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The sun beats down hard on the top of her head, almost burning in its intensity. It's a good hurt; a hurt that reminds her she's free for the first time in five years. She closes her eyes for a moment. Everything is so familiar, from the convertible she's driving to the endless road stretching out ahead of her, to the sequined black dress she's put on specially, not brand new but only worn once. It itches her back a little, but she does look amazing in it.
She turns her head, just slightly, and glances at the empty passenger seat. There is somewhere she wants to go, in this black dress, a once-closed door she wants to reopen. But after all these years, Debbie is no longer sure if she can read the signs as well as she always could. She'd been pretty bad at it too, towards the end.
But Debbie is nothing if not brave (perhaps even reckless on occasion), and she drives on with a smile.
i.
Every time they run a variation of the fiddle con for some quick pocket money, Debbie wants to laugh at how easy it is. No one should mistake Lou of all people for being down on her luck, yet when she puts on her pathetic hangdog face and lets her eyes go watery, people just eat it up. She watches now as Lou hands a violin case (Lou had worried about it being too on-the-nose, but Debbie knows exactly how good they are) over to the obviously pissed off bartender. Having relinquished her 'livelihood', Lou backs away, apologising all the while, then fair runs out of the establishment.
The bartender sighs, setting the case on the counter with surprising care. Debbie notes the way his hand lingers on it and smiles to herself. Even more of a perfect mark than she'd thought. She dawdles for a few more minutes, then drains the last of the martini she's been nursing for the past half hour, stands up, and strides to the bar.
"Excuse me," she says, putting on her best calculative smirk when the bartender turns to look at her. He looks his fill of her tight-fitting pantsuit (one of Lou's, too small for Debbie but just right for today's game) and she lets him do it, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
"Yes, actually, it just caught my eye— is this your violin?" She motions to the case, letting her eyes narrow, leaning forward. The bartender looks between her and the violin and raises an eyebrow.
"Some lady, said she forgot her wallet. Shoulda left her phone or something instead of this." His tone is judgemental, but Debbie sees the covetous way he eyes the violin case.
"Oh! I see. You know, it's a very— do you think we could look inside? Just to see," she adds quickly, when he starts to open his mouth. "I think I recognise the imprint on the case, and I— well. Here's my card." She slips her cardholder out of her purse and hands him a business card. Debbie likes the way they feel under her fingers, an upscale matte velvet texture with embossed text. Of her myriad identities, being an antique violin restorer is certainly up there on the enjoyment scale.
"So you, what, you think this is one of them Stradivarius types?" The bartender pronounces the name correctly but carefully, as if he hasn't said it out loud before, so Debbie feels secure enough in his probable ignorance to scoff and push on.
"Of course not. It's next to impossible for someone to have a real Strad that hasn't been appraised before. No…" She reaches over and flicks the case open before the bartender can say anything else. There's the cheap beginner violin Lou picked up from a flea market last month, chipped varnish and all. "…This is, however, from that time period."
Debbie picks the violin up, imagining it's Lou's skin under her hand. She touches it with reverence, with the kind of love that one couldn't possibly fake. The bartender is convinced. It's so easy that she almost feels bad.
"Y'think it's worth something?" Debbie can hear the faint stirrings of greed in his voice, and she smiles.
"It is," she makes a show of looking at the paper label inside, runs her hand along the curve of its body, "most certainly worth something." And then she invents an appointment to run to, and asks if the bartender would be so kind as to pass her card to the lady on her behalf. She'd like to make an offer for the violin, of course. The bartender takes her card eagerly, because he's sharp enough to see an opportunity to make some money but not quite enough to see he's being played. And by the most obvious trick in the book besides.
Later, when they are in bed and Lou is flicking through the cash their foolish bartender gave up to her in exchange for a worthless piece of wood, Debbie traces the slight curve of Lou's body instead. She's gotten thinner over the past few years. A tiny shiver courses through her when Debbie smoothes a thumb over the jut of her hip bone.
"Don't start something you don't want to finish," says Lou, only pretending to be annoyed.
"Who said I don't want to finish?" Her fingers slip into the silk boyshorts Lou likes to wear, exploring places she already knows so well. Lou swears at her and tucks the bills into her bra, hand coming up to wind itself in Debbie's hair.
"You know Danny gave me the shovel talk," Lou says, breath hitching when Debbie twists her fingers.
"He's being ridiculous," Debbie says, "but let's not talk about my brother in bed."
