Chapter Text
Despite growing quite fond of each other, everyone’s ready for a bit of healthy separation by the time Claude’s arrest makes the news. At this point, they can all take care of themselves, but Debbie makes sure to slip a metro card in with Constance’s stuff.
Lou gets on her motorcycle to embark on a cross-country journey that she’s been talking about doing for as long as Debbie can remember. She invites Debbie along before she leaves, but Debbie knows this is something she’s always wanted to do alone. After five years and eight months in prison, Debbie has accumulated a hefty laundry list, anyway. Now is as good a time as any to see to that. She’s never had a problem being alone.
The first day is easy. She drafts plans and reaches out to a few contractors about the loft, because it could really use some work. It’s the second day that trips her up. She goes by Danny and Tess’s place, but the new owners have no forwarding address or contact information for Tess.
“Said she wanted a clean break,” they say. “Poor thing. It’s just awful.”
“Yes,” Debbie agrees flatly, “poor Tess.”
She’s not sure what she’d imagined she would accomplish in going there. It’s not like she even wants to talk to Tess. Debbie’s harbored a grudge ever since she divorced Danny, and she had a hard time letting go of it when they got back together.
Since the person she actually does want to talk to is unavailable, she takes a shaker and a jar of olives to the closest approximation. She sits in front of Danny’s marker and toasts to her success, and it feels validating and hollow at the same time. She almost expects Reuben or Rusty, or someone equally appropriate, to show up, but no one does, and she stays awhile.
She thinks she’s fine—she really does—until she flips on the light in the bedroom and just stares at the empty space in the closet where Lou’s duffel used to be. She realizes that she hates being alone. It’s possible that her time in solitary had more of an effect than she thought.
In search of a familiar voice, she calls Tammy. Lou probably doesn’t have service wherever she is, and, even if she did, Debbie doesn’t want to inadvertently make her feel guilty. Talking to Tammy is nice and proves to be exactly what she needed when the blonde mentions how glad she is to be home.
“Not that being in the city wasn’t fun,” Tammy says, “but I missed my kids and my husband.”
Debbie discovers that that’s exactly how it is. She occupies her time, catches up with old acquaintances, and checks in on her crew, but, even when she’s enjoying herself, she often wishes Lou was with her.
Which makes Debbie think. And think. And think.
When Debbie finally can’t keep it to herself any longer, she shows her grandmother’s ring to Amita. It seems like a clever idea until she finds herself hastily clarifying, “I don’t want to know what it’s worth. Or the quality of the—it’s just…” Seriously, what kind of genius brings something sentimental to someone whose job is to ruthlessly critique it?
Amita, who looks thoroughly confused, attempts to fill in the blanks.
“What’s this from? Did Claude propose before he sent you to prison? Oh, shit, did he propose after? Does Lou know? Wait, did Lou propose? Did you say no? Is that why she left? What’s going to happen to—”
“It’s mine,” Debbie interrupts.
Disbelief fills Amita’s voice as she asks, “You bought this?”
“I inherited it.” Debbie turns the ring over in her hands thoughtfully. “Now it’s mine to give to whomever I want.”
Amita’s eyes go wide, and she’d be grinning if her mouth wasn’t hanging open. “Holy fuck,” she exclaims. “Have you told anyone else?”
“No, and I don’t plan to.”
“You’re telling me and not Tammy? So I’m your best friend. Ha! Suck it, Tamster!”
“Glad you’re focused on what’s important,” remarks Debbie sarcastically. “And Lou’s my best friend.” But there’s a hint of a smile on her face.
“Yo, did you know Nine Ball can sing?” Constance asks, barreling into the kitchen on her skateboard. She’s remarkably conspicuous nearly all the time, and it’s as headache-inducing as it is endearing.
Debbie gives her a Look, which she grumbles over, but she hops off the board and stomps one end to launch the other into her outstretched hand. Debbie sighs exasperatedly, “That is how you scratch hardwood.”
“Um, hate to break it to you,” says Constance, squinting down at the well-worn floor, “but it’s already a little scratched, Mom.”
“Well, you keep that up after the renovations are finished and I’m going to make you wax the floors by hand. No paying anyone to do it for you,” Debbie warns.
