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In prison, Debbie has nothing. And that’s the way she likes it.
She starts out in a cell with three other women - tough, hardened women. They’re not terrible, really, but this whole situation, this being framed for a crime she didn’t even design, this betrayal, and ultimately? This moment of foolish trust. That’s what’s truly terrible.
So, sure, it’s not their fault that they wound up in a cell with Deborah Ocean on a bad day, but it’s not her fault that they didn’t listen when she told them to be quiet and keep to themselves or there’d be trouble. It’s not her fault that they wind up with seven broken bones and twenty three stitches, between them.
Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that in prison, she has no one, and she’s fine with that.
No one gives her time to plan, gives her the frustrating resource of monotony, which she puts to good use. No one affords her no distractions, which is perfect, because she can’t afford distractions. Not yet.
But then, of course, as planned, she leaves prison.
And then, of course, comes the con.
She had expected a team- she needed a team. She’d worked out the perfect balance, a ratio of efficiency, talent, and conflict, proportional to profit. She’d expected a team, but somehow she’d not anticipated them.
They’re sitting around on a Tuesday evening, sprawled over the couches, sipping over priced champagne and taking turns at verbally abusing the judges of some fashion reality show flashing across the projector. There’s no plan tonight, no next step or project, it’s just hanging out - one of the many new things that’s become a part of her life now, a part of their life.
The program suddenly flashes a little too brightly, then fizzles out, to a chorus of dismayed protests. Nine Ball rolls her eyes and, with a bemused comment about how some people won’t stop living in the 20th century, leans forwards and jabs at the keyboard to re-establish their connection with the cable internet connection two blocks over. With one hand, she slides a coaster beneath one of the mugs on the table, because “C’mon guys, that shit stains forever”, while the other rolls dexterously along her signature mouse, clicking and probing until the screen blares to life again. She claims victory with two fists pumped into the air, falling back into her bean bag, folding her arms back behind her head. She’s fantastic, the best at her work, as she’s explained to them on multiple occasions. Debbie doesn’t understand half of what she says, doesn’t understand almost anything of what she does, and she’s pretty sure that she never will.There are small slithers that sneak their way out- the way she makes casserole with just the right amount of spice, the pictures of her sister’s graduation she shows them with a proud and nervous smile, the plans for the bar which she brings home one night, sprawls across the table and asks each and every one of them for their opinion. There’s still a lot that stays hidden, tucked away, but Debbie can respect that. She’ll take what she can get, when it’s given, and appreciate a clever and cautious specialist when she sees one.
Then there’s Rose. She’d planned for her, in an abstract way. She’d planned for a designer, some artistic, fae type, someone to give them a way in. She’d planned for an ego, for artistic constipation, for ridiculous expectations and demands. But she’d not planned for this. She’d not planned for the Irish ball of floral disaster, out-drinking them all, and then proceeding bundle them all into bed to share the stories of her sordid adventures, scandalous tales of what she’d been up to from one side of the world to another, at a disturbingly young age. She shows them her rose-coloured glasses, for when she’s having a bad day, because she’s artistic and literal and self deprecating in one fell swoop, and she know how to make that work. She shows them her record collection - in an unavoidable sense, she moves the boxes across with her sewing machine - she moves all her trash into Lou’s place eventually. Even she calls it trash, but she does it with a sweet cackle that makes it seem more marvelous than mad. And she’s certainly a lot, but they’ll take her in bite sized pieces and enjoy every moment nonetheless.
In a bizarre turn of events, the only one who takes it a little further, who indulges a little more, is Daphne. God, Debbie is so glad that Daphne turned out to be just as fantastic as she’d hoped she could be. She’d definitely not planned for this, but somehow, despite her stellar good looks and phenomenal prestige, Daphne fits in to the couch just as snugly as Rose tucked in beside her. She’s been beautiful, and she’s been magnificent and resplendent and all that, but here, with a crochet rug thrown over their legs and a fashion magazine being judiciously flipped beneath four discerning eyes, here - Daphne looks good. She looks beautiful in the way she raises her eyebrows at the pages beneath her fingers, she looks magnificent as she arches her fingers around Rose’s shoulder, her nails lightly scraping at the skin there, her eyes opening wide with appreciation at the response she receives. She looks resplendent swapping banter with Nine Ball and throwing one of the muffins over to be caught in Constance’s deft grasp. Whatever way it came around, this is where she belongs, and she’s never been more stunning.
