Chapter Text
Like most great love stories, it starts with a drag queen and a drinking contest.
Deborah may be pivoting to a new comedic voice, but with her residency gone, high dollar gigs that lean heavily on camp and crowd work are still a financial must. Which means a week in Key West which has culminated in a VIP party with both Deborah and a drag queen who’s made a career off of impersonating her (the fire baton twirling is a nice touch there). Ava’s been trying to punch up the set where she can, but these folks want vintage Vance, and who is she to deprive them?
Ava zones out somewhere between Deborah doing her bit on bears and otter and twinks, oh my! And a new joke about millennial queers (hey, at least some of her lines got in!) counting the minutes until they can be back at the hotel and she can be safely scrolling on her phone or making fun of how ridiculous the whole situation is with Deborah. Except, then the mingling happens, and Deborah’s taking photos with attendees and the drag queen and somehow Ava’s gotten roped into the role of photographer (where is Damien when you need him?) and Deborah introduces her to her throng of admirers as “Ava Daniels, the next big thing in bisexuality,” looking at her through her lashes in that way that kind of makes her want to both throw up and propose marriage in equal measure.
(The proposal bit happens later, though.)
Photos segue into shots, and Deborah jokes, “do you still drink tequila if it’s not fair trade and organic?” which, yeah, is hacky as shit, but it achieves its intended effect of getting Ava to match her, drink for drink, until everyone is having a very good time. Ava feels the pulse of the music in her veins and has to forcibly resist the urge to ask Deborah to dance (some things simply aren’t done ). After three shots, Ava’s arms feel warm and heavy, and Deborah telling a crowd of fans Vegas gossip is the most charming thing she’s ever witnessed. After five, she can’t stop swaying to “Material Girl” (a timeless, if basic choice) and staring at Deborah all moony-eyed, prompting a severe “ what? ” in response to her gazing.
“You look nice.”
“Jesus, you are drunk.”
Deborah puts a halt to the free drinks after that (even she is teetering on her heels, and if she has another drink she’ll probably out someone with even more power to sue than she does), and she leans back against the bar, waving and winking to the partygoers but keeping them at bay by sheer force of will.
“This is fun. I’m having so much fun,” Ava giggles, meaning it for the first time in a long while. She’s exactly where she wants to be, pleasantly intoxicated next to her favorite person in the world (whoops, there’s a big ol’ revelation), watching people be gay as fuck. It rules.
Deborah chuckles. “I did tell you it’d be more fun with you around, and as you know, I’m never wrong, so…”
“You’re so right,” Ava nods, like this is the most important confirmation of any information she’s received in her life.
They stand in companionable silence for a moment, observing the dance floor, where several of the party’s attendees now appear to be attempting to straight up have sex.
Deborah raises an eyebrow at the sudden display of hairy chests (it’s Bear Weekend, after all).
“Well, I put in my contractually obligated appearance, so let’s get out of here while we still can.”
The music is so loud she’s forced to whisper into Ava’s ear. Her breath is hot and sticky and reeks of booze. Ava leans against her, an anchor in a sea of sensory overstimulation, sinking, sinking, sinking.
Somehow, she manages to retrieve a trace of wit from her brainfog.
“I dunno, Deborah, you sure you don’t wanna stay and do poppers too?”
Deborah cackles.
“Oh, sweetie, if we ever fucked in the ass I’d be topping and you know it.”
Ava gasps, faux-shocked.
“So you do know what all those words mean! Wow, one more thing Deborah Vance lied on stage about for years .”
Deborah shoves her in the shoulder good-naturedly (Ava’s not gonna count that against her in the ‘no more hitting people’ promise).
“Shut up and find the driver.”
_
The ride back to the hotel remains convivial; Ava asks Deborah to rate her impersonator on a scale of 1-10 (Veborah Dance had better tits, but the eyelashes were all wrong, and Deborah Vance is nothing without her eyelashes) and Deborah asks Ava what her thoughts were on Key West versus Palm Springs (“I know you’ve been, you insufferable hipster— well not lesbian, but close enough— I know, monosexism ”) to which Ava response, “Well one of those places isn’t in Florida, so I think it wins by a longshot.”
Deborah scowls.
