Heartbroken

She drank whiskey alone. The brightly colored bottle showed a crying clown, cotton candy, balloons. Cartoons played on the old television, the sound off. Roadrunner and coyote. Duck and rabbit. The pigtails had come undone, and the pale hair, dyed different colors at the tips, hung loose behind her. Lois could see the red and black booty shorts frame that luscious, heart-shaped ass; the bare pale thighs with the little band-aid on the knee.

"Is she dead?" Harley Quinn asked quietly, though Lois was sure she hadn't made a sound when she slipped into the room.

Dust covered the old bar. Once it had been a speakeasy. It was one of those quiet places that Harley and Ivy used to disappear to, between capers. One of those places known only to themselves.

"Yes," Poison Liana answered. "And no."

The Clown Princess of Crime turned then. There were tracks that the tears had cut through her makeup, eyes red, her painted lips twisted in a grimace of heartache that made Lois want to cover the distance between them and wrap the other woman in her arms.

"Who are you?" Harley asked.

"Lois Lane," she said. "Or you can call me Poison Liana."

She stepped forward, left arm raised. Harley didn't flinch, when the reporter's warm hand touched the zipper on the back of the clown's vest. The one that held those pale breasts in.

"You prefer to go topless," Lois said. "It was so hard to get you to just wear clothes. Whenever we ordered pizza, you'd greet them in the altogether and..."

The swiftness of Harley Quinn beggared belief. In a single athletic move, the pale woman launched and twisted herself off the stool. Lois Lane's shoulders hit the floor, Harley on top of her before she could do anything. Those pale hands in their fingerless gloves wrapped around the reporter's throat.

"YOU'RE NOT MY PAMMY!" Harley shouted, tears dripping from her eyes as heartache and rage found voice. "SHE'S DEAD, SHE'S..."

Harley's shoulders shook.

"She thought she could hide it from me. That I wouldn't notice. She tried to push me away, so it wouldn't hurt so much..." the woman's face was a mask of love and pain. Acting on instinct, Lois Lane's hands grabbed her hips...her left hand slid down Harley's spine until the fingers pushed into those tight hot pants, the crack of Harley's ass, hot and sweaty and...her fingers touched the little knob. Right where it should be.

"It's our anniversary," Lois said as the memory blossomed inside of her. "I always did that special thing, the one you wanted. You're ready, aren't you? All the preparations complete. I remember. I remember all of it, Harleen. I'm all of her, but I'm more. I'm different now, but I can...we can still be..."

The reporter's heart thumped. Pamela Isley would have struggled to find the words. Lois Lane knew what to say.

"She still loves you, through me. I still love you, Harleen. Until the end of the world," the reporter's fingers pressed against that knob, and the sad clown gave a little gasp. "Now, please. Let your girlfriend do for you."