It is summer in New York, and they are in love.
ii.
There is absolutely no time of the year that Lou likes being in London, and yet here they are again, because Debbie bloody Ocean wanted to see a play.
"Since when do you even like this stuff," she yells, over the roar of the engine in her ears.
Debbie's arms tighten around her waist. "What?" she yells back. Lou shakes her head, leaning forward and urging her rented bike faster.
Debbie had refused a helmet because she'd done her hair up all nice and proper and didn't want to ruin it. Lou likes it better when it's down and free of product, but that's just because Lou likes to touch Debbie's hair. The helmet wouldn't have mattered, anyway, because Debbie's hair is coming out of its pins and hairspray and flying all over the place now. The faint mist of rain doesn't help. Lou thinks she's going to look fantastic.
They arrive at the theatre and Lou parks her bike, and she's proven right when she turns around to see. She wants to get her hands on the woman right that instant, but Debbie walks right past and heads inside like she doesn't know Lou is properly worked up. She's probably pissed about her hair.
Tease, Lou thinks, and follows her anyway.
The play is as mind-bendingly boring as Lou expects, so she entertains herself playing with Debbie's hair and brushing her hand over Debbie's thigh. By the time intermission comes around, Debbie is wrapped in annoyance but just as riled up as Lou was earlier, and it takes all of thirty seconds before Lou's being dragged to the bathroom.
"Couldn't just keep off for three hours," Debbie gasps into her mouth. They are pressed together against the door of the handicapped stall, Debbie's dress rucked up around her hips. "I ask for one thing, Lou Miller—"
"Hey," Lou grins, "doesn't look like you mind too much, considering you dragged me here."
Debbie, in fact, does not mind enough to stop, and when they're finally done intermission is long over and they agree to skip the rest of the play. Lou washes her hands at the sink and watches Debbie fix herself in the mirror.
"I've been thinking about a heist," says Debbie, poking a bobby pin into the knot she's pulled her hair into. A stray lock of hair has escaped it at the nape of her neck. "Something a little more involved."
"How involved are we talking?"
"It's that Japanese sculpture they brought over to Hawaii recently, you know the one?"
"Maybe. Weird little gold horse thing, yeah?"
"That's the one. There's a bit of a strange security system, since they're keeping it in a shrine of all places, but I know some people who'd kill to have the thing. I think we could do it."
Lou doesn't know how she feels about breaking into a place of worship and stealing something that isn't simple cash, as most of their capers have been thus far. That would mean a step up to something further— something a bit more than what Lou remembers signing up for. Debbie's eyes, however, are alight with a particular glow that Lou can't persuade herself to deny.
"Alright," Lou says, reluctantly, after a few minutes of internal struggle, "but we're gonna need a damn good plan, honey."
"Way ahead of you, baby," Debbie smiles at her. It takes a moment, but Lou does smile back.
iii.
It's Christmas time. Lou has gone to visit her cousin in Greece, so Debbie's over at her brother's for the holiday. Only it turns out Danny is away on 'business', so it's just Tess keeping house until he's back.
"He should take you with him," Debbie says, sipping at her eggnog with pleasure. Tess is a great cook, these days. The roast she's got on the table looks amazing. "I take Lou everywhere."
"But not here, I see."
"It's Christmas, Tess, a woman's got to spend time with her family."
Tess chuckles, the full-throated laugh that Danny probably fell in love with and Debbie is half in love with herself. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you were making fun of me."
"I would never," says Debbie, mock-outraged. They smile at each other fondly.
"It's different, for me and Danny. I never wanted to be a thief." Tess doesn't sound happy about it, either. She slices into the roast with a wickedly sharp carving knife, and it bleeds dark red juice. "Lou likes what you do?"
Debbie is about to say yes, but then she checks herself, thinking about it. Maybe Lou has been a little distant lately, the more ambitious she gets with her plans. Lou was always most content when it was just her and Debbie, tricking idiots into parting with their wallets, or sweet-talking their way into stays in presidential suites. It isn't that Debbie doesn't like that life. She's just made for something more. It runs in the family.
"She's welcome to pull out any time," Debbie says instead. "I wouldn't stop her."
"Wouldn't you?" Tess slides a plate of roast slices and assorted extras across the table. The beef is deep pink in the middle, a perfect medium rare. Debbie stabs her fork into a baked potato instead, savouring the buttery melt of it in her mouth, before she answers.