“You know people from Florida kept the Palmetto packed for years. I can’t believe I’m coming to them instead of the other way around. Talk about humbling.”
Ava frowns, confused.
“I thought you liked having to earn your laughs again?”
“Sure, but I do also have a full staff to employ. Earning the respect of people like you doesn’t pay the bills.”
Ava grins.
“Aw, are we gonna start touring in a van? Staying at Super 8’s?”
“I would literally rather die.”
“Yeah, well, please don’t. You’re too pretty to die.”
Deborah rolls her eyes.
“And you’re too young to be this bad at holding your booze. Weren’t you just in college? Do kids not party anymore?”
“In my defense, I’ve been in more of a cocaine phase lately.”
“Thank god not around me. You’re insufferable enough as it is.”
It’s kind of a mean dig, but Ava just smiles. The leather seats in the back of this towncar feel so nice against her skin. Being around Deborah makes her feel more up than coke, anyways. She’s like… emotional cocaine . Is that what love is? Feeling high as fuck whenever you’re around someone? Ava has had a niggling suspicion while sober that she’s maybe in love with Deborah, but at her current state of inebriation? There’s no question. Totes, one hundo percent, full-on balls-to-the-walls in love with Deborah Vance.
Ava wants the D, if you catch her drift.
The driver pulls up at the resort and Deborah relieves him of his duties for the night, tipping him handsomely. Ava grins and stares at her (a theme of the evening, apparently. But it takes so much effort not to stare normally, and she’s drunk and happy and just, like, open to the will of the universe, you know?).
“Alright, so…” Ava shrugs, assuming she’s about to be dismissed but hesitant to leave. There’s something about this night that feels perfect and she doesn’t want it to be over.
(And sure, that could be the tequila talking, but she also kind of wants more time to have Deborah to herself, after seeing her captivate the greater part of Key West’s queer tourism industry for the evening. And maybe that makes her petty or jealous, but well, she’s never pretended to be anything otherwise.)
“Oh, Christ, don’t give me that hangdog look. Come up to my suite, we can attempt to find something salvageable for the act from this week.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, but Ava gladly accepts.
Deborah perches on one end of the couch, kicking off her heels and stretching out her legs (and like, Ava’s not into feet or anything but damn does Deborah have a set of gams on her). She pours herself a tumbler of bourbon, not offering Ava any.
“I’m trying to get on your level, not push you into a blackout. I draw the line at holding back your hair.”
“Okay, listen, lady, I’m not about to puke on your fancy fucking carpet, give me a little credit.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Deborah shrugs, taking a slow sip.
(Ava wonders if she’s like, intentionally sexy all the time, or if that’s just a side effect of well, everything that is Deborah. Regardless, shit makes her life unnecessarily difficult, and that’s kind of rude of Deborah, after all they’ve been through.)
Ava sits cross-legged on the other end of the couch, doing her best to actually work if that’s still the plan (she really hopes it isn’t, but ‘yes and,’ etc…)
“So, that improv bit about digital equivalents for the hankie code was honestly pretty promising—” Ava trails off when she notices Deborah glaring at her phone in consternation. “What is it?”
Deborah sighs. “Fucking Marty. Even when I leave Vegas he manages to be a thorn in my side.”
Ava feels a frown tug at her forehead. The words tumble out inelegantly before she can find any sort of tact for them.
“What’s the deal with you two, anyway? What do you see in him?”
(If she sounds bitter, it’s because she is. )
Deborah glares at her, somehow both offended and thrilled at Ava’s reaction. She pauses, considering her words, before answering.
“I don’t really kiss and tell, Ava, but I also know you’re not going to let it go until I give you some sort of closure—”
“Oh, go ahead tell me what you really think of me—”
“—I find it kind of sweet, you know, how openly hostile you are to anyone who professes anything resembling a romantic interest in me.” Deborah’s normally haughty tone of voice has softened in response to the bourbon, her smile more like she and Ava are in on a joke together instead of Ava being the punchline, as she so often is. “So. Marty… Marty is… a worthy adversary.”
Ava sighs in exasperation, leaning back against the arm of the couch and fulfilling every stereotype about bisexuals’ inability to sit correctly.
