Work Text:
They’re playing this game again.
The dining room glows in a warm light, the kind that softens the edges and makes everything feel a little closer. Across the long table, crystal glasses clink and laughter swells from guests too inebriated to notice their volume.
It was a different setting but the same script: everyone else chatting comfortably while the two women wage an unspoken contest, measured only in glances. And maybe a little telepathy.
Ava finds herself locked in a familiar position. Opposite ends. Opposite stances. Never batting for the same team, even when technically they are supposed to be.
For most of their partnership she’s been at odds with the older woman.
Combative. Defensive. There were some incremental improvements on her preparations for the battle, yet somehow, she was still caught off guard, flustered, and ill-prepared when it came. She had scored small victories, and she really basked in those for as long as she could, but the war was often hers to lose.
Only recently, since the beach incident, something shifted between them. Maybe for the better. It was confusing.
Ava truly wants to believe Deborah, but she knows better this time around. But she swears the eyes looking at her now are less sharp around the edges.
Once or twice, Deborah seems to have looked at her the way one considered something before taking it–staring a fraction longer than what it used to be.
Or the likely case being that Ava was projecting the remnants of her more recent dreams onto reality. It wouldn’t be the first time this happened.
But things have been too easy lately. And historically, ease with Deborah Vance never lasts, especially when she’s the one holding the match. The theatrics, the ultimatums. The scorched path that keeps smoldering long after she’s gone.
That was their relationship though.
Over-the-top, exaggerated, impulsive, impatient, loud enough to rattle walls and have their assistants scurry away like mice. Getting each other off on the last word.
But again, the last few weeks have been…different. They’ve been genuinely laughing, not at the jokes of their making, but the absurdity of each other. At the network’s endless push for more and shinier, but not too much. At the fact that somehow, they were both still here, still circling the same orbit.
In her office one morning, she’d known something had changed before she even sat down. A small mini-fridge hummed quietly in the corner. On top of it sat a little matcha setup. A ceramic bowl, bamboo whisk on its stand, and her preferred brand labeled in Deborah’s handwriting. No note. Just a dry comment later that day asking if the lawn clippings were any good.
Ava still has her place by the Cheesecake factory, but with the late nights for the show, Deborah once again offered a guest room in her house. It was sensible and practical for their professional relationship.
More often than not, Ava neither slept in her own bed nor the one in the guest room. She ended up in Deborah’s enormous bed instead, half-watching the Law & Order: Criminal Intent episodes she had missed during their most recent period of mutual loathing.
They’d sit shoulder to shoulder, claiming they couldn’t hear each other’s commentary otherwise. Deborah would spoil it for her as usual, and Ava would whine back.
Sometimes a head rested on a shoulder or their knees would brush, neither of them would shy away.
Sometimes Deborah would fall asleep first, glasses slightly askew, and hair mussed in all directions. Ava would lie there longer than she should, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of the warmth beside her. It would be easy to feel that warmth more closely and reach out, but she never did. She would be careful to reach over the older woman’s sleeping figure to set the remote and the black rimmed glasses before shutting off the light.
From across the room, Deborah notices Ava nodding, half-listening to the conversation around them. That glassy-eyed look, when Ava’s mind was spiraling, it tells her everything she needs to know.
Always thinking five arguments ahead and still losing. Getting flustered whenever Deborah closes the distance, looming over her with her presence, exploiting the younger woman’s barely hidden infatuation. Bracing for impact, even when Deborah promised not to slap her again.
And with all this, Deborah calculates, every single time, how far Ava might lean into it if she allowed it.
Or if the younger would ever just angrily close all the distance. But there was always that reluctance, a hesitance tied to this particular physicality between them. Too much to lose.
Deborah knows that posture too. Shoulders scrunched up, jaw locked, pretending to be relaxed while taking one sip of wine too many, fingers drumming on the stem of the glass. All that restless energy coiled up. The fact that she’s catalogued every detail of this woman unnerves her.
She promised her this time it would be different. She meant it. She’s put in the effort in the short time since hurling herself into the frigid ocean, promising she’d do it over again if Ava asked.
Selfishly, at first, she only wanted Ava to stay for the show. For Deborah’s legacy. That towering, fragile thing she’d spent decades building. To reach the very top. To be the best.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped being the only reason. Or at least Deborah was finally fucking convinced that Ava believed in the show as fiercely and recklessly as she did. Ava was the kind of person who would keep intentionally feeding the flames, even as it singed her skin.