“Alright, alright.”
The girl is already halfway across the room when Debbie calls her back. “You were saying something about Nine Ball?” she prompts.
Constance lights up. “Yeah! I heard her earlier. Mamí’s got pipes.”
“Okay?” Debbie offers. She’s not sure why this warrants a breaking news style announcement, but she is a little curious what kind of music Nine Ball is into. “What was she singing?” she asks.
“Something about diamonds.” Constance shrugs. “Bee-tee-dubs…you were in the slammer a while, but you know marriage equality is a thing now, right?”
“Yes,” Debbie replies dryly, “I did happen to hear about that. I also heard that technology addiction is becoming a problem, so I was thinking of getting rid of the WiFi.”
“Cool. Cool, cool.” Constance says awkwardly as she fires finger-guns in Debbie’s direction and backs away. “Got the memo. Not my business. Catch you later.”
Lou returns after fifteen days, covered in dust and sand. The sound of the front door startles Debbie, who’s alone in the den watching Stranger Things and contemplating how she would break into Hawkins Lab if she were Hopper. Lou’s got three holes in her t-shirt and silver paint on her forearm, but she stares as though Debbie’s the eccentric one. She’s back nearly a week earlier than she’d estimated, and she smells about as fresh as she looks, so they don’t say much until she’s in the shower. Then Debbie joins her and they talk even less.
After, while finger-combing damp, blonde bangs, Debbie asks, “How was it?”
“Fine,” Lou mumbles tiredly. “Thought it’d feel more…freeing. I missed you.”
Debbie breathes a sigh of relief.
“I missed you, too.”
Debbie chickens out.
She chickens out hard.
The morning after Lou comes home, she puts the ring in her pocket and waits for the perfect moment. It doesn’t come. Instead, she gets a den full of friends welcoming Lou back, with Nine Ball commenting that motorcycles are sexy and laughing hysterically at the possessive fury on Debbie’s face.
Lou’s very teasing and flippant, and Debbie wonders if maybe they aren’t on the same page—if Lou’s “I missed you” didn’t mean the same thing as hers. Either way, the confidence of that first morning dissipates quickly.
After six days, she starts to worry that she’s developing a very uncharacteristic nervous tic from repeatedly checking her pocket for the ring. She decides maybe she needs to take the reigns on this. Planning is her strong suit, after all. Except every romantic moment feels forced on her end, and Lou’s completely oblivious.
For instance, Debbie sets up a white sheet and a projector and dips strawberries in chocolate, and then Lou assumes she’s preparing to catch up on the films she missed in prison, picks out Gravity, and asks where the others are. So Debbie furtively shoves the champagne back in the fridge, brings out beer, and replies that she wants to hear the movie, not seven color commentators.
Gravity is a good movie, but it’s decidedly not romantic.
“She’s very pretty,” Lou comments at one point, “but that’s a god-awful haircut.”
“The pixie mullet?” Debbie manages with a straight face. “I kind of like it.” Lou gapes at her, horrified, and she laughs, “I guess that means you like mine better long?”
“I’ve grown fond of it,” Lou admits, tugging playfully at a lock of brown hair.
Hours later, it occurs to Debbie that that might’ve actually been the moment. She tries to replicate it and is forced to acknowledge that sugary sweet romance isn’t them. They’re lazy Sundays on the floor listening to records and shared plates of everything on the menu at the diner. There’s romance in those things, sure, but no way in hell is Debbie asking Lou to marry her in a diner.
That’s another thing: the whole emotional declaration bit she’s been struggling with is just a tiny preface to marriage. Like, she’s on board with spending the rest of their lives together, though she’s confident they’ll do that, anyway. And that thing Danny said—Heist Wives—has really grown on her. It’s just, she can’t picture them doing the ceremony thing. All she comes up with is a distant fantasy of Danny giving her away and the memory of her and Lou quietly roasting guests from the alter as bridesmaids at Tammy’s wedding. Neither is very helpful.
“I don’t know what there is to be afraid of,” she tells Danny’s marker. “Worst case scenario, she’s one of those people who “doesn’t need a piece of paper,” and things stay the way they are. She wouldn’t leave me just for asking, right?” She stands and paces around the bench. “Lou likes her lone wolf image, but she’s always said we’re a unit.”
