Falling

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/40682706.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/F
Fandom: Hacks (TV 2021)
Relationship: Ava Daniels/Deborah Vance
Characters: Ava Daniels, Deborah Vance, Marcus (Hacks TV), Damien (Hacks TV),
Josefina (Hacks TV), Marty Ghilain
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Fluff and Smut, POV Ava Daniels, SO MUCH
Bed Sharing, ava is a brat, horny girls go through trauma too, Almost
Slow Burn, deborah’s iPad is a paid actor
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-07-31 Completed: 2022-10-09 Words: 45,773 Chapters:
4/4
 Falling
by mouthyhack

Summary

Ava and Deb on the road. It only takes Ava losing a tooth for them to finally realise what's
going on between them

Notes

TW: there's a scene involving misogynistic violence (not super graphic). also canon typical
mentions of sexual harassment. one canon typical ED joke
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Don’t tell me you get car sick.” Deborah looks annoyed. That’s not unusual. She’s wearing
her glasses. They're perched on her nose as she works. Ava thinks it’s cute.

It’s pretty well established in Ava’s mind that she has a crush on Deborah. It would almost be
weird if she didn’t. Ava doesn’t remember a time in her life she was around a mentor figure
and didn’t harbour a crush on them. This is just a little more intense.

It probably has nothing to do with Deborah herself. She’s going through a lot right now.
Maybe Deborah is just replacing the algorithm that used to provide the majority of her
serotonin. Or this is just a manifestation of parental neglect and loss. She’s just self-soothing
by imagining acting out intimate moments with an older woman because her mother never
stopped freaking out long enough to give her the attention she deserved. God… that’s so
much worse than just having a fetish for older women.

Maybe it all started way back on the retreat in Vegas — holding someone’s hand as they pee
is pretty intimate. Or maybe it was when Deborah slapped her and it sent memories of her
mother slapping her scattering all over the floor in the direction of Deborah’s open palm.
That definitely screams fucked up sense of intimacy. Or maybe your dad dying just fucks you
up no matter what.

She rearranges her face after realising she’s been staring at Deborah with a creepy look of
longing.

“No, no, I just ate an entire bag of peanut m&ms.” That isn’t even a lie.

“God. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Well, I could’ve got regular m&ms but I thought you’d appreciate me upping my protein
intake.”
Deborah snorts without looking up from her iPad and Ava feels that now-familiar buzz
whenever she gets even a noise out of her. It’s the classic approval-seeking behaviour of
someone who didn’t get told they were doing a good job enough as a child. Ava’s officially
off metal health TikTok but it’s still pretty tough to let go of the self-analysis. Really, this
whole trip is like immersion therapy for conflict resolution and mommy issues.

“Alright, I’m calling it.” Deborah finally removes her glasses.

Being on the bus is different to staying at the Cheesecake Factory. It’s too intimate. And not
just between her and Deborah — listening to Damien dream about the QVC schedule is way
too revealing. It puts her on edge. She’s sleeping like shit anyway thanks to her coffin-like
bed and various dresser drawers assaulting her, but now she’s nervous about talking in her
sleep, five feet away from her boss. That dream about Deborah wasn’t a one-off.

“You going to bed?”

“Yeah. It’s late. I want you to get an early start on the abortion bit tomorrow.”

“God if only you had a dick, so could’ve used that in my legal defence.”

Deborah gives her that I-refuse-to-concede-that-was-funny look. “I don’t think that's what
they mean by whistleblower.”

Ava grins. Watching jokes fall so effortlessly out of her is always thrilling but her heart leaps
this time. Maybe it's the relief of knowing they can still joke like this. Maybe it’s the sexual
nature of the joke that makes her heart thump a little harder than usual. Inventing a flirtatious
undercurrent between you and your crush is a classic sapphic move Ava is not immune to.

She gives Ava’s shoulder a quick, friendly squeeze before she disappears into her room.
“Night,” Ava says but it’s weirdly quiet and Deborah’s door has already slid shut.

Damien’s been asleep for awhile and she considers touching herself in her coffin but she can
still hear Deborah moving around in her room. She’s watching something on her iPad and
Ava wonders if it's something naughty and then rolls her eyes at herself.

“You gotta get laid, girl,” she mutters to herself and then fights the urge to rollover until she
falls asleep like Dracula.

The bus is empty when she wakes the next day. It’s early and they’re parked in a mall parking
lot. She can’t even remember which state they're in.

She doesn’t have any messages on her flip phone so she relaxes for a minute, enjoying the
sleepiness that fills her head. With no internet to keep her occupied, she lets her hand drift
south.

It’s kind of thrilling touching herself when she can hear people outside, feel the soft breeze
through the bus windows. With the curtain pulled back there’s no separation between her and
the living space. Having a thing for public masturbation isn’t really a point of contention or
shame when you have a crush on your 70-year-old boss. Bigger fish to fry.

She knows she’ll be quick with the first touch. She melts with it, whole body simultaneously
waking and relaxing. Then she’s thinking about how this is really Deborah’s space — it has
her fucking initials on the side. She’s surrounded by her; her decor choices, the smell of her
clothes, her light therapy bed.

It nudges her along as she quickens her pace. Her eyes slide shut and she feels her cheeks
flushing and her legs tensing. She lets out a moan — the first one is always tentative, you
have to check how the sound carries — and then another. It gets absorbed by the carpeted
roof a few inches from her face. For the first time she appreciates how much her bed kind of
feels like being inside a womb — close and warm and still.
The mix of sleep and the summer breeze and Deborah has her spinning and she’s so fucking
close, so fucking close…

Deborah’s door slides open with that swooshing sound and Ava almost misses it over the
sound of her own pathetic orgasm thrumming in her ears.

“Oh, fuck, no—” The adrenaline shoots through her like someone just stabbed her with an
epipen. Her body forgets that it’s still in the coffin and tries to sit her up, which causes her
head to collide with the carpeted roof. “Fuck!”

There’s literally no where she can go. She just has to lay there while Deborah, in one of her
more casual wigs but still done to death, gives her a disapproving look.

She takes in the scene, eyes scanning the full length of her, a slight hitch in her eyebrow.
Thank fuck it was just a hand below the pants job and Ava hadn’t stripped off. She can
almost taste her heart in her throat.

“I—“

“Get ready,” she cuts her off. “Damien’s found 15 more bottles of Black Pashmina in this
decrepit mall. May as well have a look around while we wait. Your idea of keeping yourself
busy clearly isn’t very productive.”

“Oh my God. Um, y… Yeah. I’ll be ready.”

Then she’s walking away and God, Ava wishes this was a real womb and someone would
fucking abort her.

“Oh, and wash your hands first!” Deborah calls over her shoulder as she exits the bus and
Ava can hear the smile in her voice.
And to think she’d called manifestation bullshit when Ruby had tried explaining it to her. She
should try thinking about solving world hunger the next time she comes.

“Jesus, took you long enough. Did you go back and finish?” Deborah is sat on someone else’s
car — she’s radiating that air of superiority that Ava annoyingly finds quite thrilling — by the
time Ava is scrambling down the steps.

“Would you stop, that is wildly unprofessional! And also, I’ll have you know, I actually did
finish so…” Not really the retort she was looking for.

“Brilliant. Maybe you’ll actually have some good ideas now you’ve released some tension.”

“God, we need an HR person.”

“You’re telling me!” She’s off marching again, leaving Ava to hurry behind.

The mall is surprising busy for a… whatever day it is. It’s easy to lose track of time when on
the road. Ava’s mostly focused on keeping up with Deborah, who is making a bee-line to the
shoe department.

This is absolutely not how she wanted the day to go. She’s dreading the tsunami of
masturbation jokes headed her way, let alone the bordering on homophobic fashion critiques
she’s confident Deborah is about to give her.

“Can we at least get breakfast?” Ava trails behind as they wander through the department
store.

“Later, later. Look at these.” Deborah is holding up the glitteriest pair of pink stilettos Ava’s
ever seen.

“They look like a Vegas show girl threw up on Barbie’s feet.”

“Hmm, you’re right about the colour. With your complexion, you’d look terrible in pink. Ah,
here,” she says, thrusting a pair of velvet rust heels at her. Ava doesn’t hate them.

“I’d rather you just break my ankle now so we can get it over with.” But Deborah holds her
gaze until she drops down to unzip her boots. Ava wonders if there’s anything she wouldn’t
do if Deborah asked sternly enough.

Deborah takes her hand for the first few steps. Ava acts like that isn’t the hand she was using
this morning. It feels for a moment like they’re slow dancing and Ava suddenly wants to try
on every dangerous looking shoe they have.

“Oh come on, DJ was staggering less than this when she was overdosing on oxy.”

Ava can’t help but laugh at the horrible joke. Every other step her foot wobbles on its new
pillar. It takes her a few laps down the aisle and then she thinks she’s got it, striding with
confidence despite the fact her legs feel twice as long as they should be.

Deborah laughs at her as she makes a show of extending each leg like a show girl for the bit.

“Christ, Liza Minelli had more subtly.”

Ava completes her final lap by tripping on a tile and staggering forwards. Deborah catches
both her arms, her hands warm on Ava’s forearms, and she feels a surge of affection for her
right in the back of her throat.

“I don’t think these are gonna work,” she says, looking down at the shoes past their clasped
hands. They look ridiculous paired with her worn-out black jeans.

“Oh, they’ll work. You just gotta practice.”

Ava looks up at her and is met with such assuredness that she starts believing it herself.
Maybe she is a stilettos girl and just hadn’t found the right pair yet.

“I don’t have anything to go with them.”

Deborah gives her arm a tug. “Dresses are this way.”

“…I was thinking more of a pantsuit situation would be more my thing.”

Deborah rolls her eyes. “What is it with your generation and wanting to dress like
politicians?”

“First of all, it’s called the ‘clean girl aesthetic’. And second of all… don’t diss AOC. She’s
literally on my style inspo Pinterest board.”

“I only understood about half of what you just said but I’m struggling to believe you heard
the words ‘clean girl’ and thought that could apply to you.” She gives her a look up and down
— enough to make Ava blush.

Ava gives an exasperated sigh. “That’s getting a little close to slut shaming, Deb.”

“Close? Let me try harder. I’m surprised your ‘aesthetic’ isn’t a boob tube and a mini skirt.”

“God, that is so archaic! Even your insults went out of fashion in the naughties. You know,
you don’t have to dress fem to be a slut anymore.”

“So what, I’m supposed to believe the sluttiest thing a woman can do these days is dress like
a man?” She gestures to Ava’s outfit. Which honestly isn’t even that masc today.
Ava lets out a chuckle of laughter. “Oh man, I love it when you go so far in the wrong
direction you actually end up being totally correct.”

Deborah shoots her a doubtful look over the rack they’re rifling through.

“Okay, like this, maybe,” Ava says, pulling out a double breasted blazer. She quickly finds
the wide-leg pants to match and acts like she doesn’t see the price tag. “One sec.”

She doesn’t have a dress shirt to go with it and her koala tee is probably going to ruin the
look for Deborah so she just goes with the black bra she has on. She glances in the changing
room mirror and is so relieved to see she looks fucking amazing.

Deborah turns when she pulls back the dressing room curtain and gives her an extremely
judgemental once-over.

“Huh?” Ava does a few moves she’s seen fashion models do on instagram, popping her hip
and giving her a twirl. “Not bad, right?”

She can tell Deborah likes it by the surprise around her eyes. “…Is it expensive at least?”

“It’s so expensive.”

“Okay, you can have it but I still wanna look at dresses.”

“Yesss,” she says with a pump of her fist. She didn’t even realise she was campaigning for
Deborah to buy her the suit to begin with, which is hot but also so problematic. Who lets their
boss dress them? This is definitely giving men in tech. She’d panic about slipping into some
weird sugarbaby dynamic if only that wasn’t exactly what she’s hoping will happen. Christ,
capitalism is so fucked up.
Deborah picks out a dress that makes her look like she’s cosplaying a young Diane Lockhart
and Ava keeps her mouth shut because she wants to keep the suit off the chopping block. She
makes three more jokes about Ava’s insatiable sex drive and only one about how desperate
and lonely she must be. Overall it’s a nice bonding experience.

The show actually kills that night. They’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere but Ava’s
leaning into the idea that Mr Joe Public might actually have taste. She’s gleeful that Deborah
finally seems up for a celebratory drink.

“So, what do you think?” She’s wearing the dress Deborah bought her.

“Little much for a dive bar.”

Ava shrugs. “You always look nice. Thought I should up my game.”

“Your game does need improvement if you’re working out your frustrations on the clock.”
Make that four.

Ava bites her lip to stop herself snapping too aggressively. “My game is actually impeccable.
I’m just readjusting for an older audience,” she says, waving a hand in her direction.

“Is that supposed to be insulting?”

“Not at all. I love older women.” Ava lets it hang in the air a moment, grinning at Deborah's
mildly exasperated expression. “So seriously, what do you think?”

Deborah sighs. “I don’t know how this is possible without turning you into a foetus but it
somehow makes you look even younger.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Only one of us has established a preference here.” It's a
little stupid, waiting around for Deborah's approval while she looks like a kid playing dress
up in her mom’s heels. “You know, I’m just gonna change. I don’t wanna get some old
trucker’s gum stuck in the beading.”

It’s easier said than done when one of the said beads gets stuck in her hair and she’s trapped
inside an itchy death trap.

“Fuck.” She’s getting hotter and hotter inside the dress. Deborah’s bedroom for some reason
is kept at 80 fucking degrees.

“Struggling?” She can already here the chuckle in her voice.

“Will you just help?” She sounds a little flustered. Probably nothing to do with the fact the
rest of her is just in her underwear.

Deborah peels the dress off her head with annoying ease.

“Jesus.” Ava blows sweaty hair off her face. “It’s hot as fuck in here.”

“I run cold.”

“What are you, a fucking lizard?”

Deborah shrugs and her eyes roam freely over Ava’s body as she shakes the dress out. Her
skin tingles wherever her eyes scan.

“You know this is why we take nudes, they last longer,” she says but it comes out a little
strained and quiet.

“Well, you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?”

“I’m willing to give you any pointers, if you need them.” She holds Deborah's gaze, smiling
confidently despite her state of undress.

“Because you’re so good at getting responses?” Deborah scoffs a little but shakes her head.
“There aren’t enough tips in the world to make 70 look like 25.” It’s an oddly earnest thing
for her to say and then she’s busying herself hanging Ava’s dress up in her closet.

“Right. Because the only possible way a woman can be attractive is if she’s under 30.”

“You’re telling me that isn’t the case?” Deborah really looks like she believes it too and that
just makes Ava sad.

She perches herself on the foot of the bed. It feels like kind of a power move just sitting in
her underwear. She watches Deborah steal glances every now and then. There’s probably
some unpacking she has to do here that makes her think her age gives her some kind of
advantage over Deborah. As if she wouldn’t collapse if the roles were reversed.

Or maybe it's just that she knows even if Deborah doesn’t like women, she clearly values
youth, and Ava really just wants to be valued.

“You know I’m gonna be 70 as well one day. You’re not just insulting yourself when you say
shit like that. You want me to be miserable and alone when I’m 70?”

“You’re calling me miserable and alone now? I’m not the one too sexually frustrated to wait
until she has four walls around her before getting herself off,” Deborah cocks an eyebrow.
Five.

“I…” Ava’s jaw flaps for a second while she tries to compute Deborah saying the words
‘getting herself off’. “That is not what I was implying. Miserable people don’t laugh as much
as you do and you’re not alone — you’ve got me.” She leans back on her hands, batting her
eyelashes.
“Jesus, get dressed would you? We don’t need anymore lawsuits around here.”

“Yes, boss,” Ava concedes, jumping up to slip her regular pants back on. “You know you
really are like, still a total smoke show. Professionally speaking.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass. Professionally speaking.” She looks a little bashful as she says
it, slipping onto the chair in front of her vanity to touch up her face.

Ava leaves it there, not wanting to push too much. Despite how much she wants to continue
dousing her in compliments.

They talk for hours in a shitty dive bar in Green River. Ava laughs so hard her stomach hurts.
They only argue once and it’s about the sum of Deborah’s annual charitable donations that
she refuses to disclose — which forces Ava to assume it's embarrassingly small for how
wealthy she is.

“Charity is the worst thing you can do for a society. It’s a bandaid over a punctured artery!”
Deborah’s a little drunk at this point.

“You know what? You’re entirely correct. If only we lived in a democracy and there was
even a slight chance our capitalist overlords would hold-off lobbying long enough for the
government to implement any kind of social policy that could replace it.” Ava is drunker.

“God, I thought that sentence was never going to end.”

“I’m way too drunk to get into the prison industrial complex with you right now.” That earns
her a bark of laughter.

Ava wants to keep going. She wants to drink enough that she gathers enough confidence to
kiss her. She wants to drink enough that they fall into bed together. Then she feels the twinge
of heartbreak knowing that it’s never going to happen. So then she wants to drink to cover
that up. She ends up doing shots at the bar whenever Deborah sends her to get another round
and then forty minutes later she’s throwing up in the bus toilet.

“Don’t breathe through your nose. Trust me, I was a bulimic in ’84.” Deborah is being less
than supportive about it.

“Don’t watch.” There’s a specific kind of humiliation to vomiting without the sympathy of
being actually ill.

“Decided you’re no longer an exhibitionist?” She grabs a washcloth. “Here.”

Deborah wipes Ava’s face with the damp cloth. It’s immediately soothing and takes away the
gross clammy feeling of having just thrown up an organ.

“That’s nice,” she sighs. It reminds her of having the flu as a child and finally being looked
after the way she’d always craved. She wonders if Deborah ever did this for DJ when she was
sick but quickly nips the thought in the bud before it spirals into something like jealousy.

Deborah loads her toothbrush up with toothpaste while she sits on the toilet lid and then
hands it to her. It's quiet apart from the hum of the light and it all feels a little too intimate.
Ava can’t stop smiling but she also kind of wants to cry. God, alcohol is the worst.

“Hey,” she says and her eyes must drift as they struggle to focus on Deborah's face. “Bet
you’re glad you brought me with you.”

It’s an admission that she’s a fuck-up framed as flirting.

“If I wanted a drunk asshole to keep me company I would’ve dated Johnny Carson when he
asked,” she says, a joke in the place of a pardon. She gives Ava’s arms a pull to encourage
her to her feet and guides her through the bus, hands on her hips. It’s weird that she’s being
so gentle with her.
“He asked? How progressive.”

Deborah gives a low chuckle behind her head and it sends a shiver down her spine. There’s
no way she’s is getting up to her bunk in this state. Thank God Damien and Marcus have
managed to make themselves scarce for the night.

“Jeeze, buy a girl dinner first,” Ava slurs as she lands a little less gracefully as she’d like on
Deborah’s bed.

Deborah rolls her eyes. “Who’s the hack now?”

Ava laughs as she undoes her jeans and clumsily shimmies herself out of them. It’s really all
she can manage and she lays there as the room spins, her pale legs against the sheets.

Deborah must be a champ at knowing her limits because she does her entire nighttime
routine. She takes out her earrings and carefully places her wig on a mannequin head. Her
skin looks so soft and delicate as she applies her La Mer. Ava’s all but dipping in and out of
consciousness she’s so lulled by the process.

“This is like ASMR but IRL,” she quips and then lets out a laugh at Deborah's confused
expression.

“You’re drunk.”

“Duh.” Ava can feel the dumb smile on her face but can’t quite conjure the embarrassment
she logically knows will come crushing down on her in the morning.

Deborah changes in the toilet, which is obviously disappointing, but she does slip into bed
next to Ava without hesitation. Deborah's under the covers, Ava isn’t, but it feels so intimate
it makes Ava’s heart swell three times its size.
They’re plunged into darkness when Deborah flicks the lights off. Ava can just make out the
contour of Deborah's hair on the pillow next to hers. She thinks about running her fingers
through it.

“Night, Deb,” she whispers.

“Shhh,” is the only reply.

And then, feeling bold, Ava throws one long, bare leg over the shape of Deborah's body. She
curls herself into the Deborah-shaped lump and to her great surprise doesn’t get immediately
told off.

Devastatingly, Deborah’s gotten up before Ava is conscious. She smooths her hand over
where Deborah should be and winces at the throbbing in her head.

“Oh good, you’re alive. I was getting nervous I’d have to find another writer who doesn’t
write.”

“I’m one of a kind, baby,” Ava cracks but it's way too early for jokes and she winces. “Are
the drinks in dive bars somehow stronger than in LA?” Ava pulls herself up until she’s resting
against the headboard. “I feel like that episode of SpongeBob where he gets all dehydrated.”

“You know, you can just say you feel dehydrated, not everything has to be a reference.”

“Huh, you know, I kind of forgot about adjectives.”

“Here.” Deborah hands her a mug of coffee. Home brewed.

“Did you… make this for me?” Ava takes a sip. “With oat milk?! You do love me!”

“Please, you and Damien take it the same way. You’re not the only gay person on board.”

Ava gives a genuine laugh at that. It’s nice when Deborah makes a gay joke that isn’t actually
offensive.

She cocks an eyebrow suggestively. “You got something you wanna share?”

“No,” she deadpans, looking at Ava in the mirror. “Drink up. We’ve got a lot of work to get
through today. I want DJ’s second overdose tightened up, it’s too long winded. I need it to be
punchier.”

It doesn’t feel like a morning-after at all. Ava honestly forgets to be embarrassed about any of
her advances. It just feels natural. Like maybe they’ll start doing this all the time. Sharing a
bed. Waking each other up with coffee before getting to work. Even if things never go
beyond this, it feels something like a marriage.

They have three shows lined up in Memphis and the first two go so badly Ava has to
convince Deborah that the third one’s a charm.

They’re staying at some swanky hotel that has antique paintings and giraffe heads on the
walls. It’s a jarring change of scenery to the clubs Deborah’s played at the last two nights.

The bar is lit by chandeliers and Marty Ghilain is sat on one of the emerald green stools
nursing a bourbon.
“…Marty?” Deborah laughs in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Ava instantly feels her chest deflate. She’s usually the only person in the room who knows
how to make Deborah laugh but not when Marty is there.

“Deb. I’m actually here—Well, in the state on business. But I heard you were close by. I
thought I’d see if I could snag you for a drink, for old times sake?”

Deborah looks at Ava like she’s almost embarrassed that she actually wants to see him.

“I guess I’ll see you later?” Ava offers and really hopes Deborah will say ‘no, no, we have so
much work to do’. But she doesn’t. “I can work on the business manager bit and have it back
to you before tonight?”

“Let’s just call it a day.” She waves casually like she’s fond of giving Ava the afternoon off
and does this all the time. “I’ll see you in the greenroom before the set?”

“You don’t wanna run these adjustments?”

“We’ll find out if they work if people laugh.”

Fucking great. A whole afternoon to kill in Memphis while Deborah fucks some old dude
that cut her residency. For a woman who holds grudges, she sure is being annoyingly
forgiving lately.

“Great. Marty,” she says in her butchest tone, giving him a nod.

“Good to see you, um…”

“Ava.” She can’t help the anger behind it.

“Right. Hope she’s been keeping you busy.”

“Not busy enough,” she laughs passive aggressively and Deborah laughs like she’s trying to
mediate and Marty laughs like he has no idea anything is even going on. Oblivious as always.

She scurries away to her hotel room and it feels like she’s being banished while the grown
ups talk. Which is also like, exactly what the fuck is happening. She’s insane to think she can
crush on a straight, 70-year-old and then be surprised when she’s into a 65-year-old man.

The mini bar is nicely stocked with a wide variety of spirits. She mixes herself a double
vodka soda.

God, he’s just so boring and unattractive. His carbon footprint is probably responsible for the
deaths of thousands of polar bears. Like, way more the Deborah’s. And he’s just not funny.
Ava works her ass off everyday trying to make her laugh and he just gets to swan in and
make the most obvious joke imaginable?

She crunches the ice between her teeth and makes the next drink just vodka on the rocks. The
spirit warms her cheeks a little and she decides to dedicate her afternoon off to some self-
care. Which mostly involves plucking her eyebrows for the first time in six months.

This isn’t even a jealously thing. It's fucking misogyny conditioning women to accept the
bare minimum from mediocre men who think they can get away with anything because they
own a fucking casino.

It’s not about how much Ava wishes Deborah would just tell him to fuck off. No, this is about
getting angry on behalf of all women who think they don’t deserve better. Who think they
have to twist themselves into dainty little objects to be consumed in this hypercapitalist
heteropatriarchy.
“God, what am I doing?” She throws the tweezers back into her bag and shakes her head in
the mirror. “I should totally do a thread about this.”

She grabs her laptop but then remembers she doesn’t actually know her twitter password
because her phone usually just remembers it for her.

There’s a word doc already up on her screen so she just gets to work doing line edits. Which
are a little tricky when she’s tipsy but whatever. It’s not long before she’s laughing at the
jokes she and Deborah wrote together.

She finds an old joke about Marty fucking her with his shirt on. She spins between finding it
hilarious that he’s so bad she’d consider trying women and feeling utterly deflated that he’s
so bad and yet she’s still downstairs with him instead of up here with her.

“Put your money where your mouth is, Deb,” she mutters to herself and cuts the joke from
the document.

Nine PM rolls around faster than she thought it would and she’s soon walking backstage at
the comedy club to see Deborah before her set.

“You look like shit,” is the first thing out of her mouth. Ava kicks herself for not changing. At
least she bushed her teeth.

“You look… normal, actually.” Ava was half expecting a post-coital glow. “How was
Marty?” His name is accidentally expelled with some venom.

“Why don’t you like him?” She’s sat on a sofa that looks about as old as Ava, her notebook
on her lap.

“He took your residency!”

“The residency you thought was a hill not a mountain?”

“He’s… I don’t know, he’s just not funny.” Ava grabs a water bottle from the mini fridge and
sits on the table opposite.

She’s quiet for a moment then. “No. He’s not.”

“Then why do you always laugh at his jokes?”

“Because I’m a woman who wants to keep her foot in the door. God, are you that naive you
think I can just have a career this successful without fluffing the egos of the men who own
half of Las Vegas?”

Ava scoffs. Deborah can be a real hypocrite sometimes. “And you called nudes degrading.”

“Yes, it’s degrading. You don’t think I fucking know that? You think I don’t hate every
second I’ve had to bite my tongue at some joke a man like Marty has made? Usually at my
expense?”

Ava’s usually better at seeing structural inequalities but there’s something about Deborah that
radiates such a level of confidence, it’s hard to imagine her ever consciously surrendering
herself. Ava wonders when she’s finally going to learn the lesson that Deborah is just a
person.

“I—Sorry, I didn’t mean to… You just come across so much like you have your shit together
I didn’t think it affected you.”

“Of course it affects me. It affects all of us. And I do have my shit together. It’s how I know
how to laugh just enough to keep them hoping but not enough that they think they’re gonna
get laid. Then you have to reject them and it ruins a nice evening,” she says, tone a little more
forgiving.
“So did you… reject Marty today?”

Deborah rolls her eyes. “That’s what you took from that?” Ava smiles over her water and
tries not to blush. “No. I didn’t reject him. He’s happily married, so.” She seems kind of sad.
That doesn’t fill Ava with confidence.

“So you do like him?”

“Jesus, this isn’t high school, Ava. Marty and I have history but that chapter is well and truly
over.”

She wants to ask exactly what kind of relationship they had and when and how long did it
last. But there’s no way she’d like the answer.

“Did he get new veneers? He’s looking more and more like Mr Las Vegas everyday.”

Deborah barks over her notes. “What happened to not joking about people’s appearances?”

“That’s observational!”

Deborah finally kills in Memphis. Ava definitely won’t accept that it has anything to do with
Marty sat in the third row. Either way, she has the crowd roaring with laughter and Ava feels
like every one is a kind of prayer. With the stage lights and her sequin blazer, Deborah looks
almost angelic.

“Thank you, Memphis!” She blows a kiss to the crowd and Ava stands from her seat to catch
it.
It’s a rough tumble through the stage door and Deborah doesn’t stop waving and signing
things until they find a seat at the dive bar across the street. Ava is on drinks duty and that
suits her fine, anything to avoid bearing witness to her and Marty.

But she can’t seem to look away, either. She’s sneaking shots at the bar as she watches them
across the room. They look good together. Or, not good, but understandable. They look like
every other rich boomer couple Ava’s ever seen. They make perfect sense.

Deborah’s laughing at one of his jokes but she sees it now; the way she throws her head back
to highlight her bone structure and doesn’t scrunch her face up the way you can’t resist doing
when you’re really laughing. It’s fake. It’s a performance to lure him in. Ava doesn’t know
why Deborah wants to lure him in anymore. Maybe she really does like him. Maybe she still
thinks she’ll end up back in Vegas soon enough and this is all strategic. Maybe it’s just reflex.
Ava probably does the same thing around men her age, whether the notices or not. It’s what
they were raised to do. Smile, laugh, fawn.