And perhaps, in the deepest, most hidden corner, she was tired of pretending their attachment was merely a convenient alignment of ambition.
Her gaze lingers as Ava laughs at something someone says, a beat too late, watches the way her head tilts back and how the base of her throat moves when she swallows the wine.
Deborah looks away.
It’s strategic, she tells herself.
She studies everyone. That’s how she’s been able to survive this whole time.
Something she strangled a few years ago shifts, an unwelcome rise, followed by a deeply inconvenient tightness in her chest.
She sighs. Did it matter what cards she played or what the tarot laid out for her?
She had everything.
The thought lingered, like Josefina’s small, quiet acknowledgement towards Deborah in a recent exchange. After the second week of Ava tiptoeing out the front door to get to work separately, Josefina lifted a brow at the blonde as she set the latte on the table. Before turning away, she said she was glad she didn’t need to fuss over the guest room sheets as often. Deborah huffed, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Deborah finished the last of a dry red, lightly setting the glass back on the table. For the first time in decades, she could choose to. Her eyes settled on Ava again.
Maybe she should lean in.
“ How about we take this to the sitting room, “ Deborah announces smoothly to the table, lifting her wine glass. “We can all have a nightcap, hmm?” The guests murmur approval. She gestures towards a room on the far end of the hall, shepherding the remaining stragglers as she follows close behind them.
Ava doesn’t follow. She waits just long enough until their backs are turned and conversations resume, then eases out of her chair quietly, wine glass in hand and purse tucked under her arm.
From the bottom of the staircase, she walks along its curve, each step lighter than the last. Down the long hallway, she passes the guest room she technically occupies and the framed photos of Deborah across the ages.
One cover catches her eye, the two of them. She allows herself to stand there for a moment longer, taking it in before moving onwards.
Deborah’s door slightly creaks when she opens it. Ava steps inside, the hush of the room pressing close as she shuts it behind her. The master dressing suite stands slightly ajar, and the closet light clicks on automatically as she enters. Drifting scents of amber and rose fill the space as she looks for something warm.
Some of her clothes have been there for a few days now. Folded on the lower shelf, not shoved, or exiled to the corner with the out of season wardrobe, but integrated among Deborah’s everyday pieces.
Her sweatpants, oversized t-shirts. Blazers and cropped button ups on nice hangers with every button fastened neatly. Even the raggedy comfort hoodie she loves to wear, and that Deborah hates.
At some point, Josefina had simply started shelving them there after laundry days. The adjustment had been made like it was obvious.
Like Ava being in Deborah’s room was obvious to everyone but the two of them. Ava remembered in passing the first time Josefina expressed her gratitude that she was staying there again. She stood frozen, eyes wide, stammering, “I still have the Cheesecake Factory…I mean, I still have my place…” Josefina chuckled before simply saying, “Yes. But you live here.”
Ava reaches for the hoodie out of habit, then pauses. Instead, she pulls one of Deborah’s coats from its hanger. Nicely tailored. It falls heavier across her shoulders than the hoodie, but it feels secure and holds the scent of the person that’s been on her mind.
It goes better with what she’s wearing anyways. Not that it matters. Except maybe it does.
Briskly, she heads for the balcony that opens to the backyard. The warmth of the house dulls and is replaced by the night air that greets her. It was cooler than she expected, air restless, and threading lazily through the L.A. palm trees.
Below, the pool glows an artificial blue with several stray leaves whisking back and forth in the water.
Ava perches on the narrow stone ledge. One knee drawn up, chin resting against it. The other leg hangs freely over open air.
She watches the last of the sunset surrender. Orange thinning into violet, and violet muddled into navy.
From her purse, Ava pulls a cigarette and rests it between her lips as she flicks her lighter.
The lighter sparks. A thin flame flickers but is immediately swallowed by the Santa Ana winds. Sitting with the silence for a few minutes, she continues to try but to no avail.
“Jesus Christ, it’s not that complicated.”
The balcony door shuts, cutting off the muffled swell of laughter from inside. The familiar voice carries irritation without raising in volume.
More determined, the flame sparks. Ava’s hopeful. Dies.
Ava doesn’t turn. She knows exactly who it is. If the voice didn’t give her away, it was the way the air shifted, felt heavier whenever the older woman entered a space.