Debbie sighs. “You’d probably say something like, “Just tell her you want to grow old together, Deb. Quit making it so complicated.” Damnit, Danny, a girl needs her big brother for this shit.”
The way it happens is so much worse than proposing in a diner.
They’re curled up on the couch one afternoon, just the two of them, when Debbie abruptly fishes the ring out of her pocket. Her elbow presses into Lou’s thigh in the process, and Lou looks up from the New York Times for the cause of the disturbance.
“Danny left this for me,” says Debbie nonchalantly, “but it’d look much better on you.”
Lou’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s your mother’s ring.”
“It is.”
“And you want me to wear it?”
“I do.”
Cocking her head thoughtfully, Lou presses, “Isn’t there a question that goes with it?”
Debbie breathes in deeply through her nose and exhales the same way. “Only if you’re going to say yes,” she hedges.
“Deb—” Lou starts.
The rest is drowned out by Nine Ball bursting into the loft shouting, “Bitch, better have my money!” She comes into view with Constance beside her, nearly doubled over and crying with laughter.
“We wrote a song!” Constance informs them. “It’s amaze-balls.”
“Lovely,” Lou drawls.
Debbie simply glares.
Nine Ball peers at the way they’re intertwined on the couch, the ring that’s mostly concealed in Debbie’s loosely-curled fist, and the overtly fond way Lou’s fingers are brushing through the soft hairs at the base of Debbie’s neck. She purses her lips and says, “Uh, we’ll come back later, yeah?”
“Later,” Debbie agrees.
“Much later,” Lou specifies with a glint in her eye.
Constance catches on and adds, “With lots of booze!” as the door slams behind them. An envelope slides off the mail stack and plummets to the floor.
“You were saying?” Debbie murmurs.
“Oh, no,” Lou chuckles, “I’m still waiting on you.”
Debbie grumbles but holds the ring aloft and asks, “Lou Miller, will you marry me?”
Pressing her lips to Debbie’s ear, Lou husks, “Obviously, you dork.”
Just under four hours later, what sounds to be multiple fists pounding at the door brings a swift end to the peace and quiet. Debbie finishes zipping up her slacks and smirks at Lou, who’s still lounging in bed. “What did I tell you?” she asks rhetorically, browsing the closet for a blouse. “It’s a miracle they even waited this long.” She chooses one of Lou’s—a deep purple, pinstriped dress shirt that’s sinfully silky.
“You wearing my clothes doesn’t quite motivate me to get out of bed,” Lou informs her. “Maybe they’ll assume we went out and go away.”
That pipe dream is shot down by Daphne shouting, “You have five minutes to get decent. We’ve all got keys.”
Lou decides to go with a leather corset and a velvet wine blazer, instead of literally anything less involved, so they manage to get downstairs only a few seconds before the door opens. A pastel pink streak immediately barrels into Debbie.
“Nice to see you, too, Tammy,” Debbie says, reaching up to hug her back.
“Oh, shut up,” Tammy replies, stepping away. “I’m allowed to be emotional sometimes.”
“Congratulations!” exclaims Constance as she pops a party streamer and sends slivers of metallic confetti fluttering through the air.
“You’re engaged!” Rose says, clapping excitedly.
“Does this mean we’ll have another excuse to get dressed up?” asks Amita. “Because, last time we went to a formal event, I was stuck in the bathroom for most of it.”
“That’s because we weren’t attending,” Tammy corrects, “we were stealing.”
“I suppose there’s no chance of getting you into anything pant-less, much less a gown, hm?” Rose asks Lou, who merely snorts in response. “Very well. A suit, then. I do love a nice feminine-cut three-piece. I’ll need to know the color scheme first, though.” She glances appraisingly between Debbie and Lou, who stare back, overwhelmed. “You’re both rather fair. What sort of flowers do you think…?”
Lou holds up her hands in surrender. “Whatever Debbie wants,” she says.
“Cop out,” Nine Ball coughs.
“It’s going to be my answer to everything,” Lou reveals.
“Wait, she proposed to you,” Constance says, squinting like she’s working through a logic problem. “Doesn’t that mean you get to make the decisions?”
“That’s not a thing,” Amita scoffs.
