pairing: poison ivy x reader
warnings: mediocre angst, proofread once.
note: wrote this at like twelve last night. I just need to get something out lmao. I’m going to start writing a bit more DC stuff until I get get my spark back. Currently writing another Ivy fic based on the comic, Harleen.
The door creaks as you slowly open it, peeking in. Pamela’s mixing green and purple liquids, mumbling to herself as they bubble and ooze.
“Hey, what are you doing? It’s, like, three am,” you say.
“I’ll be up soon, just need to do a couple more things.”
You frown, never knowing Pamela to not look you in the eye when she’s speaking.
“Alright.” You turn to head out, leaving her to her work. “Love you.”
You close the door, swallowing harshly. This is ridiculous, it’s been going on for months now. The neglect, the off-handed responses to meaningful statements, and it hurts. It hurts so much, and you swear to God you can feel your heart shattering.
You blink a coup times, rubbing at them.
Why are you crying? She’s got more important things than you, you know that.
You walk up the wooden steps, but stop short. You’re way too tired to climb up another flight just to get to your room. Curling up on a way-too-short step, you let yourself weep.
The step above you digs into your shoulder every time you let out a sob, but you don’t adjust. The pain somehow grounds you, keeping you from actually bawling your eyes out. Your hand sits in your mouth, stifling what should have been louder cries. You don’t care about the bite marks that will be there tomorrow.
Pamela didn’t come up to bed that night, not did she bother to put you in an actual room.
You’re thinking about leaving, ditching Pamela in the night. You cant go on like this, but you’re way too worried to confront her about her behavior. She’ll just put you off, gaslight you and tell you you’re just being dramatic.
You want her to notice your bruised hand, you want her to notice your puffy eyes the next morning, you want her notice your pain.
She ignores you all day again, sitting in her lab and talking to her plants. You know she loves those things more than you, she used to tell you that she loved you more. It’s a lie. It always has been.
You open the door to her lab again, forgetting to knock.
The creak of the door must’ve thrown her off, because the next thing you know Pamela’s cursing and yelling. Things are spilling over her desk, papers are soaked and burning.
“Pam! Oh my God! I’m so—“
“Get out!” she yells, pulling her hair as she finally faces you. “GO!”
You close the door with a slam, mortified. Pamela’s never yelled at you before. She knows you hate it, you hate arguing and screaming, she knows what your past was, and she promised to never yell. It was a mutual agreement, and even when you both made each other upset, it didn’t last long. You’d both apologize and talk about it, get over what was causing bumps and come out stronger. You didn’t know if you’d make it out of this one.
You can still her Pamela yelling, things smashing against the door your head is lain on.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and after that, the only noise you hear is her yelling and your own tears hitting the floor.
Your knees give out and you slide against bumpy and splintered wood. Your face is soaking, tears painting an ugly portrait on your face.
As your sobbing against the door, the only thing you can think of is leaving. And right now, it seems like the smart thing to do.
You don’t bother Pam for the next week, you leave her to be in the greenhouse, actively skirting around her when she leaves for her lab. You don’t like being like this— awkward strangers. For God’s sake, you’ve been dating for five years, you know her inside and out. But she feels different, unstable. It scares you, mortifies you. You don’t know what she’s capable when she’s like this, and you don’t know if you want to find out.
The letter you write is long, it takes up two full pages of paper, and your handwriting is neat. The only thing screwing it up are the copious amounts of wet spots, which smear the ink. You place the note on her side of the nightstand, and start grabbing essentials. You take everything you can think of, everything that seems important.
You don’t realize your crying until your vision is completely blurry, but still, you push onwards. You grab a couple sweaters and a couple pairs of jeans. You don’t fold them, instead slamming them into a suitcase as you zip it up.
Everything stops. Your hand, the loud zipper, your breathing, even your tears don’t flow anymore. It’s like everyone’s waiting, waiting and waiting for Pamela to understand. You take in a shaky breath, finishing the zipper. “Leaving.”
You don’t turn to face her, instead you pretend to do more with the suitcase, checking empty pockets and extra compartments. You hear her footsteps getting closer and closer and closer, her hand rests on your shoulder. You still don’t face her, you can’t. The moment you look at her you’re screwed, you’ll melt into her and fall into the same pattern. It cant happen.
Another hand rests on your other shoulder, slowly turning you around. Pamela looks so heartbroken, and you let out a sob. It’s useless to fight her, you can’t, you’ve never been good at sticking up for yourself. She tucks your head into her shoulder, apologizing from some stupid thing that doesn’t even matter. Pamela cant even figure out what she was doing wrong, she’s reaching, apologizing for yelling, as if the months of emotional neglect aren’t a problem.
You know she’d be crying if wasn’t stopping herself, the last thing either of you wants is you to be covered in bubbling blisters.
You don’t bother trying to correct her, to tell her that you miss her. How could you? She’s always there, she’s never not fifteen feet away from you. You cant miss her. But still, you do.
“I miss you,” you cry out, repeating it over and over again.
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.” Her voice is soothing, lulling you into hopeful security. It isn’t until your eyes are drooping shut, you’re breathing heavy and loud, that you realize what she’s doing.
You don’t know what time it is, how long you’ve slept, or where you are, but it doesn’t matter, because the familiar scent of spring wraps around you like a blanket, and you sigh. Everything feels right, a sense of calm eases you, and you really can’t remember what you were so upset about last night.
“Morning,” Pamela whispers.
You feel her hand slide up to your shoulder and her chin softly pressing into your head. This is right, everything is okay.
You mumble back an obscured “G’morning” and bury yourself deeper into her.
Her chest shakes as she laughs lightly, and you grumble in protest from the movement.
“Can we just stay here?” you ask, threading your hand in her hair as you do so.
“I wish, but we’ve got plans, darling.”
You grumble, clearing annoyed. “Yeah but this is so much better.”
Pamela starts playing with your hair, careful not to tangle it. You feel happy at this, happy that she remembers how bad your bed head is.
Pamela starts laughing again, her chin rubbing against your head as she shakes her own. “No.”
“Plans, shlamsh! We don’t need to go anywhere.”
“I suppose we don’t need to, but we should. Selina and Harley are waiting on us, though.”
“They’ll entertain each other just fine without us.”
A moment of silence passes through the two of you, each taking in the thought of those two alone together.
“Oh God, why did I tell them to wait for us?” Pamela asks, you don’t need to see her face to know she’s mortified.
“Selina’s probably at Harley’s throat about now. You told her not to bring those mutts right?”
“No…. I figured it would be common sense!”
“Harley doesn’t have common sense! She has Harley sense! She probably brought Bud and Lou!”
“We really need to leave, darling.”
Pamela’s up and out of the bed, dressed in a green blouse and black shorts before you even know it. You get up too, looking to the end of the bed. Frowning, you unzip the suitcase.
“I-I’m sorry, Pam. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. It was stupid, really.”
Pamela closes the suitcase, handing you a sweater of hers and a pair of leggings.
“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have yelled.”
You nod your head, still taking the blame. Pamela smiles, giving you a kiss on the cheek.
The first kiss you’ve gotten from her in months.