"Lou is her own person. Besides, Danny doesn't make you go with him when you don't want to. I wouldn't, either." She shakes her head when Tess offers the decanter of wine. Tess raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, fills a glass for herself and sits down to her own plate.
"I think you're a bit more forceful than Danny is," she says, then. She takes a bite of the roast beef and Debbie watches her perfect red lipstick smear on the meat. "Just be careful."
"Of what?" Debbie asks, but Tess only shakes her head and continues eating. So Debbie does too, and they enjoy a comfortable silence until Tess sets her knife down and pats at her lips with a napkin. Debbie spears a carrot on her fork, absently chasing the remnants of the roast juices while she watches Tess in her peripheral vision.
"Danny wants you to be safe, you know." Tess is swirling the wine in her glass thoughtfully. It's a deep burgundy merlot that matches the stain of her lipstick; Tess has always looked the best in red. Debbie is so caught up in surreptitiously looking at her that she almost doesn't register what Tess has actually said. The quirk of Tess's mouth brings her back to earth.
"Define safe," Debbie says, meeting Tess's eyes challengingly.
"I suppose…" Tess takes a sip of wine. Her lipstick leaves an imprint on the rim, which she rubs at with her thumb. "Safe would mean out of the game. Best to stop while you're ahead, and all that."
All at once, it feels like the breath has gone out of her lungs. Debbie sets her fork down with more force than she means to use; Tess winces at the clatter. She should. Debbie didn't come here to hear a lecture about how she should stop doing dangerous things while her own brother is out on business, which they all know just means crime.
Pushing her chair away from the table, she gets up to pace. The carpet has a path worn into it by now, because both she and Danny have the same habit. Usually it makes her have soft feelings about family— right now the similarity only grates. Tess sits at the table, quiet, watchful.
"Danny," Debbie says, spits, "can tell me himself." She doesn't look at Tess for fear of saying something she doesn't mean. Tess is always the messenger for whatever saintly message Danny sees fit to bestow on his baby sister, even if she hasn't been a baby in years and years. It isn't Tess's fault, so Debbie won't blame her, but she sure as hell can blame Danny. "He can also stop being a fucking hypocrite."
"Noted," Tess says, lightly, but Debbie suspects Danny won't even hear about this conversation. Tess covers for him too much, more's the pity. "Keep in mind, though, he's not the one who wants you to be careful with Lou."
Debbie stops pacing, but she still won't turn her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that it's almost easier to get caught up with you than it is with Danny," Tess says, and Debbie does look at her now, and her eyes are dark with something Debbie doesn't quite grasp. "And I know you, Debbie. You won't think of after until it's too late."
Now, the air is suffocating. Debbie has to take several deep breaths to keep the frustration in her gut from spilling over. Tess is just looking out for her. Tess knows what it's like getting swept into a life full of looking over your shoulder, wouldn't want Debbie dragging anyone else into that without their eyes wide open. But Tess doesn't understand Lou. Tess has never seen the way Lou's eyes spark with brightness at the end of every scheme, how she comes to sharp attention when Debbie says she has an idea.
"Your concern," she says, calm wrapping around the core of anger in her, "is noted." She sees the way Tess's lips tighten at the phrasing and knows she's heard the warning.
There's another beat of silence, before Tess says, "I hope you have room for dessert! I make a mean apple pie, you know."
"Tess, I always have room for your pie," Debbie grins, and it's as if all the tension was just a dream.
Later, when Tess serves Danny with divorce papers and goes to curate a bloody art gallery while he's in prison, Debbie feels sadness and anger and betrayal but not a single bit of surprise.
iv.
These days, when someone dodgy comes to the bar, chances are they're looking for Lou. She's been discreet because she doesn't want to mess up her new hobby (who knew tending bar could be so interesting? She might even open a bar of her own, one day) but there is only so much one can do, especially when dodgy comes in the form of one Debbie Ocean.
She doesn't go to Debbie right away. That's too easy. Lou wants to make her sweat a bit— teach her to go avoiding Lou whenever she pleases. Just her luck that the bar is busy tonight and there are only two of them behind the counter; she even shows off a little, flipping bottles and shakers the way she's been taught. She glances in Debbie's direction from time to time, but Debbie isn't even paying attention. Her colleague gives her a Look because he knows exactly who Debbie is, and Lou gives in with a huff. Debbie knows all her tricks, anyway; she knows Lou will come to her in the end.
