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One
Lou's never seen a kitchen like Debbie's.
It's not even about the chaos; she understands a messy kitchen, even if her preferences run tidier. No, it's more about the fact that nothing in the room has anything even remotely to do with food or its preparation.
Papers are scattered across every surface: taped to the walls, covered in incomprehensible notes and schematics. There are books left open, and pens, and locks, and lock picks, and magazines, and maps, and more things than Lou can even list or identify. But there is no sign of cutlery or dishes, no utensils to speak of — the one saucepan abandoned on the stove is filled with pens and pencils — and no food anywhere. The closest thing is the abandoned, empty cartons of Chinese takeout next to the bin.
She turns her attention back to Debbie. She'd been holed up in her apartment for long enough that Lou had come over, half worried she'd passed out and hit her head somewhere. But no: she'd just been absorbed in job prep, and absorbed she still is, sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling notes in her chicken scratch handwriting. She also looks kind of pale — her hair is pulled back in a messy tangle that probably used to be a bun at some point, and Lou suddenly gets the distinct feeling that she's not moved from this spot in much, much too long.
Right. "When's the last time you had food?" Lou asks, conversational, sitting opposite Debbie, her chin in her hand.
Debbie blinks, looks up at her with a startled expression. "What?" she mutters, her mind clearly still on the job prep — she's been focusing on the camera network, last Lou's checked.
"Food," Lou says slowly, resisting the urge to snap her fingers in Debbie's face. "When's the last time you had any?"
"Oh." Debbie shakes her head, looks back down at her notes. "I had takeout the other day."
Lou snatches the pen out of her hand. "One," she says, cutting off Debbie's protests, "you can't subsist entirely on takeout. Two, what the fuck do you mean, 'the other day'?"
Debbie clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed. "I've been busy," she says, and holds out her hand. "Give me that."
"Not until you eat."
Debbie sighs, and pulls another pen out of her hair. "I'll eat when I'm done," she mutters, already back at her scribbling. "Can we focus please?"
Lou stands. "Focus away. I'm having food."
Debbie doesn't even seem to hear her, but that's fine. Lou starts the complex process of finding actual food in the kitchen. Eventually, she manages to unearth some eggs that are miraculously not past their expiration date, a bowl, a fork, a plate, and a pan — which she has to liberate from underneath a pile of books seemingly focused entirely on the art of money-printing.
She makes a quick job of whipping up an omelette — it's a bit of a sad result, without anything to add to it, but it'll do. She transfers it to the plate, grabs the fork, and sits back at the table.
"I've got it," Debbie says, just as she sits down.
Lou takes a bite. "Let's hear it, then."
But Debbie's gaze is falling down to her plate. "That smells really good," she comments, casual — but given away by the way she's staring at the eggs like she hasn't eaten in three days.
(Lou hopes to god that's not the case.)
Without standing, she reaches behind her for a second fork (which is being used as a stand in for the security fence on the blueprint of the store they've been casing) and hands it to Debbie.
The omelette vanishes in seconds, and Lou has to work very, very hard not to look too smug about it.
Two
When she meets up with Debbie at their usual diner, it's to find her with three heavy-looking bags arrayed around her.
"Going somewhere?" Lou comments dryly, slipping into their booth.
Annoyance pulls at her partner's face, together with a healthy dose of exhaustion. "Got kicked out," she says, and Lou blinks.
"What?"
Debbie sighs and sits back in the booth. "My landlord's been trying to evict me for months — it's rent controlled, so he can't raise the rent without changing tenants. And now he's managed it."
"How?" Lou's only known Debbie a few months, but even so, she's started to get an idea of just how difficult it is to get her to do anything she doesn't want to do.
"Apparently, I've been using the apartment to plan 'illegal activities'." She does air quotes then rolls her eyes. "He came inside one day when I wasn't there and saw the planning space."
"You mean your murder wall?" Lou asks, unable to help it.
Debbie glares at her. "Not calling it that," she says, even though that's exactly what it is — except that instead of using it to solve dodgy murders like a detective on a bad procedural, Debbie uses it to plan jobs.
"Anyway," Debbie says, and takes a sip of coffee, "he took pictures and said he'd call the cops."
Lou winces.
"Exactly." She rubs at her forehead with the heel of her hand, like she has a headache. "And so now, I'm going to have to call my brother. I'm just..." She closes her eyes. "Preparing for the humiliation."
The words escape Lou before she can think better of them. "You could move in with me."
There's a pause.
"What?" Debbie looks as surprised as Lou feels.
"Well, yeah," Lou says, and, really, it makes sense, now she's thinking about it. "We spend most of our time together anyway. And I've heard good things about my couch."