“Are you trying to fall to your death?” Deborah asks, stepping onto the balcony.
“I think I’d survive a twelve-foot drop,” Ava mutters, striking the lighter.
Behind her, heels click a few times more against the stone and then go quiet. Deborah pauses. Ava can feel the assessment even without seeing it—the ledge, the cigarette between her lips, being posted up in the most obvious place a person goes when they want to be alone and still maybe be found.
Maybe she was clocking whether the stolen jacket matched with the rest of her outfit.
Without warning, Deborah nudges Ava’s knee with her palm.
Not hard.
Ava jolts, grabbing onto the ledge.
“What the fu—”
“You have terrible survival instincts.” Deborah says flatly.
Ava glares at her, “You’re unbelievable.”
This time Deborah passes on their usual back-and-forth. “So,” she says, deliberately, “You switched from vaping… to cigarettes.”
Ava tilts her head slightly, trying to read the tone.
“Yeah, well,” Ava finally says, rolling her eyes, “You kind of put me through the ringer when I started the head writer job.”
“Or maybe it was the stress and guilt you felt for blackmailing me?”
Ava lets out a humorless laugh. “Ha. Yeah. That.”
There’s an opening here. A chance to spill out the same shit as usual. It would end in a screaming match, Deborah cutting her loose, selling her belongings before she could grab a thing. Emails sent in a haste, maybe drunkenly. Contracts cancelled. Retrieval of her wardrobe from the thrift store for a second time. Then another humiliating return.
They’re well-rehearsed.
So instead, she shrugs.
“I get stressed when we work together.”
Deborah folds her arms and leans against the opposite ledge near her. They let the wind do the talking and the branches argue in their place.
Another flick of the lighter.
Dead again.
“This is my new coping mechanism,” Ava adds, gesturing with the cigarette.
Deborah’s lips twitch faintly. “I prefer when your coping mechanisms are digital…” she says, “less carcinogenic.”
“ Digital?”
Deborah chuckles, “ You know…the applications. Twitter, Instagram. That little stunt with—well, you remember.”
Ava flushes. “Oh, that. Yeah, safer than this I guess.”
Near the front of the house, motors of expensive cars rumble to life, and faint chatter drifts as guests take their leave.
“You never commented much about my vices before. What changed?” Ava says.
The wind lifts again, strands of ginger hair brushing her forehead as the question goes unanswered.
“Besides,” Ava mutters, eyes on the stubborn lighter, “Even if it is worse for me… you’d probably kill me first anyway.”
Deborah doesn’t laugh.
Instead, she steps toward the woman, until the space between them compresses.
Deborah places her hand flat against Ava’s shoulder. Not soft, but firm.
The pressure shifts Ava slightly to the side of the ledge. Not enough to endanger her, but just enough to remind her that there is nothing to catch her on the other side. Ava feels a faint sting bloom into warmth, drifting lower than it should.
“Careful,” Deborah says quietly.
Careful what you accuse me of.
Careful where you sit.
Careful what you want.
The wind suddenly feels louder.
Deborah’s thumb lingers against the edge of her jacket, pressing just enough to remind her.
Ava doesn’t pull away from it. She doesn’t challenge the contact either. For once in her life, she waits patiently, breath shallow, and pulse fluttering in a rhythm that she could feel in her eardrums.
For Deborah, the proximity is calculated. She is measuring Ava’s reaction under her hand, how she holds her face, the quiver of the cigarette between her lips.
Then, just as suddenly, Deborah pulls her up and releases.
The blonde plucks the cigarette from Ava’s mouth and takes the lighter from her hand in one smooth motion.
“Give me that,” she murmurs, “You look ridiculous.”
Ava turns to protest, both her legs more firmly on the balcony side this time.
Deborah flicks the lighter herself, shielding the flame expertly against the wind. It catches on the first try.
She brings it to the tip of the cigarette and lets it burn, then removes it before Ava can lean forward to retrieve it.
Deborah studies her for a moment, then surprises both of them by taking the first drag herself. The smoke leaves her mouth in a steady stream.
“ Did your short-term memory just erase the whole anti-carcinogen campaign?”
“I’m allowed nostalgia from time to time.” Deborah says smoothly before reverting her gaze to Ava’s hands. “I’d rather forget a thing or two than hear your joints whine…though I imagine the doctor would be fascinated by your…habits.”
Ava opens her mouth, then closes it again.
