Work Text:
It's not in what she says. It's evident in the quirk of her lip, cupid's bow dipping to a point as she smiles without the flash of teeth, cheeks glowing. She gives it away in the delighted crinkling of her eyes in those moments. It's obvious in the rush of her lips to Harley's, initiations of her own that surprise and enrapture their recipient, so used to being the instigator of affection. It's deliciously apparent in the pursing pout that levees the scathing words she dreams of spitting at the outsiders who make their intentions toward the blonde known more tangibly than she knows how.
Her lips, her lips, her lips. It always comes back to her lips.
It is in the things she says; the "Did you make it home yet"s and the gentle reminders to use color-safe shampoo, lest she strip the pink and blue from the tips of her hair. It's in the uncharacteristically shy aversion of her ever-sharp gaze as words of gratitude swell from her lips and wash upon Harley's heart with the clasping of a gift around her wrist or neck.
It's in each exasperated "Harls" and every note of the off-key songs they sing together, every giggle of words and phrases only they two know between them. Harley feels it in the murmur of tender whispers of desire between heavy kisses to her neck, kisses like none she'd ever conjured in her deepest pining.
Harley knows Pamela loves her, in her heart, in her bones, and in her professional opinion. She isn't disheartened by the language barrier, but instead lets her heart soar at the delight of knowing she is loved by the goddess of cynicism who cannot say the words. So she gathers her close in those moments and says those words enough for the two of them, as a friend and a lover, and she means them enough for a lifetime.