“ Maybe there’s a god above, but all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you , blah blah blah?” Ava sing-songs.
“Didn’t take you for a Leonard Cohen fan,” Deborah snorts, ”seeing as he’s a dead cishet male, or whatever it is you call them.”
“Nah, dude, I know that song from the fuckin’ Shrek soundtrack.” Ava sticks her tongue out for emphasis.
Deborah exhales something between a scoff and a laugh, stretching out her legs until her feet are in Ava’s lap. It’s a gesture that is both entitled and intimate, which is sort of the overall dynamic of their relationship; Deborah expects so much but gives so freely, once she’s let you in her inner circle. She will tell you her secrets and use you as a footrest in the same moment.
Ava feels a compulsion to rub them, ease some of the stress and tension of the day. It’s a gesture that would be more befitting a long-married couple than whatever it is they are (Ava knows that technically it’s boss/employee, but she also knows that if she weren’t making a cent she’d still want to be here. And honestly it’s like a totally fucked metaphor for the brainwashing of end-stage capitalism that she’s fallen in love with her boss. She should probably quit. Maybe when she’s sober).
She’s shaken from her spiral about the fundamental exploitative nature of the free market by Deborah’s voice, soft and steady.
“I’d rather sleep with someone I know is a snake than make the mistake of falling in love and being betrayed.”
“Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Devil you know and all that. Probably why I kept trying to fuck my ex, even thought our break up was honestly horrible ? What’s the deal with queer women always trying to stay friends with their exes, honestly it’s just asking for unnecessary emotional baggage in every relationship moving forward.”
“Kept, as in past tense?” Deborah’s eyebrows quirk up in something that reads as very near to keen interest.
Ava waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“Well, I do kiss and tell, so you’d be hearin’ about it if I was still boning a super hot actress. And she just booked like a really good gig so unfortch, I’m not gonna get any clout from it.”
Deborah “hmmphs” a laugh at the line, but doesn’t respond for a while. Ava enjoys the warm weight of her legs in her lap. She still feels pretty floaty and very drunk; it’s nice to have something pinning her down.
Of course, that makes her think of other ways Deborah could pin her down, and Ava’s usually not a bottom, but she’d probably let Deborah do anything to her if she wanted. Well, not just let her , she’d probably be super into it, too. Within reason. She doesn’t get fetish vibes from Deborah, and she had looked at her browser history (the phone was already unlocked, what is she, a nun?) when she’d deleted that voicemail and Deborah definitely doesn’t know about clearing her cache, so if she’s into weird shit she’s not watching it on her phone, like a normal person.
Deborah visibly bites her tongue for a moment, before sharing again.
“He asked me to marry him once, between divorces. Marty, I mean. And judging by the voicemail I just got, he’s taken a notion to do it again.”
Ava giggles, feeling weightless and happy in the way only the perfect amount of alcohol can create. If she’d heard this news sober she’d be grumpy or annoyed (or on a bad day, would’ve pushed Deborah to accept because sometimes Ava’s self-destruction plays out in really fucked-up ways), but now it’s just funny that he would even try.
“That’s so stupid.”
“Yeah,” Deborah agrees, smiling lazily and fondly and Ava gets an idea.
“Fuck Marty, you should marry me instead.”
It is unequivocally the most ill-advised thing Ava has said in her life.
At least Deborah doesn’t slap her again.
“What? ” She laughs, incredulous.
“I mean, think about it! What better way to tell him to fuck off than to marry someone else?”
Ava’s sitting up on her heels now, bouncing up and down with renewed energy. Is tequila an upper or is that a myth?
“You know,” Deborah sticks her tongue in her cheek, “It would be pretty fucking funny for me to be the one marrying a twenty-five year old woman.”
“That’s what I’m saying— hey, I’m gonna be twenty-six next month!”
“Oh, never mind, you’re too old for the bit to really land.”
Ava barks out a laugh that turns into a cough and then Deborah is rubbing circles on her back and honestly this is the best joke they’ve ever written; it really doesn’t matter that it’s their lives.
“I’m pretty sure we drove by a twenty-four hour wedding chapel on the way from the airport. I mean that’s fucking hilarious. Getting drive thru married in fucking Florida ? We should totally do it. Fuck you, Vegas! We make our bad decisions in Key West, baby!”
