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The sun catches Harley’s teeth, her blonde hair, lighting her up golden, like the wide smile on her face—the one that doesn’t ever fade, despite everything, the one that tugs, tugs, tugs in Pamela’s chest, reminding her of home in ways that are both pleasant (and warm) and distinctly unpleasant (of the violent sort; of the locked up sort). Her hand is hot when it wraps around Pamela’s, squeezing as a way of goodbye, because in the end, she’s always leaving; always going back to the clown, and Pamela will never be able to keep her.
“I’ll see ya again next time, Red,” Harley says, waving, eyes bright, and Pamela has never viewed herself as a savior, especially not of man (and she does hate humans so but it is so hard to hate Harley when she talks about the clown like her mother used to talk about her father), but part of her wants to be, right now, “thanks for everythin’, as always; love ya!”