She slips back onto her stool and it’s like she’s apart of the audience again, sat next to
Damien and Marcus. She starts to appreciate why neither of them seem to like her that much
if they feel at all like this when it’s just her and Deborah. Like spectators to a two-man show.

“You soared up there, Deb. Really.” She goes placid at his compliment. “I mean, I had no
idea you had so many stories.”

Surprise, surprise, Ava thinks.

“Well, they were a hit with my therapist, I thought why not take ‘em on the road!” Deborah
laughs, always a performer.

“Hey, lucky guy,” he jokes and tilts his glass as if to cheers the man. That fucking creep. Ava
sees red.
“Are you fucking serious?” She doing that thing where the words are out of her mouth before
she thinks them.

“Ava.”

“She’s talking about being sexually harassed and that’s your take away? Is that you wish it
could’ve been you? What the fuck is wrong with you?” She’s drunk enough that her mouth
feels wet as she talks but the words come out sharply.

Marty lets his jaw hang for a second and gives a little passive chuckle. “I didn’t mean—“

“What exactly did you mean? You wish you were back in a position of power over her again?
Didn’t take advantage enough last time?”

“Ava, enough!” Deborah barks.

Ava slides off her stool to feel a little more grounded but it just makes her shorter.

“Jesus, is that what you think happened?” Marty looks genuinely perplexed.

“Would you even notice if it did? Did you ever actually care about what she wanted? Or stop
to ask? Because it doesn’t sound like you did in bed, so I’m just wondering—”

“Ava!!”

Maybe that one did cross a line. She starts feeling smaller and smaller, stood in front of two
boomer millionaires who are looking at her like she’s their fuck-up kid. Damien and Marcus
aren’t sticking up for her. Or for Deborah. Why don’t they do that? They sit awkwardly,
watching everything unfold. Well behaved.
It’s just fucking unfair. If she would just stand up for herself. Just see that Marty’s shitty
jokes aren’t meaningless. Stop brushing him off as harmless. Take a fucking stand. Don’t
make her look like she's over exaggerating.

“Jesus, Deborah, come on! Fuck this guy!”

“Pull yourself together. Not everything has to be a gender and sexuality case study,” she adds
the last bit like a punchline and looks around the table to see if it landed. Marcus looks
almost ready to intervene. Damien keeps his eyes on his drink.

The more she brushes her off the more Ava wants to scream. She looks at her like she’s just a
kid having a meltdown over ice cream. Almost bored. But Ava can see it’s a facade, can see
the fear and anger underneath.

“It kinda does when your ex-boss is making jokes about your actual abuser.”

There’s a flash of uncertainty behind Deborah’s eyes and then she looks like she wants to slap
Ava again for using that word. By Ava’s definition that’s exactly who that shitty fucking
therapist was but Deborah’s been brushing it off probably since the moment it happened.
There’s some power to be had in reclamation but it feels like Deborah never even
acknowledged that what she experienced was an abuse of power.

“It’s only ok for your employees to, right?” She digs but Ava can sense the insecurity, the
panic. She’s flustered, lashing out.

“What the fuck? That is not the same!”

“Just walk away, Ava. Go get yourself another drink.” The dig at her failed sobriety doesn’t
go unnoticed and Ava scrambles to make a joke about Deborah giving her twelve steps too
but it doesn’t come fast enough.

She lets go. “Fine. What else am I good for?”

They’re fucking welcome to each other if that’s really how Deborah views the world.
Internalised misogyny is still just misogyny at the end of the day. Fuck her for fucking over
other women.

There’s still that nagging part of her that hates to turn her back on Deborah.

“Fuckin’ feminist.”

It’s not Marty. He’s the wrong kind of asshole to make such an on the nose remark. It’s some
fucking redneck with a black bandana and a jean jacket. Ava had almost forgot what state
they were in. She couldn’t have written a more stereotypical male chauvinist if she’d tried.
He’s so type-cast, it almost feels offensive to the biker community.

“Who the fuck even are you?” She asks genuinely. What kind of entitlement must someone
posses to make a comment like that after eavesdropping?

He stands almost a foot taller than Ava, using his size to intimidate her. His lips are wet and
she can tell by the way he moves he’s blackout drunk. She’s so over it at this point, she
doesn’t even feel scared.

“Oh, I get it. You’ve been waiting your whole life to find a woman you think is fair game to
hit.”

Something she doesn’t actually see coming is getting punched square in the face by a man
twice her size.

Ava realises, right as she’s falling backwards past table tops and chair legs and other people’s
knees, that despite being a staunch advocate against male violence, she never really expected
it to happen to her.
Ava is a pro at falling. She’s fallen out of Ubers and down stairs and into the best job she
never wanted. And now she’s falling in Deborah’s opinion as the world spins and she feels
the hard smack of the beer-covered floor against the back of her head.

“You don’t talk like that around here, bitch.”

If it wasn’t for the sharp pain bouncing around her skull and the warm blood that’s gushing
from her nose, Ava would think this was a bit from an SNL skit. There’s something about
being so far removed from real life misogyny that makes it almost comical. Like, who
actually thinks like this? Her defence mechanism has always been comedy, it’s not surprising
her first thought as she looks up at the dim bar lights is to look for the joke.

If I wanted to get assaulted by an old misogynist with an attitude problem, I would’ve started
working for Deborah Vance years ago.

There’s all kinds of crashing and shouting then. Ava’s too stunned to absorb any of it. It’s like
a calm has suddenly washed over her. It’s almost nice down here on the floor, the only thing
in her line of sight being the exposed pipes in the ceiling, people’s arms waving, the
occasional splash of spilt beer.

Then Deborah’s face.

“Ava? Ava? Ava?”

Deborah grabs her face with both hands and turns her head to look at her.

“Jesus, Ava? Look at me?”

“He fucking hit me,” is the first sentence out of her mouth, like maybe no one noticed.

“We gotta get up, honey. Someone call a fucking ambulance!!”

“I don’t need an ambulance—” There’s something in her mouth as she’s talking and it’s
crunchy and wet. She spits out a half of her tooth as she sits up and it glistens on her fingers.
“My tooth.” God, why is she talking like a toddler that just learned how to point and name
things?

The man who hit her is lying on his stomach and Ava cant really see him because there’s
another man sitting on his back, keeping him restrained. But his boots are by Ava’s feet and
they look like they belong to a giant.

Deborah is hauling her up by her arm. She’s guiding her out of the bar, her hands firm around
her waist. She’s in the cold night. She’s sat on the end of an ambulance rig. There’s a man
shining a torch in her eyes and then inside her mouth when she brings up the tooth again. The
tooth feels important. He feels her face and presses on the sides of her nose. They feel her
skull and she winces when they find the egg around the back. They talk to Deborah. Deborah
is calm and speaks clearly and handles the situation with care.

Ava feels stupid sitting on a stretcher when it’s just her face that’s busted. She could easily sit
in a chair. She mostly feels like a massive inconvenience, not helped by the fact she’s
seemingly lost her voice. If only that could’ve happened an hour ago.

Deborah holds her hand the whole ambulance ride but Ava’s too scared to look her in the
face.

The wait at the other end is long. Sometime Marcus is there, sometimes Damien is there.
Deborah is always there. She does a baby tickle on Ava’s forearm. Ava stairs at the light
fixture and it feels like sleeping.

The x-ray of her jaw it tricky. She can’t close her mouth all the way like they want her to.

There’s a cop in the hallway and his radio crackles but Marcus blocks the door and sends him
away.
They put five stitches in the back of her head because apparently she has a cut there.

It’s three AM before they discharge her with a prescription for Vicodin, orders to be
monitored for the next twelve hours and to see a dentist as soon as possible.

“We can go?” She asks quietly.

“We can go, honey.” Deborah looks more tired than Ava’s ever seen her.

Ava can’t shake the feeling that this is all her fucking fault. If only she had heeded Deborah’s
initial warning and let the whole thing go. Why does she do that? Why can’t she just let it
go?

They walk out of the emergency room right onto the bus.

She slips between the crisp sheets of Deborah’s bed. Deborah hands her a pill and places a
glass of water in Ava’s hand and whispers little reassurances.

“Okay. There you go. You got it, honey.”

Every one makes Ava feel worse and worse.

She’s still thinking about how she’s possibly going to fall asleep by the time she’s waking up.
The swelling in her cheek presses up against her eye.

Deborah is snoring next to her. Like, really snoring and it almost makes everything worth it.
If she didn’t have a dumb phone and wasn’t totally in the shit with her she’d absolutely
record it. But it hurts to smile and when she starts hurting the pain floods in like a dam is
breaking.

She sits up and grabs the pill bottle from the bedside table.

“Wow. Now you really look like shit,” is the first thing out of Deborah's mouth as she wakes.
She looks nervous after the joke like she’s waiting to see if Ava can take it.

“Would you believe me if I said I actually feel worse than I look?” It feels odd using her
voice again after so many hours.

“It’d be a tough sell.” Her voice is gravely with sleep. Ava uses her right cheek to smile.

“I really don’t know how to thank you for getting me the fuck out of there. And looking after
me,” she says quietly. “And, um… I’m sorry,” she says but her voice breaks on the sorry.

Deborah eyes her suspiciously before she sits up too. She still looks exhausted. “Who’s
victim blaming now?”

Ava scoffs. “I’m not blaming myself. I just… I was out of line with you. I shouldn’t have—“

“Shouldn’t have stood up for me? You believed it then,” she shrugs. “Don’t take it back now
just because some asshole didn’t wanna hear it.”

“And who exactly is the asshole you’re referring to?” She asks cautiously. Maybe this is as
close as Deborah gets to admitting she was wrong.

Deborah looks at her for a long moment and it’s the only answer she needs.
“Okay.” Ava nods to herself. “Then I’m not sorry. And fuck that guy. Jesus. Who hits
people?”

Deborah tuts and rolls her eyes. The irony lingers in the air. Ava wants to clarify she didn’t
mean it like that but Deborah takes it on the chin. They share a smirk. She breathes easy
knowing they both see the humour in the situation. What else left is there to do?

“Shit. Am I gonna have to make a police report?”

“I have Marcus on it. That piece of shit isn’t gonna see daylight for a long time, don’t
worry.”

Ava almost feels sorry for the guy being at the opposing end of Deborah’s wrath. Almost. She
lets herself feel what it’s like to be under Deborah Vance’s protection for a minute — and it
feels fucking amazing.

Deborah disappears to get coffee and comes back with pancakes. She doesn’t let Ava eat
them in bed.

Getting out of Tennessee is a fucking nightmare. They pretend to work and it helps distract
her from the gooey, metallic part of her mouth that used to be tooth. It’s now a wobbly shard
in the side of her gum that she can’t help put poke at despite the sharp nerve pain that arises
every time she does.

Deborah really didn’t switch to a health plan that covers dental. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right
in in Alabama,” is all she says on the matter.

She thought maybe Marcus would be mad at her for causing such a scene but he slides into
the booth across from her, wincing when he sees her face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks.” She can’t keep the sound of the swelling out of her voice.

He laughs sympathetically. “I’m dealing with the Memphis police department. You’ll submit
a written statement when you’re ready.”

He’s so efficient, it makes her want to cry. “Thanks, Marcus.”

“You know how to take a hit. Very impressive,” Damien chimes in and it feels nice to just let
herself be looked after. For once, being surrounded by Marcus and Damien and Deborah
makes her feel like she’s apart of a unit. She is a penguin and they huddle around her in her
time of need. They keep her warm.

She looks up when Deborah chuckles, expecting a new joke to roll off her tongue.

The Philadelphia 76ers have won the championship. This is cosmically pretty meaningless to
Ava apart from the fact that when Deborah shows her the news article on her iPad she
suddenly bursts into tears.

“Oh Jesus, I didn’t think it would make you cry,” Deborah looks at her accusingly for a
moment before giving in with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, I just—I guess this is the first… event that he hasn’t been here for?”

Her dad was always the person she went to when she got hurt. Her mom was a disaster but
her dad always knew how to make things feel manageable. This is the first time since he died
where she thinks she actually really needs him. Feels him missing like a void.

Deborah wraps her arm around Ava and tucks her into her side. Ava lets her head rest on
Deborah's shoulder as a few more tears track down her face. Her dad would’ve told her she’s
got a nice shiner, that it makes her look tough — Deborah tells her she looks like Mickey
Rourke in post-op.

It’s not long before Deborah is stroking Ava’s hair, carful to avoid her stitches. She’s
scribbling notes with her other hand, her attention nowhere close to being fully on Ava but it
gives her the privacy she needs to fully enjoy the feeling of Deborah’s fingers brushing
across the side of her scalp.

Marcus does his best to avoid looking over from where he works. At first she expects him to
be jealous that Deborah has seemingly reserved physical comfort for her, but then thinks
that’s really fucking revealing. Plus, she has no idea whether or not Deborah has ever stroked
Marcus’s head when he’s hurt. She cant imagine it but it might’ve happened over their long
history. She’ll admit the thought makes her a little jealous.

How long has she wanted to be comforted by her? It feels like she’s been waiting her whole
life for a moment like this; tucked under the wing of a woman as important as Deborah. Still.
Being cared for. It sends a new wave of tears to her eyes.

She wipes away a tear drop from the end of her nose and it makes Deborah pull back to look
at her.

“Okay, honey?” It sounds so unlike how Deborah usually talks to her, it makes her blush. It’s
honestly humiliating how much the smallest drop of affection gets to her. It must be so
fucking obvious.

“I—Yeah. Sorry, I’m usually way better at just stuffing my feelings down until they’re never
seen again,” she half-jokes.

“Hey, not everyone can be this good.” It draws out a little laugh from Ava. She’s always
forgetting how alike they are.

She feels the urge to go into some long spoken-word piece about how grateful she is to
Deborah for looking after her without any hesitation but she can already picture her rolling
her eyes and saying ‘well, don’t make me regret it’.
“You working on the National Enquirer bit?” She says instead.

“Just tossing a few ideas around. Nothing solid yet.” She puts her pen down. “Why don’t you
go take a nap?”

“My face is kinda fucked up already, I can’t risk another concussion if one of you see a yard
sale.”

“Take my room again. I’m gonna be up for a while still, it’s only 5.”

“Are you sure?”

“It already smells like hospital and 3-in-one shampoo in there.”

“I use Lush! …Thank you,” she adds but Deborah is waving her off.

She slips into that space between thinking and dreaming, nudged along by Vicodin and the
smell of Black Pashmina.

She remembers all the jokes she should’ve said that don’t make sense anymore now the
conversation’s moved on. She remembers Deborah turning the bus around to go back for her
dad. Deborah trying to make her jealous by complimenting another woman’s hands. Deborah
teaching her how to swim. Deborah doing her nails. Deborah’s laugh. Deborah’s fake laugh.
Marty’s face. How tall that man had been. His giant boots. Her blood. Her tooth.

She jolts awake.

It’s darker than earlier. Deborah is sat at her vanity, taking off her makeup.
It feels like they’ve slipped into this silent state where they’ve mutually agreed not to
acknowledge Ava’s blooming crush. Deborah probably thinks it’s all just a joke and honestly,
Ava’s happy to let her. The weight of the last 24 hours has been enough to crush her, she can’t
take the thought of this becoming anything real. Real gets rejected. Jokes are fine. Jokes are
what they do best.

Reality slips away again. Deborah’s presence stays with her as she crosses from one realm to
another.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Ava smiles as Deborah dips down to kiss her.

Something aches in her chest, heavy and hot. It’s like her body knows how ephemeral dreams
are, knows how little it would take to have the moment snatched away. One jolt of the bus
and she’ll be back to her waking life where this can’t happen.

She just wants to be closer. Deborah is in her arms, finally. She wants to relish in the contact,
squeeze every last drip of experience out of it.

Dream sex is always a little confusing but whatever dream Deborah does, it works like a
charm.

Ava can feel the vibrations of a moan in her chest. Her hips rock against nothing and she can
smell Deborah’s perfume. Frustration is the dominant emotion. She sways between that and a
subconscious fear of waking up, not wanting to let the moment go.

Deborah is everywhere — kissing her neck, between her legs, hands in her hair — yet
nowhere.
She searches for more until her hips find an ounce of friction against the mattress.

“Sweet girl,” she hears Deborah's voice, clear like it's being whispered right into her ear.

She comes with Deborah’s name on her lips and it echos through her chest.

The pulses of pleasure are enough to wake her up, finally tearing away the veil of sleep. Her
eyes flutter open gently but nothing prepares her to see Deborah sat in the bed next to her,
scrolling idly on her iPad.

“Oh my God—” Her whole body physically recoils from the bed. The room sways a little at
the sudden movement and her head pounds.

“Jesus,” Deborah looks startled by the way Ava suddenly rises.

“What are you—How long have you been there?” She doesn’t look like she knows what just
happened but Ava’s pretty confident she said Deborah's name out loud. “What time is it?”

“It’s late.” Ava realises she’s in her pyjamas and has her under-eye night strips on. She
must’ve been in here getting ready for bed while Ava lay two feet away having a sex dream
about her. Let alone the orgasm she just had right next to her.

She can feel the left over tension in her belly and the wetness between her legs. “I…”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine, I’m totally fine. Just the Vicodin, I think, making me a little woozy,” Ava
says unconvincingly.
“I’ll talk to Marcus about stopping at a hotel. Give us all a night to ourselves now you’re out
of the woods,” Deborah offers but she’s completely unreadable.

“Yeah, yeah. That’d be great.”

“Get you some walls with soundproofing.”

Ava’s jaw hangs open. She can feel herself turning crimson and for some ungodly reason it
makes her ache even more. There’s not a joke in the world that can make this situation feel
lighter. The silence seems to stretch out longer and longer.

“Oh what, now you’re embarrassed? Like I havant heard it before.”

“Oh, my—That’s a little different to just… Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Deborah shrugs, a smile playing at her mouth. “You looked tired.”

“I looked tired while I was asleep?”

“You know how many years I’ve spent in tour busses? You’re not the first person to have
inappropriate dreams.” She’s taking her glasses off and putting her iPad away.

That does actually make Ava feel a lot better about the whole thing. Sex dreams are a normal
part of life, why should she be embarrassed?

Deborah flicks the light off and settles down and this is the first time they’ve gone to bed
together without being drunk or (newly) injured. Ava vaguely feels like a guest over staying
her welcome but Deborah surely wouldn’t have turned off the light if she wanted her to leave.
She lies back down cautiously, trying not to rustle the sheets too much in case it reminds
Deborah that she’s not supposed to be here.
“Flattering to know you’re thinking about me though,” she speaks casually into the dark. Ava
can hear the shit-eating grin in her tone. It’s like finally breaking the fourth wall and every
brick comes crumbling down around her.

“Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Deborah. Seriously, that’s
so embarrassing. I—I clearly need to go and have sex with someone more appropriate and…”
The air feels so thick, Ava can’t breathe properly. “…You’re being like, really chill about this
which is confusing.”

“You prefer I make a scene and wake Damien up?” She asks with a snort and the way they’re
whispering makes this all feel like a secret between the two of them.

“No! God, no. I just…” Just what? Ava has no idea what she’s even trying to say or ask.

Ava can just make out the curvatures of her face, the light reflecting in the whites of her eyes.
She can barely hear anything over the sound of her own pulse in her ears and she really
convinces herself for a moment that Deborah would let her kiss her right now.

“Go to sleep, honey. I’m exhausted.”

She all but holds her breath in the dark, waiting for Deborah to pull the rug out from under
her and kick her out. But it never comes. She just lays there and listens to the gentle sounds
of her breathing for what feels like hours until eventually it gets deeper and heavier and
Deborah is asleep. A million theories burst through her sleep-riddled brain and she eventually
whittles them down to four:

Deborah feels sorry for her after getting literally assaulted so isn’t making a big deal out of
it. Deborah is too mature to give a shit about Ava’s interior sexual fantasies. Deborah likes
that she’s fantasising about her. (This is Ava’s favourite hypothesis, for obvious
reasons). Deborah likes leverage. This is all the leverage she needs to get Ava to do anything
she wants; work long hours; go on takeout runs; be her rare antiques mule. Keeping Ava in
sexual limbo could prove to be an effective way of keeping her in line.
Sleep doesn’t greet her again until the early hours of the morning.

She doesn’t see Deborah again until after Marcus has dropped her off at Southern Smiles
Dental and she’s down an entire tooth. The gap will only be visible when she smiles extra
wide but it’s still an insecurity. Apparently you can’t get an implant until gum has healed.

“Jesus, didn’t think I’d be seeing another grand canon this trip,” Deborah digs before Ava’s
even sat down. At least she isn’t being weird about last night.

“You can’t even see it yet! Have you just been thinking of dental jokes all morning instead of
doing actual work?” She mumbles through numb lips.

“Came up with a few but I’m gapping out now you’re here.” Ava gives her a disappointed
look. “Yeah, okay, that one was bad.”

They slip back into a productive silence. Well, productive for Deborah. Ava is mostly
sleeping with her eyes open, legs up on the bus couch, the local anaesthetic making her heart
jumpy. Deborah has her headphones in as she rewatches her last show. She still looks a little
worn out but Ava loves the look of concentration on her face as she works. The little crease
between her eyebrows. The way she can see the cogs turning behind her eyes.

She jots down notes every few minutes, her fingers flexing around her fountain pen. Ava
feels that urge to be as close to her as possible. It doesn’t feel explicit. It feels like hunger.
Like an overwhelming desire to be entirely wrapped up in her. And if the climax of that is an
orgasm, then so be it.

“You’re drooling.” Marcus pops up beside her and it makes her jump.

“Sorry,” she blurts, quickly snatching her gaze away from Deborah and sitting up.
“No, literally.” He hands her a tissue. “It’s bloody.” Gestures to her chin.

“Oh, shit. That’s—Sorry, I can’t feel it.” She wipes her chin.

“Are you…” He takes a seat next to her, blocking her view of Deborah across the bus. “What
is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He takes a serious breath and lowers his voice. “Are you sleeping with her?”

Ava’s jaw swings open and another worm of bloody saliva slips from her mouth. She quickly
wipes it away. “What?!” She’s very conscious of the fact Deborah is only a few feet away.
“Why would you… What do you mean?”

“I’ve worked with Deborah a long time. You’re the only person I’ve seen share her bed. I
mean, I know about Marty but that was different. Traditional. This is…” He gives her a
confused once-over.

Ava’s heart hammers a little. It’s nice to have her suspicions affirmed. This isn’t normal.
There is something going on between them.

“You think she likes me?” She feels stupid as soon as she asks. So high school.

“I’m asking you. Lord, why are queer women so bad at picking up on vibes? You’re the one
in her bed.”

“Okay, great read, but also fuck you, you know her better than I do!”
“Clearly not.” Marcus shakes his head. It must be hard for him seeing someone else swan in
and change her after so many years of it just being the two of them. “Just be careful. Either
with her or with you… I don’t know who’s at more risk here but it feels very temperamental
and I don’t have time to clean up another mess with my current workload.”

"Um, thank you for the support?” It comes out a bit more vulnerable than she’d like.

Marcus sighs. “Are you…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Ava grasps his meaning by the
sympathetic look in his eye. He’s gotten softer around the edges since falling for Wilson.

Deborah is scribbling down a note and nodding to herself like she’s just had a great idea. All
Ava wants to do is get up and ask what it was. What made her laugh?

Yes. She is. She might not be able to say it or even think it yet but yes.

“Jesus.” Marcus reads the answer written all over her face.

“She’s gonna me so pissed at me,” Ava laughs despite her eyes welling up.

Marcus scoffs too. “Yeah. Probably. She always forgives you though, for some reason.”

They stop at a hotel in Tallahassee. Ava is disappointed because it means she gets her own
room away from Deborah. She can’t tell if Deborah is just scared of letting her sleep in the
bunk with her face still busted, but she’s quickly gotten used to falling asleep next to her.

The hotel smells like clean linen and fig room spray. Ava stands under the waterfall shower,
letting the heat almost scald her. Her face is looking less swollen, more bruised. The
greenish-yellow contusion is slowly sinking from around her eye and down her face as if it's
melting away. She doesn’t bother covering it with makeup. She likes the way it reaffirms
what she went through. She almost wishes it would stick around a little longer, until she’s
ready to look normal again, feel normal again.

She’s so fucking tired she doesn’t even fully dry her hair before slipping between crisp sheets
and passing the fuck out, her belongings strewn across the covers.

Two hours later Deborah is stood at the foot of her bed, yanking the curtains open.

“Oh my—What are you doing?” Ava hides her face from the midday light.

“I need to do a run through.” The show’s not until tonight but she already looks stage-ready;
hair in a glam up-do, blazer sleeves rolled to her elbows.

“No you don’t, Deb. It’s perfect.” She rubs the sleep from her eyes.

“You’re just saying that because you’re too lazy to get up.” Before Ava can grumble,
Deborah grabs the bottom end of the comforter and gives it a harsh yank.

“Deborah!!” Ava squeaks as soon as she remembers she is very much naked underneath the
covers. She scrambles to gather the sheets back up as quickly as possible, her back hitting the
headboard with a punch.

Deborah seems momentarily stunned but then quickly resumes her regular demeanour,
throwing in a restless sigh for good measure. She eyes Ava’s vibrator in amongst the pile of
her belongings.

“Least one of us is making the most of the Hilton.” She seems a little annoyed but Ava can’t
tell if it’s just nerves or defensiveness. Is that a blush?

Ava’s jaw hangs loosely as she holds the sheets up to her chin. “I mean, smoke ‘em if you got
‘em. But also… I didn’t even… I was too tired.”
Deborah’s giving her a look like she’s insane. “I don’t care about your masturbatory habits,
Ava. I really know enough about them already. Let’s go!” She waves her arms about
impatiently.

Ava has a tendency to lose track of where the line is when people push her buttons. Deborah
has a knack for pressing them all at once. Marcus’s concern swims in the back of her head but
she’s just annoyed enough at Deborah’s accusatory tone to test a theory. It’s not like
Deborah’s making any attempt to offer her privacy, so…

“Fine,” she says and peels the covers back, swinging her legs out of bed as if she isn’t fully
nude.

It’s funny how quickly Deborah goes quiet. Ava can see the cogs whirring behind her eyes
trying to find the best joke that doesn’t make her seem like or prude or worse.… gay.

Ava hadn’t really anticipated how much standing stark naked in front of an almost stage-
ready Deborah would make her heart pound. She must be blushing from head to chest but she
powers through. Maybe she should try stand-up after all.

“Excuse me,” Ava says innocently, wandering right up to Deborah.

Deborah takes a few awkward shuffles backwards so Ava doesn’t touch her when she grabs
her bag. Her mouth opens, either to say something that flutters away or maybe just to take a
breath, Ava doesn’t know.

She could take on anything right now. She’s never felt so simultaneously powerful and
vulnerable.

“So, what are you nervous about?” Ava asks as she perches on the foot of the bed to pull on
her underwear.
“What?”

“About the set. What do you think needs work?”

“Oh… I… Just all of it. I just need to know it flows.” She knows the set flows, she’s been on
a hot streak the last two gigs. It’s really fucking nice seeing her scramble for the right words.
Her eyes can’t help scanning across her body, eventually finding a home at her knees.
Professional.

Ava’s underwear snaps against her hip and she pulls them up and that seems to knock
Deborah out of whatever trance she’s in because she suddenly rolls her eyes.

“Christ. Just come and find me when you’re ready.”

She tries to leave but they do that little dance two people walking in opposite directions on
the sidewalk do and Ava laughs at how annoyed it makes Deborah.

“Move!”

“Okay! Jeeze. Maybe don’t break in here next time,” she calls after her.

“Using your naked body as a repellant is very inventive. Wish that had worked for me,” she
throws over her shoulder as she goes.

“Hey, you’re more than welcome to try!” Ava doesn’t catch her response when the door shuts
and she’s left with nothing but the grin on her face.

The thrilling weightlessness of throwing caution to the wind feels like flying. Even if hitting
the ground is inevitable, Ava decides to soar for a while. Fuck it. She’ll take whatever joy she
can from Deborah until the hard smack of the floor snatches it away. Until then, she’s happy
to scurry away with the scraps she collects.
She finds her in the hotel’s meeting room. The conference table’s big enough to seat twelve.
Deborah sits alone by the window and something about the image pulls at Ava’s heartstrings.
Man, she’s so fucked.

“Finally. I barely recognise you with your clothes on,” she says, glancing up from her laptop.

“That’s fair. Must be jarring after not seeing someone topless for a decade.” Ava perches
herself on the table next to Deborah's screen as if there isn’t ample seating.