From the moment they met, Deborah has always agreed with her on what makes a joke good.
(She hears Deborah’s voice in her head when the angel on her shoulder asks how she’ll explain this when anyone else finds out. There is no line .)
“You know what would be really funny? If we literally stayed married until death did us part. I mean, can you imagine ?” Deborah is wiping away tears, gripping Ava’s knee so hard Ava thinks she might have a bruise in the morning.
“It’s the perfect bit. Oh my god we’re geniuses . I’m calling a cab.”
“Wait—” Deborah looks panicked, and for a moment Ava’s convinced that she’s suddenly sobered up and she’s about to bomb. “What in the hell are you gonna wear? I can’t marry someone wearing a track jacket.”
_
Ava wakes up with the mother of all headaches and a vague recollection of a positively thrilling evening. Her mouth tastes awful , and something is touching her leg.
Oh. It’s another leg.
Deborah’s leg, more specifically.
Well… shit?
Deborah stirs and stretches, giving a happy little sigh and leaning into Ava before opening her eyes wide and sitting up straight.
“Why the fuck are you in my bed?”
“I don’t know, Deborah, why are you fucking cuddling me?”
Deborah frowns. Her wig is mussed, her makeup still mostly-on from the night before. Ava’s pretty sure they didn’t fuck, because she knows in her heart of hearts that she would’ve insisted on Deborah being like, completely authentic with her if they ever transgressed that particular barrier; no wigs, no eyelashes, no secrets. And they’re also both still wearing their bras, and there’s no way she would’ve missed the chance to take in that view.
Ava picks up her phone to look at the time (7:29; the jet’s due to depart at 10 am, as if this morning wasn’t stressful enough already) and something tells her she might find some answers in her camera roll.
There are a lot of selfies from the evening before.
Her and Deborah in the back of a cab, laughing so hard every photo is a blur. Ava wearing one of Deborah’s oversized sequined blazers, which, paired with an old pair of Cortez’s is truly a lewk .
Her and Deborah, positively guffawing at the altar, pausing for what appears to be the briefest of kisses to punctuate the occasion.
(Honestly, Ava’s a little disappointed she didn’t go for it more, but she gets that a little peck is a funnier visual than attempting a sloppy makeout. Like, this one they could totally text to Marty. Not that she would. Because she wants to live, even if she currently feels like death.)
Deborah’s looking over her shoulder, surprisingly calm for the occasion.
“You know I wasn’t quite sure if that was a particularly batty dream, but it makes more sense that we would’ve actually done that. My subconscious tends to be pretty dull, trips to the supermarket and fishing and shit like that.”
“Uh, by ‘done that’ do you mean got married? Because that’s sure what it looks like we did.”
Deborah grins wryly. “And like most newlyweds, we were so exhausted after we didn’t even have sex.”
Good to know Ava’s not the only one doing that specific mental math.
“Is that actually a thing, or is this another one of your jokes about how you hate sleeping with men, which honestly? It’s a little gay, Deb. Not as gay as marrying me , but still…”
Ava stands up and starts rummaging around, looking for any legal proof of the alleged union. Deborah is staring at her back, but she’s too stressed to make a joke about it.
“See if you can find the marriage license in your bag with your tampons, or whatever.”
“I don’t use tampons,” Ava mutters, making her things even more of a mess than they already are and still coming up empty.
“Well, that makes two of us,” Deborah grunts, searching her side of the bedside table. “Oh, here we go,” slips her reading glasses over her ears and examines the paper before her. “Yeah, that’s definitely legal.”
“So, what, we’re gonna go get an annulment before we leave town?”
Deborah looks at her like she’s an idiot (which, considering everything happening right now is maybe not too far off of the mark).
“I’m not about to be late for our next gig because you can’t commit to a bit. And, no offense, but it doesn’t look like anyone else is trying to marry you anytime soon, so we’ll deal with it later.”
Out of all of Deborah’s potential reactions (she’d done a speed read of them after remembering the night before), this was not one Ava had expected.
“How are you so calm about this?”
Ava feels like she’s losing her mind.
Deborah smirks.
“I’m a professional, baby. I don’t break.”