Debbie watches her, and for a moment, Lou expects her to say no. She's not too torn up about it — she knows Debbie needs her space, that they still don't know each other that well, and that Debbie is slow to trust, especially outside the job — which is fine.
But Debbie tilts her head and goes, "Okay." Another look, piercing and unreadable. "If you're sure."
Lou smiles, and signals the waitress for some coffee. "Just don't put your shit everywhere in my things."
Three
Debbie puts her shit everywhere: her clothes on the back of chairs, her planning on the walls, her takeout containers — even though Lou's trying to break her out of the habit — all over the kitchen. And yet, somehow, it works — they work, fit together in a way Lou hadn't expected but really, really likes.
A side effect of Debbie moving in, however, is that she gets to realize just how much of a disaster Debbie Ocean really is. Turns out, it's a lot worse than she'd realized.
Take that evening: Debbie's been planning for five days straight, and Lou's pretty sure she hasn't slept in all that time.
She does ask, but she's met with an eye roll, which is answer enough. "I'm busy," Debbie says, which is her go-to answer for everything.
"You're always busy."
Debbie clicks her tongue and gives her a look. "I'm trying to make us rich, if you don't mind."
Lou raises her hands in mock surrender and steps closer to the table that Debbie's using as a war planner. The surface of the wood is buried under a massive blue print and an array of colorful post it notes. "Go ahead, then, genius," she says, and gestures at the plan. "Impress away."
Debbie shakes her head, but she complies, launching into an explanation of how exactly they're going to be playing this. It's, as usual, clever and sharp and... Lou is no longer listening.
Because the thing is... Debbie doesn't look right.
She keeps shaking her head, blinking rapidly like she's trying to clear her vision. Her hand is riveted to her temple, like she's trying to hold her skull together, and she's leaning against the table, swaying a little in place, and— shit.
Lou springs from her place at the table just in time to catch Debbie around the waist before she can collapse to the floor. She guides her to the nearest chair, and Debbie falls into it, nearly pitching over to the side before Lou catches her and rights her. Her eyes are closed, her features scrunched in pain.
"Fucking hell, Ocean," Lou says, her heart still hammering in her chest. "You alright?"
"I'm fine." She shakes her head, opens her eyes. They're bloodshot. "Just got a little dizzy."
"Yeah, because you haven't slept in god knows how long."
But Debbie's already standing, returning to her blueprints. "The key," she says, like nothing's happened, "is going to be keeping the manager's attention on—"
Nope. "Fuck that," Lou says amicably, and grabs her by the shoulders, spins her around, and guides her towards the couch.
Debbie protests, but Lou ignores her, forcing her to sit down, then lie down.
"This isn't necessary," Debbie says, but her voice cracks.
Lou does her best not to roll her eyes. "Shh," she says, and grabs the blanket she leaves on the back of the couch, spreads it over Debbie for good measure. "It's sleep time."
"I'm not five—"
Lou turns out the light, blinking in the sudden darkness. The only light is that of the street lamps, filtering through the window. "Don't act like it, then," she says.
It takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark. By the time they do, Debbie's asleep.
Lou smiles. "Idiot," she mutters, and heads to her bedroom.
Four
Debbie's antsy.
She has been for days now; ever since the news of the new security system for the casino they usually work their cons on dropped. She's been working at it from every angle, Lou knows, trying to think her way past cameras and guards, coming up short.
It's late, rain beating down on the window of the living room. Debbie sits at the table, hunched over a spread of maps. Lou sits on the couch, with a book she can't focus on. She's fine with this — taking a break, regrouping. She knows they'll figure it out eventually, but Debbie's jittery, bouncing her leg, drumming her fingers. For all the qualities, she's not great at handling her frustration. She never has been, but it's been getting worse lately, ever since she met that Becker asshole. He's been dangling stories of easy jobs and heavy gains in front of her for weeks, and Lou knows she's tempted, even despite the risks. This is probably making things worse.
Debbie blows out a long breath, and Lou tenses. She knows what's coming, because it's been happening with increasing regularity.
And so, she's not surprised when Debbie looks up and narrows her eyes at her. "What are you doing?" she asks.
Lou turns a page, pointed. "Reading."
"Reading. Great." The word cuts like a blade, dry as sand. Lou does her best to keep her temper in check.
"Is there a problem?" she asks, and it comes out more cutting than she wishes it would.
Debbie raises an eyebrow. "We're losing our main base of operations, in case you hadn't noticed. Nice of you to give a shit."
"We'll figure it out."
Debbie rolls her eyes, and a wave of exhaustion flows over Lou. "Don't do that," she says.
"Don't do what?"