Deborah gives her an impatient sigh. “There have been other—Are you ready to work? Can
you get your head out of the gutter long enough?” She cuts herself off.

“I—You brought it up!” The insult does its job and Ava is left replaying the first half of her
sentence too late.

“I don’t like the transition from broken foot to Claus collector,” she says.

“Okay. Let’s figure out a better throughline.” Ava leans back on her hands, definitely leaving
fingerprints all over the glass table. “Moon boot, snow boot… debt collector… I don’t know,
something about medical bills?”

“Could work.” She jots it down, scrunching her face up as she thinks.

“So these other people…” Ava starts and Deborah immediately rolls her eyes. “What? I’m
just thinking maybe we can use some of those stories. Maybe that could be the throughline
for the whole set we’ve been looking for?”
“I thought you wanted me to move away from the depressing… what did you call it?”

“Heteropessimism? Come on, you don’t have one funny sexual experience that isn’t about a
man disappointing you?”

She shoots her an annoyed look. “I’ve got a few about a Millennial who can’t keep her
thoughts to herself.”

“I mean, you’re welcome to make fun of me for the bit but I don’t think you’re ready for the
gay allegations. Sharing a bed with a hot, young gen z? That’ll be the talk of the town,
Deborah.” She adopts a scandalised expression. The joke really doesn’t really land. Her eyes
are stuck to the laptop. “Or we could just… forget about the throughline. I think they’re
honestly overdone, anyway.”

Years of living in Vegas has afforded Deborah an excellent poker face. She taps her pen
between her finger and thumb. Ava stares at her hands. Her lip quirks when the joke comes to
her.

“I caught my employee masturbating on the bus the other week. I don’t think she understood
what I meant when I asked her to come on tour with me.”

Ava gives a beat for her own dignity before she burst out laughing. “That works… shit,” she
laughs. “Okay.”

“She’s on a ‘social media detox’ and got rid of her smart phone. Apparently that’s why she’s
dialling the operator so often.” Deborah has that teasing look on her face Ava finds
irresistible.

“I don’t get that one?” She laughs despite herself.

Deborah mimics the process of dialling 0 on a rotary phone, a swift, confident circle with her
middle finger. Ava’s mouth goes a little dry. The vivid imagery makes something in her click.
“Oh, my God, Deborah!” Finally she blushes.

“Too outdated?”

“Maybe. But you could punch it with ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding. She’s so lonely she just calls
to chat.’”

Deborah cackles. “This is the girl that’s always getting on at me about my carbon footprint. I
told her she’s masturbating so much we should hook her up to a generator, her thrusting alone
could run the tour bus from Reno to Wyoming. How’s that for renewable energy?”

The harder Ava laughs the longer Deborah looks at her with that twinkle in her eye.

“I’m the throughline!” Ava chuckles. “You can use me cataloguing your archive as the
vehicle on this trip through your whole career. Interspersed with jokes about my giant hands
or whatever.” It feels good. It feels like progress. It also feels like an honour to be
memorialised in Deborah Vance’s work for eternity. They share a look through their laughter.
That one Ava lives for when they create something good together.

“Okay, this works.” Deborah starts typing. “You don’t mind me using you like this?” The
sincerity is sweet.

Ava leans forward on the table, giving her a sly smile. “Hey, you can use me however you
like.”

There’s a flash of real concern behind Deborah's eyes. Her eyebrows pull together in what
Ava can only read as guilt. Her heart drops inside her chest a little. That look sobers her up
quicker that an icy blast of air to the face.
“Ava—“

“Oh, God, no. Serious tone. I hate that.”

Deborah sighs, pursing her lips. “I don’t mean to—“

“Nope. Got it. Honestly, I fully hear you and I will stop with the jokes. I—“

“Is it a joke?”

Ava panics. Not that question. That’s the question she really doesn’t want to answer.

“You saying I’m not funny?” She chuckles nervously. This is when it all comes crumbling
down. This is her head smacking against the floor after soaring for so long. This is where the
skit ends. “I just…”“ She should deny everything. Tell her she’s joking. Maybe that would
allow her to salvage the relationship. Go back to normal. “…like you.”

It hangs in the air for a moment in its pure, unadulterated form. The honest, pathetic truth.

“I don’t expect you to reciprocate in any way. Really, I’m like surprising even myself about
it. I can stop with the jokes or whatever if they make you uncomfortable. I just… We’ve got a
good thing going here. I don’t care what form it’s in.”

Deborah is fucking unreadable. She doesn’t look mad, which is good. She doesn’t look
happy, either.

“I think you’ve established a preference,” she points out and that’s the understatement of the
year.
Ava gives a nervous smile. She was so close to believing that Deborah might actually let her
inch closer and closer until they eventually woke up one day, married with a Labrador (to
keep Barry and Cara company, obviously).

Even now Deborah isn’t rejecting her. Ava studies her face. Hears Marcus’s voice in her
head. There’s something here between them. She’s sure. She can’t be that delusional, can
she?

“Can I just try one thing?” Ava asks quietly.

Something shifts then and the air feels thick. Her mouth is dry and she can feel herself
thrumming with energy.

Deborah must feel it too. She goes quiet. Ava’s eyes drop to her lips. Deborah’s stillness is
her endorsement. When did they get so good at communicating without words?

Ava wheels Deborah's chair closer with her foot until it's tucked between her knees. She feels
strong. She feels terrified. She pauses before their lips touch, her hands on the back of
Deborah's chair, letting herself memorise exactly what this moment feels like; the look on her
face, the table under her thighs, the pinch in her neck from the odd angle. She’ll remember
every detail.

Then she places a chaste kiss on Deborah’s mouth. Her lips are soft and she doesn’t move
away. It’s the most she’s ever felt in her body for such a modest act, her heart hammering, her
stomach squirming.

She’s never kissed anyone so gently before. It feels like this is her one opportunity to express
all the love she holds, all at once, wrapped up into one single moment. As much as she tries
to focus, the moment's over before it's started.

“Fodder for your dreamscape?” Deborah murmurs when she pulls back. Ava takes in her
face; slightly flushed; her breathing slightly heavier; that shrewd look still in her eye.
“Absolutely.” Ava smiles.

The cutting noise of Deborah’s phone ringing sends them jolting backwards. Ava’s stood up
before she even knows what’s happened. Deborah’s office chair has wheeled itself three feet
backwards.

She coughs to get the surprise out of her voice as she answers the call. “Marcus. Yep… Okay.
Be right there.” She hangs up. “Uh… Showtime,” she says with a faux blasé tone. It feels
eerily similar to waking up.

It should bother Ava, but it doesn’t. She’s seen behind the curtain now. Their intimacy is her
secret to keep and her performance reads as comical. It makes her want to push her up against
a wall and kiss her.

Sitting in the audience makes her feel like she’s watching a show inside a show. Deb
performing Deborah performing Deborah Vance.

It must be radiating out of her because when Deborah catches her eye — she’s twenty-five
minutes into her set — her words get jumbled. Ava’s never seen her fumble on stage before,
she feels a rush of panic on her behalf.

Deborah looks out into the crowd and gives a nervous laugh, trying to get herself back on
track. She takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, I just thought I saw my ex-husband’s ghost. I like to say his name three times in the
mirror when I think the crowd’s looking a little sparse.” The crowd laughs and then she’s
back on track.

There's a lump of unease in her stomach as she wanders backstage. This is definitely her
fault. She has the footage on Deborah’s iPad to prove it. The stumble had happened right as
they’d locked eyes. Her pathetic love-struck face must’ve sent her into a spiral.
“You okay?” She asks. Marcus is already there.

“Yeah, yeah. Not my best, not my worst,” she shrugs. Marcus looks equally unfazed.

“We’ve got that interview with Harper’s tomorrow. We should also go over the QVC
schedule for next week.”

Ava spends the Uber ride back to the hotel waiting for the other shoe to drop. Deborah
doesn’t say bye as Marcus guides her towards their table reservation and Ava is left stood in
the lobby, almost disappointed she didn’t get yelled at.

It’s 10:53pm by the time she gives into her urge to go and find her. She’s starting to feel like
maybe she’s misremembering their afternoon. Maybe Deborah never actually let her kiss her
and that was all just a vivid fantasy. Maybe she really did see Frank’s ghost in the crowd.
That feels more likely than her giving a shit about what Ava was doing.

Deborah’s hair is wet when she opens the door. She’s wearing one of the hotel’s robes.

“Hey, sorry. I figured you’d still be up.”

“I am.” She waves Ava in. “Needed to wash the smell of Virginia slims out of my hair.” The
room smells like shampoo and shower steam. Ava suddenly feels sleepy.

“I, um, sorry if that was my fault.” She sits on the end of the bed as Deborah bushes her hair.

“Your fault?”

“You know, if I distracted you or anything.” It’s starting to sound like wishful thinking.
Deborah snorts without breaking eye contact with herself in the mirror. “Please. I’m not
infallible. I was bound to fuck up eventually. It’s just part of the job.”

“Right. Yeah, totally.” Ava hates how disappointed she sounds. Does she really want to have
gotten so under her skin that she fucks up the show they’ve been working so hard to perfect?
Maybe the desperate, love-sick part of her does. “Wanna watch SVU? There’s a new episode
out tonight.”

“Sure.”

They settle back into their routine. Deborah guesses who the real perpetrator is in the first
five minutes. It doesn’t ruin it for Ava anymore.

“You didn’t even see the credits this time!”

“That actress did three episodes in NCIS last year, she’s the most famous.”

“You should totally try and get a cameo.”

“They’d probably cast me as Amanda’s grandmother.”

“That’s not true, you’d make a great cradle-snatcher.”

Deborah gives her shoulder a harsh shove. “You little shit!” Ava cackles.

There’s a scene where a man in a bar gets aggressive, looming over Detective Rollins.
Nothing happens but Deborah squeezes Ava’s knee. Neither of them look away from the
screen.
They chat mindlessly after the episode ends. Ava snuggles down into the plush pillows like if
she looks comfortable enough, Deborah will feel too guilty to send her back to her own
room.

Deborah tells her a story about the time she got arrested in Spring Valley for throwing a drink
at a man, glass and all. She got let off because the cop was a fan of her show and she’d flirted
with him.

“The irony was I could’ve just flirted with the first guy until he left me alone but I’d just had
enough.” She looks lovely like this, in her pyjama set with the snakes on them. “It’s a hard
habit to break when it’s so convenient.”

“No, it’s smart. Look where being honest gets you,” Ava says about her gap tooth with an
apathetic scoff.

“Maybe if my generation had been louder…” Deborah shrugs. “Held people like Marty to
account, it’d have trickled down a little more by now.”

“I don’t know. I think people just do what they can under their circumstances.”

There’s a moment of honest exchange. Deborah accepts Ava’s truth and Ava extends her
understanding. It feels like forgiveness.

Deborah gives that sigh that means she’s ready to go to sleep. Ava silently reaches up to the
light switch on the headboard and flicks it off.

She gets a good few hours before she stirs again.

Even with her eyes shut she can sense Deborah in the bed beside her. The weight of her. The
warmth. The bedside light reads 3:37AM.
She turns to look. It’s a habit she’s adopted, whenever they share a bed, to roll over in the
early hours and check she’s still there. Only this time Deborah appears to be doing the same.
The clock light illuminates the contemplative look on her face.

Ava almost speaks but something about the look in her eye tells her not to. The rapid increase
in her heartbeat happens before she cognises anything is about to transpire.

Deborah kisses her. It’s not like how Ava kissed her. Her mouth nudges Ava’s lips apart and
she kisses her without reservation, her hand on Ava’s cheek.

It takes Ava longer than a moment to reciprocate but when she does she’s urgent. Her drowsy
brain catches up in an instant and then she’s drinking her in.

She feels Deborah's tongue on her bottom lip and it would’ve taken Herculean strength Ava
doesn’t posses to hold back the moan that erupts from her throat. In some ways it feels like
she’s taken a sedative the way her muscles relax with arousal.

Deborah pulls her closer. Ava throws a leg over her until she’s straddling her hips. Kissing
her feels like coming up for air, it makes her giddy and she almost pulls away just to laugh
with joy. She kisses her messily. It feels fucking insane.

Ava lets her hand run down the neckline of her pyjama shirt. She plants a kiss on her
collarbone. Her fingers reach the top button.

“Don’t,” Deborah says. Not harsh, not final. She guides Ava’s face back to kissing her.

Ava can’t control the way her pelvis searches for something solid. Any kind of friction to
release the mounting tension inside her. She does her best to stop her hips bucking, to stop
herself moaning. She’s out of her depth — unsure where the line is.

Deborah lifts her right leg. Her hands are on Ava’s hips and she guides her down until, with
an illicit gasp, her core makes contact with the top of Deborah’s thigh.
So there’s the line. Ava runs right up to it.

With Deborah’s encouragement, Ava grinds herself down onto her. Her breathing staggers. It
feels primal, vaguely animalistic. On the third thrust she moans loud enough to break their
kiss. With every movement, her cheeks get pinker, her head swims with pleasure. She feels
like a zippo lighter, sparks flashing with every flick, waiting, waiting until she finally catches
fire.

She opens her eyes and Deborah’s looking at her open mouth.

When their eyes meet, a whole new reality clicks into place. This is everything she’s ever
wanted.

“Oh my… Fuck.”

Ava comes on top of Deborah’s thigh, her body going taut, a shudder dancing through her.

Deborah’s eyes widen at the sight. She looks up at her from her pillow and tucks a strand of
hair behind Ava’s ear. Ava lets out a laugh she just can’t keep in. It fills her stomach and
bursts out of her mouth. Pure joy. She kisses her sweetly.

There’s nothing she can say to improve on a perfect moment. So she collapses back to her
side of the bed and they look at each other for awhile. Ava traces the outline of her lapel.
Deborah doesn’t make a move to take things any further so neither does Ava, abiding her
earlier command. She lies with her and it feels like she’s on a cloud, the pleasure sedating
her blissfully.

Ava wakes up five hours later to an empty bed.

The only evidence of their midnight dalliance is the way her sleep shorts stick to her
uncomfortably. One side of her brain is sick with anxiety that Deborah has fled, never to be
seen again. The other is utterly ecstatic. She had sex with Deborah Vance. She touches her
lips to feel the smile on her face.

She finds Damien waiting on the bus. Apparently Deborah is doing her interview. She waits
until 12, slowly dying of impatience, before asking when she’ll be back.

“Oh, she’s done. She’s walking around Old City Cemetery.”

“By herself?”

Damien shrugs. “She likes grave yards.”

That is surprisingly unsurprising. Ava finds her on a dead man’s bench next to a mausoleum.

“Window shopping?” She asks and Deborah laughs as she takes a seat next to her. “How was
the interview?”

“Oh, fine. Boring.” She has her hands in her jacket pockets and she watches passersby.

Ava’s leg bounces. “Are we gonna have a conversation about… any of this?”

She hears Deborah tut, feels her eye roll. “Not everything needs to be therapized.”

“I’m not suggesting therapy — although, you know how I feel about that. I just think it
would be helpful to get some clarification?”

“You’re free to say whatever you wanna say.”

So often talking to this woman feels like pulling teeth.

“Well what if I wanna ask things?”

“Like what?”

“Like… is that going to happen again? Or are we just going to pretend nothing happened
until it does? I mean, I’m totally down to do that, it's just for practicality’s sake I’d love to get
a hold on whether I should be showering everyday.”

Deborah scrunches her face up. “You weren’t doing that anyway?”

“I’m more of an alternate days kind of girl. But, hey, if that’s a boundary for you, I totally get
it.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

“Regretting all those jokes about dating women?”

“We’re not…” She trails off but her rejection of the word dating still stings.

“Right. But we're…?”

“I don’t know, Ava. Jesus.” Her exasperation feels like a cover for something else. “…You
can’t tell anyone,” she adds quietly. All those years between them seem to melt away then
and Ava is left looking at someone nervous. Someone shy.
It cracks something open in Ava’s chest. It’s guilt. A crowbar pulling her ribs apart. She’s
betrayed her before. Why would Deborah think Ava isn’t capable of using this against her as
soon as they breakout into another argument?

“Trust me, I learnt that lesson. I’m never doing that again.” She turns to face her, Deborah
stays looking at the park-goers. “Plus, outing is like the number one gay sin.”

“That email was just a different kind of outing,” she points out.

“I know. I’m sorry.” If only she knew just exactly what she was fucking up when she sent it.

“I know,” she says like she wants to forgive but she’s just not used to it. Like she’s really
trying.

Ava wants to ask so many questions. Is she okay? Does she want her to leave? Did she like
it? Is this going to go any further? Something stops her asking. She’s not sure which Deborah
she’s talking to. Not sure which answer she’ll get.

Two Corgis come bounding up to them then. Ava looks up to see Josefina in a dress and
sunglasses. She looks like she’s on holiday.

“Hello, my babies!” Deborah coos as Barry puts his paws up on her knees.

“That pilot you have is a real charmer,” Josefina says. “I got his number but I don’t think I’ll
call. His ears are too big.”

“You flew the dogs across the country?!” Ava is filled with love at the sight of this insane
woman patting her beloved dog’s head. She’ll have to have a serious conversation with her
about her fuel emissions later but right now Cara is licking her hand.
Josefina catches them up on what’s going on in Vegas. Kiki apparently is seeing someone
new. Ava feels bad about not calling. She can’t face lying to her about the vast amount of
gossip she can’t tell her. They have dinner together as a family before Josefina flys back to
Nevada. Ava’s admonishments about CO2 emissions get laughed off, which pisses her off for
at least twenty minutes.

Deborah sits next to her on the bench at the sushi restaurant they’re at. She’s so fucking close
but Deborah makes no move to touch her. No palm on her thigh. No brush of their hands.
She’s going to explode if they don’t get a moment alone.

They’re back on the road that night. It gets too much in the early hours. She’s back in her
coffin. She’s not resting peacefully. All she can think about is the widening of Deborah’s eyes
when she came on top of her. It’s driving her insane.

Apparently giving up drugs to curb her impulsiveness is futile when her brain is capable of
creating chemicals just as powerful.

She slips out of her bunk as quietly as possible.

Deborah is still sat up in bed, working on her iPad, when Ava slides the door open. She gives
her an expectant look, like she’s waiting for Ava to explain why she’s just barged in. It shifts
to understanding when she shuts the door behind her.

Ava marches right up to her and plucks the iPad out of her hands, she chucks it haphazardly
on the bed and peels back the covers.

“Ava—“

“Deborah,” she imitates her tone, not hesitating before climbing into her lap much like Barry
had earlier in the day.
She kisses her left cheek. Her right cheek. Her mouth. Deborah sighs, a mix of indignation
and relief.

“Is this okay?” Ava asks. She so desperate for some kind of contact, she barely acknowledges
how bold she’s being.

“Nothing about this is okay.” But she can’t stop the little smile around her mouth. “We can’t.
Damien—“

“Damien is dreaming about a flight schedule.” Ava dismisses her worries quickly. It feels like
she’s been drugged she wants her so badly. Deborah’s mouth hangs open when she sees Ava
squeeze her thighs together. “Do you have any idea how I much I want you?”

“Why do you do this to me?” She mutters. There’s a flush on her face. It’s the admission
Ava’s been waiting for. Verbal acknowledgment that Ava has an effect on her.

“What exactly do I do to you?” Ava raises a confident eyebrow. Deborah looks away. “You’re
cute when you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy.” A boldfaced lie. In Ava’s fantasies Deborah had been dominant, almost
degrading towards her. She’d imagined her scolding comments, teasing her as she fucked her.
Making Ava wait, making her beg. The fact that she’s the opposite thrills her.

“You like watching me come,” Ava states and watches the truth of it flash across Deborah's
face. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She holds her gaze. It feels a little like a stand off. Ava wins by pulling her shirt off over her
head.

Deborah looks at her chest like she can’t quite comprehend what she’s seeing.
“What do you want me to do?” It’s almost accusatory. How’s this my problem? What do you
want me to do about it?

Ava smiles. “Just watch me,” she says. That’s familiar territory. She slips her hand down
inside her shorts. “I think about touching you all the time,” she says, a little strained over the
spike in her blood pressure. The pleasure sinks into her skin, spills out in waves.

Deborah reaches up and tentatively cups her breast. She rolls her thumb over her nipple.

“Fuck, Deborah.”

“I don’t even remember having breasts like that.” She looks contemplative. Ava wonders
whether that’s all this is, if Deborah’s attraction to her is just her exploring an unmeetable
longing for youth.

“Pale and sad?”

Deborah chuckles quietly and pinches her as her retort. It makes Ava jolt.

“Would you let me touch you?” She sighs as she bucks into her own hand.

Deborah looks at her face. She looks confused like this whole scenario is baffling to her.
“Why would you want to do something like that?”

Ava takes it upon herself to prove a point; prove to Deborah just how much she wants her.
She grasps her hand and guides it to her cunt.

“Jesus, Ava.”
A whine escapes her lips when Deborah cups her. The heel of her palm presses up against her
clit, her fingers finding how soaked she is.

“Do I make you wet like this? Does this turn you on?” She must look insane. Her pupils
dilated and her cheeks pink. Her chest heaves.

Deborah doesn’t answer. She slides her middle finger inside Ava instead.

“Oh, fuck.” She can feel herself clutching around her. “Keep… stay there.” She rubs her own
clit while Deborah’s inside her, focuses on how connected it makes them.

“This is crazy,” Deborah mutters, Ava’s not sure if it’s to her or just a general observation.
Her voice is low and heavy. This is fucking crazy.

Deborah gropes at her breast, more confident than before. The melding of sensations drives
Ava insane. She rocks against Deborah’s hand — gasps when she feels her add another
finger.

She whines when she comes, quickly covering her own mouth before Deborah can scold her.
She’s still for a moment. Lets Deborah feel her flutter as she catches her breath. Then she
pulls her fingers out. Deborah stares as she tastes herself, planting a kiss on each fingertip.
Then her palm, then her wrist.

“What do you want?” She looks speechless. “Whatever you want, I want to give it to you.”

Deborah guides her hand down past her waistband. Ava feels like she’s winning the lottery,
over and and over again.

She shuffles down the bed and pulls Deborah with her. She catches a glimpse of Deborah's
stomach when her shirt rides up. God, she wants to see her so badly. She doesn’t ask to. She
lets her fingers slide delicately through her. She feels like she’s going to go into cardiac
arrest.
Deborah’s quiet. She turns her head, covers her own mouth with the knuckle of her index.
Ava works with desperate precision. She circles her clit, adjusting pressure and speed until
she sees her breath catch. Fuck writing as a career, her life’s ambition now is to make this
woman feel good.

“God, you’re so hot.” She smiles at the way Deborah looks ready to reject the compliment
but can’t because of how far gone she is.

There’s a moment where her anxiety creeps in. Maybe Deborah doesn’t actually like her.
What if this becomes a failed experiment? She’s just experiencing a later-in-life crisis and is
using Ava to feel something.

But Deborah gasps and it knocks the thought away. Her head tips back. Her body shudders
underneath her. It lasts longer than Ava expects, her eyebrows pinched with pleasure. She
doesn’t moan but she trembles and shakes. Watching Deborah Vance orgasm is the highlight
of her life.

Then she’s pushing her hand away.

Ava kisses her pyjama-clad shoulder, the patch of exposed skin on her chest, her neck. “Was
that good?”

She looks a little bashful. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you ever gave me feedback.”

Her thumb traces the barely-there bruise on Ava’s cheek. “That was good, honey,” she says.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. Ava flushes at the praise. “Finally putting those
catcher’s mitts to good use.”
Ava should know better than to expect a compliment without an insult tagged on the end. “I
knew your obsession with my hands had erotic undertones.”

Deborah smiles. She looks tired in a deliciously sleepy way. Ava's heart wants to burst out
her chest. There are so many things she wants to say, wants do to, wants to try.

“Can I sleep here?” She feels bold enough to ask now. Confident for the first time that her
answer will be yes. “I’ll wake up before Damien and Marcus.”

“Sweetie, with the noises you just made, don’t bother. The entire east side of the i-10 knows
you’re here.” Ava can feel herself blushing. She was so confident she’d kept quiet. Deborah
softens at her embarrassment, strokes her face. “Don’t worry. I trust them.”

“Marcus already asked if we were fucking.”

“I know. He implied I should get you to sign a legal waiver before anything happened,” she
laughs.

“Oh my God. I mean, I totally would if you wanted me to. I’m all about encouraging safe
work environments. …Nothing to do with wanting to see Marcus’s face as he’s forced to get
that document written up.” She smiles when Deborah laughs.

For the first time, Ava curls herself around Deborah as close as she possibly can. They
usually sleep side-by-side like a married couple, long past physical intimacy. Now she wraps
her arms around her, feeling her ribs through soft silk, pushing her face into the crook of her
neck. It’s funny how they seem to be doing everything backwards.

“You think we’re gonna like, be okay?”

“Go to sleep, honey,” she whispers and strokes the top of her head.
Chapter End Notes

my first hacks fic!!! i fear the fandom is currently just 15 gay people on twitter, but im
doing this all for them anyway. come and say hi: @ mouthyhack
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Breakfast is fucking awkward. The only noise is cutlery against porcelain and the wet
chewing of scrambled eggs. The expansive view over St John’s River and the soft Florida
breeze does nothing to make their table feel less stifled. Ava’s also concerned about a seagull
potentially shitting on her pancakes.

She’d woken to Deborah buttoning her blouse at the foot of the bed. She was wearing a blue
bra and Ava stores that piece of information away like a photograph in a heart-shaped locket.
The feeling of catching her eye for the first time that day — full of flirtation, hesitancy,
arousal, nerves — still swims in her stomach.

Damien takes a sip of his iced coffee and it rattles through the straw. She wants to say
something. It’s insane not to say something. Marcus and Damien know. Ava and Deborah
know they know. It’s ridiculous. She should just say something.

“I just wanna acknowledge—”

“—We should discuss the QVC schedule for when we reach Charlotte. They’re rereleasing
the fuzzy slipper line in time for fall,” Marcus cuts her off.

“Great. Those always sell well.” Deborah wipes her mouth with a napkin.

“I also need to go over some other legal matters with you when you have the time. Maybe
this afternoon?”

Is that what she is now? A legal matter?

She prods at her extraction site. It’s become somewhat of a nervous tick ever since the gum
started to heal. The void is perfectly tongue-sized.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Deborah breaks the yolk on her poached egg with the tip
of her knife.

“Deborah…” He shuts up when she shoots him a look across the table. Jesus, Ava’s glad
she’s not on the receiving end of that one. “Okay. Very well then.” He takes a passive
aggressive sip of OJ.

Ava bites back the offer to sign a legal waiver that’s sitting on the tip of her tongue. She’s
never been very good at ignoring the elephant in the room. For Deborah, she’ll try.

The chewing noises resume. It’s unbearable.

“This coffee tastes like ass, right?”

“Would you grab me another napkin?” Deborah cuts her off this time.

“Absolutely.”

It’s a relief to escape. Ever since they exited Deborah’s bedroom together that morning
there’s been a horrible tension between everyone. No one wants to make eye contact. Which
is totally fair considering the noises Ava had apparently been making the night before. She’s
starting to think the cold shoulder is a little much, though.

Still, not even national tragedy could ruin her mood. Ava is walking on a cloud. Everything is
a little bit better now, a little more vivid. Deborah likes her. Deborah wants her. Deborah
wants her. Unless this is one extremely long Salvia trip. That’s always a possibility. She
looks at the napkins like they’re pamphlets; pretends they’re full of useful information about
the great state of Florida.
They don’t look like they’re arguing, but Deborah shakes her head every time Marcus talks.
Ava’s not a good lip reader but she catches words every now and then like “ridiculous” and
“insane.” She steals five sugar packets and a couple of the high quality paper straws.

“I’m just looking out for your best interests,” she catches Marcus say as she wanders back to
her seat.

“And making a written legal record of my personal life is the way to do that?”

They both shut up when Ava sits down.

“I can go if you guys need to keep talking about how I’m gonna ruin your career or
whatever.”

It’s not that Ava had expected Deborah to be all rainbows and sunshine and signing up to do a
cover for Gay Times but the catastrophizing is kind of ruining the vibe.

“No. We’re done.” She pushes her plate across the table, another pile of waste in for Marcus
to deal with.

He turns to Ava then, finally giving her the courtesy of looking her in the eye. His tone
softens. “I also have some news from the Memphis police department.”

Okay, maybe one thing could ruin her mood. She’s been so consumed by Deborah, she’d
almost forgotten about him. The man with the giant boots. Her healing gum starts to taste a
little more metallic. He pulls out his laptop. She presses her tongue into her remaining
premolar as hard as she can.

“They’re charging him with aggravated assault.”

