Chapter Text
Deborah Vance doesn’t just survive in the 1980s comedy circuit, she is dominating it. With her bright blonde hair, shoulder pads, sequins, and a tongue sharp enough to cut glass, she carves out her space in a world of men who underestimate her at their peril.
But even Deborah Vance, the almost-first woman to host a late-night TV show and the darling of the now-canceled Who’s Making Dinner?, can’t outrun her personal disasters. Two years ago, her life imploded spectacularly. Frank, her husband, her supposed partner in life, leaves her for her sister. It wasn’t just betrayal, it was a nuclear-level betrayal. The tabloids feast on the scandal, splashing her name across headlines alongside phrases like “Comedienne Scorned” and “Vance Family Drama.” The rumors about her burning Frank’s house down don’t help, especially because when she tries to deny it, no one believes her.
Deborah laughs it off on stage, but privately, she simmers in a rage that fuels her act but burns through everything else. After two years of everything exploding, Kathy and Frank are old news, but the scars they leave still itch. She has a career to rebuild, a daughter to raise, and no time for self-pity.
DJ, her seven-year-old whirlwind of a daughter, is everything to her. But lately, even her child seems to be slipping through her fingers. Deborah loves her kid more than life itself, but balancing DJ’s needs with her relentless schedule feels impossible. And DJ isn’t making it easy. The girl is as stubborn as her mother.
On a particular night, in a dressing room that smells of wet socks, DJ throws a major tantrum.
“Mommy! You said I could stay up to watch you!” DJ whines, her small hands balled into fists.
“You know you can’t stay up and watch my set. I said you could stay up playing here,” Deborah says, adjusting her sequined dress in the mirror. “It’s not kid-appropriate. Maybe when you’re older.”
“You always say that!” DJ’s voice climbs to a pitch that makes Deborah wince.
“Well, it’s true, baby,” Deborah snaps, her patience wearing thin. “I’m not doing knock-knock jokes out there. I’ve got an audience expecting adult material. Now go with Rita, please.”
“Rita’s boring!” DJ shouts, stamping her foot.
Rita, the long-suffering stagehand who is roped into babysitting more times than Deborah cares to admit on this leg tour, waits by the door. “She’s not wrong, sugar. I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs.”
Deborah shoots her a look. “Not helping, Rita.”
She hates how easily DJ can unravel her. She is the parent, for god’s sake. But that voice, that look, it’s like fighting with a tiny mirror. By the time DJ is finally asleep after a pack of Pop Rocks and a promise of pancakes, Deborah missed her curtain call.
Her manager, James Lusaque, waits when she finally emerges.
“Deb, we need to talk,” he says.
“Oh good, I was just thinking: I don’t get enough unsolicited advice.”
“I’m serious,” James says. “This isn’t working. You need help with your little girl.”
“We’re doing fine.”
“You’re missing sets. You’re stressed. DJ’s stressed. If you don’t do something, it’s all going to fall apart.”
“I don’t need a nanny.”
“You need someone,” James presses. “You’re not Wonder Woman, Deb. And DJ’s not a prop you can leave in the wings or in green rooms with stage managers. You can always leave her with Fran—”
“Don’t you dare finish that.” Deborah shoots him a look that makes the man shiver.
“Just… think about it, okay? We can hire someone to be with you on the bus or temporarily in each city, your call. But we have to do something.”
She doesn’t respond, just picks DJ up from the couch to carry her to the motel they are staying in.
She doesn’t need a babysitter. They are fine. Deep down she knows it isn’t ideal to raise her kid between strange adults and a bus doubling as their house, but she can’t live without DJ and still has bills to pay. It is the only situation that makes sense right now.
She’ll never forget last year when Frank had full custody after the divorce because of the fire accusation. It was one of the worst experiences of her life. She won’t let it happen again.
After a long night of staring at the ceiling, she decides to give in.
The diner smells like bacon grease and coffee, the kind of place where the blinds are always half-broken and the pie case hasn’t rotated since the Nixon administration. Deborah sits in a cracked vinyl booth, sunglasses still on, tapping her manicured nail against a chipped mug. DJ is next to her, slumped forward, doodling lazily on a placemat with a green crayon.
This is their third interview this morning. The first woman was so sweet Deborah is convinced cavities are contagious. The second looked ready to cry when DJ raised her voice. And DJ herself is beyond checked out, dragging her crayon back and forth, bored to death.
Then Ava Daniels slides into the booth.
Baggy jeans cuffed at the ankle, striped polo shirt that looks stolen from a thrift store, messy red bob tied into a half-ponytail. A worn out notebook and pen sit on the table in front of her. She looks too young, too smug, too at ease in this mess of a diner. It makes Deborah’s skin itch. Not in a bad way.
Ava raises an eyebrow. “So… which one of you is hiring me?”