Tammy shrugs and points out, “Marriage is about compromise.”
“Compromise?” echoes a familiar voice. “You should know Debbie better than that by now.”
Lou’s eyes grow wide, and Debbie whips around.
Danny Ocean stands in the doorway wearing a suit and a grin, and Debbie thinks she must be dreaming. Then he laughs, steps fully into the loft, and closes the door, and she knows it’s real because she’s been struggling to remember his laugh for months, but that was exactly it.
“Danny?” she chokes.
“Hey, Deb.”
Debbie nearly bowls Tammy over in her haste to get to her brother. He grips her back just as tightly. They haven’t hugged in six years. It’s a lot. She might be crying a little, but she’ll thank everyone not to call attention to it. She has so many questions, but she starts with, “Where the hell have you been?”
“I had to disappear,” he answers, keeping his voice low. “The less you know, the better.”
“Will you be able to come back?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say.”
“Okay,” Debbie breathes. “Okay.”
“I expected you to be angrier,” Danny admits.
“Oh, I am furious,” she confirms. “I’m just more relieved.”
Danny holds her at arms length, smiles, and says, “You did it, Deb. I’m proud of you.”
She huffs, mock offended, “I told you I could pull it off.”
“Not the job,” he clarifies, “I never doubted you there. I wasn’t sure you’d find the balls to pop the question.”
“It took some prompting,” injects Lou. The comment is meant to tease, but her voice is hard. She stalks over and gets right in Danny’s face. “If you Oceans and your non-violence hadn’t rubbed off on me so much, I’d deck you for making her cry,” she growls.
“You’d be welcome to,” Danny replies.
She throws her arms around him instead. “You’re a real fucking asshole, Ocean.”
“Love you, too, Miller.”
He hugs Tammy next, and the four of them stand there with stupid grins on their faces until Daphne, who’s sitting on the arm of the couch and swigging champagne straight from the bottle, calls out, “Whenever you feel like introducing the rest of us…”
So that’s how Debbie’s newly extended family meets Danny. They learn that he’s managed to stay in the know via some very covert and careful spying and an utterly unexpected informant: Tammy’s husband.
“He’s so far outside of our world,” explains Danny, “that no one would ever expect him to know anything. Plus, he’s a smart guy. He knows the safest thing for all of us is to keep each other’s secrets.”
Tammy folds her arms over her chest. “I can’t decide whether to feel betrayed or proud.”
“Your brother’s hot,” Daphne tells Lou in a stage whisper.
“He’s not my brother,” Lou reminds her.
Daphne waves her hand dismissively. “Brother-in-law. Whatever.”
Debbie takes the champagne away from her and says pointedly, “He’s married.” It’s less out of deference to Tess than a strong desire to keep Daphne far, far away from Danny. “By the way, where is Tess?” she asks.
“It’s safest for us not to go out together,” Danny says in answer. “If someone recognizes her, they’ll be curious about who she’s with, and even a great disguise is most effective when no one’s paying attention but almost useless if someone’s looking too close. She sends her love, though.”
Debbie mumbles something noncommittal.
They all drink and chat for a while. The loft is spacious, but not massive, so Debbie sits on Lou’s lap to maximize the seating. And, yes, that’s her excuse, and she’s sticking to it. It’s not unlike the night of the Met Gala, the way Lou’s hands are hot on her hips and she’s nuzzling her nose into that spot below Debbie’s ear.
“Let’s do it tonight,” Lou murmurs, alcohol making her accent a little thicker.
Debbie chuckles, “Mm, how about we wait until everyone else leaves?”
“No,” Lou says, louder and more animatedly, “let’s get married.” She’s attracting attention now. “I know you’ll want Danny there, and we don’t know when we’ll be able to see him again. So let’s do it tonight. We can have a big party or whatever you want later, but, right now, we have everyone we need.”
“I’m ordained!” offers Constance. “What?” she asks at seven incredulous expressions, “I fell down an internet rabbit hole and ended up with a pdf.”
Debbie looks at Danny for guidance.
“I think you know where I stand,” he tells her.
“Okay,” she says with a grin, brushing her fingertips over Lou’s cheekbone. “Let’s get married.”
Constance clears her throat.