Rather than handing the cigarette to the younger woman, Deborah takes a step towards her.
“Open,” she says lightly.
Ava’s brows knit. “What?”
Deborah doesn’t repeat herself.
She simply lifts her hand and presses the cigarette between her index and middle fingers toward Ava’s mouth. The pads of her fingers brush against Ava’s lips, her thumb rests just above her jaw.
Ava freezes.
The contact is minimal.
“Go on,” she murmurs.
Ava inhales too sharply. Coughs immediately, smoke catching in her throat.
Deborah hums, amused. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“I know that,” Ava snaps, flustered, but her voice lacks bite.
Deborah’s fingers are settled against her lips once more.
“Slow,” Deborah instructs, softer now. “Try again.”
The second attempt is steadier. Ava focuses on the rhythm of it, on not thinking about how close Deborah is, how her body crowds the space, how her thigh has aligned just enough to drift between Ava’s knees.
Smoke curls between them.
“That’s better,” Deborah says, “You hold onto it now.”
Her thumb grazes Ava’s chin, the faint drag of a nail against skin, staying for a heartbeat before the warmth fades.
Ava doesn’t move right away. Then she pulls the cigarette from her lips and rests her hand on the ledge, fingers placed on the cool stone. The cigarette burns leisurely between her fingers.
A moment drifts by.
And then another.
Then Ava exhales, not forward, but over her shoulder.
Smoke spills sideways, exposing the clean line of her neck to the open air.
Deborah’s gaze shifts there. And stays.
Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s that the air is thinner up there between them.
Without much more thought she leans in, slow enough to be stopped.
Her mouth finds the space just beneath Ava’s ear first, where the long tendon in her neck draws tight down to her collarbone.
A lingering press of lips against warm skin.
Deborah’s hand slides to the back of Ava’s head to steady her as she presses one more, this time a little lower.
Ava’s breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. Her free hand grips the stone behind her, while the cigarette hangs loose in the other, forgotten.
“D…” It slips out, caught in her throat.
“Ava,” Deborah answers, her voice low, almost unsteady against her skin. She breathes her in, grounding herself in the moment.
Deborah lifts her head only slightly, her finger tilting Ava’s chin towards her. Their eyes meet.
This kiss knows itself.
Ava eases into it this time. No panic. Just a shaky exhale against Deborah’s mouth before she responds in kind. Deborah, still hovering, lets her hand drift almost absently to Ava’s knee. Testing. When there’s no recoil, her touch slides higher, just a few inches, to where the hem of the black dress cuts against her thigh.
Then it retreats, unhurried.
“So,” Deborah says, taking the cigarette back, “The network wants another cold open rewrite by Friday.”
The wisps of smoke blow towards the younger woman.
Ava blinks repeatedly, and shakes her head “Are you serious right now?”
Deborah shrugs, leaning back. Her hand slides again, this time lazily caressing the outside of Ava’s thigh as if it’s incidental. It lingers a fraction too long. “Just indulge me.”
Deborah exhales, letting the smoke drift away from her.
“I don’t know why I do this with you,” Ava mutters.
“I’m shocked we’re both still asking that question.”
The silence stretches, and Ava drags a hand through her hair.
“Alright,” Ava says finally, a wry tilt to her smile. “I’ve got something. Office culture is a cult.” She lets the words hang, imagining Deborah’s eyebrow twitch, already anticipating the critique.
When it comes with no response, she continues, “Seriously. The way we run this network, it’s like… rituals, loyalty tests, meaningless jargon, HR meetings, retreats that are basically indoctrination sessions. And you—yes, you—are the high priestess of it all.”
Deborah’s eyebrow quirks. “Hmm.”
“No! Come on” Ava snaps, “It’s funny because it’s true. Everyone else thinks they’re in charge. They’re circling like rats in a maze, and you’re just… watching. Judging. Smiling. Making them believe there’s choice when there’s none.”
Deborah tilts her head, amused. Almost bored. “Yes…And?”
Ava’s stomach twists, a familiar rise when they’re about to lunge at each other. She shifts off the ledge in one swift motion, pushing Deborah backward—not hard, but with intent.
Deborah stumbles half a step before the backs of her legs hit the metal patio chair. She perches there, more from surprise than compliance, and looks up at Ava.
Ava rests the cigarette on the edge of the table, hesitating for half a second before scrunching up the lapels of Deborah’s jacket, eyes leveling with the older woman a touch below her.