Deborah pushes her sunglasses down just enough to glare. “I’m Deborah.” She gestures at the blonde girl. “This is my daughter, DJ.”
DJ doesn’t look up. “Hi,” she mumbles, still scribbling.
Ava leans forward, giving her a little wave. “I’m Ava.” Then, to Deborah: “Alright, what you got?”
Deborah crosses her arms. “What kind of experience do you have?”
“Babysat my neighbor’s three demon spawns for two summers. Taught them how to skateboard. Taught one of them how to pick locks, but that was educational.”
DJ’s crayon freezes mid-stroke. She looks up, eyes wide. “You know how to pick locks?”
“Shh,” Ava stage-whispers. “it’s a secret.”
The little girl grins, the first crack in her wall of boredom.
Deborah ignores it, pressing on. “What do you do if a child eats too much sugar?”
“Water, and then tire her out. Jumping jacks, laps around the block, dance battle if it comes to that.”
“If she’s choking, what do you do?”
“The Heimlich. I’m certified,” Ava smirks, proudly tapping her pen against her notebook.
Before Deborah can fire off another, DJ shoves the placemat across the table, revealing her doodle: a lopsided dragon with jagged flames shooting from its mouth.
The redhead’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Did you just draw this? That’s amazing.” She leans closer. “The fire’s awesome. How’d you do the swirly smoke?”
DJ straightens, suddenly animated. “It’s not just smoke, it’s fire and smoke. See? Red at the bottom, gray on top.”
“That’s genius,” Ava says with absolute sincerity. She grabs one of the crayons. “Okay, but your dragon definitely needs a sidekick.”
The younger blonde tilts her head, suspicious but curious. “What kind of sidekick?”
Ava’s pen scratches fast across the page. “A knight. Obviously. But not just any knight.” She adds long black hair flying from under a helmet, a crooked sword raised high.
DJ gasps. “It’s a girl knight?”
“Of course,” Ava says, like it is obvious. “Girls make the best knights.”
The blue-eyed girl breaks into delighted giggles. “What’s her name?”
“You tell me,” Ava says, sliding the placemat over.
She scrawls clumsy letters across the margin: FIREBLADE.
Ava presses her hand to her heart, mock-dramatic. “Fireblade? That’s terrifying. Nobody’s messing with her.”
DJ laughs, grabbing her crayon to add a cape and more flames. She slides it back. “Now you add something.”
Ava draws a crooked castle in the corner. “They need a base.”
The little blonde adds the same swirly smoke coming out of its windows. Ava draws a tiny crown on the dragon’s head. DJ gives Fireblade sparkly armor. Back and forth, until the placemat is crowded with bright colors and messy lines, a little world they’ve built together on the sticky diner table.
Deborah sits back, arms crossed tight, not smiling but not stopping it either. Her coffee goes cold in her hands. With the divorce and all the touring, she can’t remember the last time her daughter has looked this lit up.
She clears her throat. “Can you cook?”
“I’m no chef but never gave anyone food poisoning.”
“How about nightmares?”
“I don’t usually have them,” Ava says smirking, which earns her an eyeroll. “Flashlight under the pillow,” she whispers, getting really close to the girl. “Keep the monsters away.”
DJ gasps dramatically, as though this is groundbreaking.
Deborah takes a breath, then nods once. “Alright. Weekend trial. You survive life on the bus with us, maybe you stick around. One wrong move, and you’re gone. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Ava says, smiling like she’s already passed.
DJ claps so loudly other diners turn to look.
Ava carefully placed the drawing inside her notebook.
By evening, the adrenaline wears off, and Deborah starts to question everything. She stands at the top of the tour bus stairs as Ava arrives with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a cassette tape poking out of one pocket.
“Alright,” Deborah says, blocking the door. “No junk food at night, bed time at 7, but she’ll fight till 7h30pm. And if anything happens to her-”
“I'll call for you immediately,” Ava nods. She doesn't hesitate. “Got it, boss.”
Deborah narrows her eyes. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
She hesitates, then steps aside.
Inside, Ava crouches to DJ’s level. “Alright, what’s the plan? Board games? Fort building? Or do we just go full chaos and eat all the snacks?”
“Full chaos!” DJ declares. She springs up from the couch, her eyes bright with mischief.
Deborah sighs, a long suffering sound. She steps aside and gestures a manicured hand toward the interior. “Welcome aboard. God help me.” She is not asking. It is a statement of fact.
As she heads to the back of the bus to get ready for her set, she glances back. Ava is already sitting on the floor, negotiating with DJ over a box of something neon pink. She just can’t shake the feeling that this Ava girl will be a problem.
Deborah tells herself this is temporary, just a patch. Nothing more. But as the bus lurches forward to the venue, and she hears DJ’s delighted giggle from the front, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, this particular problem is going to be worth all the trouble.