“Fuck, am I gonna be subpoenaed? Will I have to testify? I don't wanna go back to fucking
Tennessee.” She knows Deborah wouldn’t allow her to let him get away with it. Knows she’d
put on a brave face so as to not disappoint her.

“That’s unlikely. Memphis PD wanna go ahead with the case with or without you.” Deborah
squeezes her knee under the table. “He’s a local nuisance,” he says, showing her an extensive
rap sheet.

His mug shot is there. He looks older than Ava remembers. Late-forties. He’s got pube-like
hair and a thick neck. His mouth hangs open like he’s still drunk, eyes glassy. He’s scary. It
makes Ava’s breath come a little quicker.

“Christ, he looks like Beetlejuice’s uglier twin. Clearly he was jealous of your full set of
teeth.”

Ava tries to laugh. That’d be easier to deal with than the truth. That he fucking hated her for
existing. That there are people out there who will simply hate her, no matter what she does.
There should be some freedom in that, about not trying so hard to make everyone like her.
Right now it feels sad and heavy.

“His sentencing hearing is in two weeks. I’ll keep you informed of any update.”

“Um, don’t, actually.” She adopts a casual air. “As long as I don’t have to show up anywhere
or submit anything else, I’d rather focus on literally anything else.”

Ava’s never been one to dwell. She moves forwards. She doesn’t acknowledge how much
she’s sounding like Deborah.

“Okay,” Marcus says. “Whatever you need.”

What an asset he must’ve been to Deborah all these years; someone to handle the shit life
throws at you and not make you feel bad about it. She takes a bite of her pancake. Attempts
to chew using only the right side of her mouth. She can’t shake his face from her mind. He is
the physical manifestation of why everything has to be so hard. Shitty people doing shitty
things. The water laps at the concrete quay by her feet. St Johns River flows right into the
Atlantic Ocean and Ava realises they’ve crossed the entire country together.

“You think there’s alligators in there?” She asks.

“I think alligators are the least of your problems. You’d sink faster than bin Laden, even with
your giant paddles.”

Ava gives a genuine laugh this time. She looks at Deborah in her gas station sunglasses. “You
wouldn’t go full Pamela Anderson? Dive in and save me?”

“And traumatise all these people? They’d rather see David Hasselhoff now in a red swimsuit
than me.” What a way to ruin Ava’s Baywatch fantasy.

“Oh come on, you can’t sue me if I’m dead.” It clicks then why Marcus is so annoyed.
Deborah can’t sue her at all now. She’d risk everything coming out in discovery. “…Oh
shit.”

Deborah rolls her eyes at the late-onset of her realisation. “See,” she says to Marcus.

Ava looks between them. Marcus is a mix of exasperated and amused. “You’re dropping the
case?”

“Of course I’m dropping the case.”

A slow smile creeps onto her face as it dawns on her. “I outplayed you.”

“You didn’t ‘outplay' me if you’re only now realising what you did,” Deborah scoffs. “You
don’t win at chess by tipping the board off the table.”
“I totally honey trapped you!”

“Okay,” Marcus interjects before the conversation strays into personal territory.

“Oh please, you absolutely did not, unless you’re planning on blackmailing me.”

“I mean, you know I never would but it feels pretty nice to beat Deborah Vance in
litigation.”

“I am merely dropping the lawsuit because of time constraints. Marcus here is too busy to
deal with petty legal matters.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Jimmy’ll believe that.” She can’t help being a little superior. Besting
Deborah doesn’t happen everyday. In her self-satisfaction, she takes an accidental bite on the
left and feels a sharp pain bounce up the side of her face. “Fuck.”

“What?” Deborah never manages to look concerned without also looking annoyed.

Ava holds them all in suspense as her tongue glazes over her tooth and eventually flicks off a
shard that was hanging on by, well… literally the skin of her teeth. She picks it out of her
mouth with her fingers.

Deborah looks at the little pearl of tooth sitting on the tip of Ava’s index. “Oh Jesus, at this
rate you’ll have none left.”

“It’s just a chip.” The rest of the tooth remains intact. So much for moving forward. That’s
the thing about trauma, it straggles along with you wherever you go, little splinters of it
breaking off in your mouth.
They both look up at Marcus.

He sighs. “I will find a dentist in Charlotte.”

They work all day in the hotel’s conference room, doing run-throughs and minor tweaks. Ava
holds back every urge to turn the conversation down more flirtatious avenues. It’s really
fucking hard.

Deborah paces confidently across her pretend stage, joking mercilessly about Ava’s
masturbatory habits that have become satirised to the point of exaggeration. Every time she
does it conjures vivid memories of Deborah watching her. Ava didn’t see this dilemma
coming when she gave Deborah permission to use her in the set.

“Remember, this is the girl I caught taking nude photographs in my basement. The way she
jumped, Dick Fosbury thanked his lucky stars that he’s retired."

Ava can’t help laughing despite having heard the joke twenty times already. She covers her
mouth with her fingers. Touching the smile on her lips feels awfully similar to discovering
how wet she is. Her cheeks flush. She can’t help looking at her like she wants to fuck her.
The energy radiates through her whole body as she perches on the conference table. Deborah
could fuck her right here.

“Before anyone calls me cruel, I did briefly feel bad about publicly humiliating her like this
— but then I saw her twitter account and realised she clearly has a fetish for it.”

Deborah holds her gaze, that smug smile on her face. The two sides of her Ava knows best —
the side that’s mean to her and the side that wants to fuck her — are converging. This is the
version of her she’s been fantasising about. She aches for her. It’s a low, dull ache like the
pain in her chipped tooth. She wants Deborah to push her tongue up against the nerve until
pain or pleasure or a mixture of both blooms outwards.
“What is it with this generation and posting every benign thought that comes into their
heads? In my day you had to get drunk, write it down on some cardboard and walk up and
down Fremont Street shouting.”

Ava’s not listening anymore. Watching her own the stage, even when it’s just the end wall of
a conference room, is riveting. It’s like watching a lion stalk the perimeters of its cage, the
deep vibrations of its roar in your chest promising a wounding bite. She’s so turned on she
genuinely considers putting her hand down her jeans.

“And then I can go back into the abortion stuff from there.”

Like maybe Deborah would keep on making snide little jokes about her until she came.

“Ava?”

“Yep,” she swallows.

“Jesus, would you pull yourself together?” She clicks her fingers in Ava’s face.

“I’m… I’m together, the abortion stuff is polished. You’re gonna be great.”

“Okay.” She nods at her notes. “Let's just take it from the top one more time.”

Jesus, Ava feels like Sisyphus pushing that fucking boulder up a hill, except the boulder is a
ball of pent up sexual energy. The fact that Deborah doesn’t seem phased at all is intolerable.
There’s so much she wants to do to her. Last night was mind-blowing. But fuck, she wants to
see her. She wants to taste her. She wants to be utterly consumed by her.

Instead, she sits patiently and does her job, offering a few jokes or line changes where she
can. The set is almost faultless at this point. She pushes her tongue into the painful spot in her
mouth whenever her thoughts start to wander like a dog giving itself electroshock training.
The energy begins to dwindle after the second run through.

“What time have you got? I’m starving,” Deborah asks.

She flicks her cell open. “Um, 5:40. Oh shit, I got a missed call from Jimmy.”

Deborah waves a dismissive hand. “He’s probably just calling to tell you you’re off the hook
for breaking your NDA. But that jitterbug’s no good, we’ll get you a real phone in Charlotte.”

Ava skims over the offer to buy her a new phone. She’s already feeling too out of control.
Add sugar mama into the mix and she’s going to start ripping her clothes off like a werewolf.

“Jitterbug? Did you read that in AARP?”

If looks could kill. Ava laughs. The phone trills as she calls her voicemail.

“You have one new message. 3:45 pm. ‘Hey girly girl. Ugh, miss ya’ girl. Just callin’ to tell
you that and also Jimmy does need to speak to you about some legal thing. Blergh — boring,
right? Haha. Okay, love ya’ bitch’. Press 2 to REPEAT. Press 3 to DELETE. Press 4 to CALL
BACK—”

“You hungry, honey?” The casual term of endearment makes Ava’s head spin. She decides to
delete Kayla’s message and promptly presses 4 on her keyboard.

“I’m literally always hungry. You wanna… order room service?”

Deborah rolls her eyes but can’t help smiling. Ava knows she can be fucking charming when
she wants to be. She grabs Deborah's sleeve and pulls her closer, forgetting entirely about the
phone in her hand.
“So you can try to feel me up over crab rolls? No. I can’t have you messing up my makeup.”

“I don’t need to get anywhere near your face to do what I wanna do.”

Deborah blushes then and it’s the best fucking feeling in the world. They’ve managed to find
some kind of symbiosis where they slip seamlessly between power dynamics. At one moment
she’s biting and taunting, other times vulnerable and self-effacing. It feels like an honour to
be able to witness both sides to her.

“God, you’re fuckin’ cute.”

“You talk about me like I’m some chaste 20 year old.”

“You blush like a chaste 20 year old.”

She turns her head, avoiding Ava’s eager gaze.

“No. Tonight is a big one,” she says. “I need to focus.” But she stands between Ava’s knees,
tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and strokes her cheek. Ava’s so confident she’s about to
be kissed she wets her lips but then Deborah picks up her notepad. “Don’t forget your
laptop,” she says as she swings the door open.

Ava wants to dissolve.

They’re stood in the wings before Deborah goes on. She’s wearing a black suit that looks a
lot like the one she bought Ava. They’d look fucking good together like that, matching, on a
red carpet somewhere. It’s bittersweet to imagine a future like that. One where they could be
out together. Ava clenches her jaw.

“Okay, here we go,” Deborah mutters to herself. If only Ava could absorb all of her anxiety,
feel it for her so Deborah doesn’t have to.

“Hey,” she says. Deborah looks slightly panicked. “You’re gonna kill it.”

Deborah nods. Ava nods too. It’s their version of kissing without actually kissing.

“…Ms. Deborah Vance!!”

Then she’s off.

It’s like watching someone perform open heart surgery, blindfolded on the side of a mountain
she’s that fucking good. Ava can’t imagine standing in front of an audience that big without
puking, let alone being able to coax them along so effortlessly. She commands the room like
she’s a composer and they are her orchestra — a flick of her wrist and they’re laughing in
perfect harmony.

She sends Ava a few quick glances over her shoulder whenever a joke at her expense really
lands. Pretty much all of them do.

For her to so willingly associate herself with Ava, even if she doesn’t allude to any deeper
connection, feels like a declaration. Ava feels, in no uncertain terms, claimed by her. She will
always have a place in history as the girl Deborah Vance caught masturbating. It’s the best
love letter anyone could ever write her.

The crowd is eating out of her palm by the end of the set. When the standing ovation starts,
Ava fights her own legs from propelling her onto the stage.
“Holy shit!!” Ava jumps where she stands, grabbing her arms as soon as she can.

“That’s it, we got it. Marcus, I need you to call Jimmy and cancel the showcase.”

“What?!”

“This isn’t a residency, this is a special. This is bigger than Vegas. We’re gonna take it to the
networks and we’re gonna sell it.” She looks fucking wired. All her words coming out in one
lump. She looks at Ava then. “We’re going to LA, baby!”

“Oh, we are so going out tonight.” Damien looks almost as excited as she does.

Even Marcus looks ready to give an excited squeal. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Go change. I will have a car come to pick us up in an hour. I know exactly where we’re
going.” Damien points to his beautiful brain like it’s swimming with ideas.

For the first time they’re seeing the summit of the mountain they’ve been climbing; it’s
finally, finally within their reach. Adrenaline is one of Ava’s favourite feelings. It’s the
opposite of depression, her whole body thrumming with the desire to live. She follows
Deborah back to her hotel room because it’s become second nature to go wherever she goes.
They’re walking like they're in a rush, driven along by the high they’re both feeling. It’s
palpable. Ava bounces beside her like she’s wearing fucking moon shoes.

As soon as the hotel room door clicks shut, they’re transported to a whole new realm of
possibility. Them together alone is a place where Deborah is hers. A place where Beetlejuice
doesn’t get an opinion. Where the outside world ceases to exist. No cameras, no audience.
None of the politics of existing.

“Christ, these are heavier than DJ’s.” Deborah pulls off her earrings.
Ava lifts her foot up and unzips her boot. It hits the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Do you need to change?” Deborah looks at the lonely boot as she sits on the side of the bed.

“No,” Ava says. She lifts her sweater off over her head.

“What are you doing?” She asks when Ava starts unzipping her jeans.

“I’m getting naked,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why might you be doing something like that?” She looks stern but there’s a hint of
something else around her mouth. Something nervous and excited and amused. Ava doesn’t
let herself hesitate.

“Because I think you want me to.” She’s impressing even herself with the steadiness of her
tone.

Deborah raises her eyebrows at such a bold claim.

“You get that look in your eye whenever they love you like that.” She pulls her top off. The
room fills with the buzzing energy of two people still unsure of each other. Ava feels like
she’s plunging into the deep end and trusting Deborah won't let her drown. She steps out of
her jeans without any performance, quickly takes her underwear off with them. Standing in
front of her like this gives her déjà vu but this time she puts her hand on Deborah’s shoulders.

Deborah twists her bottom lip into something like a pout. It’s one of the ways Ava is learning
to spot apprehension in her. It makes her want to kiss her.

“I think it turns you on.”

Deborah's eyes flicker for a moment as they process her words. She stares at her, dark and
heavy. Vaguely irritated by her presumptuousness. Ava smiles. Maybe annoyance has always
been a form of seduction for them. She takes in every detail of Ava's body. It’s different than
before. It feels like Deborah is appraising her; assessing the quality of what’s in front of her
before she gives it her time. Ava melts with anticipation.

“Come here,” she says.

Ava obediently sinks into her lap. Wraps her arms around her neck until she can smell her
perfume. The fabric of her pants is rough on her bare thighs. Deborah still has that air about
her: her stage presence, the roaring lion. Ava wants to draw it out of her until she’s irked
enough to eat her whole.

“I wanna fuck you so badly," she whispers.

“And that’s why you took off all of your clothes?” Deborah pulls away an inch so she can
raise an eyebrow.

Ava gives a nervous chuckle. “I had to get your attention somehow. You’ve been ignoring me
all day.”

“I’ve been working all day. More than what can be said for you — Barry could’ve written me
better jokes.”

“That’s not fair, he’s got comedy in his genes.” Ava smiles and lowers her voice an octave. “I
can make it up to you.”

Deborah traces her nails up Ava’s spine and it makes her eyes flutter. “What exactly has
gotten you this worked up?”
“You’ve literally been talking about me masturbating all day.”

Deborah chuckles like she’s so fucking pleased with herself. “Lay down,” she says sweetly
but it feels like a dare.

There’s a panicked voice in the back of Ava’s head screaming that she might not survive this.

She lays on her back, her feet dangling off the side of the bed. Deborah lays next to her.
Props her head up on her elbow like she’s enjoying a pleasant picnic at the park. If there’s a
compliment primed on her tongue, she doesn’t say it. She traces a line down Ava’s sternum
with her fingers and watches as goosebumps spill out in their wake.

“Please.”

“Jesus, that didn’t take much.”

“Oh my God, you’re so annoying.”

“Should we go? I’d hate to keep Damien waiting,” she says and pretends to get up.

“No, no, no.” Ava grabs her wrist and pulls her back as she laughs. She’s exceedingly aware
of Deborah still in her suit. She’s still wearing the glittery gold heels. It’s like getting fucked
by a superhero in their full get-up.

Deborah kisses her. Firm enough to push Ava’s head into the mattress. Her hand slides down
to cup her and Ava lets out a pathetic whine. “Christ, Ava,” she whispers. Her face hovers
above Ava it makes her feel small. As if maybe she’s found a higher power she might
willingly submit to. “That really does it for you? Watching me talk about you on stage?”

“Fuck, Deborah,” Ava hums at the firm circles Deborah uses against her.
“Do you just like the attention or do you like being made fun of?”

“Yea,” Ava blurts before can stop herself. Kiki was so wrong about it just being a Carol
thing.

It elicits a chuckle from Deborah. “That’s what you think about? Your boss, 40 years your
elder, being degrading? Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to start calling me mommy, too.”
It’s said with such boredom it feels like she’s calling her a hack. Like she should somehow
have more interesting depravities. Mommy issues are a little cliché, a little on the nose.

Ava’s face blooms red. Of course she should’ve expected such a personalised attack. Deborah
doesn’t use tired material.

“I… No,” she splutters indignantly over the waves of pleasure that have started to take hold.
It’s more embarrassing to argue back so she trails off, closes her eyes and focuses on not
coming before Deborah’s even started fucking her properly.

“You sure, baby?” Her voice is gravelly in her ear. Her tone is artificially sweet and slightly
vicious.

Ava lets out a sad noise at the pet name and Deborah laughs. She’s never been the sole focus
of Deborah's attention like this. Never had her be so controlling, so attentive. She kisses
Ava’s neck and ghosts her breath over the shell of her ear. She kisses the hard bone of Ava’s
sternum. Kisses her nipple. All Ava has to do is lie there.

She puts her feet up on the bed. Spreads her knees. Anything to get her closer. Deborah’s
fingers are so gentle. Maybe this is how she touches herself: not quite enough but somehow
all too much. She can feel herself pulsating, trying to draw Deborah in, closer, closer. But
Deborah stays at that sweet spot, sending out fantastic waves with every turn of her wrist.

“You look so desperate like this.” Her tone is the sweetest it's ever sounded, dripping off her
tongue like honey. Her other hand strokes the top of Ava’s head, thumb caressing her hairline.
She looks into her eyes with a mix of anticipation and encouragement. Ava feels, for maybe
the first time in her life, held.

“Please, Deb…” This is what it feels like to yield to a loving authority. It’s all so
overwhelming, she feels her body start to shake.

“This is what I was thinking about on stage,” Deborah says lazily. “When I was telling all
those people about you. I was thinking about how desperate you are for me.”

Her words sting like a well placed slap. The feeling of them fizzes out across her skin, warm
and lovely. They bounce around her skull, reverberating into every corner.

She was thinking about me. Ava comes so hard she gushes over Deborah’s palm. The
pleasure ripped out of her all at once. She can do nothing but clench her jaw as tightly as she
can until the exposed nerve in her mouth sends out a blossom of pain. She lets out a helpless
moan as her body trembles. She was thinking about me.

“Jesus Christ.” Deborah looks dazzled when she opens her eyes. She’s wiping her hand on
Ava’s thigh.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, I probably should’ve given you a heads up. That happens sometimes.”

“Here I thought they called you the octopus behind your back because your fingers are so
long.”

Ava’s not quite ready for a joke so quickly after the biggest serotonin release her brain has
had since she did molly. It starts as a flurry of laughter and quickly turns into a storm,
relentless and uncontrolled. A voice in her head warns that Deborah might think she’s gone
insane.

“It’s not often I encourage people to stop laughing at my jokes.”

“Oh my God, I think you fried my brain,” she manages when she calms down. “Have you
done that before?”

Deborah shakes her head and it’s like the stage persona melts away, the reality of what she
just did creeping in. Her eyes scan Ava’s face. “No, I… never,” she chuckles.

Parts of Ava want to ask why. Whether it’s been something she’s wanted to do for a long
time. A lifetime, even. The thought is too painful to bear. “Well shit, lady,” she says instead.
“Could’ve fooled me.”

Deborah traces across her collar bone. Ava’s skin is still warm and sensitive. Her fingertips
tickle as they glide over the curvatures of her body. Down her chest; across her breast; over
her ribs. It doesn’t feel like she’s teasing her but that doesn’t stop Ava’s body responding. She
feels like liquid.

“You’re so… Smooth.” There’s something sad about the compliment. Ava imagines what her
body is like. How it might look next to hers. Whether that comparison is why Deborah hasn’t
let her see her. Whether she ever will.

“I wanna do that to you,” Ava says and she searches Deborah's face for a sign.

She kisses Ava again and strokes her face. A palm on her cheek is Deborah’s version of a
period at the end of a sentence.

“We really do have to get going. Damien doesn’t like to be delayed,” she says and sits up.
Ava is left sprawled out on the bed, her limbs heavy and sedated.

She was right about Damien — he's obviously pissed off. He sighs and huffs and smooths his
hair back, watching their Uber journey on his phone screen like every minute counts. Ava
wants to say something incredibly annoying so he’ll finally pop like an overfilled balloon.

He’s out of the Uber and into Mary’s bar before Ava’s even unclipped her seatbelt. Ava
rushes to open the door for Deborah. Deborah rolls her eyes at the gesture.

The bar is 80s-themed. They’re playing Joy Division and everyone is looking extremely
shiny. It’s pretty fucking cool.

“Jesus, don’t tell me I’ve got early onset dementia.”

Ava cocks an eyebrow. “Early onset?”

Deborah looks at her like she’s going to hit her again and makes Ava’s knees weak.

“Get me a drink,” she snaps. “I’m going to attempt to avoid catching anything in the
restroom.”

“Feels a little problematic to say that in an 80s-themed gay bar,” Ava calls over the music but
she’s already gone. She spots Damien and Marcus under a glowing neon palm tree above the
bar. It bathes everyone in a pink blush that makes them look CGI. The music feels so much
like a soundtrack, she half expects Winona Ryder to walk in at any moment and kiss her on
the cheek like an old friend.

“Ava, this is Bobby!” Damien calls over the music. “Bobby, Ava. Sorry we’re late, Ava here
kept us waiting.” He shoots her a deadly look Ava’s honestly a little jealous of.

Bobby is wearing a sequinned blouse with huge shoulder pads. Her blonde wig is hair
sprayed static, floating over her head as if she were having a vivid dream about a croissant.
Her lips are painted deep cherry red, cheeks blushed to perfection. She’s gorgeous. She looks
like a young Deborah.
“You look amazing!”

“Thank you, honey.” She scrunches her nose.

“I’m sure you would think that,” Marcus quips, hiding his smile behind his drink.

Ava’s a little confused and then it clicks. Bobby is Deborah.

“Oh shit!!” She takes in the heels and the lipliner. The attention to detail is immaculate. That
might even be the necklace Deborah was wearing in her Oxygen special. “Where the fuck is
she? She’s gotta meet you!”

“Oh no, Bobby goes on in 20. We’re here to surprise her,” Damien says. His urgency
suddenly is a little more understandable. It’s a fucking perfect idea. If there’s something
Deborah would enjoy second being on stage it would be watching herself on stage.

“I’m gonna go do final checks,” she says and kisses Damien on the cheek. Watching her
disappear through the crowd feels like having a peek through a time portal.

Ava orders Deborah a dirty martini and herself a vodka soda.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” the girl behind the bar says.

“We’re actually on the road,” Ava shouts back. “Here for one night only.”

“Better make the most of it then.” She’s pretty: long brown hair, an odd collection of tattoos.
She looks a bit like Ruby.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Deborah's tone is a little bitter, a little snarky. Exactly how Ava
likes her.

“Not at all.” She slides her drink along the bar. “Enjoy your bathroom break?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

Before she can answer, the queen on stage coughs into the mic.

“Everybody shut the fuck up!” People laugh and clap and eventually settle down. “There we
go. Hello, gay people. Straight people? Don’t panic, Hooter’s is across the street.”

The audience loves her. Ava can’t help thinking how much funnier Deborah is. Deborah
seems to agree by the way she turns her nose up at the set.

“Now. I know y’all know she’s in town for the night. So without further ado, please welcome
to the stage, the queen of QVC, Ms Deborah Prance!”

Deborah lets out a bark of laughter. The lights go out. The spotlight hits centre stage.

“Jesus Christ, Mark, I’m over here!” It pans over to the left until Bobby’s face is illuminated.
The music starts.

Bobby owns the stage almost as well as Deborah. She’s lip-syncing to some 80s track Ava
can’t put a name to, throwing in a few Deborah-esque mannerisms when she can. Eventually
she’s serenading Deborah and the audience goes wild.

It doesn’t take long until Deborah’s up on the stage with her, sharing the mic like a
mother/daughter duo. Ava smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. People pull out their phones to
record. Ava kicks herself for not thinking of this first.
“Your boss is a legend!” Not Ruby calls over the bar.

“Thanks!”

“Is she as big a diva as they make her out to be?”

“Oh, no,” Ava waves her off. “She’s way worse.”

She laughs. “Wow, pretty and funny.”

Ava lets herself enjoy the ego boost. This honestly might be the best day of her life. It feels
like everything is clicking into place, all the pieces snapping together like a fucking ASMR
mindfulness video.

Deborah does the rounds, talking to fans, taking selfies with people. She chats with Bobby
and Marcus and Damien. Ava watches her charm everyone. She’s like a bumblebee, flitting
around, knowing exactly what to say and when to move onto the next person. Not Ruby talks
Ava's ear off. She tries to invite her to a protest or something as if offering a moral incentive
to go on a date with her might tip the scales in her favour. As soon as she gets the chance,
Ava catches Deborah’s eye and waves her over.

"Can we get another round?" She yells to Not Ruby.

“Oh, sure,” she says. Ava barely registers her disappointment.

“I suppose you knew about that little surprise?” Deborah smiles as she slips onto the stool
next to her.

“I wish I could take credit but I didn’t know until we got here.”
Not Ruby slides their drinks across the bar.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” She lingers like Nina does when Ava’s trying to take a
work call.

“That’ll be all, thanks.” Deborah is cutting.

“That one’s on me,” Not Ruby says. She gives Ava a look. It’s a little lecherous and Ava
wonders if she would’ve found it attractive under other circumstances.

“Oh… Um, thanks.”

“I get off at one. Come find me if you’re still around.”

“Uh, sure.” It’s a reflex. She’s never been quick on her feet.

Deborah gives her a look that’s half amusement and half annoyance. “She’s pretty.”

“Jealous?” Ava waggles her eyebrows. What she wouldn’t do to get Deborah possessive and
clingy and rude.

“No,” she deadpans.

Ava takes a sip of her drink, smacks her lips and sighs emphatically. “Don’t you think drinks
just taste better when they’re free?”

“No, I think they taste better when they're expensive.”

Ava has to laugh at how quickly the retorts roll out of her. She wants to put her hand on her
knee.

“My mom is like, your biggest fan. She’s gonna be so jealous. Can I get a photo?” A sweaty
man yells over her shoulder. Deborah put on her best smile as he lifts his phone for a selfie.
The facade is obvious.

“You got fans, girl,” Ava says when he leaves.

Deborah rolls her eyes a little, swivelling towards the bar. “I’ve got someone’s great aunt
Linda.”

“I thought you loved Panera people?”

“It’s not about that, it’s…” She sighs and takes a sip of her martini. “I can change my
material but I can’t change my age.”

“First of all, pretty sure wikipedia would disagree with you on that one. Second, why would
you want to? Being 25 sucks, I don’t know anything and I still get teenage acne if I even look
at a cheeseburger.”

“Jesus, don’t remind me.” She stabs at the olive in her drink. “I just don’t want it to limit my
demographic.”

There’s something else being conveyed that Ava can’t grasp yet. Something below the
surface she doesn’t have the life experience to understand. Whatever she says next is going to
highlight in neon pen the canyon between them. All she can do is sit and watch from her side.
“Is this because Bobby is getting into uncanny valley territory? She’s like if your wax figure
from 1984 became sentient.”
“I didn’t get a wax figure until ’98.”

“Yeah. I’m talking about the one Axel made in his basement.”

That finally gets a snort and Ava can breathe again.

“Ava!!” Damien, clearly three sheets to the wind, is waving her to the dance floor like he
might’ve secretly liked her all along.

“You wanna dance?”

“And get mauled by the sweaty bodies of 40 gay people? I don't think so.”

“Again, literally homophobic.”

“Go,” Deborah says with a reassuring smile and Ava does what she’s told.

She dances like Deborah’s watching. There’s something about 80s synth-pop that makes her
limbs move of their own accord. She channels enough sexual energy into the shift of her hips,
she starts convincing herself Cynthia Rhodes might learn a thing or two.

She does shots with Marcus. She slaps Damien’s ass when he twerks in front of her. Not
Ruby tries to dance with her. She gives her finger guns and moonwalks away. She scream-
sings Don’t You Want Me until her voice hurts. She catches a glimpse of Deborah sitting
alone through the crowd.

By the time Ava reaches the bar, she’s gone. There’s a spike of panic in her chest. That
feeling she gets when she thinks she might’ve fucked up. Why did she leave her alone? She
told her to dance. Why didn’t she say something clever?
Deborah’s stood on the curb when she makes it outside.

“You’re leaving?”

She doesn’t take a step toward Ava. “Yeah, it’s been a long day. I’m tired.”

“It’s barely midnight.” That’s a rough guess. She has no idea what time it is.

“Well, I’m not as young as I used to be,” Deborah says and the bitterness spills out with it.
“You should stay, party with Damien. I’m sure Chatty Cathy’d love to keep you company.”

Ava had almost forgotten what genuine snark from Deborah sounds like without a flirtatious
undertone. “Are you serious? You’re that jealous you’re just gonna storm off?”

“Please, I’m not jealous of a thirty year old bartender. You know I’d been successful twice by
her age?”

“She’s actually organising a protest for gun reform, so I don’t know, maybe she’s just a good
person.”

“Well, I have a Smith & Wesson in my dresser,” Deborah says dryly.

“Jesus, Deborah!!”

She gives an exasperated sigh like Ava being alarmed at potential threats of murder is at best
tiresome. “I’m joking!”

“How is that a joke?!”

She shrugs. “I’m laughing.”

“Are you? ‘Cause you seem pretty mad!” She doesn’t, really. Not in comparison to Ava. She
just seems exhausted.

“I have to go. My car is here,” she says and turns away.

“When did you learn to use Uber?!” The knot in Ava's throat gets tighter. “Wait, I…” She
stands under Mary’s pink florescent light and when Deborah looks at her she realises she has
nothing to say. Everything she wants to say would ruin it all. Would send them tumbling
through a whirlpool of impossible things before Deborah has taught her how to swim.

A seagull overhead shits on the sidewalk between them. It hits the pavement with a wet
smack and the bird shrieks as it leaves. Ava looks down and Deborah looks up. Two women
and a pile of shit between them.

“Jesus,” Deborah says. “That was close.”

Ava can’t help feeling like she just missed her luck. She stares at the shit on the floor,
swaying under a pink haze, and on some level feels a kind of affinity for it. She looks up at
Deborah as she opens the door to black sedan.

“Goodnight, Ava.”

“Deborah—”

Then the car door shuts and Ava’s alone on the curb.
Everything that can’t touch her when she’s with Deborah suddenly can. She heeds the group
of men stumbling across the street. How often do they do this? Walk out of their sports bar
and shout things at the queer people coming out of Mary’s? It's astounding how many breeds
of asshole the world has created. This one is another Drew. Ava realises that he is the reason
she’s here, arguing on the sidewalk instead of being in bed somewhere, happy. Him and his
posse and his politics. Generations of Drews, wearing away at women’s confidence, at their
autonomy. Sometimes Ava wishes she was born a man. Other times, like now, she wishes she
could just fucking kill them all. She hits her vape and enjoys the way the nicotine relaxes
some of the anger in her arms. Drew, or whatever his name is, laughs and sticks his tongue
out between his fingers.

As the black sedan's headlights fade into the distance, the canyon gets wider and wider and
wider.

There’s something about alcohol that promises resolution in the next sip. The thrumming
music makes her think of Deborah in some club back in the day. Ava wonders if she was
happy then. Wonders what her favourite song was. Wonders if they’ve played it yet tonight.

The drunker she gets the less interested Not Ruby is in talking to her. She disappears at some
point and it’s like she never existed. Ava dances with a group of guys who make her feel like
a celebrity until suddenly she feels like a pest. She’s loud. She’s embarrassing. She’s
obnoxious. She can’t twerk. She’s holding onto the bar so people can’t tell she’s swaying.

Eventually she’s in the bathroom and she’s looking at a sad and sweaty girl in the mirror.
Bobby is there. She’s fixing her lipstick and tapping out a line on the back of her hand. Ava
takes a bump and the coke jolts reality back into focus. She can only look at one feature at a
time: lips, hair, blouse, necklace. Fragments of a person who could be Deborah. But not her
Deborah. Debbie. And she looks happy and confident and free.

“You okay, baby?” Debbie looks at her like she’s crying, an empathetic pout on her lips.

“I’m great, this place is…” She does a hand signal that’s halfway between the ok sign and a
chef’s kiss. “Awesome.”
Debbie puts her hand on Ava’s cheek. “You’re a beautiful girl. You know that?”

Ava nods. She wobbles back and forth. Her eyes can’t settle on one spot, they slide around
Debbie’s face, trying to find purchase. She might be crying, she can’t tell.

“Do you think she really likes me?” Ava asks. Bobby wouldn’t know the answer but Debbie
might.

“She’d be a fool not to, honey,” she says so sweetly. Ava’s not sure how she ended up here,
slipped through time, zapped backwards to 1984.

“I just want her to want me. Enough that, that it all just doesn’t even matter. All the other
shit.” Her words are coming out all jumbled and wet.

“You just gotta be yourself. Show up authentically you, okay?” Debbie was clever back then.
Back now? Debbie’s clever. Debbie has no idea what’s coming. All the shit life is going to
throw at her that Ava can't do anything about.

“You were so good.” Ava laughs but it comes out like a sob. “You’re always so good.”

Debbie tastes like cherry lipstick and menthol cigarettes. This must be before she started
wearing Black Pashmina because she smells like Juicy Couture — sweet and synthetic. She
pulls her closer until her hips are against the sink. She could stay here forever. They could be
together. They could grow old together. Buy a house together in the 90s before the bubble
bursts. She could warn people 9/11 was coming.

Bobby laughs into her mouth and she pulls away. “Girl, I haven’t kissed a girl like that since I
was 23.” She wipes her lipstick off Ava’s mouth with her thumb.

Ava laughs. She’s too high to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You look so much like
her.”
Bobby gives her a sympathetic smile. “Come on. The night is young. So are we.” She grabs
Ava's hand and pulls her back out towards the dance floor.

Ava doesn’t make it back to the hotel until an hour before check out. There’s just enough time
for her to throw up, toss all of her shit in her bag and stare at the ceiling for 20 minutes before
Marcus knocks at her door.

“Answer your texts,” he says as she greets him. He looks rough. Not Ava levels of rough, but
still pretty bad.

“My phone is dead, alright.” Her hands are shaky with jitters. Anger comes in waves,
interspersed with flashes of dread. God, she needs to stop doing coke.

“Everyone’s on the bus, we’re ready to go.”

“I’m ready, Jesus. How is Damien there before me?” Marcus had to pick his feet up to get
him into the Uber last night. The guy knows how to let loose.

“He slept on there last night. Smart, honestly. He’s still in his cabin.”

Ava concedes. “The man’s got forethought.”

Deborah is horrified by her appearance. She’s sat at the booth looking devastatingly well
rested.

“Jesus.”
“Just don’t, alright?”

“I don’t think I need to.”

Ava’s one comment away from starting another argument. The fact that they’re having to
leave Jacksonville at 7am because she has a dental appointment in Charlotte at midday is
where she’s focusing most of her rage. This is Beetljuice’s fault. And Drew's. And Marty’s.
And Deborah’s.

Marcus has stored a bunch of shit in Ava’s bunk. It’s his way of accepting them, Ava
supposes. In another world where her brain is working correctly, she’d find the gesture sweet.
Now it means she can't try to sleep without asking Deborah if she can use her bed. Which is
absolutely not going to happen. So she stares out the window and watches the i-95 whizz past
for five fucking hours and they sit in uncomfortable silence.

In Charlotte she has to face the humiliating ordeal of telling her dentist she experimented
with illegal drugs within the last twelve hours. He doesn’t seem too concerned. She’s so sleep
deprived, she almost falls asleep with his fingers in her mouth. Her gag response is the only
thing that keeps her awake. Deborah’s probably going to make a fucked up joke about that
later. That’s Ava’s first pleasant thought of the day.

She’s been awake for 28 hours by the time she checks in to The Ritz-Carlton. Her bag
catching on her room’s door handle is the final straw.

“Fuck!!” She throws the entire thing across the bed, almost taking down a floor lamp. When
she collapses face-first onto the comforter, the tears finally come. She’s gotten used to the
falling. She’s accepted that she doesn’t have control over it anymore. It all seems worth it,
knowing who she’s falling for. She only wishes there didn’t have to be so much grief
involved.

After taking a disgustingly large sniff, as if on cue, the door swings open.

“Learn to knock!”
“Now you’re concerned about privacy?” Deborah stops when she sees Ava’s snotty face. Her
jaw swings and she shuffles on the spot.

“Well?” Ava demands an explanation for the intrusion. She hates that it makes her seem
young, crying like this.

Deborah sits next to her on the foot of the bed. “How’s the tooth?”

The lidocaine is doing a number on her anxiety more than it is her cheek. Half of her mouth
is still a little numb, though. “Fine. Just needed a filling.”

“You’ve been needing a lot of those lately.”

“Deborah,” Ava laughs but the flurry of emotion quickly turns it into another sob. Hot tears
disappear when they reach the numb patch. “Would it make me seem older or younger if I
said I was crying because I did too much coke last night and it’s fucked with my brain
chemistry?”

“Since when are you worried about appearing mature? You’re wearing children’s pyjamas.”
Deborah gestures to her Laika the Space Dog tee.

“This cost me forty dollars from Urban!”

Deborah chuckles. She reaches up and wipes Ava’s tear with the backs of her fingers.

Her lip refuses to stop wobbling. She swallows. “I don’t want you to decide there’s too much
space between us.”
Deborah sighs. She seems more nervous than anything. “You’re so young. I just… I don’t
understand why you…” She has that pained expression on her face she only gets when she
feels out of her depth.

“I’m not attracted to you because of or in spite of your age. I just am. It’s just… you,
Deborah.” She’d love her in any time. Any space. Any version of her. “I know I look crazy
and I’m running on literally no sleep but I know what I want. And I think you want it to.”

“I’m fifteen years older than your mother, Ava.”

“Horrible person to bring up right now. But honestly, I don’t care. I don’t care what she
thinks. I don’t care if you never wanna tell anyone. I’ve been your live-in co-writer before. I
just… wanna be wherever you are.”

Deborah rubs her thumb over the back of Ava’s hand. “So you’re moving in with me now? I
didn’t realise how accurate those U-Haul jokes were.”

Ava laughs. She wants to ask if Deborah is attracted to her despite her age too but she
doesn’t. One day she’ll have to stop treating her like a wild fox, trying not to spook her away
back into the night. She wipes the tears off her face. Leans over until she’s so close Deborah
can’t help falling into her.

Ava’s pretty confident no matter how many times they collide like this she’ll never fully
comprehend it. She’ll never fully grasp that Deborah is letting her do this, that Deborah
honestly wants her to. They sink into each other. Kissing her feels like resting your head on a
soft pillow after a long day. She feels Deborah’s tongue on her lip. She’ll never get used to
that, either. She tastes like matte lipstick and wintergreen tic tacs. Not at all like Debbie.

“Wait, wait. I need to tell you something.” Ava pulls back despite how it pains her. “I… I
made out with Bobby last night.”

There’s a beat while she processes what Ava just said and then Deborah collapses laughing.
Ava rolls her eyes. It’s a squawk of a laugh, the type that makes it difficult to catch a breath.
“You made out with my drag impersonator?!”

“He was actually very sweet and understanding and gave me a lot of good advice,” Ava
insists but it only makes her laugh harder, clapping her hands together for emphasis. It’s a
little insulting to be honest. “I’ve never seen you laugh this hard before?”

She wipes her tears when she starts to calm down. “So, should I be threatened?”

“No, he’s definitely a gay man,” Ava laughs. “He’s also definitely not as hot as you, so.” She
can’t tell if Deborah is flushed from the laughter or the compliment. Whenever she looks shy
like this, it punctures something vital in Ava’s chest.

The air gets a little heavier then. Ava toys with the collar on her satin overshirt. “Can I?”

Deborah nods. She looks terrified. Like she’s learning to trust that Ava will find her
attractive. If only Ava could telepathically convey how much she wants her. She pulls the
shirt off her shoulder and kisses the skin there. It feels essential to take it slow; revere every
new inch that gets revealed to her. She encourages Deborah back until she’s laying on the
bed. Ava straddles her hips.

Deborah's arms are slim and freckled. Ava kisses her lazily, trying her best to make her moan.
She mostly makes herself moan. Deborah stops her when she moves to pull the camisole up.

“Hold on,” she says and reaches over her head to turn the main light off. “You know my
rule.”

“Soft lighting, I know.” Ava smiles.

In the soft hue of the lamp, Deborah lets Ava take her shirt off. There are so many
compliments waiting to leap out from her mouth. How soft her skin looks, how hot she looks
in burgundy lace. Ava subdues them, temporarily. She’s scared if she draws attention to the
fact she’s slowly undressing her, Deborah might suddenly remember how insane that is and
get up to leave. She peppers kisses across her neck; her collarbone; her shoulder; then down
her sternum; across her chest. She pulls one of the cups down on Deborah’s bra and kisses
her nipple. That’s when she finally gets a moan. It’s whinier than Ava expected, cut with need
and surprise. It makes Ava’s heart pound so she swirls her tongue, trying to get her to do it
again.

“Take this off.” Deborah pulls at Ava’s t-shirt when she feels Ava unclasping her bra. Ava
happily obliges. Deborah’s topless by the time her shirt’s on the ground and it takes a
moment not to utterly malfunction.

Deborah’s seemingly can’t look right at Ava. It's as if she needs some kind of affirmation
before she bolts.

“Told you you were smokin’ hot.” Ava smiles and puts her hands on her ribs. The skin is soft
there. Deborah rolls her eyes but smiles. The air feels a little less taut.

“Please, I’ll be smoking hot when I’m cremated,” she jokes quietly.

Ava laughs into the valley between her breast; elicits a gasps as she sucks a nipple into her
mouth, laving it with the flat of her tongue. She takes her own pants off before attempting to
remove Deborah’s, now knowing that she’s a fan of an even playing field. When she carefully
slides Deborah's underwear down her legs, she observes the way she keeps her knees
together.

Deborah looks at the sheets for a moment so Ava offers to get under them but she shakes her
head.

“Okay. Can I touch you?”

“That’s kind of the point,” she says and she’s flustered now.
Ava kisses the underside of her jaw. She runs her fingers over her soft bristle of hair. It’s like
Deborah’s trying to hold back making any noise, focusing on her breathing. Ava had
expected her to be more vocal but she goes quiet whenever she gets ruffled. It’s sweet in a
sympathetic kind of way. But Ava desperately needs her to talk so she knows what she’s
meant to be doing.

“Can I go inside?”

“You don’t have to…” She trails off. “Yes, yeah.”

It’s like she wants Ava to take control. Maybe she’s used to that: not being an active
participant. At least not with her own pleasure in mind.

“Is that what you want?” Ava asks and it might be interpreted as teasing the way she’s gliding
circles over her clit.

“Ava…”

“Tell me,” she insists. She needs to hear Deborah say it. Needs her to ask for what she wants,
tell Ava what’s going to make her feel good.

“Yes. Yes, that’s what I want,” she sighs.

Ava complies. She goes slowly. She’s so soft and warm, it’s Ava who moans at the
feeling. She rocks her hand back and forth. Deborah searches for her mouth to kiss her. Being
inside her is like being welcomed back to a home she never knew she had. This, she realises,
is what it’s like to have a place to come back to.

Ava watches her intently; looking for clues that what she’s doing is working. She learns the
patterns of her facial expressions. A line appears between Deborah’s eyebrows when pleasure
starts mixing with something else: frustration or perhaps discomfort.
“Hey,” Ava says, pulling her out of whatever anxiety spiral about not coming quickly enough
she’s probably gone down. Ava’s been there enough times. “Can I eat you out?”

Deborah looks like she’s either about to laugh or scold her. Eventually she nods. “You don’t
have to be so… vocal.”

Ava chuckles. “I thought my honesty was what you liked about me.”

“That’s true.”

It feels weird, Deborah giving her a compliment. Conceding there are things she likes about
Ava. It’s almost too much for her to take.

“I wanna finally find out what you taste like.” Ava wants her sneering woman back, so she
teases and pushes. “I think about putting my tongue inside you all the time,” she murmurs
into the shell of her ear.

“Oh, Jesus,” Deborah mutters. She keeps her eyes on the ceiling as Ava kisses down her
thigh.

Ava never thought they’d make it this far, even when Deborah was making her come. She
never thought Deborah would trust her this much. It’s all so intimate, her chest hurts. Ava
spreads her a little, her arms wrapped around her thighs. Lets her tongue wander until her
hips jerk. She tastes like rapture and covers her tongue like honey.

“You’re kind of a bitch for finally letting me do this when half my lip is numb,” she mumbles
into silken skin.

Deborah responds by gripping the sheets. Her thighs cover Ava’s ears. She tilts her hips up so
she can get a better angle.
Ava licks into her; sinks her tongue down. A heel digs into her shoulder blade and Deborah
writhes beneath her, moving her hips like she’s guiding Ava to an important spot. She’s never
had so many feelings all at once. They spiral inside of her, a kaleidoscope of joy, affection,
relief, humour, fear, arousal. It’s so dizzying, she loses herself in her.

The harder she works, the more Deborah starts to squirm and gasp. She loves everything
about it: the strain in her jaw, the stickiness on her face, the sweat on her thighs. When
Deborah comes she just keeps on going, stroking the flat of her tongue over her clit until
she’s shaking again. She only pulls away when there’s a hand on her head.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Deborah croaks.

Ava laughs. The image of a Deborah naked and spent will be embossed on her temporal lobe
for the rest of her life. She kisses her way back up her body, lingering on her favourite spots.
Leaving wet kisses like stamps of approval.

“Was that okay?”

Deborah looks dazed and comfortable. “You’re… very skilled.”

Ava has to laugh at the professional compliment. “Thank you. I’m fully certified.”

“I don’t know if I can… do that,” she says.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

She takes pause, studying Ava’s expression like she’s searching for the disappointment.
“You’d want me to, though?”
“It’s not about what I want. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Deborah rolls her eyes. “Just answer the question.”

The thought of Deborah’s mouth on her stops her breathing. “I think I’d literally pass out
before you even got close. In a good way. What—Why? Do you want to?”

Deborah shrugs. “I hadn’t really thought about it.” Then she smiles.

“You’re such an asshole.” Ava laughs. She wonders if Deborah can taste herself when she
kisses her. She licks into her mouth and it makes her stomach swirl.

When Deborah sits up, her back is toned and dappled with a lifetime’s worth of freckles and
scars. Ava traces her finger down her vertebrae and makes a booing sound from the audience
as Deborah slips her camisole back on.

“Don’t go overboard. You’re starting to sound insincere.”

“I would never,” Ava insists. “I don’t know when you stopped feeling like a hot piece of ass
but I promise, I’m gonna make you feel so objectified, you won’t even believe it.”

“Lucky me.”

“I just want you to know, you’re not just a mind to me. You are also a piece of meat.”

“As long as I’m an expensive cut, at least,” she says as she lays back down. They lay face to
face.

“You’re like Salt Bae’s gold steak.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ava waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell you later,” she mumbles. She nudges her nose against
Deborah's, pulls her back down to the bed and kisses her again. She looks so radiant in the
soft light, a gentle flush on her cheeks. Ava memorises every inch of her face as she slips a
hand down inside her underwear.

Deborah silently moves her hand away and replaces it with her own as if belongs to Deborah
now. As if she's one of her responsibilities. She pulls Ava's underwear down until they're a
mere band around her mid-thighs and fucks her gently until she comes around her fingers.
Then she puts her fingers in Ava’s mouth and Ava takes them willingly, tasting what Deborah
has pulled from her.

Ava looks at her past the wet fingers holding her face. They look good together like this.
Unconventional, maybe. But Ava can’t imagine it any other way. “You’re gonna drive me
insane, lady.”

“Better it happens now than when you’re 70,” Deborah says.

Suddenly it feels big and heavy, her being here like this. Ava can’t say what she wants to say
but the way she looks at her screams it. She focuses on the sweet instead of the bitter.

She wakes up an hour later to Deborah fully dressed, sat on the bed scribbling notes.

“Hey,” she greets her groggily.

 “Hey.” Deborah smiles and it feels like a dream come true. She looks fucking cute in her
cream cardigan and her glasses with the chain.

Ava is going to wake up like this all the time, she decides. She’s going to wake up to Deborah
smiling at her as many times as she fucking can.

“You might wanna check your phone, it’s been going off non-stop.”

Ava rolls over to grab her jitterbug.

3 Missed Calls

Jimmy: Ava call me back

Jimmy: Kayla got a very weird voicemail from you yesterday

Jimmy: What is going on?

Jimmy: Do I need to call Barbara?

She’s going to wake up to a single bed in Boston. She’s going to wake up to cat shit and three
feet of snow. She’s going to be alone again.

“…Oh, fuck.”

Chapter End Notes

sorry!!! shout at me on twitter: @ mouthyhack / my tumblr is mouthybroad

without being too soppy i really wish i could kiss every single one of you on the mouth
(consensually).
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“If you’re going to jackhammer your way out of here, will you at least tell me what’s
wrong?” Deborah doesn’t look up from her iPad but Ava’s bouncing leg has caught her
attention. They're sitting side by side on the jet; Deborah in her usual spot, Ava in Barry’s.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Er, you were right — just Jimmy calling about the lawsuit.” Ava shakes her
phone, the one that’s been burning a hole in her hand since they left Charlotte. She’s been
dodging his calls for 24 hours now. The ‘hey Jimmy! not sure what you mean, all good here!’
text only exasperated the situation.

Quotes about history repeating itself mock her from all corners of her mind. Even when she
thinks she’s done everything right she still ends up back here, twenty thousand feet above
ground, lying to Deborah about the state of their relationship. Marx was right, this is a
fucking farce. She flips open her phone in the vain hope Jimmy’s texts will have somehow
disappeared by themselves. It’s not that she doesn’t believe Deborah could have a sane
response to her accidentally outing them — it’s just that she’s never seen her have a sane
response to anything before. The best case scenario here is that Ava doesn’t lose any more
teeth.

Deborah is being nice to her again — sort of. It’s a huge cosmic joke that the only time that
ever happens is when Ava is sitting on a bomb, one twitch of her thumb away from blowing
everything up. She grabs Deborah's purse for her when they land.

“I got it,” she says and the guilt must be written all over her face. But Deborah lets her take
it. She keeps letting Ava take and take and take. Ava’s terrified she won’t know what do to
with the weight of it all when she no longer has Deborah there, giving her that reassuring
smile.

A days worth of LA’s dry heat radiates out of the tarmac when the plane doors open. It smells
the same as it always does. It’s weird having Deborah here with her this time. She keeps
showing up in places Ava never thought she’d see her: Waltham, LA, her bed. Before she’s
even set foot on the ground, her phone is ringing again.
“Go ahead,” she says and juts her chin to their waiting SUV. “I’m just gonna take this.” She
waits until Deborah is out of earshot before she picks up. “Jimmy, hey! How are ya?”

“Ava, are you dodging my calls?” He sounds panicked.

“What? No, why would I—What’s going on?”

“You tell me! I hate to repeat back what I heard but why does Kayla have a voicemail of you
threatening to grope Deborah over crab rolls?” He lowers his voice towards the end of his
sentence. Ava envisions him covering his mouth in case someone manages to lip-read
through his glass walls.

“Okay, that’s—That was just a part of the set. And I didn’t mean to call back so you can
actually just go ahead and delete that message.”

“Ava, it’s company policy for me to check in if I think something weird is going on. Trust
me, I know what it’s like to be in a me-too situation. Unless Deborah is the me? Oh God,
Ava, this is very bad.”

“There is no me-too situation! Jesus. Look, everything is fine. It’s all very consensual.”

“Oh my God, Ava, you flipped Deborah Vance?!”

“We’re all adults, okay!” It takes a little self-convincing. “Just, Deborah can’t know you
know, alright? She’s gonna freak out if she thinks she's gonna get outed.”

“Look, I’ll give you some time but… I need to hear it from Deborah. You know I trust you
but I can’t risk not reporting this to HR on your word alone.”
Ava squeezes her eyes shut. Jesus, what happened to the culture of silence when you fucking
need it? “Okay. Fine. I’ll—I’ll talk to her. Just make sure Kayla doesn’t fucking tell
anyone?”

“Don’t worry, she barely pays attention to anything that happens here. I think she already
forgot. You’re okay though?”

His genuine concern is almost enough to move her. “Yeah, Jimmy, I’m fine. I’m really good,
actually. Or I was. Fuck, I’ll call you back.”

The SUV honks and Ava jumps out of her skin. “Ava, let's go!!”

There’s a hot prickle down her spine as she makes her way over to the car. The oppressive
heat feels a lot like looming dread.

“Finally,” Deborah exclaims as she climbs in next to her. “Don’t tell me you forgot someone
else’s ashes — I’m not turning the jet around.”

“Oh my God, it was two fucking minutes.” Ava frowns, sandwiched in the middle seat
between her and Damien.

Deborah looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Her hand settles next to Ava's leg, the back of
her knuckles brushing against the side of Ava’s thigh. It’s a calculated move, a silent reaching
out for her as she watches the illuminated LA night fly past. Her wrist tilts up slightly. Ava
realises she’s asking to hold her hand.

The act feels like someone wrenching her heart out of her chest. Something so innocent, so
unabashedly lovely. It feels traditional. Ava never expected this for them; never thought it
possible they could be the kind of people who hold hands in the back seat of a car.

The veins on the back of Deborah’s hand stand out and her joints have a reddish hue. She’s
wearing a glitzy ring on her middle finger and her skin is mottled with sunspots. Ava’s hand
looks pale next to hers, smooth and undefined. Their fingers intertwine and it looks like an
optical illusion; it’s hard to tell where Ava ends and Deborah begins. Ava forgets what she
looks like without her. What her life looks like without her.

Damien’s eyes flick up from their enclasped hands and Ava notes the restrained smile across
his face. She’s not entirely sure if he’s laughing at her or if he’s happy for them but it makes
her giddy either way, to be witnessed with her. It makes it real.

It’s what’ll ruin them too. She looks ahead out the windscreen and feels herself being dragged
forwards against her will towards a certain end.

Deborah’s side mansion is fucking ridiculous. The barrel-vaulted ceiling makes Ava feel four
feet tall as Deborah’s heels clack against the chequered tiles. She wanders the halls, listening
to the muffled sounds of Anita Baker playing from another floor, then dumps her bag on the
bed of what she assumes to be the main bedroom. There’s no way there could be a bigger one
somewhere else. This one already has two fucking couches.

It’s difficult to imagine Deborah here 15 years ago, living an entirely different life without
her. What kind of clothes did she wear? Who did she speak to every day? Who was she
thinking about as Anita Baker sang about sweet love? It feels like in every room she walks in,
she pictures some version of Deborah there, scattered through time. Whether she’s in an 80s
club or sat on a tasseled couch, Ava’s getting good at fully realising the image.

“Getting settled?” The real Deborah is leaning against the door frame.

“Oh yeah, I feel right at home. Thank God we get a couch each, I was worried I was gonna
have to sit within four feet of you.” Neither of them acknowledged the assumption Ava will
be sharing her room.

“Keep your chimneysweep boots off and I’ll let you sit on mine.”
There’s a good innuendo in there somewhere but Ava’s distracted by the way Deborah fiddles
with her necklace. "I’ll let you sit on… something,” is all she manages.

Deborah gives a little frown but thankfully disregards the pitiful attempt. “How are you?”
She asks and her voice is low. She has a glitter about her eye that makes Ava feel like prey.

“I’m good, I’m great,” Ava says. Her stomach gets heavy as Deborah walks over to her.

“Not too exhausted from the flight, I hope.” A shy smile pulls around the corners of her
mouth.

“I’m not tired.”

“Good.”

They’re still not very good at this part. Tenderness doesn’t come naturally to them.
Seduction, for them, is best done through combativeness; a push and pull of teasing and faux
rebuffs. But there’s nothing adversarial about it this time. Deborah just wants her.

Ava would be mad not to kiss her. She tastes like lipstick when she does. Kissing Deborah is
undoubtedly dazzling but being kissed by her is life-altering. She holds the base of Ava’s
skull and it’s as if she’s holding her head above water.

Deborah unbuttons her satin shirt — Ava wears satin now, apparently. She feels less guilty,
somehow, letting Deborah take the lead.

Her palm is hot on Ava’s belly. She’s heavy with desire when Deborah kisses her neck and
palms her breast over her bra. Ava’s never seen her this hungry before; it’s as if Charlotte
awakened something in her. Something primal. Body swaying into Deborah’s arms, Ava
reaches back to find anchorage on the bed.
“Take your pants off, honey,” Deborah says and fuck, Ava could get used to this mix of
attentive and authoritative. Maybe she’s interpreting Ava’s anxiety as her being in a sour
mood and this is her attempt to soothe her. “Do you want to lie down?”

The thought lodges itself in the back of Ava's mind. Deborah strokes her temple as she steps
out of her jeans. She’s taken to this dynamic — the one where Ava bares herself and Deborah
keeps her clothes on. She feels like she’s giving something to her. Letting her hold on to a
sliver of control. This is Ava’s way of making her feel comfortable. Equilibrium won’t ever
be achieved for them and so why bother trying?

“No. I wanna kiss you.” She perches on the foot of the french bed and wraps her legs around
Deborah’s hips. Deborah licks into her mouth and she squeezes her closer with the backs of
her calves.

Ava gasps when Deborah's hand finds her open legs.

“Jesus, you’re wet, baby.” Deborah sighs into her mouth; the pads of her fingers rub against
Ava.

It’s all too much: her words, her demeanour, the way she kisses her bottom lip. That spanner
of guilt won’t move from Ava's chest. So much care and attention spills out of Deborah;
every stroke of her fingers sends waves of it across her spread thighs. She doesn’t deserve it.
She vaguely notes the irony of how falling for the biggest asshole in Las Vegas, second to
Anthony Spilotro, has made her a better person.

“Jimmy knows,” she blurts in the place of a moan when Deborah kisses her neck.

Deborah’s hand stills but doesn’t move away. She pulls back to look at Ava. “What?”

“My stupid phone left a voicemail of us talking and Jimmy heard it and now he thinks I’m
coercing you or whatever so he’s gonna call you and check everything’s okay and I’m sorry.
It won’t get out, I promise. He won’t tell anyone.” It all comes flooding out at once. It’s
difficult to talk when Deborah’s still cupping her.
Ava finds that anger looks so much like desire when it comes to Deborah; it’s hard to tell the
two apart. She blinks a few times and glances down to where her hand is. “You’re telling me
this now?”

Ava gives a soft chuckle. “I’m sorry I just… I couldn’t focus otherwise.”

Deborah gives the briefest of nods. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.” And then starts moving her
fingers again in soft, wide circles.

“Oh, fuck.” Ava gives a low groan. “You’re not mad?”

“I… haven’t decided yet," she says against the soft spot under Ava’s jaw.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it makes Ava feel. Her whimper is smothered when Deborah
kisses her. Ava clings on like her life depends on it; her arms wrapped around her neck, her
legs around her hips. It feels so fucking good to just be close to her. The relief mixed with
Deborah’s fingers fucking into her has her spiraling out of control within minutes.

After she comes the first time, Deborah pats the inside of her thigh — a quick, commanding
double tap — and tells her to lay back. She doesn’t crawl up the bed like Ava would, she
walks around, shucking off her overshirt, and swings her legs up to lay next to her. She kisses
Ava like she’s trying to tell her something important; the strokes of her tongue coaxing her
closer.

Ava wants to touch her but Deborah seems adamant that she makes her come again. Which
she does, very efficiently, and then does again. Ava’s cheeks are hot and her knees are spread
to an obscene degree. She’s left with her thighs shaking and her heart pounding, the hard
thuds echoing through her ribcage. Her shirt is likely wrinkled beyond wearability, the
emerald satin bringing out the red hues across her chest. Her hip pops back into place when
she eventually straightens her legs.

“Fucking hell.” Ava sighs. “Were you planning this the whole plane ride?”
Deborah gives a low chuckle as she kisses her shoulder and she looks proud of herself.
“Perhaps.”

She has a contemplative look in her eye, her head resting next to Ava’s on the pillow. It’s
somewhere between affectionate and sad. Ava can’t really think about anything other than
how beautiful she looks. She’d totally launch a thousand ships for that face.

“You should stay here in LA once we’ve got this thing sold,” she says.

Ava laughs. Denial is always the first stage. “What do you mean?”

“This is your home,” she shrugs. "No point delaying your inevitable move back here.”

“What?” Ava feels the earth slip out from under her; the whole thing tilting on its axis before
she realises she’s just sat up. “Are you serious? You’re—You’re ending this?”

Deborah gets up with a sigh and sits at the foot of the bed, a million miles away.

“You’re just gonna fuck me and then send me on my way?" The words burst out of her,
pressurised as her throat contracts with anger. Her chest gets tighter and tighter the more she
comprehends what’s happening. "What the fuck?”

“Lower your voice,” Deborah snaps. “I’m not sending you anywhere.” She doesn’t look at
Ava as she gets up to clean her hand with a makeup wipe.

“No, you’re just leaving me behind.” The words come out scratchy over the lump in her
throat. She grabs her underwear off the floor and trips as she tries to get her foot through the
leg hole.“I—I told you it won’t get out. Jimmy’s not gonna say anything,” she bargains.
Deborah shoots her an exhausted look like she’s begging Ava not to do this and wishes she
would just go quietly. As if that was ever going to be an option.

“God, this is why I didn’t wanna tell you! I knew you would freak out. Not everything has to
be the worst-case scenario! Nobody’s asking you to take over for fucking Ellen!”

Deborah ignores her. She fiddles with the bottles of serums on the vanity, lining them up one
by one as if they weren’t already perfect.

“Deborah!”

“This is my life!” Deborah whips around and then bites back some of the anger in her voice
as if she’d surprised herself. “My career!”

“It’s my life too!” Ava scoffs.

“You’re 25! You don’t even have a life yet, this is just a quirky thing for you to write about
one day. The lurid affair with a 70-year-old.”

There’s a sort of sneer in her voice that makes Ava shake with rage. Ava’s so fucking sick of
her condescension. The belittlement that comes every time she shows any kind of affection
towards her. “Is that seriously what you think this is?”

Deborah takes a breath through her nose and her next words come out like granite, hard and
grey and cold. “I will not blow apart my life for you.”

“I’m not asking you to!”

“I don’t live in your world, Ava. I don’t get to just be…” She waves a hand in Ava’s
direction.
“Gay?”

Deborah closes her eyes. She shuts herself off from the word as if she’s tormented by it.
Maybe she is. Maybe this is a thorn that’s been following her around her whole life. An
invisible fear that keeps her awake at night. “I’m not…”

“Hate to break it to you, lady, but the way you feel about me is pretty fucking gay. I don’t
know how long you’ve been sitting on that but I think you owe it to yourself to finally accept
it. To just fucking say it out loud for once.”

“I deserve what I’ve worked for!” She points an accusatory finger at Ava and takes a few
steps toward her. Ava does her best to not be intimidated. “What I’ve spent my whole life
building! You don’t get to take that away from me. Nothing is more important. Not even
you.”

Ava’s a fucking idiot for feeling a flicker of hope at the idea that if anything were to come
close, it would be her. But she doesn’t come close enough. No matter how far they’ve come,
it’s all just a fucking wash if she can’t get over this last hurdle.

“This isn’t about me!”

“Oh please, like hell it is.”

“It’s not!” Her voice cracking makes a better case for the other side. Even if she does truly
believe Deborah deserves to finally be herself after 70 years, she can’t deny her motivations
are selfish. She wants Deborah to be herself — with her. The anger vibrates through her
limbs. All this progress, all this fighting for change and they’re still here. Ava was supposed
to be the first generation to whom this didn’t happen. She blinks and tears well from both
eyes. “You’re… you’re pushing me away because you’re scared. But you don’t need to be,
things aren’t like how they were.”
Deborah scoffs. She looks like she might argue back but then gives up. “Marcus is waiting
downstairs.”

“No, wait.” Ava grabs Deborah’s arm as she tries to pass. "You can’t just leave me alone. I…I
love you.” She says it as if it’s an important piece of data that will finally make them work;
the missing piece that will allow the equation to run smoothly. How could it possibly not,
now that she knows? How could she still turn away? Love should make it a mathematical
impossibility.

All of the anger and fear melts away from Deborah’s face; she just looks fucking sad. She
puts a hand on Ava’s cheek. Her version of a period at the end of a sentence.

“You don’t even know what that is yet,” she says and wipes her tears with her thumb. Ava
would rather she slap her a thousand times than break her heart so gently.

“I do… I do,” she chokes but it all fizzles out. It should be anger in her chest. It should be
rage and fire; enough to burn down cities. All she can do is panic and plead. “Please, I… I
can’t live in LA with a gap tooth.”

Deborah gives a little laugh. “I still need you,” she reasons. Ava can’t understand how she
isn’t crying. “We’ll keep working, this week. The special still needs tweaks. But you should
stay here after. This is where you belong.”

This is what she wanted all those months ago: twelve-dollar lattes, sneakers with gummy
soles, cool people and opportunity. She thought she’d feel safer in LA but she’s realising now
this place never really felt like home.

“Marcus is waiting,” Deborah says again, and then she walks away.

Ava sits on the bed, in amongst the rubble, and the room seems impossibly quiet. She can’t
help wondering if this is what she wanted all along. If this is her best attempt at complete
self-destruction yet: falling for a woman she knows she can’t have. Maybe Deborah’s right
and doesn’t actually love her; she just loves the fallout. Maybe she revels in the familiarity of
it. She's always been more comfortable amongst disarray.
Wouldn’t that be easier than the truth? That she does love her and that Deborah loves her too.
Just not enough to make it work.

She looks at the cream carpet and the fibres are blurred behind a glaze of tears. She lets out a
laugh. It starts in her chest and then goes deep into her belly, spilling out of her in shrill
waves. When did she become this person? She’s never cared about anything this much
before. This awful pain in her heart makes her realise for the first time that she has one and it
bleeds everywhere. It feels fucking good to be alive and in love. Even if she’s crying in her
underwear.

She takes a shaky breath and wipes her tears. This isn’t how this goes. Ava is bullheaded.
She’ll just keep trying. She’ll be whatever Deborah needs her to be, do anything to keep
herself as close to Deborah as possible. And so what if a good friend would scream at her for
putting herself through this? She doesn’t have any fucking friends anyway. Deborah lived 70
years denying herself; surely Ava can do the same if it means being wherever she is.

A wave of calm washes over her as her plan solidifies. She’s going to be good. She’s going to
be funny and professional and so fucking charming that Deborah can’t leave without her even
if she wants to. She smiles and picks up her jeans.

Ava greets her downstairs awhile later — long enough for the redness around her eyes to go
down — with a bright smile on her face. Deborah is nursing a martini at the kitchen table.

“So,” she grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl and hops up onto the table, "what’s the plan for
the night? You got any calls to make? Or do you wanna work?”

Deborah looks suspicious for a moment as if she’s trying to figure out Ava’s angle. Like she
can’t quite grasp how she’s gone from tearful declarations of love to being so lively and
driven.

“Sure,” she says eventually. "My schedule is clear.”

“I was thinking, the line about your magic wand is a little outdated, you should probably
change it to just a bullet or something. Nobody’s using mains-powered sex toys anymore like
it’s the fucking 90s.”

Deborah ignores the dig. “Are you sure you’re… okay? You can take the night if you need.”

“This is work, Deborah,” she says over her apple. "Like you said: nothing’s more
important.”

Ava can’t help basking in the slight look of indignity she sees flash in Deborah’s eyes. She
can adopt this kind of martyrdom if she wants but Ava won’t be sucked in. She’s not going to
play her role in whatever tragic narrative Deborah is spinning. If there’s one quality they
share, it’s pettiness. Ava plans on using it to her advantage. She’s going to annoy Deborah so
much that she starts drawing her back in purely out of spite. It honestly feels kind of nice
getting back to this place she’s so familiar with; fighting a battle of wits with Deborah.

“Right,” Deborah says and almost stops herself from sounding bitter. “And you’re wrong
about mains powered toys — nobody wants their vibrator cutting out seconds before
orgasm.”

Ava smiles at her retort as if she’s caught a fish. “Unless you’re into edging.”

“The only thing that’d be edging me towards is homicide.”

They both laugh and the look they share feels better than a simultaneous orgasm — almost.
Deborah quickly opens up her laptop to write the joke down in their shared note. Ava refills
Deborah's glass with what’s in the shaker and makes herself a tequila with soda. It’s been a
long fucking day.

“You trying to get me drunk?” Deborah raises a questioning eyebrow as Ava pulls out the
seat next to hers, putting her feet up on the crossbar of Deborah’s chair.
“Not at all. But, hey, if you feel as though you can’t keep it professional if there’s alcohol
involved—”

“I can keep it professional just fine. I’m worried about you.”

“That’s sweet but I got professional coming out of my ass.” She takes a sip of her drink and
winces at how strong it is.

“Jesus,” Deborah mutters as she types.

“I’m serious.” Ava looks at the side of her cheek. "You couldn’t seduce me if you tried.”

It gets a little smile out of her. Ava’s slipping into that old habit Ruby used to tell her off for,
assuming she knows people better than they know themselves. But she’s confident about
Deborah. She knows she wants Ava just as much as Ava wants her. All she needs is a little
reassurance that this doesn’t have to be an atomic bomb on the life she’s accustomed to.

“Your reverse psychology isn’t going to work on me,” Deborah says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ava says in her best ‘confused housewife from
the 40s’ voice and gives a pert smile when Deborah glares at her. “So, back to the sex toys
—”

Deborah rolls her eyes.

“—you could punch up the bit about Keith Urban with ‘not even my womanizer sucks that
hard.’”

“My what?”
“Oh, it’s like a vibrator but it sucks.”

“Why would I have one if they suck?”

“No, I mean they literally suck.” Ava leans over to open a new tab and brings up the
Lovehoney website. “Like, on your clit,” she says as an image of a pink clitoral stimulator
pops up.

Deborah lifts her chin and squints at the screen and Ava mournfully finds it fucking adorable.
“And people know about these? They’re not just some niche thing only slutty people know
about?”

“No, they’re not some niche thing only slutty people know about. Lily Allen released her
own line of them.” Ava clicks on an expensive-looking one with a rose gold finish. “I
honestly just prefer a classic g-spot vibe but to each their own.”

“Well, there’s a whole world of penetration open to you now.” She sounds slightly bitter as if
she wasn’t the one to put a stop to their arrangement.

“You say that like there wasn’t before. You know, you could’ve had a whole bit about strap-
ons but I guess you’re not gay, so,” Ava says with a passive-aggressive smile.

Deborah shoots her a warning look. She clicks on a very erect-looking purple strap-on from
the ‘customers also bought’ section. “I’d rather have sex with a man again than get fucked
with a piece of plastic held on by some string.”

“Oh my God, do you even hear yourself when you talk? Not even the self-hating bisexuals
talk about sex with men like it’s a punishment as much as you do.” She can’t tell if it’s the
martini making her cheeks flush or if Ava’s struck a nerve. “Besides,” she moves the
conversation forward. “I’m great with a strap-on.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ava cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, will you now?”

“It’s an expression." She looks flustered. “They just look ridiculous. I don’t know how
anyone takes it seriously.”

Ava looks at the hairs next to her temple where they’re soft and fluffy. Huddled over a laptop
screen right next to her is her favourite place in the world. “You don’t have to look at it if it’s
inside you." She thrills at the way it sends a shiver through Deborah.

“Hm, kinda like how I don’t have to listen to you talk if you—” She cuts herself off when she
sees Ava’s eyes going wide with glee. “Never mind.”

“No, I think you should absolutely finish what you were gonna say.” Ava fucking beams. The
fact that she’s still thinking about Ava going down on her makes her stomach feel tight. The
memories of it flash through her and it’s a rush to know they’re flashing through Deborah
too.

Deborah looks away and brings her notes back up. “I’m cutting the bit about your Twitter
account. It makes me sound old.”

“Fine but you have to keep the bit about my nudes, that’s my favourite line. I mean, I’d say I
loved it but apparently I don’t know what that is.”

Deborah shakes her head at Ava’s pettiness but still refuses to engage. “For someone who
doesn’t perform you sure like to be the centre of attention.”

"Only when it’s your attention.”

“Ava.” Deborah sighs her admonishment but Ava knows she’s turned on. She her pupils are
dark and when they drop down to Ava’s mouth, she knows she has her. Hook, line, and
sinker.

It would be so easy to lean in and kiss her. She would pull her bottom lip between her teeth,
bite just enough to get her blood pumping. She’d sit Deborah on the kitchen table, hike up
her skirt and pull her underwear to the side. She'd eat her like she was a five-course meal and
her fingers would leave tiny bruises on Deborah’s thighs that she’d run her tongue over after.

Ava tilts her head and it takes every bit of self-restraint she has to say: “I guess I should
probably go find myself a bedroom. It’s getting late.”

The flash of disappointment that crosses Deborah’s face feels like hitting a bullseye on the
first go. Ava lets the smug smile take over her mouth and she can feel the annoyance
radiating out of Deborah, white hot and thrumming.

“Unless you want me to stay?”

“No,” she says but her voice carries an air of flustered irritation. “You’re right — it’s late. I
had Josefina make up the second bedroom for you.”

“Well, don’t stay up too late,” Ava says, a hand on the back of Deborah's chair.

“I won’t,” Deborah sings sweetly but she’s turned back to her screen.

“Hey, maybe you should get yourself one of those,” she nods to the maroon toy on the screen
and Deborah finally gives her a deathly look of contempt.

Ava grins mercilessly. She goes to bed hopeful and realises why there are so many fucking
Greek myths about the feeling. When she fucks herself to the sensation of it—the soft
humming in her stomach, the desire to leap from one moment to the next as quickly as
possible—and she hopes Deborah hears from the next room.
Meetings the next day are uneventful. It’s awkward with Jimmy. He almost makes a comment
but Ava shoots him a panicked look to stifle it.

Everyone adopts that faux-excited smile at the prospect of working with a legend like
Deborah and politely ignores the fact that she’s been out of fashion for a while now. But it’s
all over their faces and it’s in the way they don’t offer coffee and the fact they had to park in
lot D. Ava tries not to get too angry at their idiocy. She’s being nonchalant, after all. Casual.
Flirtatious when the moment requires it.

They get a shitty offer in the last meeting and Deborah leaves them with a pat on her pocket
to go and lick her wounds in private. Probably in a very expensive boutique
somewhere. Jimmy treats her to a chai latte and asks annoying questions about what other
projects she’s working on and complains about Latitude’s culture issues.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t vent to you. My therapist has Lyme disease so I haven’t been able to
go in.”

“Honestly it’s fine. This town is so gross sometimes.” She’s starting to wonder why she ever
missed it to begin with.

“What about you and Deborah?” He asks cautiously.

Ava shakes her head. “Don’t ask.”

“Is there anything I can do? You know, I dated an older woman in college. She was Gen X so
it’s not quite the same but who knows, maybe I could help?”

“I think the only thing that’s gonna help is pretending nothing’s happened.” She takes a long
pull on her latte as if it were a stiff drink. “I just can’t help feeling like this is all happening
because that seagull didn’t shit on me in Florida.”

He frowns at her. “Huh, sure, maybe. But whatever’s going on with you two, I hope it doesn’t
get in the way of what you’re both doing here. You’re both too talented for that.”

“It won’t,” she says. "Trust me, I know the work is more important.”

She’s wondering when that stopped being true for her. When did Deborah rebalance
everything? Her career has always been her top priority, even when it shouldn’t have been.
For once it feels like the scales have been tilted back towards her.

It’s late by the time Deborah gets home, wearing one of her antique carpet duster jackets.
She’s caught one of her shopping bags in the front door and that’s how Ava finds her:
muttering curse words under her breath as she unlocks the door again to release herself.

“Oh my God, are you drunk right now?” Ava calls down from her place on the indoor
balcony.

Deborah’s head whips up with enough force to unbalance her and she sways slightly.

“No,” she says and she definitely is. Ava watches her disappear into the kitchen, her head
seemly detached from her body as it wobbles independently from the rest of her. She's
pouring herself a glass of wine by the time Ava gets downstairs.

“Here,” she says, “I got you something.” There’s a plethora of shopping bags across the table,
all of them marked with designer brands Ava could never afford.

“Did ya take a trip to Rodeo drive?”

She pours Ava a glass too, spilling some as it sloshes over the lip. “Open it.” She grins and
her eyes are glazed as she swings the Apple bag towards her.

“You got me an iPhone? Deborah, you really didn’t have to—”

“How am I supposed to get ahold of you if you don’t even have a functioning phone? It’s for
business,” she says and it’s maybe a little defensive.

It doesn’t feel like just a phone; it feels like a bribe. It feels like Deborah begging her to
leave. Ava has to stay here in LA now Deborah’s bought her the phone for it. She doesn’t
want it. It represents a going back to normal, a rejoining of regular society. She likes this
bubble of seclusion she’s made with Deborah. She also absolutely wouldn’t have got one in
gold.

“So we’re still gonna talk? Even after you banish me from Vegas?”

“I’m not banishing you. I’m just speeding up the inevitable,” Deborah says as if she’s
convinced Ava will leave her.

There’s nothing for Ava to say that isn’t another emotive declaration of love and
commitment. She plucks her new phone out of its box and feels the smooth edges. “I guess
it’ll be nice to be able to take photos again.”

“Just don’t send any without permission." Deborah smirks.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’d have to ask for those kinda pics.” Ava smiles back.

Her hair is all mussed about her cheeks. There’s a forgotten smile on her face. A zoetrope of
images spinning behind her eyes. She looks like she might say something but then she
swallows her words. “Where’s my drink?” She mumbles to herself and turns to retrieve it.
There’s a smash as she knocks her glass off the counter into the sink. “Oops. Sorry, sorry,
sorry."

Ava hops up from her seat to stop her from trying to pick up the shards. “Don’t touch it.”

“I’m fine." She swats at Ava’s hands.

“Just leave it. I’m not bandaging you up.” Ava swats her back.

She gives up with a huff, letting Ava carefully pick up the pieces. She’s endearing like this.
Ava is an impulsive and sometimes cruel drunk. Deborah just seems like an unwound version
of herself, benign and vulnerable.

With all the broken glass in the trash, Ava starts picking up Deborah’s shopping.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking all this shit upstairs.”

“It’s not shit. It’s expensive,” she mutters but follows without question, heaving herself up
the stairs with a hand on the banister. Ava wonders how long she’s been drinking. She
disappears into the ensuite when they make it to her room.

Ava puts the shopping on the second couch and spots a bag from Cupid’s Closet. “Oh shit,
did you actually get a womanizer?”

“Well, if you’re not there to do the job…” She calls back. Ava finds her leaning her entire
body weight against the side of the sink as she wrestles with the back of her wig.
“You know there’s like a very easy solution to that problem.”

“I know. I bought it.” She looks at Ava with hazy, unfocused eyes. “Fuck." She winces at a
caught hairpin.

Ava pulls the stool out from under the vanity. "Sit down."

“Don’t." She yanks her head away as Ava tries to remove the pin.

“Just let me. You’re not gonna sleep in it,” she reasons.

There's a moment's stand off before Deborah concedes. Then Ava pulls the pins out one by
one, holding them in her mouth as she goes. Deborah points out where they all are and she’s
careful not to snag her hair as she goes. It must be uncomfortable, Ava imagines. She
wonders how many years she’s been wearing one. Whether she breathes a sigh of relief every
night at its removal or not. She slips the wig off and Deborah's hair is flat underneath, wispy
at the sides. Deborah swallows and looks at the floor and Ava pretends not to see the glisten
in her eyes.

“Careful,” she scolds quietly as Ava places the wig on the mannequin head next to the
mirror.

“I’m being careful,” Ava argues, equally as quiet. "Lashes?” She holds out the pot as
Deborah peels her eyelashes off.

As Ava douses a cotton pad in cleanser, she realises she knows Deborah's nighttime routine
almost by heart. She juts her chin up to get Deborah to mimic her and cleanses her face,
gently removing her makeup. She sweeps the cotton across each contour, up her cheekbones,
over her forehead. Deborah closes her eyes. Her skin moves differently to Ava’s and it looks
delicate and soft.
It reminds Ava of being on the bus all those weeks ago; Deborah wiping her face with a damp
cloth. She never realised how intimate that must’ve been for her, to study Ava’s face so
closely. Grief washes over her as she puts herself in Deborah’s position. She’s never really
acknowledged the stark contrast between them; Deborah has always just been Deborah. But
how scary it must be after a lifetime of silent suppression to be looking down at a face as
young as Ava’s and to find herself attracted; to be reminded of all the times she’s felt that
way about a woman’s face and rejected the feeling. Enough times that her own face has
grown old.

It’s easier sometimes to feel rage at the world—at men, at violence, at the society we’ve built
—than it is to feel the grief of lost time. It must be maddening to watch Ava be so at ease
with it all. To watch her be brazen in her desire, in her queerness, in her love for her. Ava is a
fool to underestimate the weight of that. She coughs a little to clear the lump in her throat and
Deborah’s eye blink open.

“You’re not watching me change,” Deborah slurs and Ava laughs as her heart aches.

“What do you need? Where are your PJs?”

“Closet on the left.”

She waits on top of the covers, keeping an ear out for any clattering until Deborah eventually
crawls into bed. She flops down with a heavy sigh.

“Did you drink water?”

Deborah nods.

“Straight to sleep?”

She glances up at Ava from the pillow and she looks small. “I thought I couldn’t seduce you
if I tried?”
Ava laughs and shuffles down until they lie face to face. “Not what I was offering but maybe
you can prove me wrong tomorrow.”

They look at each other and Deborah seems tired. Physically but emotionally too. Like
maybe she’s just sick of being this person. If only she could stop inventing versions of herself
to please other people. “I should’ve met you twenty years ago,” she says.

“Well, I would’ve been five, so.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes this time. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” Finally, Ava thinks she does. She picks up Deborah's hand
and intertwined their fingers. “Are you ever gonna be able to get over this?”

Deborah sighs. “I don’t know,” she says. Ava’s getting better, she thinks, at meeting her
where she is.

“I wouldn't change anything. I know that’s selfish, maybe. But I love everything about this.
About us.”

The shimmer and the redness around Deborah’s eyes make her irises look bright blue. Ava
squeezes her hand and she gives a little laugh when she looks at their fingers together on the
pillow.

“My old hands,” she says.

Ava smiles. “I think they’re beautiful.”

Deborah gives an almost pained sigh and for the first time looks as though she might actually
believe her.

Ava wakes to an empty bed the following morning. How the fuck Deborah manages to get
blackout drunk and still be up, showered, and dressed before her she’ll never know. She
makes a mental note to buy Deborah pajamas that have rise & grind written on the tits just to
see her look of disgust. The door clicks open and Deborah walks in carrying a tray.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” Ava asks groggily.

“I’m fine, why?” She asks as if the notion of a hangover is unbecoming. “There’s coffee,” she
says. “And pastries.”

There is one pastry, laid neatly on a plate. A make up croissant. “Breakfast in bed?”

“Just don’t get flakes in my sheets. The stench of men’s aftershave is enough already.”

“It’s deodorant and it’s gender neutral.”

Ava eats and Deborah stares into her mug as if she were trying to find a prophecy in the
coffee granules.

“Thanks for the phone.”

“Sure,” she says with a tight smile.

There’s tension around her. Maybe she’s embarrassed she tried to end things and failed. Ava
isn’t the only one who’s been free-falling. This is Deborah’s turn to hit a branch or two. Ava’s
just happy she’s trusted enough to witness it. She plucks the mug out of Deborah's hands
when she’s finished her croissant and moves to kiss her.

“You have crumbs around your mouth.” Deborah feigns a look of repulsion, wiping them
away with her thumb.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Ava says but she kisses her anyway, slow and languid. "Can I fuck you,
please?” She murmurs into Deborah’s lips and sees her chest deflate with want. If Ava can’t
use her words, this is how she’ll show Deborah just how much she loves her.

Deborah nods as if hypnotised. Ava peels off her necklaces one at a time and then her
cashmere sweater. Her lace bra matches her purple trousers. She remembers only the soft
details through this silky trance.

“You look like a photo,” Ava says as she kisses Deborah's collarbone.

“Absolutely not. I got you a phone for communication.”

“What if you need to communicate that you look hot as fuck?”

“Knowing you and your propensity to leak private information, I’d end on the front page of
TMZ.”

“Hmm, I’ll teach you how to use disappearing messages. Oh hey, what did you buy?” She
asks, remembering the Cupid’s Closet shopping bag sitting on the couch.

Deborah gives a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. You can look, if you want.”

“You want to?”

She just shrugs.Ava wonders if she’s ever had this kind of open communication before. Sex
without the seriousness.

“Hold on.” She hops off the bed and rummages around the multiple bags until she finds the
one she wants. She starts a little burlesque rhythm on her return, imitating a snare drum with
her tongue behind her teeth. She pulls her t-shirt off and stretches her arm out, flaunting the
way she discards this shirt on the floor. As soon as Deborah's eyes drop down to her chest,
Ava drops her jaw and gasps.

Deborah rolls her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Strip tease,” she says as she shimmies her hips and watches her sweats fall to her ankles.

“Thank God you’re coming up with your own rhythm. You’re not gonna be able to stick to
anyone else’s.”

Ava laughs and jumps back on the bed. There’re two items in the bag: a bottle of lube and a
clitoral suction simulator. It’s black with chrome trim and looks a bit like a spaceship from an
Amy Adams movie. “Shit, this looks nice.” She whistles and rips open the box with both
hands, tearing through the cardboard.

“Jesus, there’s no need to behave like a rabid werewolf.”

“I’m excited! Fourteen settings? That feels excessive. Oh my God, it’s so quiet too. Listen to
that.” She puts her thumb over the suction part and feels the way the air pressure pulls at her
skin.

Deborah's smiling but she still looks a little awkward. Ava throws the empty box on the floor
and puts the toy to the side for a moment, opting instead to crawl into her lap. “How about a
lap dance?”

“And you say you’re better at writing comedy than performing it.”
Ava’s laugh echoes in Deborah's mouth as she kisses her. She takes pleasure in the small
moments: unclasping her bra, throwing it gently on the chair, palming her breasts. She kisses
her lips, her chest, her ribs, her stomach, her knee as her pants come off, and the inside of her
ankle as Ava holds her foot.

“I came so hard thinking about this the other night.” Ava focuses on the sounds of her
breathing as she runs her fingers over her.

“Tell me." She strokes Ava’s hair in a soothing, almost apologetic rhythm.

“I was thinking about eating you out on the kitchen table.” Deborah smiles at that. “How I
just wanted to fucking drown in you.”

Deborah groans deep in her chest as Ava circles her, hips already rocking to find friction. Ava
pulls away to squirt lube on the tips of her fingers. She covers Deborah until she's
mouthwateringly glossy.

“Can I use this?” Ava asks as picks up the toy.

“If you fucking hurry up you can,” Deborah snaps.

Ava tuts at the impatience. She pulls Deborah's hips closer between her knees, fucks her with
her fingers, lifting her higher, bringing her past the point of desire, well into the territory of
need. Only when she's squirming and panting, laboured breaths sounding more frustrated
than pleading, does she pick up the toy again. She puts it on the second-to-lowest setting,
rubbing her thumb over her a few times so as to not surprise her.

“Don’t come,” she says and places the toy over her clit, her fingers still coaxing her softly
inside.
Deborah’s hips thrust up, her body seizes. “Oh, fuck, Ava.”

Her chest flushes, decorated with goosebumps. Her fists grip the sheets and her stomach
tightens. It's a sudden peak, from nothing to everything.

Ava's never seen her so out of control before. She fucks her, enthralled by the speed of things,
by the way Deborah clamps down around her fingers, shudders and disappears from logic,
unable to speak.

Her legs eventually snap shut to move the toy away.

“Did you just fully ignore what I said?” Ava asks, a little dazzled.

Deborah looks down over ragged breaths, disoriented and flushed. “I’m not gonna wait
around while you play silly games!" She blusters as if she had any control over what just
happened.

Ava turns the toy off and chucks it to the side. “They’re kinda crazy, right?”

“Jesus. I thought my eyeballs were going to bulge out of my head.”

Ava laughs. “Maybe we’ll build up to using that.” She lays on top of her as she calms down.

Deborah touches the wet patch in the centre of her underwear with a question in her eye but
Ava’s not done with her yet, despite the way her hips jerk into her palm.

“Would you lay on your front?” She asks.

Deborah frowns. “Why?”

“I wanna make you feel good. Trust me?”

She looks equally hesitant as she does turned on by the request. “Okay. I do. I do.”

Ava takes her underwear off as Deborah settles on her stomach, arms tucked under the pillow.
Ava kneels over the back of her left thigh. She leans forward and plants a kiss on her spine,
just between her shoulder blades. It’s a nice back, flecked with birthmarks and sunspots and
little white scars. Ava takes her time memorising each one.

“Okay?” She asks and squeezes more lube onto her fingers.

“Yeah,” Deborah sighs as Ava massages her entrance and then melts when she pushes inside.
"Fuck."

The new angle offers her depth and Deborah flutters around her as she fucks her. It feels
impossibly good; Ava leaves wet smudges on the back of her thigh. She picks up a pace and
chases her own pleasure on the back of her leg. This is how she’d fuck her if Deborah ever let
her use a strap-on.

“You look so fucking good right now,” she groans as she kisses her shoulder. Her other hand
snakes up to support her weight on her elbow, her fingers finding Deborah’s under the
pillow. Her head hangs heavy, resting on Deborah's shoulder blade as she lets all the
sensations wash over her: the thigh up against her clit, the warmth of her cunt around her
fingers, the way she whimpers under her.

Deborah quivers at Ava’s words. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she grips Ava’s hand,
focusing on the waves of pleasure rippling through her. Ava realises she likes the sound of
her voice, her grip tightening whenever she speaks. And so she strings together a daisy chain
of affection, binding each flower to the next with pumps of her fingers: “Does that feel good?
I wanna feel you come so badly. You’re doing so good. Fuck. You feel so good. You’re so
fucking good, Deborah.”
Deborah comes with an unrestrained cry. She pulses and tremors into the quilt, dripping onto
the sheets. Ava stills inside her as she comes down and then mournfully pulls her fingers out,
wishing she could keep fucking her forever.

She kisses her back and strokes the side of her hip with her blunt nails. “I don’t think you
need to worry about crumbs in your bed anymore,” she whispers, her tongue swiping the
shell of her ear. “You’re definitely gonna need to change the sheets.”

Deborah chuckles. “Have fun explaining that to Josefina.”

“Oh, you’re making me ask?”

“It’s your fault.” She doesn’t open her eyes as she talks.

“I think we’re capable of doing it ourselves.”

“You certainly are.”

Ava playfully slaps her ass and laughs when Deborah finally opens her eyes to shoot her an
outraged look. She’s so fucking relieved they’re back here. It feels even better now, with a
few more of their reservations held up to the light. It takes the power out of them. Deborah
rolls over onto her back and Ava lays next to her.

“I’m not gonna take that shitty offer,” she says, tucking Ava’s frazzled hair behind her ear. “I
know what I’m worth. I can self-fund. We can do this ourselves.”

Ava beams. “Fuck yeah! I think that’s an amazing idea.”

Deborah gives her the cutest smile she’s ever fucking seen, proud and happy and excited. It’s
like watching a flower bloom, seeing her believe in herself. Ava hopes it might have
something to do with her but even if it doesn’t she feels admiration blossoming inside her
chest. She kisses Ava's face, starting at her jaw and travelling south. They both chuckle when
Deborah rolls her onto her back, kissing her way over her chest and pulling a nipple into her
mouth.

If Ava was wet before, she’s practically liquid now. But Deborah just keeps going, sticking
her tongue into Ava’s belly button as she passes.

“Oh my God, are you…?” She watche captivated as Deborah encourages her knees apart and
settles between her legs. “Okay. Fuck.”

Deborah places a tentative kiss on her clit as if she’s just testing the waters. Ava looks up at
the ceiling and wonders if rapture would feel as good as this. Then Deborah's tongue parts
her like the red sea and fuck, when did Ava get so biblical? Maybe this is what religion is
supposed to feel like.

The moment Deborah gets a taste she becomes hungry. Her hands grip Ava’s hips. There’s
not much finesse to the process; she eats her like she's starved. She pushes her tongue against
her and she doesn’t stop; she drags her closer and closer, swallowing what’s rightfully
hers. She either doesn’t notice when Ava comes or doesn’t care. She puts her entire mouth on
her until Ava is curled up like the croissant she ate that morning.

Ava just lets her take and take and take. She feels like she owes it to her, to let her extract
from her as much as she wants. She’s making up for lost time, after all. And Ava wants her to
take it. She wants her to use her like this whenever and however she wants.

Deborah’s short of breath when she sits up. Her cheeks and chin glisten with Ava and her lips
are red. She could make anything look good.

“Fuck.” Ava pants.

Deborah smiles and wipes her face on the back of her hand. “Was that alright? Did you…?”
Ava laughs through whatever endorphins her brain just released. “Oh my God, are you
kidding me? That was insane.”

She smiles and Ava can see it going straight to her ego.

They lay together. Ava feels the weight of her release sedating her. Her bones feel heavy
against the soft mattress and she sinks into the plush pillow. Deborah lays a hand flat over her
sternum and Ava hopes she reads the coded message in the beats of her heart. I love you. I
love you. I love you.

“You really want to come back to Vegas?” She asks.

“I followed you across the country before you’d even let me do all of that,” she says. “I’d
literally follow you anywhere.”

“Okay." She nods. “And we can discuss you telling Kiki. You need someone in your corner
that isn’t obligated to be on my side.”

Ava never considered one of Deborah's reservations might be her; that her bullheadedness has
her running straight back into the closet without a second thought. “Are you sure?”

“No. There’s no such thing as sure. There’s just… what happens and what doesn’t. And I’m
sick of things not happening.”

Ava smiles. “Good. ‘Cause I have a lot of things I wanna see happen.”

“I dread to think.”

Ava laughs. She looks at her lips and she wants to tell her she loves her again but that would
feel like getting pastry flakes in the sheets. Her mouth hangs open instead, her breath high in
her chest, the words so almost tumbling out.
 Deborah holds her chin between her finger and thumb. “I know,” she says. “I know.”

It feels like a promise of something, further down the line. A reassurance that they’re on the
path to something good.

Ava lets the air out of her lungs, slipping from her mouth and into Deborah's as she kisses
her. The gentle California air ripples the sheer curtains. As the room cools, molten lava
solidifies in the shape of something new.

Chapter End Notes

hi guys. i just wanna say thank you to everyone who has left kudos/comments. i never
imagined it'd get this much love and positivity and writing for you has led to so much
joy, creativity, motivation, reconnection with myself and my sense of humour and also
being insanely horny. i really can’t thank you all enough<33

if you wanna be my best friend or whatever, dm me: @ mouthyhack

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It should feel like an episode of American Horror Story, the way the light shines down, three
big glassy eyeballs looking right at her. But Ava feels like a rippling satin dress and the
eyeballs look friendly. It must take a fucked up kind of personality to want to rip people’s
teeth out of their heads. Sticking their gloved fingers into strangers' mouths for a living. But
then who is she to judge — maybe they enjoy the wet crunching.

She tries not to think about the gruesomeness of it. The twig of titanium being drilled up into
her face, metal into bone. The way the peg will stick out of her bloody gum like a pirate’s
rotting prosthesis. She pictures Beetlejuice with a hook instead of a fist.

The needle in the back of her hand scratches. The dentist tells her to open wide.

Then she’s spitting out luminous pink mouthwash. She’s sitting up on the side of the chair.
Deborah is holding her chin between her finger and thumb, giving her an amused smile. Her
feet are on the concrete as she walks to the car. Vegas feels impossibly bright for November.
She squints out the car window, watching places she’ll never know fly past.

Fuck, these drugs are good.

The soft twang of a song her dad had in his collection of 45s shimmers out from the radio. It
has that rustle all old vinyls have, crackling like a bowl of rice Krispies before school. She
rests her head against the window and lets herself sing along.

“Deborah, oh oh you're so fine. There’s only one girl in my dreams, one girl on my mind,”
her voice feels silky as it slips out her mouth and she wonders why she doesn’t do this more
often. She sounds fucking amazing. “I adore you, can't you see? Deborah, I want to be by
your side night and day. Deborah, don't go away…”

She closes her eyes to enjoy the music but it peters out whenever she stops singing.
“Do you remember that song? Fuck, that was a great song,” she mumbles but there’s
something thick in her mouth, bigger and dryer than a tongue.

“Don’t touch,” Deborah says, knocking Ava’s fingers away from her mouth.

The left side of her face already feels fat and droopy. “Oh my God, am I gonna look stupid?”

Deborah snorts. “What’s new there?”

It’s such a nice sound that Ava laughs and then the laugh turns into a sob.

“Oh, Jesus,” Deborah mutters and takes the left turn. She opens Ava’s door for her when they
pull up to the house. “You got it, honey,” she says, helping her up by the arm.

“I got it, honey,” Ava repeats back in the same tone and Deborah laughs.

The drugs zap all the energy out of her muscles until the fibres start to snap under the weight
of their own existence. Her bed is a blessing. She sinks into the giant marshmallow, the soft
pillow against her healthy cheek, and hears her own voice pleading, “Don’t leave me.”

Deborah sits behind her and Ava feels the slow rise and fall of her ribs against the back of her
head. Her nails scratch across the side of her scalp in a repetitive cycle, sending iridescent
shivers over her skin. Her eyelids feel like plump clouds, so heavy they kiss the horizon.
They slide shut and then jolt back open whenever she realises she’s falling asleep.

“Go to sleep, for God’s sake,” Deborah murmurs eventually, a lick of humour in her voice as
she watches Ava fail to fight her own body. And so she does, a wonky half-smile on her face.
The real horror begins a few hours later. Ava looks like someone has inflated her cheek with
a balloon pump, swollen from jaw to eye socket. It sags under its own weight, pillowy and
already tinged an ashy purple. Her lips are so swollen, it’s impossible to stop the dribble of
saliva that threatens to slide out the corner of her mouth.

“Oh no,” she mutters to herself, tilting her head to watch the bathroom light glimmer over the
bulge. “Guess the sex was nice while it lasted.” She looks at her hairbrush, sighs, and then
walks out. Maybe the giant knot in the back of her hair will distract from the fact that she has
a face like a melted candle.

Whatever wafts up from the kitchen smells fucking amazing. Ava follows her nose. She can
overhear Deborah and Josefina talking.

“Celery?”

“No, she doesn’t like celery.”

She hangs back by the door to listen.

“You're getting soft, Deborah.”

“I am not,” Deborah dismisses her without any malice.

“It’s good for you,” Josefina insists but doesn’t push. “Okay, keep this moving.”

The kitchen is full of steam, damp warmth landing on Ava's cheeks and lips. It reminds her of
Boston. The windows used to steam up so much they’d turn into opaque sheets her dad
would draw stick figures in with his finger. Deborah is standing at the stove, stirring a
saucepan and wearing the navy flannel Ava loves.
“Hey,” she says, amping up the mopiness in her voice.

“Jesus Christ,” Deborah winces. “You look like someone punched you in the mouth.”

“Funny."

Josefina picks up the spoon when Deborah abandons the sizzling onions to wander around
the island.

“Your face still numb or are you just happy to see me?” She asks, nodding to the drool that’s
found its way out her mouth again.

“Fuck,” Ava groans. She’s okay with not being a fucking VS model but she has her limits.

Deborah wipes it away with the corner of a tea towel and then slings it over her shoulder like
a mechanic. What a full-circle moment. She’d make a joke about Rachel Meadow if only she
had the balls to face Deborah’s retort.

“Marcus’s pecan rolls are on date today. I told him to eat them yesterday but you know how
he gets when he’s working,” Josefina muses over the pan.

Ava realises then that this really is home. Nowhere else fits that definition better. Sure,
they’re finding a new rhythm back here in Vegas. It’s not like being on the road. Ava’s still
trying to figure out just exactly where she fits in. But she’s comfortable here with this odd
amalgamation of personalities. She’s a 25-year-old sleeping with her 70-year-old boss who
still refuses to call herself queer. Of course, the rest of the family looks like two gay men, an
off-beat 60-year-old woman, and two corgis. Nothing else would make sense.

She still has her old room, the one down the hall from Deborah’s, the vanity cluttered with
skin care products she never uses. She’d tried sticking a family polaroid into the mirror frame
once but it just felt weirdly performative. Something someone with a happy childhood would
do. She’s slept there a couple of times since they got back—Deborah refuses to let Ava use
her ensuite for anything other than brushing her teeth—but she mostly sleeps in Deborah’s
bed.

“What are you making?”

“This,” Deborah says with some flamboyance, getting back up to look in the pan, “is my
great-grandmother’s sweet potato soup.”

“With just a little bit of cumin, red pepper flakes, lime juice, fresh ginger, and cilantro,”
Josefina adds.

“Right,” Deborah concedes. Ava gets the feeling there’s been some back and forth about the
additional ingredients.

“Well, it smells fucking great,” she says and tries not to let herself get too wrapped up in the
happy family fantasy she’s started to spin.

“How does it feel?” Deborah asks, her eyes scanning over the swelling.

“Honestly just fucking huge.”

Josefina pulls a bag of peas out of the freezer and wraps it in a wet towel. “The swelling will
get worse if you don’t ice it.”

“Thanks, Josefina." She slow-blinks like a cat to give the impression she’s smiling, “I think
the meds are working though. I still feel fucking spaced out. I barely remember what
happened — we were home before I even got a chance to make an ‘open wide’ joke.”

Josefina laughs harder than Deborah at that one. The icepack isn’t as soothing as she’d
hoped. It just magnifies how much further away from her face her skin is than it should be.
Deborah combs out the straggly bits in her hair with her fingers, looking at her
empathetically. “Not much other than offending Buddy Holly with your singing.”

Confusion dots across her face. The memory comes flickering back, her awful singing
bouncing around an otherwise silent car. She cringes so hard, her face turns to a grimace. “…
That wasn’t on the radio?”

“No, honey." She smiles. “That was all you. Nice to be serenaded for my efforts but I don’t
think starting a tribute band is in the cards for you.”

She spends the rest of the day watching shitty reality television, eating soup, and staring at
the wall. With each episode of Bar Rescue, her mood deteriorates until the movable bits of
her face sit in a perpetual scowl.

Deborah comes in once with a replacement icepack and they argue about how cold it is.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she sighs when Ava turns her face away with a whine.

“It’s cold!”

“Yes, it’s an ice pack. My God, and they wonder why you dropped out of college.”

“Okay, Jane Lynch, why don’t you pick on someone who isn’t the victim of a hate crime,”
she digs. It’s self-destructive, really. She loves her like this, with her soft hair pushed back.

Deborah glares. “You really shouldn’t comment on appearances when the left side of your
face looks like Chris Christie after a long night.”
“Fuck you,” she mumbles.

Deborah holds the compress against her cheek. “Zinger.” She flashes her eyes sarcastically
and taps out two pills from the bottle. “Take your meds. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, can’t you work in here?” God, she hates how needy she sounds.

“So I can be insulted as well as lowballed?” She smooths her thumb over the scowl between
Ava’s eyebrows; a silent reminder that being a little bitch causes wrinkles. “I can’t, I have a
50-page contract to read. I need to focus.”

It’s been a week since they released the special on the QVC. Ava can’t quite reconcile that
they actually did it. Summited the fucking mountain. She’s never been insecure about her
work, success has always been the only option, but fuck, success with Deborah by her side is
a whole other peak. She understands how important it is to her she read the fine print. So she
takes advantage of her absence and switches over to the Kardashians. Deborah refuses to
watch with her because apparently everyone talks too slowly. Ava tries not to take that
personally.

It’s nice, really. Not having to do anything other than wait for her body to mend itself. She
just dozes on a Vicodin cloud, letting set-ups for jokes float around her head, not worrying
about the way they dissolve whenever she tries to catch them.

Boredom sets in around eight. The house always feels so quiet in the evenings, after
everyone’s gone home. Ava can’t imagine Deborah here by herself — the thought of her
alone in that giant kitchen makes her chest ache. All the lights are off in Deborah's office. She
makes awkward eye contact with Barry when she looks in the other lounge. Cara doesn’t stir
from where she sleeps. Deborah must have already gone upstairs.

Ava, to her own defence, doesn’t know what she knows until she knows it, and by that point
she’s already walked ten feet into Deborah’s bedroom.
The smell of shampoo hits her first. The slightly singed scent of a hairdryer recently turned
off. That’s one of her favourite smells, she’s come to learn. It reminds her of watching
Deborah get ready. Then it’s the sound of the sheets moving, a soft moan released with a
heavy breath.

Ava stands stock still at the foot of the bed. It takes her a second to process what’s in front of
her: Deborah, wearing a plush bathrobe, the left side slid open to reveal a deliciously flushed
slip of skin, with her hand below the comforter.

Her face is held up to the ceiling, her eyes closed, and her mouth kept tightly shut as she
breathes through her nose.

And then a sudden jolt. “Jesus Christ—“

Ava jumps out of her trance.

“—what the fuck are you doing, standing around like one-half of The fucking Shining
twins?”

Ava’s jaw hangs open as far as the swelling will allow. Her eyes flick up from where Deborah
half-sits up, retying her robe with an obvious flush across her cheeks.

“Were you jerking off?!” Deborah rolls her eyes and shuffles herself back to sit against the
headboard. “Deborah!”

“I was not,” she insists halfheartedly.

Ava climbs onto the foot of the bed and crawls her way up. “Show me your hands,” she
dares.

“No!”
“Do you get under the covers every time?” She sits on her knees in the middle of the giant
bed.

“I’m not an exhibitionist. Some of us have a sense of decorum, you know?”

Ava gets a flashback to Deborah catching her on the bus—how she must’ve looked with her
hand shoved so indecently down the front of her sweats. She’d never really thought at the
time the sight might’ve turned Deborah on. She looks a little embarrassed but that could just
be the remains of her touch.

“Do you want me to leave? I mean, I understand if you’re not attracted to me. I just had to
skip the episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians when Kris has a food allergy and her
face swells up. Too triggering.”

“My God, shockingly I’m no longer in the mood.”

Ava laughs and lays on her stomach, her face hovering somewhere next to Deborah’s hip.
The sheets rest around Deborah's waist and she peels them back enough to slip her hand
inside her robe. She rests it on her stomach, feeling how warm her skin is. Deborah's eyes
soften when she scratches blunt nails over her ribs.

“Keep going,” she says quietly.

Deborah just looks at her, the blush slowly creeping back into her cheeks.

“Just… let me watch your face,” she adds. It hits her harder than the Midazolam, the sudden
wave of desire that overcomes her. She becomes acutely aware of the sound of her own
swallowing.
“Fine,” Deborah says almost defiantly, with that air of aloofness she puts on whenever she
feels nervous, and her hand slips back down below the covers.

Ava watches, mesmerised by the dull shape of it as it moves. It’s difficult to figure out
exactly what she’s doing and Ava doesn’t ask. She looks up to watch Deborah’s eyes get
darker, her cheeks flush deeper.

They hold eye contact. She lets out a breath, heavier than the last, and Ava feels it flood over
her. Deborah's eyes slide shut — focusing on the pleasure Ava feels the ghost of in her own
body. It fills up every sense and weighs her down blissfully. She feels like a heavy,
waterlogged blanket, dripping all over the floor.

Deborah’s head tilts back and the movements under the sheet get faster. The tendons in her
neck protrude under her delicate skin. Her jaw looks so pronounced, Ava wishes she could
lick it.

Her head whips down when Ava slides her hand up to cup her breast. It’s soft in her palm,
perfectly hand shaped, and she rubs her thumb over her nipple. Deborah makes a some
animalistic noise, searching and desperate. It lights up the parts of Ava’s brain that tell her to
give, tell her to care, tell her to help. It drives her insane that she can’t. She just lets the
feeling run through her, her breathing getting heavy, one giant itch she can’t scratch.

Ava feels like she has cartoon springs behind her eyeballs, bouncing out from her head, the
way she stares. Her face burns at the way Deborah’s body stiffens, shudders and relaxes.

“Oh my God,” Ava grumbles and pushes her forehead into Deborah's chest, desperate for
skin-to-skin contact. She breathes in her scent, soapy but distinctly Deborah. “I wanna eat
you out so bad, I could literally cry.”

Deborah gives a sedated chuckle and strokes her head.

“You’re so hot and I can’t even kiss you.”

Deborah smiles sympathetically and cups her good cheek. “Come on, lay here.” She pats the
bed between her legs. “Put your head on my shoulder.”

Ava settles down, her back against Deborah’s chest. Cradled between Deborah’s knees like
she’s in a raft on high waters, kept safe from the tide. Her head lolls back against her
surprisingly muscular pec and Deborah strokes the contours of her face. Her fingers brush
across her forehead, running along the curvature of her brow bone.

Ava’s never been so relaxed and so turned on all at once. She can’t decide if she wants to flip
Deborah over and fuck her or sink into a deep sleep. She whimpers when Deborah dips down
to kiss her neck.

It’s not immediately clear if she’s supposed to ask if she can fuck herself. Her thighs pressing
together makes it pretty obvious that she wants to. Eventually, she just goes for it, slipping
her hand down the waistband of her pyjamas.

Deborah bites her earlobe as they both watch her hand disappear. She’s so fucking wet, it’s
hard to get any kind of friction, but fuck, it feels good. She rubs at herself frantically, feeling
the tension wind tighter and tighter in her belly. Unfettered knowing that Deborah can't see
the ugly side of her face.

“Jesus, slow down, would you? Fucking yourself like Usain Bolt,” she murmurs into Ava’s
ear.

Ava can hear the smile in her voice and she gives a breathy laugh, groaning a little as she
forces her hand to ease off.

“That’s better,” she says and she kisses her temple.

The slower pace builds something bigger and heavier. Ava rocks her hips up into her palm,
her fingers pushing inside herself.
Deborah kisses her cheek. She strokes her fingers across the front of Ava’s throat. She feels
so safe, so well looked after, she probably wouldn’t mind dying here. She forgets that it’s her
own hand pushing her towards orgasm and not Deborah’s fingers skimming across her skin.

Deborah puts her hand up under Ava’s shirt and cups her breast. Ava can see the outline of
her fingers under the thin fabric of her t-shirt. She lets out a kind of slurred curse when
Deborah rolls her nipple between her finger and thumb. Her other hand holds Ava’s head,
warm palm against her forehead like a mother checking on her beloved's fever.

“Oh my God.” She groans, and her voice breaks, sad and desperate, and maybe that’s what
inspires Deborah to whisper in her ear, “I’m so proud of you, honey.”

Ava really should’ve taken off her pyjamas and put down a towel or something. The orgasm
hits her all at once; trillions of nerves lighting up like a pointillism painting, expanding out
and then whooshing back to her centre as her cunt clenches down over and over and over
again. It feels like it’s going to last forever. She doesn’t even realise she’s making noises like
an abandoned fledgling until reality swings back into focus. She chokes back the last cry like
a secret she didn’t mean to shout.

Her wet hand rests on the sheets. She pants. Deborah scratches her belly. They don’t say
anything for a while, Deborah just holds her, and it makes it feel like she really meant it.

“We should go out tomorrow. Get lunch in the Eiffel Tower or whatever,” Ava says.

“I’m trying to repair my image, remember? I can’t be seen out on a date with you looking
like a poster for a domestic violence charity.”

Ava laughs but her heart skips a little at the idea of a date. “Next week then?”

“Sure but we’re getting out of Vegas. I’m not going to be harassed by fans over my meal.”
Maybe it’s easier for her to be queer when she’s not here. What happens outside of Vegas, or
however the saying goes.

“You’re famous everywhere, Dee,” she says. Ava’s yet to discover whether this additional
success is going to help or hinder Deborah’s journey to self-actualisation. And where that’s
going to leave her. On the one hand, the special’s all about telling the truth and owning who
she’s been. On the other, that’s a whole lot more people about to have an opinion on who she
is.

“Go shower,” Deborah says dismissively, giving her a squeeze. “I've gotta let the dogs out.”

Ava sits up and grimaces at the feeling of soaked cotton between her legs.

“Did you take your painkillers?”

“I can’t. I’m never gonna be able to shit ever again if I take those.”

Deborah gives her a disgusted look as she sits on the side of the bed. “What is wrong with
you?”

Ava reflects on her tangled hair and purple face and wet underwear. “…Literally so many
things.”

“Thank God you’re funny, honey,” Deborah says, mindlessly planting a kiss on Ava head
before she leaves.

The next day, Ava wakes up green. It’s grassy and mottled with grey—two splotches over her
jaw and under her eye socket like cheap Halloween makeup. But the swelling has gone down
substantially. She looks more like a zombie than a bloated corpse; still dead, but walking at
least.

“Pancake!! What happened?!” Kiki looks horrified when she sees her, leaning over the
blackjack table to kiss her cheek with the tips of her fingers.

“Eh, just a little dental surgery.” She slides into her seat. "You should see the other guy.”

“As long as it wasn’t Deborah again,” Kiki jokes. Deborah rolls her eyes. Kiki’s probably the
only person she lets get away with a cheap joke. Ava tries to memorise her endearing pout,
probably a useful tool for her back pocket.

“You want a drink, sweetie?” Deborah asks.

The card shuffling comes to a halt. The term of affection feels intentional. A gentle reminder
that Deborah is okay with Kiki knowing — maybe a bit defensive to prove to Kiki just how
far they’ve come.

“Can I get an iced matcha?”

“Do you want that disgusting syrup in it?”

Ava is acutely aware of Kiki’s eyes on her as Deborah picks a piece of lint off her sweater.
“Uh, yeah, thanks." She can’t fight the smile tugging at her mouth as she sees the elation
creep over Kiki’s face.

She waits for Deborah to leave. “…Okay, please tell me you’re sleeping with her because
otherwise she’s obviously killed a close relative of yours and feels really bad about it,” Kiki
says.

“Oh, you finally watched Dead to Me?”

“Yeah, you were right, it’s really good. You guys are honestly kind of like an age-gap Jen and
Judy. And I’m not just saying that because Christina Applegate would kill as Deborah in a
Lifetime biopic.”

“Oh no… I’d be played by Sadie Sink,” she mutters to herself.

“So you guys are really a thing?!”

Ava didn’t think she’d feel so mushy about telling someone. She’s almost grateful the bruise
covers fifty percent of her blushing cheeks.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, everything’s pretty much the same except we have sex now and also
sometimes she’s nice to me? Like the other day I was eating prosciutto, just out of the fridge,
and she asked if I was hungry and then made me a grilled cheese. I mean, she did still tell me
to stop behaving like Buffalo Bill but still, that’s like, romantic, right?”

“Girl, that is crazy!!” She squeals. “I mean, Deborah’s always been nice to me because I
guess I have like an open and loving personality but that’s a big deal for you. You should be
really happy.”

“Thanks, Kiki,” she laughs.

They quieten when Deborah comes back, placing Ava’s drink on the table. “So, how’s our
baby Luna?”

“She’s good. She’s learning to dress herself and honestly some of the outfits she puts together
are really cute. I think she could be a designer, you know? But anyway, Ava just told me you
guys hooked up,” she drops her jaw, “and I just want you to know I think that’s really hot.”
Deborah has a hint of a smile on her face but she looks embarrassed, her eyes watching
Kiki’s shuffling hands.

“And obviously I won’t tell anyone. Unless you wanna do a cover for Out Magazine or
wherever. But honestly coming out is kind of dated. I think just being yourself is really cool,
Deborah.”

“Thank you, Kiki,” she says, self-effacing. Her head bows and she rubs her hands together
like she’s self-soothing.

Ava can tell she hates it. Fuck, Ava doesn’t love it either, the vulnerability of it all. It makes
her chest feel all sugary and gooey inside. She’s not used to people knowing that soft spot
exists. She wants to reach out and grab Deborah's hand but that would probably make
everything worse so she looks away.

“So, anyway, I got assaulted,” she blurts.

Deborah rolls her eyes at the subtlety.

“That was batshit crazy. He’s in jail, right?” Kiki asks as she splits the deck and shuffles
again.

“West Tennessee, State Pen,” Deborah says proudly.

Ava imagines him there in his cell, finally garbed in his black and white striped suit. It’s
funny how her mind has superimposed Beetlejuice the character onto Beetlejuice the man.
It’s easier that way. She can’t think about him as a person without wondering whether or not
he was abused as a child and if her left upper premolar is worth 5 years of his life. It’s hard
not to conflate his punching her right after she was a dick to Deborah with her getting what
she deserved.

“Are you suing his ass?” Kiki asks.

Ava and Deborah both answer “I don’t think so,” and “obviously,” simultaneously.

Ava’s head whips around. Deborah looks at her cards and then taps the table twice. “What?”

“You think I’m not going to take him for everything he’s worth? It’s an open and shut case,
he already pled guilty. The least he can do is pay your medical bills. …Probably buy you a
Porsche, too,” she says smugly over her straw as she takes a sip.

“Wh—Does he even have that much money?”

“No, but we’re also suing the establishment that plied him with alcohol until he was a danger
to other patrons.” Her face lights up when Kiki flips her card and doubles her chips.

“I’m suing local businesses now?! Deborah!”

“Please, they own four other venues across Memphis and donate regularly to the True
Believers Baptist Church who are, by the way, homophobic.”

The thought of that being important to Deborah—or at least important via proxy—is sort of
heartwarming. The fact that she’s been doing all of this behind her back with Marcus and
probably a whole group of lawyers she’s never heard of makes her heart swell. Her eyebrows
pinch together. “You checked to see if they were homophobic before you sued them?”

“No, of course not, but it works out well for us that they are.”

“Oh my God.” Ava can’t even begin to process what all this means. Is she going to be rich
now? For being annoying enough that she got her tooth knocked out? “Why didn’t you tell
me?”
Deborah shrugs and shakes her hand over her cards. “You said you didn’t wanna hear about
it. Besides, settlements are always more fun when you don’t expect them — it’s like winning
the lottery without even buying a ticket. You’ll finally be able to afford those awful boots I
refused to buy you in Wichita.”

Ava’s head swims. This is a good thing. She thinks. This is what people do — they get hurt
and then they go and get what they deserve. They get even.

“Come on, place a bet would you?” She slides three of Ava’s chips into her circle and
watches Kiki deal. “Hit or stand?”

Ava stares at the Jack and the four of hearts in front of her. Maybe she needs to let go of the
idea that she doesn’t deserve any of this. That she especially doesn’t deserve Deborah. “I
don’t know. Fucking hit me, I guess.”

Kiki gives her a five of clubs and then turns over her own card. “Seventeen. Ava wins!!”

Deborah cackles at the irony. “Well done, baby." She smiles.

Her luck doesn’t last and she’s out of chips well before the hour’s up. She stays to watch
Deborah play, not really paying attention to the math but enjoying the way Kiki slides the
cards across the table with practised elegance. Kiki promises to take her out dancing once her
face is healed and Ava apologises for being a shitty friend.

“Honey, don’t apologise. Life is crazy. I’m glad you’re back in Vegas though. Luna and I
really missed you,” she says as she kisses Ava's cheek goodbye. “Also, text me. I need to
know if Deborah is a freak or not,” she whispers. Ava laughs; she really has missed her too.

Then she’s back to sitting in front of the television and scrolling on her phone. The algorithm
just doesn’t seem to get her anymore. She starts to wonder if this was the same shit that used
to keep her entertained. Was her brain really that starved for serotonin that the mere potential
of a 6-second clip of a cat with a cheese single on its head kept her hooked on the endless
scroll? Jesus, she’s starting to sound like Deborah. Maybe she’s just happy now. It’s funny
how uneventful that is.

Deborah wanders in halfway through a call, apparently negotiating a bidding war involves a
lot of phone calls, pacing back and forth in front of the TV screen as if she isn't blocking
Ava’s view. Ava pretends to care, gesturing emphatically to the TV, just to annoy her.

“You wanna work? Blue-sky a couple ideas?” She asks when Deborah hangs up.

“You’re high on opioids,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

“No, I’m not. I’m high on edibles. And also, our job is to be hilarious?”

“Ava,” she scolds in that voice Ava loves. It makes her feel like a giddy puppy, running off
with someone's sock.

“What? I googled if it would interact with my antibiotics and they said it would probably be
fine.”

Deborah gives her a doubtful look. “They?”

“Yeah, like all of the top four links."

Deborah gives an exasperated sigh.

"You want one?”

“I’m working.”
“Come on, it’s a Saturday, you can have a fucking gummy."

“I don’t—“

“—Believe in Saturdays,” they finish in unison. “I know. Come on, get high with me?” She
pleads, looking at her with big, hopeful eyes, holding out the tin.

“Fin." She picks one out and pops it in her mouth. “But I’m not watching this shit with you."
She gestures to Kim’s paused crying face on the TV. “Let me finish up a few calls.”

The weed is just started to kick in and it makes Ava's eyes heavy and her head light. She rides
the familiar rhythm of Deborah’s voice, listening to her talk on the phone in her office, the
gentle cadence she can only half hear. She imagines a big, glowing halo over her head,
following her around. It gets so vivid, she checks to see if she’s wearing a hat.

The knock on the door jolts her so much, she laughs at her own paranoia. She always enjoys
this part of being high. Where another, more reasonable person might get scared or anxious,
Ava sees a set-up to a joke.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Kathy Vance.

Kathy Vance, who?

“I’m Deborah’s sister,” Kathy says, standing on the doorstep as if she comes here all the time.
“Oh, fuck.” Ava sobers up faster than a teenager getting picked up by their mom. All the
chattiness in her head suddenly gets painfully quiet. “Yeah, I know. I’m Ava, I’m her…
platonic writer.”

Kathy nods with a frown. She looks so much like Deborah it’s almost creepy — same cheeks,
different eyes. Ava can’t imagine knowing someone is out there in the world, going about
life, having the same cheeks as you. “You were there with her in Sacramento?”

“Yeah.” Ava nods and her face feels huge. She must look high as fuck. “Um… I just had
dental surgery. She didn’t hit me or anything.” She laughs and then mutters, “Fuck.”

“…Do you think I could come in?”

“Oh, I don’t know if…” She can just picture it now: Deborah finding them in the lounge,
chatting like old friends, tarnishing the Liberace couch forever. “I don’t think that’s a good
idea. She’s on a call right now. I can go get her.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I can wait. I don’t want to disturb her.”

“Cool.” Ava nods. And then they just stand there.

“How is it, working for her?” Kathy gives her a sympathetic look like she’s expecting Ava to
spill all about emotional torment and OSHA violations. Which… technically did happen but
fuck her for assuming. She feels a bubble of anger in her chest.

“It’s pretty fucking great, actually,” she says bluntly, the ends of each word ricocheting
around her ears.

“I saw the special. That’s why I’m here, actually. She seems different in it and I was hoping
—”
“—Look, you should really talk to Deborah about this. I really shouldn’t get involved." The
last thing Ava needs is some weird kind of rapport with Kathy Vance.

“Was it you?”

Ava blinks at the question. Fuck, these edibles are good. “…What?”

“She’s never worked with a writer before. Not since Frank. It must’ve taken someone special
to fit the bill. Whatever you said to her to get her to open up like that, I…. Thank you,” she
says in a rush like she’s not used to being able to finish her sentences.

Ava gives her a stony look. “I didn’t do anything. She did it by herself, as usual, thanks to
what you put her through.” She thinks about Deborah alone in her kitchen. Young Debbie,
crying on her late night pilot, thanking her loving husband and baby sister. All the love she
had for them both sealed from its outlet, the only safe place for it to land being the soft top of
a corgi's head. Ava wants to fucking hit her with her car. She lowers her voice to hiss, “And
for the record, I hope she doesn’t forgive you. And also, I hope your fucking house—”

“Ava?”

“Yeah!” She jumps. “It’s Kathy… Um, Kathy’s here.”

Deborah halts for a second, probably deciding whether to shut the door in her face or not.

“I’m gonna go,” Ava mutters.

“No. You can stay,” Deborah says without looking away from her sister. “Well?”
Kathy’s eyes flick between them, looking just about as confused as Ava is by her presence.
“I… I saw the special. It was amazing, you should be so proud. Both of you—”

“—Talk to me. Not Ava,” she says curtly. Ava feels like a Christmas wreath hung on the front
door for decorative purposes.

“I was hoping we could talk?” It hangs limp in the air. Deborah makes a beautifully
condescending face. Kathy powers through with the bullheadedness only a Vance could
muster. “I wanted to thank you for acknowledging my side of things. I know that must’ve
been difficult for you. And I know you said you’d never forgive me and I don’t expect you to
overnight but I’d like it if we tried to… be in each other’s lives? It’s been 40 years, Dee—”

“No,” she cuts her off. Her eyes flash over to see if Ava caught what Kathy just let slip; that
nickname. She looks embarrassed. Ava feels a punch of guilt for using it so haphazardly. “I
don’t want that.”

“I never stopped caring. I keep newspaper clippings or, I used to before everything went
online. My nephew set up something called google alerts—”

“That’s how you knew how to stalk me in Sacramento?” She asks bitterly.

“Yeah. He’s 24 now. He’s a big fan, actually—”

Deborah stiffens at the mention of him. A nephew, basically Ava’s age. Ava pictures them all
around the dining table. Passing around potatoes and not mentioning Deborah at all. “Well,
congratulations. I’m glad one of us got a happy family,” she spits.

Kathy’s mouth opens like she’s about to say something else but the door slams shut in her
face.

Ava really shouldn’t have suggested edibles.

She finds Deborah in the kitchen, rummaging around the bottom drawer of the freezer.

“What a creep, right?” Ava starts. Deborah frowns at her.

“I know we have pistachio in here,” she says. Ice cream. There are worse vices, Ava
supposes. “Ah,” she makes a smug noise as she unsticks a tub from its glacial home at the
bottom of the drawer.

“You okay?” Ava watches her busy herself. The high makes all the clattering louder; the
freezer drawer slamming shut; the spoon hitting porcelain. Deborah puts two scoops in her
bowl and then tidies up. The whole thing takes fucking ages. “Deb?”

Deborah looks blankly at her dessert. “She always looks the same. I’m always waiting for her
to look different. Old. But she always just looks like Kathy,” she says.

“You sound disappointed?”

“Of course I’m disappointed. The least she could do is have the decency to age as poorly as
she behaved.”

Ava has to laugh. How many nights has she spent willing sun damage and thinning hair on
her? “That’s what you’re mad about? That she looks good for her age?”

“…You think she looks good for her age?”

Ava rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. What a hot, young, 68-year-old."
Deborah's eyes narrow at the sarcasm and she bites back with some snark. "Isn’t that your
type?”

It’s such a ludicrous question, Ava’s not sure if she’s allowed to laugh or not. It’s the first
time Deborah’s ever shown any kind of possessiveness over her. She’s split between wanting
to swiftly reseal the fissure in Deborah polished veneer and wanting to stick her fingers in to
feel the gooey mess of what’s inside. “Deborah… what?”

Deborah seems to let go of her temporary break from reality, sighing at herself. “I don’t even
know why I’m talking about this.”

“Because you’re high,” Ava reminds her fondly as she hops up onto the kitchen counter.

She looks angry, chasing a pistachio piece around the bowl with her spoon. Ava’s pretty sure
she’s imagining it’s Kathy trapped inside a colosseum, forced to fight the Spoon God to the
death.

“What are you picturing right now?”

“Huh?” Her eyes look glassy.

“You basically have steam coming out of your ears. Tell me?”

“Nothing,” she says, taking a bite. “I just don’t trust her.”

“Okay. You can trust me though.” It gets waved off with an eye roll. Ava’s yet to find a way
of reassuring her that doesn’t immediately get shot down. “Do you wanna forgive her?”

Deborah sighs and wipes her mouth. “I didn’t give a shit about Frank cheating. God, if it had
been with some slutty fan, something I could’ve swept under the rug, I probably would’ve
stayed with him until the show ended. I mean, I would’ve made his life a living hell,
obviously, but…” She doesn’t look at Ava. She looks at the work surface through a haze.
“She knew how important family was. After we lost our parents… I mean, she knew.”

Deborah’s spent 40 years turning it over in her head like a Rubik’s cube, sifting through the
quintillion possibilities, only to find none of them make sense. Ava feels a lump in her throat,
the corners of her mouth turned down into a comically sad face.

“And the fact that they actually fucking liked each other? I mean, what?” She gives a
dumbfounded laugh. “Some quick little revenge fuck, maybe I could’ve got over that. I
could’ve got even. But no, they just had to go on and live a long and charmed life together,”
her voice sounds high and tight. “They got to be fucking happy.”

Ava knows the story, she’s filled in the emotional blanks wherever she could, but to hear it
directly from Deborah feels like watching her bleed. Ava twists her mouth to the side to hide
her pout.

“I just don’t know what I did to make her want to hurt me that badly,” she says in earnest.

Ava’s body fills with the urge to reach out and grab her. She knocks away the hot blob of a
tear that makes itself known on her cheek. “Whatever you did or didn’t do...”

Deborah looks up like she’s vaguely shocked Ava heard everything she just said.

Ava grabs her hand and pulls it into her lap. “...There's no way you deserved what they did.
Fuck them, they don’t deserve your forgiveness. She doesn’t deserve you.”

Deborah looks like she tries to believe her. Her eyes look red and shiny, decades of
internalised guilt still swimming in them. Sometimes looking into her eyes feels like looking
into the future. This is what she’ll be if she doesn’t forgive herself for what she did to
Deborah. If she doesn’t start believing that she’s good enough for her.

“Plus, you look way younger than her,” she adds.

Deborah tuts. “Alright,” she dismisses her, rolling her eyes.

“I’m serious.” Ava loves when she gets bashful. The fissure cracks open and she spoons
handfuls of compliments into it, filling up the hollowed parts inside her. “You’re so hot,” she
smiles and leans in so Deborah can’t avoid eye contact. “Nobody compares to you.”

Deborah looks like she wants to tell her off for being witless. For wrapping her compliments
up in a bow of overtness, for making them campy and rude and easier to swallow. But she
swallows them anyway and her eyes flick down to Ava’s mouth.

Being desired by Deborah tenderly, being the person she reaches out to in a moment of
vulnerability, makes Ava's stomach flip. It feels like their first kiss. Sweeter than sunlight;
filled with admiration and pent-up longing. Her lips are cold from the ice cream.

“Does it hurt?” Deborah asks, stroking Ava’s bruised cheek.

“I’m so fucking high right now. Nothing hurts." She laughs. “Will you come upstairs with
me?”

Deborah licks her bottom lip and nods.

Holding her hand as she leads her upstairs makes Ava feel like a gentleman. She pretends to
hold the already-open door for her and bows her head like a waiter.

“Stop acting like one of my staff.” Deborah strides in ahead, stoic and relaxed, pulling her
earrings out and leaving them on the bedside table.
“I’m being chivalrous.” She laughs, struck with the desire to look after her, to prove to
Deborah just how worthy she is of being allowed into these vulnerable moments of grief and
anger.

Deborah’s eyes are hazy. She sits on the bed and the lamp light bathes her in gold. “Maybe I
don’t want you to be chivalrous." She smiles, pulling Ava in by her hips.

Her face presses against the bruise on Ava's cheek as she kisses her. It promises something
deeper. Ava wants to feel it more and more; she wants her to press until it hurts.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Deborah strokes the green-tinged skin.

“Yeah, just go easy on the tongue,” she says, holding the lapels of Deborah's cardigan as she
stands between her knees. Her face is warm and it’s a luxury after days of ice-cold
compresses. “God, I missed kissing you.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Exactly. You know how many episodes of the Kardashians that is?” She slips Deborah’s
cardigan off her shoulders.

“I dread to think." She chuckles and lifts Ava’s shirt off.

Ava runs her fingers through Deborah’s hair, combs it all back with her fingers, and looks at
the speckles of grey just starting to show by her roots. The high keeps obscuring her
thoughts, settling around her in a thick fog. All she’s left with is the feeling they leave
behind: a deep longing and the remains of a laugh.

Undressing her is so familiar now. She pulls the camisole up over Deborah's head. She takes
pleasure in the routine of it. It’s better now Ava isn’t worried about going too quickly or
pushing too hard. She knows what Deborah likes, and how she likes it.
Deborah kisses her neck. The sensation of it travels all the way down her spine, Ava imagines
it making a noise like a xylophone. She lays Deborah back on the bed; straddles her hips;
curls her arms under Deborah's shoulders, getting as close to her as possible. Getting lost in
kissing her is easy. It’s languid, the high making everything fuzzy, sensations echoed back
around until they’re doubled and quadrupled.

“Can we… Uh, use my strap? I mean, technically it’s strapless, but—”

“Sure." Deborah smiles lazily up at her. Ava’s never seen her so relaxed before. Either these
gummies are the best she’s ever had or Deborah is doing everything she can to not think
about this afternoon.

“Really? You can say no.”

“I know I can say no." She laughs and pinches Ava’s chin. “I think it’s about time I see what
all the bragging’s been about.”

Ava probably shouldn’t have set herself up like this. Not that she doesn’t believe in her skills
but penetration isn’t for everyone. Then she thinks about how good Deborah is going to look
falling apart underneath her and the anxiety is replaced by a sudden urgency.

“Okay,” she says. "One sec." Punctuating her words with a kiss and then running—literally
running—to her room.

Deborah’s sat on the bed when she gets back, leaning back on her hands in her bra and pants,
looking golden. Ava throws the toy and a bottle of lube on the bed and slides onto her
knees. She kisses across Deborah's stomach and reaches around to unhook her bra.

“Take your pants off, Vance,” she says as she stands back up.
“I don’t think the macho act is really you, honey.”

“We’ll see,” Ava smiles, ungracefully stepping out of her clothes. She climbs back into her
lap, kissing down her neck.

Deborah gets fidgety when Ava’s spent too long at her chest. Her hips start to grind up, soft
hair against softer skin. It sends shivers down Ava's legs. She grabs the toy and Deborah
watches intently as she covers the short end with lube.

It’s tight as Ava eases it inside herself. The sensation of being comfortably full makes her
ache with want. It stands proud between her thighs, the tip of it pressed into Deborah’s
stomach. Deborah stares a judgmental gaze that makes Ava think if she had a real dick she’d
probably be shy about showing it to people. Or at least to Deborah.

“I’m not giving you a blow job,” Deborah says dryly. Ava can’t tell if it’s a heteropessimism
joke or if she’s worried Ava’s going to ask her to. The image of it flashes into her head either
way; it’s hard not to grind her hips down.

“Totally fair. I’m not allowed to give you one for two weeks,” she breathes, her voice
strained.

“Two weeks?”

“That’s what I said. Only a couple days for cunnilingus though.”

Deborah frowns. “You asked?”

“Of course, I asked, what am I not gonna ask? Oh,” she whimpers when Deborah wraps her
fingers around the shaft. It pushes the whole thing up, hitting so many spots it makes her
breath catch.
Deborah seems delighted with the reaction, moving her hand up. Deborah Vance giving her a
handjob wasn’t necessarily something she anticipated when Jimmy first made that call.

Deborah sits up, pushing the front of the toy harder into her. Ava shudders. This was
supposed to be her taking care of Deborah and now she’s sat in her lap, getting jerked off.
Deborah dips down, puts her mouth to Ava’s chest, sucking gently. Which is completely
unfair; Ava isn't allowed to suck anything for another 24 hours.

“Fuck, stop. I wanna fuck you,” she sighs, pushing Deborah's head away.

She chuckles, lazily kissing across her chest. Everything feels magnified with the high; what
should just be nice feels fucking amazing. “You’re too easy.”

“I’m not easy,” Ava snaps.

“You get distracted easier than Barry.”

“Can you stop comparing me to him?”

Deborah pulls back to give her a pitiful look. She strokes Ava’s cock, every flick of her wrist
pushing the hard silicone against her. It makes Ava’s eyes flutter and her hips roll, a pathetic
whine on her lips. “Are you jealous of my dog?”

“Kinda,” Ava stutters. “I mean, you never call me handsome.”

Deborah chuckles. She gives her that pout, usually reserved for the dogs, and tuts. “Aw, you
wanna be Mommy’s big handsome boy?”

It’s a joke but Ava’s brain doesn’t know that. Any cute witticism she was formulating
evaporates into a stammering mess of vowels and consonants. “Pfft. Wh—No… I’m—…
That’s…” Her cheeks flush as red as her hair.
Deborah’s eyebrows raise a millimetre. Her hand stops. “Wow, really?”

“Shut up,” Ava snaps and kisses her into the bed, smothering Deborah’s smug smile. She
repositions herself in between Deborah’s thighs, her legs draped over hers. Her wet dick
grazes up against her thigh.

It’s a nice view and she makes sure Deborah knows she’s looking, feeling somewhat
competitive as she rubs her slick fingers over her. “Fuck, I wish I could eat you out, you look
so good,” she sighs.

“A little self-restraint never hurt anyone,” she chastises.

“Spoken like a true anorexic.”

Deborah’s laugh doesn’t last long when Ava pushes her fingers inside her. She’ll never get
used to how silky she feels, warm and welcoming.

“You ready?” Ava can tell she is because there isn’t any snark, just a desperate nodding and a
quickly muttered, “Yeah.”

She nudges the tip against her a few times—Deborah doesn’t want chivalrous—and it makes
her sigh impatiently. When she sinks inside her, Ava goes deaf with the sound of her own
pulse in her ears.

“Fuck." She leans forwards to kiss Deborah's chin. “Okay?” She asks and rocks her hips
when Deborah nods.

It’s almost too much, their being chest to chest and the way the toy fills her. Every roll of
Ava's hips is a shock of lightning. It’s almost panic-inducing, how good it feels. She’s scared
it'll be over before they’ve even got going.
Deborah’s hands hold onto her skull, her nails scratching into her scalp as Ava fucks into her.
The harder she works to make Deborah feel good, the closer she gets. She has to close her
eyes to focus on the movements.

Deborah moans little compliments into Ava’s ear, which really doesn’t help.

“That’s it, sweetie. That’s good, honey, right there,” she gasps.

It’s only when they get a little too personalised that Ava realises what she’s doing.

“You’re so good, Ava—”

“—Fuck, stop trying to make me come,” she groans and sits back on her knees, pulling out
just to give herself a moment of relief.

Deborah smiles, gleeful. Her chest is flushed red like her eyes and she giggles. “You were
enjoying it,” she reasons.

Ava tries to fight the colour on her cheeks. “You’re an asshole,” she mutters. She wraps her
fingers around Deborah’s wrists and pins her hands up over her head. “Are you gonna do that
again?”

Deborah looks fucking elated, barely able to keep the giddy smile off her face. “No,” she
says.

Ava doesn’t necessarily believe her but the subservience makes her vision go blurry. She
feels the giddy smile mirrored on her own face, but it works. “Are you gonna let me fuck you
properly?”
Deborah nods. She always goes quiet when she can’t access her persona; when things get too
vivid and she’s only left with raw honesty.

Ava runs her sticky fingers over the front of Deborah’s throat. “Good.”

Deborah rolls her eyes but it’s more of a cover for averting her gaze; she can’t stop the blush
on her cheeks. “You have no subtlety,” she critiques.

“I don’t think you like me for my subtlety.” She pushes Deborah’s thighs up and lines herself
back up. She thrusts deeper this time, harder, holding onto Deborah's thighs for anchorage.

Watching Deborah's face change is the best part — the way it breaks open like a blooming
flower. Ava gradually builds up her pace, fucking her faster until her abs burn with the effort.
It’s a nice distraction from the pleasure going taut in her stomach.

Her hair sticks to the side of her face with sweat. Deborah tries to cover her face in the crook
of her arm so Ava pulls it away. “Look at me."

It’s frantic, the sound of it obscene. She watches herself sink inside her over and over again,
the way she glistens and then disappears. She’s teetering on the edge, a few more strokes
away from falling. Deborah looks just as close. Her eyes are held tightly shut as Ava rubs her
thumb over her clit, pushing gently down on her belly with her palm. A string of indecent
sounds flood from her mouth.

“Come on, Debbie,” she teases breathlessly, upping the arrogance to a hundred. “Let me see
you come.”

Deborah does. She gushes over Ava, a primal noise flooding from her throat. Ava pushes in
as deep as she can, holding herself there before pulling out to watch her drip before she
pushes back in, surging forward to kiss her.
Deborah keeps her close, her calves wrapped around her hips as Ava grinds down against the
toy, finally allowing herself to chase her own pleasure. It takes a few more thrusts and she’s
there, resting her face on Deborah’s neck, breathing in her scent as she comes inside her.
Deborah shudders under her again and Ava can feel the way she grips her, both of them
coming undone.

Deborah strokes her hair, the full weight of her resting on her body and Ava knows she’s got
a maximum of fifteen minutes before she falls asleep.

“Oh my God,” she murmurs as she kisses her neck. Deborah laughs and Ava catches it like a
yawn. “You okay?”

Deborah nods. She shivers as Ava removes the toy.

“Come here,” she says, laying down next to her and encouraging their thighs to tangle up.
The bed is so soft, it feels like drifting through the sky. Deborah’s eyes slide shut and Ava
moves to trace lines over her collarbone. “Take it you enjoyed then,” she says.

“What have I said about fishing?”

Ava laughs. “I was actually reading about how menopause can change the way you orgasm
—“

“—I’m gonna stop you right there. Nobody needs to be reminded of their crumbling libido
right after the best sex they’ve had in years.”

“Years? Not ever? Wow, I gotta try harder, I’m going for number one." Ava pulls the
comforter over them, wrapping them up together. She looks at the side of Deborah's face and
imagines all the things she’d say if Deborah was the type of person who’d like to hear
them. “Why did you ask me to stay? When she was here?”
 Deborah's eyes scan over her face. Maybe for a fault to pick out or a joke to latch on to. Some
smoke and mirrors to distract from the question. Eventually, she goes for a kiss. Pushing her
mouth against Ava’s and biting down on her bottom lip.

It feels so good, Ava nearly finds herself swept up in it. “Tell me?” She asks.

Deborah rolls away to look up at the ceiling. “I wanted her to see you." She shrugs. “He’s
dead, finally. She’s alone now.” A fucked up little smile creeps onto her face. She looks at
Ava, a whole lifetime’s worth of pent-up revenge blazing behind her eyes. “And I’m not.”

Ava smiles back. “No, you're not.”

Deborah kisses her honestly, her lips softer, her calf hooked around her leg, and Ava knows
it's her way of saying I love you.

Chapter End Notes

turns out i was literally lying before and i wrote another one lol. i think this might be the
last but honestly even i dont believe anything i say at this point. this was so self-
indulgent, i can't even pretend otherwise hffhdhs. thank you to everyone who leaves
beautiful little comments, you are the light of my life and it means so much to me!!
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!