“Oh,” Deborah murmurs. “There she is.”
Something sharp ignites in Ava’s eyes. “You don’t get to control everything.”
Deborah watches her, leaning in until their foreheads touch. “No? …And now what do we do from here?”
Neither woman moves as blue eyes meet hazel ones. Deborah studies Ava, dark eyes restrained, a faint parting of her lips, the quick shallow inhale that betrays her.
Deborah leans back now, eyebrows raised, and Ava’s grasp slackens. The older woman lets her hands rest casually on the chair arms, but one drifts upward tracing Ava’s hip. Not helping. Not stopping.
Her touch slides lower, finally settling behind Ava’s knee. A sharp nail catches the sheer fabric of her tights and strokes upward. The material gives with a soft split.
Ava sinks to her knees, eyes rising before her mind has a chance to follow.
Deborah’s hand moves to her flushed cheek, “Look at you,” she sighs. Fingers slip into ginger hair, not pulling, just curling at the base of her skull, tilting her face upward.
“Still bracing,” Deborah teases softly.
“I’m not—” Ava starts.
Deborah retrieves the lone cigarette, taking a drag before holding it between them, eyes meeting. “This flame doesn’t last forever,” she murmurs, glancing at the cigarette. “We have… until it dies.”
She leans forward.
With a few swift steps, Ava is backed up against the wall by the bedroom door. Deborah’s hand glides up a bare thigh to settle at her waist, her thigh sliding between Ava’s, just enough to disrupt her balance.
As minutes pass, each puff now feels closer, messier, as their bodies brush and their lips meet. Always skimming the edge of something more. Never crossing it.
Ava inhales as Deborah’s fingers press into her jaw. She draws the cigarette from Ava’s mouth, her thumb following the curve of Ava’s lower lip.
“Focus,” she instructs softly.
“I am focused,” Ava replies.
“Not on the right thing,” Deborah murmurs, redirecting Ava’s hand to the buttons of her blazer with a soft tug. Her touch stays for a moment longer than necessary, brushing along Ava’s fingers.
Deborah places the cigarette carefully back in Ava’s mouth, letting her take a shallow inhale. Then, with care, Ava begins to unbutton the blazer. The fabric falls open, as if reluctant to give way.
Beneath, a black bodysuit stitched in delicate lace clings to her form tightly, shadows and light tracing every curve, every subtle line shaped by time. For a moment, Ava forgets the cigarette, the wind, the balcony, caught between awe and desire, before reality nudges her back. Deborah’s eyes soft, waiting.
Ava shivers, instinctively leaning into the warmth. Her hands tremble slightly, ghosting over Deborah’s open blazer before daring to slide higher, cupping the curve of her breast.
As the cigarette dwindles in Ava’s mouth, Deborah lifts it slowly between her fingers, letting the last wisp of smoke curl toward them. She takes a deliberate drag, then pulls it away.
They look at each other. Flushed faces, warm skin, the faint scent of smoke and her perfume—everything paused between them. Ava swallows, while Deborah’s lips twitch in a small, knowing smile.
Deborah leans in briefly, just enough to press a chaste kiss at the corner of Ava’s mouth, resting long enough for the warmth to sink in before pulling back. Ava exhales.
With ease, Deborah saunters to the far end of the balcony, each step casual, but the heat of the moment clinging to her. She drops the cigarette, still mostly intact, into a waiting glass of water with a soft clink. The sound feels oddly intimate in the quiet of the night, carried on the wind and their shallow sighs.
“Looks like we’re out of time,” she says lightly.
Ava stares, undone. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” Deborah replies, passing her and opening the door.
Deborah glances over her shoulder before retiring to the room.
“And Ava?” she calls, pausing at the doorway.
Ava leans against the wall, eyes closing briefly before lifting them.
“Yes?”
“I’ll be inside…if you decide to follow.”
The door clicks shut behind her. Ava remains, alone once more, leaning against the cool wall. Moonlight spills across her, painting silver along her flushed face.
She lets her shoulders ease, though the tension never fully leaves them, and finally, a long sigh escapes her. Her pulse ebbs and flows with the memory of Deborah's hands, how they had touched, steadied, teased, and stilled her all at once.
Ava draws her hands down to her side, still leaning back, trying to anchor herself.
Her body won't stay still, humming with the aftershocks of what just happened and aching for what is yet to come.