"Try to pick a fight."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." Lou closes her book and meets Debbie's gaze. She knows she is, because she's been doing it more and more, often successfully. It's always nasty, because Debbie is good at reading people, an she knows exactly what to say to make it hurt — and Lou isn't one to shy away from a confrontation.
But she's hurt that Debbie would try it, tired of it. And so, she says what they're both thinking. "If you want to go to Becker, you don't need to fight with me first."
"This has nothing to do with Claude."
Claude — Lou doesn't do jealousy, and Debbie isn't hers to be jealous over, not in that way, no matter how she might feel, but she still can't stand the smarmy asshole, knows that he's putting Debbie at risk, and can't stand the fact that she doesn't see it, when she's usually so sharp.
"You're frustrated with this. With the jobs we pull. It's not big enough for you. Fine." Her throat is tight, but she continues. "But don't take it out on me. Be a fucking adult and say it."
Debbie falls quiet, her expression utterly unreadable as she watches Lou. After a moment, she stands, grabs her jacket, and gets out. She doesn't slam the front door — but Lou almost wishes she had.
Lou blows out a breath, letting her head rest against the back of the couch, listening to the rain as it beats down against the glass. At least she didn't enable Debbie's worst tendencies again; she said her piece, and meant it. It's got to be worth something.
Five
Debbie's been quiet.
She's quieter in general, these days, in the few peaceful interludes when she and Lou aren't arguing about the jobs Becker has her pull — but this is something different. Lou frowns, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed.
Debbie's sitting in a chair, facing her murder wall. She has been for a few minutes now, not moving, not writing, just... staring. Her gaze is a little hazy, Lou notices with a pinch of alarm. Altogether, something isn't right.
"Ocean?" she calls, not too loud, not wanting to startle her.
No response. She steps a little closer. "Debbie?" she tries again.
Nothing.
She finishes crossing the room and puts her hand on Debbie's shoulder.
Debbie startles like she's been shot — which definitely isn't like her. She's usually observant as all hell.
"I'm fine," she says, and unease starts building at the pit of Lou's stomach.
"I didn't say anything," she points out, but she's already scanning Debbie, and not liking what she sees.
From up close like this, she's pale, her skin clammy, her hair damp at the temples, her eyes too bright and feverish. Knowing Debbie's going to hate it, she quickly brings the back of her hand to Debbie's forehead.
Debbie makes a noise of distaste and shakes her off, but Lou's eyes widen. "Holy shit, Ocean," she says, mentally trying to tally what medication she has in the apartment. "Were you going to mention the fever you're running or was I supposed to guess?"
"I'm fine." It's no more convincing than the first time — figures that Debbie would be a patient in denial. The woman refuses to admit she needs sleep and food on a regular basis, for fuck's sake.
"Okay," Lou says, "you're taking a cool shower and going to bed."
"No."
"Oh, yes." Trying to strike a balance between firm and gentle, Lou grabs her elbow and forces her to stand — Debbie stumbles immediately, and Lou catches her before she can topple to the floor. "Fine, you said?"
Debbie's shoulders sag, in defeat or exhaustion, and she lets Lou guide her to the bathroom.
Lou flips the switch and flinches at the flood of white light. In the stark lighting, Debbie looks even worse off — pale and shivering and small. Not the Debbie Ocean everyone knows, just... Debbie. She knows Debbie has to hate it, someone seeing her like this, but, well, too fucking bad. She's not leaving her like this.
"Lift up your arms," she says.
Debbie shoots her a look that's impressively imperious for someone who's a few degrees away from a trip to the ER.
Lou's intransigeant. "If you pass out and hit your head and die, your brother's going to kill me," she says, which is true, if not the whole truth.
Debbie rolls her eyes, but complies; together, they undress her down to her underwear, and then Lou helps her into the tub, offering support while Debbie sits down, before turning on a lukewarm spray. She kneels on the tile, one hand on Debbie's shoulder to steady her, the other smoothing her hair back away from her face.
Debbie closes her eyes, leans into her hand — Lou's heart clenches a little at the motion. "Sorry I'm such an asshole," she mutters.
Lou's jaw doesn't drop open, but it's a near thing. She sounds unsteady, and Lou knows she's not in her right mind, because she's never heard Debbie apologize for anything. All the same, the words hit, Lou's breath catching.
She forces a small smile. "You can't help it, probably," she comments, and Debbie opens her eyes.
She shakes her head. "You deserve better."
Lou swallows hard. "I don't care," she says, keeping her tone light. She tucks a piece of hair behind Debbie's ear. "I know what I want."
Debbie meets her gaze — feverish and too bright, but serious. "Then you're an idiot," she whispers.
Lou laughs, sharp and amused. "Better an idiot than an asshole," she says, then shakes her head. "Come on. You're going to regret this conversation tomorrow morning."