Tammy walks back from the kitchen with a tray full of fresh cocktails, balancing her tray with adept ease and gracefully accepting the praise that came in exchange for each glass. Debbie loved Tammy, she really did. It wasn’t just about the intrigue and the joy of the chase, it wasn’t just about how she somehow pulled off suburban motherhood and major crime in the same cashmere sweater, and made both look far too delicious and far too easy. Debbie loved Tammy- loves her, because Debbie’s not the kind of person who gives up on loving someone, just because it wasn’t right then, or because it’s still not right now. She can enjoy those memories, of muffled moans and rumpled hair, of Tammy’s coy and clever lips - and she can enjoy the memories they are making now. She can enjoy seeing new pictures of her kids, the way her smile softens and her voice slows down as she tells them about the school play. She can tease her over a glass of gin and not feel guilty, because Tammy really does love her husband, oblivious as he may be. She loves Tammy even if Tammy can’t love her back, but it’s okay, really, it’s quite nice. It’s safer than most other things going on right now.
Amita- well, she likes beautiful things, so it’s not entirely surprising to see her, squashed into the corner of the other couch, a twisted smile on her lips, her arm curled around the waist of the gorgeous woman beside her. It’s unexpected, because for as long as Debbie has known her, Amita has been working her way through the long list of potential suitors that both her and her mother had deemed acceptable; but given the length of that list, and the rate of success, maybe it’s not that unexpected after all. Amita is confident in a way that Debbie has always admired, confident but considerate, kind. She won’t marry a man just because her mother has picked him, but will meet with him because she can see the value in her mother’s love and good wishes, misdirected as they might be. She’s not about to bump down the price of a beautiful piece of jewellery she’s crafted, because it was the work of her hands and long hours spent being over her bench, bespectacled and focused, but she will pick out another gem, perhaps less valuable, sure, but one that is beautiful nonetheless, and stay up all night building a ring around it, because even if buying the ring one day before you’re planning to propose is dumb and disorganised, there’s a certain look in the eyes of people who are in love, and Amita is just a little in love with that look. And maybe Debbie’s a little in love with her, too.
Next to her, leaning happily into her warm embrace, and toying with her bejewelled fingers, is Constance. They make a funny pair, but it makes sense. Those dexterous fingers are flipping a ring from one finger to the next, relishing in the neat and nimble motions, and from the amused giggles that follow from behind her. She’s a hard worker, with a hard past, and Debbie admires that immensely. She admires her outlook on life, too, her frank positivity, riddled with pragmatism. There’s an email almost every second day, reminding them all to like her videos, but also ensuring they all reply, doggedly, leaving no opportunity for a single member of their haphazard crew to go unattended for more than 48 hours- because you’d better believe that failing to reply to the ever increasing email chain will bring some serious repercussions. She’s fiercely loyal, which is familiar and appreciated. She’s a gem, Constance is, found by someone who knows how to find the most precious stones, no matter where they may be hidden, which also just fits into this whole thing rather perfectly.
Her train of thought is abruptly derailed but another, different hand, snaking around her waist and tugging her a little closer.
“Hey. You okay?”
Lou’s never been a woman of many words, only the right ones.
“Yeah.” Debbie smiles, turning to face her, those long lashes caught between the strands of her longer fringe, cheeks rounding into a clever grin beneath. “Just thinking, that’s all.”
Lou, who after all the things she’s done to her, after the fights and the nights that neither of them slept at all, after the nights they spent dead to the world in each others arms, after the trainwreck that was Claude, after five years without a word, has always had her back. Lou, who has always been by her side. Lou, who took the ring from her, almost six years ago, without a word, and fed it onto her necklace, let it fall onto her chest and warm itself there, and turned to walk away, because she knows how much Debbie hates goodbyes, but will follow them through, nonetheless.
Lou, who gives her a look, creases her eyebrows ever so slightly, twitches the corner of lips, and then sighs, short and soft, as if she now understands it all. Which, in a way, she does.
“You think too much, Deb.” And, her eyes flicking down for just a beat, Lou pulls her in for a soft but ferocious kiss. And more than anything she missed, more than anything the last five years have taken away from her, more than anything she’d dreamt about in the long hours between meticulous planning - Debbie has missed this; missed her .
Lou tastes better than her imagination had supplied - it’s sharp and biting, but familiar. Her lips move with confidence and her hands take and hold precisely what she wants, where she wants it. She moves half an inch and suddenly everything is even better, and Debbie can’t help the low moan that escapes her lips at the new press of their bodies, their mouths. Lou tastes like she always has - like freedom.
The moment is rudely interrupted by a large pillow, thrown with unnerving aim from the couch opposite.
“Ew, mum! Why you gotta do that at the dinner table!”
Debbie flips her off with both hands, and then grabs the pillow to throw it back, but Lou just smiles and shakes her head, rolling her eyes as she takes a long sip of her drink, waiting for Debbie to finish the momentary siege and settle back into her welcoming arms once more, which only takes a few more rounds of combat, as expected.
And settle back she does, leaning her head in against Lou’s, where she can’t see her, but can feel her beside her from almost every angle, from her ankles to her ears, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
It’s wonderful, and all kinds of wicked. And it’s terribly distracting. She’s terribly distracting - they all are, in fact.
But that’s okay, she can afford a little distraction now.