"Fancy seeing you here," she says to her— her Debbie, she supposes, because there aren't words that can encapsulate what they are to each other. When no reply comes, she raps her nails on the countertop. Debbie hums absently. In her hands is a phone that Lou doesn't recognise. She wonders what happened to the old one. "What'll it be?"
"Surprise me," Debbie murmurs, turning the phone over and over. Something is clearly preoccupying her if she doesn't even ask for her usual martini, but Lou knows she won't spit it out until she's good and ready.
"Gotcha," Lou says, and turns to the wall of spirits behind her. She picks out one of the more expensive reposado tequilas, lets her hand hover for a bit, then selects a maraschino liqueur to go with it. "You good with something fruity?" she asks, without turning around. Debbie makes a vague sound of acquiescence, which makes Lou roll her eyes. She halves a lemon and pink grapefruit, the juice of which goes into a waiting shaker along with the spirits. A half ounce of agave nectar to finish and she's got something that she knows is going to taste utterly revealing to anyone who's met the two of them.
Debbie doesn't look up when Lou readies a glass filled with ice and starts doing her thing with the cocktail shaker, but other customers kindly give her the requisite wolf whistles and quiet applause. She tips them all a wink and strains the drink into the glass, garnishes it with three artful slices of red chilli. "The Ocean, for your drinking pleasure," says Lou, sliding it across the bar. At this, Debbie finally gives her a catlike smirk.
"Interesting name," she comments. She's set the phone down, her finger tracing the rim of the glass.
"I'd have gone with The Debbie, but," Lou lifts a shoulder carelessly, "I really was thinking of both of you." Perhaps Debbie more than Danny, what with the sour-bitter citrus mix and background burn of chilli, but no one needs to know.
"I'm sure he'd be flattered." Debbie doesn't say anything more, but she doesn't pick up the glass either. Lou holds tight to her patience, waits until Debbie finally admits: "I've been thinking about Danny lately, to be honest."
"About what, specifically?" Lou pours herself a glass of water and sips it, eyeing Debbie with no small amount of trepidation. Debbie is as clever as she always is, and their operations almost always go off according to plan, but she's been getting… restless, and Lou can't put her finger on why. Except that it must have something to do with Danny and his wife— this all started after the Benedict heist, and what a near-miss that was.
"I told you about the thing with the Night Fox?"
"Yep," Lou confirms, popping the 'p' in exasperation, because now she thinks she can see where this conversation is going to go and she doesn't like it at all.
"I want to try something," Debbie rests her chin on her hand, finally catching Lou's eyes, "something bigger. "
There is an infinitesimal pause before Lou snorts, breaking eye contact. "What's big? We're riding a thin line as it is— or did you forget how close they all were to doing some serious time?"
"Danny's getting old," says Debbie, waving her hand carelessly, "and moral. No one's ever even gotten near catching us, have they? If it's you and me, we're solid. I've got my eye on the most gorgeous diamonds, I'll show you." She taps the screen of her phone, and Lou puts her glass of water down, exhaling.
"I trust you and me, Debbie. But other people? We've been solid because we're a team, and if you want to keep pushing it we're going to have to make this team bigger instead of tapping outside help only when we need it. It's not safe. You think Danny keeps it to the same people all the time for fun?"
"Come on, Lou, I already know all that. We've worked in a bigger team before—"
"We have not," Lou cuts her off, annoyed. "It's been Debbie & Lou and the backup singers, because you're a control freak and you've never learned you can be wrong."
Debbie stills, her eyes hardening. Lou doesn't like arguing with Debbie, but someone has to do it, even if her words come out harsher than she means them to. "What is this really about?" Debbie asks, at last. "Getting cold feet? After all this time?"
The floor is vibrant with sound and people and her colleague behind the bar is irritably serving all the other customers himself, but it's like she and Debbie are in their own pocket of solitude, just two people drowning under the weight of words too long gone unsaid.
"I would follow you anywhere, sweetheart," Lou whispers. Debbie leans forward to hear better then catches herself, jerking back with a scowl twisting her pretty face. "I would, but if I follow you further than this we'll end up driving off a cliff. You know that. You just don't want the perspective any more— and maybe that's on me. Maybe I've spent too long being the voice of reason. So if me pulling out keeps you from that cliff, then," she takes a deep breath that feels like knives in her lungs, "then I guess this is it, Debbie Ocean."
The silence between them stretches. Debbie takes her hand off her glass, the drink itself still untouched. "I should have listened to her," Debbie says, almost to herself. Her voice is as soft and hurt as the first time Danny went to prison, and something inside Lou cringes away from it.
"To who?"
"No one. Isn't it pretty?" Debbie slides the phone she'd been fiddling with across the bar. The screen is still lit up, showing a grainy photograph of an obscenely huge diamond neckpiece in a display case.
"Pretty is not the word I'd use," says Lou, grimacing.
"Fair." Debbie swallows audibly. "I said I wouldn't stop you, and I won't." Lou can't remember Debbie telling her anything at all like that, but she doesn't comment. Instead she reaches out and turns the phone face down, her fingers brushing Debbie's.
"I'll be here, when you need me," she says. When, not if, because after Debbie works the reckless out of her system she'll need Lou with her again, and Lou will inevitably be drawn back in.
"Keep the phone," Debbie says. She slides off the barstool, the black sequins of her dress catching the light. She's so beautiful it makes Lou's heart ache. "Text me when you've got your own bar I can visit."
Of course Debbie can tell she wants her own place, even when she herself has barely started thinking about it. Lou looks at her for a long moment, lips parted to say something, anything, but in the end it's still Debbie who smiles at her and asks: "Friends?"
"Of course, don't be stupid," Lou says, keeping her voice steady with an effort. "But you better stay out of trouble."
"Now that," Debbie says, a little sadly, "I can't promise."
Lou drinks the cocktail after Debbie leaves, and if her eyes are a little glassy the rest of the night, her colleagues say not a word.
v.
When Debbie takes up with Claude Becker, she honestly doesn't think much about it at first. He looks good in a suit and even better out of one, and it has been a long while since she's had the chance to appreciate sex with someone of the male persuasion. So Claude starts as a pleasurable diversion to keep herself out of trouble, as Lou called it, but Debbie should have known she could never resist the temptation. She's no Aunt Ida.
Claude asks her to assist in a simple con, just to help him drive up the prices for his gallery. It's clear by now that Claude hasn't a single clue about her illustrious family, which is just how she likes it. Of course, she accepts, playing the part of the sweet socialite just dipping her toe into murky water. Claude loves it.
She can't pinpoint when the persona stops being a temporary mask and starts being more like a second skin. She spends her days being shown off by Claude like a trophy, her nights being worshipped in bed, and Debbie— Debbie finds that she's growing to love it too.
Weeks pass.
Her messages to Lou taper off into nothing, and Lou doesn't push. Claude romances her, and she falls.
When Danny takes down The Bank, she watches the news about Terry Benedict's generous donation to charity and her grip tightens on her phone, but she does nothing.
She tries to forget.
Claude's fingers tangle in her hair late at night, his body pressed warmly to hers.
"Who's Lou," Claude will ask, stroking his fingers across her skin.
"My childhood cat," Debbie will answer, swallowing against the faint bitterness in her throat. She will think of a smoother, sweeter voice, of slim fingers and the thrill of the chase. She will push him down and take her fill, will try to drown every restless feeling in the simplicity of physical pleasure. "Maybe we should get one."
"I don't like cats," he will say in between kisses, and when she is betrayed at last, again, Debbie only feels the burn of her own stupidity.
Prison is another diversion. She knows now that everything without Lou beside her is just a diversion, and her quiet nights are spent dreaming up more and more heists to run together until she finally has the bones of an idea.
That isn't all she does, of course. She keeps her best skill— her silver tongue— honed in prison as well, stealing the contraband operation from right under another inmate's nose. It nets her more contacts and more influence, and soon she's made herself a comfortable spot within the hierarchy. Her scheme also earns her a brief stint in solitary, but Debbie realises she's enjoying herself more than she has ever since that last time at Lou's bar, when her own selfishness nearly broke them. Whatever else can be said about prison, it's certainly a good place for self-reflection.
Lou sends her postcards while she serves her time. They're from all over the place, even though Lou herself isn't traveling, and they contain little anecdotes about her life and her work, and once she only writes the words I miss you in small, shaky letters, on a postcard from New York. Debbie puts that one on the wall next to her bed, and she looks at it while she fine-tunes her theoretical heist. She doesn't know who told Lou about her being locked up, but she's grateful.
Three years into her sentence, Lou sends her an actual letter telling her about the new bar she's just opened. