where's ma hugggg

I may not have 30 years. But I think I have another hour.

Bisexuals. Everybody wants us, but no one "wants" us. Hey, lesbians! What did we ever do to you, besides lead you on and break your heart?

Guess I didn't figure it out. Well, no, but that's okay. We will… or we won't, you, but at least it'll be on us. Hell yeah.

"then what are we waiting for, deb?" if all that's left is a shattered reputation, then they can rebuild it over time. piece by piece - funny story after funny story. it can be real, and full of heart, and all of the things that deb doesn't share right now because it's just - not the right time. they can work on that, and they can make it funny, more importantly.

"it's deborah's time now. not frank. not kathy. not who's making dinner, or late night, or whatever else - you get on that stage, and that's all that matters." she turns her hand, mostly to hold deb's, and gives it another squeeze, before turning into the side street.

"we should do it. we should write a show together. we could go west to east coast, maybe even canada for a stop or two?"

they already have a great way of working. she's already selling out more and more clubs, grabbing bigger headline and later night spots when everyone is warm, has a little more liqour onboard. early spots are the hardest -- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

she lets go of ava's hand so she can shift gears again as they slow down outside the apartment block she's been forced into, a two bed rental where the bathroom hasn't had a refurb since the 20s. the taps leak, the tiles are cracked, her landlord is a sexist fucking jerk and dj, all three years old of her, cries because the a.c. is never quite cool enough. she hates this place. hates los angeles.

“i’ve never been outside the country,” and it’s not a reason not to. her mom would kill her, probably, quoting the hundreds of aviation-related deaths that happen every single year because of drunk pilots and bad seatbelts, but it doesn’t matter much. she’s like that with everything. “you tell me where we’re going and i’m there.”

you and me, babe. it sounds like something remotely similar to something she’d hear on the radio, and when she pulls up to that quiet street and turns the engine off, she glances back round at deb. she thinks she’ll ruin her, in the low glow of the street lamps. okay.

“i could do a night cap. if i’d have known, i would’ve worn something less… pyjama-y.” the door shuts behind her, and ava digs her hands into her jacket pockets.

she clings onto the feeling of hopefulness, of eager hands and hearts, wishing that just once she got to win. if just once she got to have what she wanted (because all she had ever wanted was to be with him, to be wherever he was even if it meant uprooting her whole life to la on a whim). can’t someone look at her like she hung the moon? is it so bad to want someone to touch her like they meant it, as if they couldn’t imagine not wanting her only all the time instead of only when nothing else were available?

ava squeezes her leg and deborah thinks she could melt with affection, the honest kindness of a friend just being on her fucking side for once. another thing deb lost in the divorce along with a sister and her career: everybody else, except one or two people from the show.

"then what are we waiting for, deb?" if all that's left is a shattered reputation, then they can rebuild it over time. piece by piece - funny story after funny story. it can be real, and full of heart, and all of the things that deb doesn't share right now because it's just - not the right time. they can work on that, and they can make it funny, more importantly.

"it's deborah's time now. not frank. not kathy. not who's making dinner, or late night, or whatever else - you get on that stage, and that's all that matters." she turns her hand, mostly to hold deb's, and gives it another squeeze, before turning into the side street.

Late Night is for housewives and mechanics. You're very good at what you do but you are not the right person to lead that show!

"he was never the star of that show. i still think i hitched my wagon to the right star. so fuck him, fuck his mustang, and fuck his receding hairline, but - let's make something better. let's show everyone that he was just some man that got lucky. you're the funny one, deborah - not him." she offers her hand out, and gives her knee a quick squeeze because she'd much rather pull her in for a hug but she figures deb would much prefer them not veering off into a five and dimes.

(love me love me love me was always the heartbeat of her life; she has clung to her mother when her father couldn't see straight, clung to kathy when it was just them alone, clung to frank because he plucked her out of obscurity, clung to the audience because her husband couldn't care less about anything she did anymore, clung to her microphone in a desperate attempt to claw back some semblance of herself.)

"except she didn't, and she still sends me letters with newspaper cuttings about californian crime rates."

oh. that's it. that's why the bad night. and ava can then almost forgive the smell of tequila on her breath and the teegees of it all, because it slaps a frown on her face and a sigh through her lips.

"well, as part of that five star service - i could go key his mustang. or... sugar in the gas tank, a slugger to the windscreen - what're we thinking?" god, it feels shitty. even for her, and she never met him! he's an asshole!

the high wears off after a second. she leaves the window down, lets the summer air wash over her, the bad mood and anger numbed to a dull insult.

"oh, please." i'd do anything for you sits on the tip of her tongue but it makes her feel dizzy to even vocalise, so she glances over at deb in the passenger's seat, all flushed in the cheeks and wrapped tight in some fur from the who's making dinner days, and she laughs. "i'd rather not see you show up on the news tomorrow morning. you call, i answer."

there's a moment where it hangs between them, and ava pulls her hand from the gear stick and brushes it against the jut of deb's knee, before changing gear and settling it right back where it belongs. too close, right?