hurt.”
“It's not bad,” Harley mutters, and, “I need to go,” again, but the resolve in her voice is weakening.
“Come on.” Ivy narrowly resists the urge to call Joker every swear word she knows, tell Harley just how much of a piece of shit he is, try to make her understand. Right now, all that'll probably do is make Harley hate her, and then she'll leave, and Ivy doesn't trust that she'll be okay if she's alone right now. “You can take my bed.”
Harley's shoulders sag, and fresh tears well up in her eyes, but she doesn't argue. “Can you... could you stay? With me? In your room?”
Ivy swallows. It's always been a line she can't walk, the closeness and the distance, caring for Harley without letting her know just how much she really feels for her.
But maybe she's never been as smart as she gives herself credit for. “Sure.”
“Just... don't wanna be alone,” Harley mumbles.
Half an hour later, Harley's washed off the blood and the dirt and the mess of her make-up. Ivy's loaned her pyjamas, given her something for the cuts and bruises and not pried into how she got them, because she can guess, and Harley will talk about it when and if she wants to, not before.
They don't talk much, Ivy turning the lights off and lying down in silence, leaving a careful distance between them. She can hear Harley sniffle, knows it could be hours before she really stops crying.
It's always hit-and-miss, in moments like these, whether Harley wants closeness and comfort, or if she'll snap if it's offered. So Ivy doesn't offer it. But Harley shifts closer of her own accord, slings one arm over Ivy's hip, and Ivy's sure her own breath stops in her lungs. Tentatively, she puts one arm around Harley in return, and her friend presses into her, muffling quiet sobs against Ivy's shirt.
Ivy lies there and holds her and tries to breathe, and knows she won't sleep all night. It's worth it, though, to be able to hold Harley, to know she's safe for just these few hours of time.
Ivy wishes she could keep her safe forever.