Debbie doesn't protest, and once it feels like her temperature has gone down a little, Lou shuts off the water, helps her stand, and wraps her in a towel. As soon as Debbie is dry and sitting on the edge of the tub, Lou goes to grab some of her own comfortable clothes — because Debbie Ocean, like the lunatic she is, doesn't own pajamas — and brings them over, turning her back so Debbie can change, but staying nearby in case something goes wrong.
Debbie doesn't say anything until Lou guides her to the bedroom. She stops, shaking her head. "No," she says, "I'm not taking your bed."
"Non negotiable; the half dead person takes the bed."
But Debbie isn't moving, stubborn even when sick. "I'm not half dead."
With a sigh, Lou pulls her arm with a little more strength, until Debbie half walks, half stumbles into the room. "That would probably carry a lot more weight if you could stand for more than five minutes at a time," she points out, and helps Debbie sit. She has to supervise the taking of some Tylenol, like Debbie's goddamn five years old, but she ends up taking it.
Once Debbie's lying down, she heads back to the door, turns out the light. She's about to step out, when she hears Debbie speak. "Thank you," she says, barely audible.
It feels like she's thanking her for more than a shower and a bed. Lou smiles, knowing Debbie can't see her. "You're welcome."
+1
Lou parks by the beach, the first lights of morning lighting up the Pacific ahead of her. She removes her helmet, shakes out her hair, and takes a moment to bask in the view, in the faint breeze coming off the ocean, cool and salty and full of promises.
The text had come overnight; just an address, a couple of hours' drive away. It'd been from an unknown number, but Lou hadn't been surprised — Debbie's always a bit paranoid after a job, especially a successful one. She'd gotten on the road, until she'd made it here: a small shack, half diner, half cafe, with a terrace on the deserted beach. It looks incongruous, cheery signage in the middle of nowhere, but again, Lou's not surprised. Debbie's got a knack for finding the most out there places, and if she's here, then the food is good, and the coffee's better.
Lou shrugs off her leather jacket, tucks it under the seat, then heads to the terrace area, her boots sinking into the thin sand.
Small wooden tables and chairs are spread out on the worn, weathered planks that form the floor. They're all deserted, except for the one at the very end.
Debbie sits, facing the ocean, sipping a coffee. Her hair is down and loose around her shoulders, and her face is relaxed, the tension of the job gone from her frame.
Lou takes the chair opposite hers and tries not to smile. "Had a nice flight?"
Debbie raises an eyebrow, and puts her coffee down, turning her head to look at her. "I'm sure you can guess the answer to that."
Lou can — she's been on her fair share of cross continental red-eyes. She's never enjoyed a single one. "Could have taken a later flight," she points out.
"And missed this view?" Debbie turns back to the ocean, waves glittering with morning light. "I don't think so."
Lou shakes her head, and heads inside to get herself a coffee. When she comes back out, with caffeine and a basket of small pastries, Debbie turns to her, her eyes a little red, no doubt from lack of sleep, but keen and sharp.
"You look good," she says, and immediately steals a pastry.
Lou feels good. Free, and settled in her skin, with none of the itch that she felt when stuck in New York these last few years. The past few days, of nothing but her, her bike, and the ocean, have done her a world of good, have erased part of that weight, helping her breathe easier.
She takes a sip of coffee, watching Debbie. She looks casual, but there's something almost smug in the curve of her lip. "Are you taking credit?" she asks, dry and mild.
Debbie fails to hold back a smile, and looks down. "Well," she says, full of faux modesty, "I'd say I played a small part."
It dawns on Lou. She leans forward, not believing her own conclusions, but certain she's right. "Wait," she says, "was this..."
Debbie takes a sip of coffee, innocence incarnate. "Was this what?"
"This job. This entire thing. Was it about..." She doesn't even know how to say it. "About this?"
About her; about giving Lou the freedom she's always so desperately craved. About them, the two of them, always, against the rest of the world. Not revenge against Becker, not about proving that she could do it, to herself or others, not a case of ego or pride, of simply being good at it, like she'd told Lou all those weeks ago.
Just... about them.
Debbie says nothing, but her eyes glitter, fond and amused, almost mischievous, and god, Lou has never loved her more.
"You're ridiculous," she says, because she is, the most ridiculous person Lou has ever met — unable to apologize like a normal person, deciding to go for a multi-million dollar heist instead.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Debbie says, prim and so full of shit that Lou laughs; a real laugh, that makes her feel lighter than any diamond necklace ever could.
She doesn't need multi-million heists. She doesn't even need the stretch of an empty road ahead of her, the freedom that comes with running, always running — not really, not anymore.
All she needs, Lou knows, is right here, sitting in front of her.