Mask of Sanity

It's been almost a year since they've seen eachother.

Pam's mask of sanity had fit her to a tee, so much so that she had forgotten what she looked like without it. The new normalcy she'd found in Bludhaven was unexpected, and it was even almost comfortable. She almost found it enjoyable to wake up in her one bedroom apartment every morning and water her window box, to slip on her glasses and dress in baggy, mud-stained overalls and walk to the community greenhouse down the block. With her legal decree of sanity, signed by Dr. Arkham himself, tucked away safely in her nightstand drawer she felt like she could do anything. Be anything.

Her parole officer, Rupert Ross, checks in on her in the greenhouse every single day. He stands in the doorway, watching her as if she doesn't know what it feels like to be stared at. She knows he's handsome, with that chiseled square jaw and those dark brown eyes, and he knows what she looks like beneath those cumbersome clothes she wears to hide the green-hued skin her body has adapted to. Its silent for a moment, both of them pretending they don't know the other one is there, before Rupert speaks: "Harleen Quinzel is out of Arkham as of this morning."

She acts casual, stroking a petal on one of her potted daisies between her thumb and fore finger and feeling its silkiness beneath her touch. Her hair used to be just a soft in comparison, now dulled in texture and color once the poison completly worked out of her system. "Again?" She asks sardonically. "They haven't learned their lesson yet, have they?"

"Well, what with your miraculous transformation, it seemed like a good opportunity to try again." Rupert reasons, leaning against the glass door with his ankles crossed. She can't help but notice the way his blue suit pants are just a quarter inch too short on him, glancing at him from head to toe out of the corner of her dull green eyes. He looks at her with utmost seriousness. "And I expect you know well enough that any contact with her could land you back in Arkham."

"Of course I know that, Rupert," His name dances around her tongue as it slithers from her pale, thick lips, "I'm a big girl, you know. I know better than to put myself in such a compromising position." Pam smirks at him once the second to last word leaves her mouth, and he raising a knowing brow.

"Dinner at your place tonight?"

"As scheduled."

He leaves as easily as he arrived, and Pam glides to her other work bench to grab her watering can. She remembers bouncing blonde waves and effervescent blue eyes, that shrill voice and those nimble limbs. Does she still look the same?

The tiniest crack appears in Pam's mask of sanity just thinking about it.

Dinner with Rupert is just as it always is: few words, fewer bites of food, even fewer articles of clothing. She knows she's still got it, but it's not the same as it was. The control she used to possess was no longer a factor, and somehow it just wasn't as fun. Her mind wandered to what Harley must be doing. She pictures a slum apartment in the Bronx, limp pigtails and a steaming bowl of Ramen noodels at a two-person kitchen table. She's always loved those noodles and the pure starch level in it would always make Pam nuts. It's okay, Red, you can just rub my belly for me if I don't feel so hot.

Once Rupert leaves she stares at her nightstand phone. She thinks it might ring, that Harley might call, but after a minute she decides how stupid that must be. Maybe Harley has gone straight, and maybe she doesn't want to hear from her. She doesn't think it could be possible, but then reconsiders. The crack in her mask extends midway up her face as she grazes her pale, rough fingertips across the back of her phone. She wouldn't even know where to find her if she wanted to.

The next day she ges to the greenhouse as usual, tying her hair up in a low ponytail and letting her black glasses rest low on her nose. She searches for her misplaced work gloves, talking to her roses in gentle tones as she does. "Have you seen them, babies? I could have sworn I left them..."

She looks up to the right and sees them inches from her nose. The petite white fingers holding them have peach colored polish on their trimmed nails, and a simple white gold band on the right middle finger. Slender wrists exposed beneath long black sleeves and trimmed blonde hair resting across narrow shoulders. Pam sees her lips in a small smile and a sparkle in those blue irises. Her mask completely shatters at her feet.

"Need some help, Red?"

Fin.

A/N: This is totally just a stupid ramble I wrote running on two hours of sleep.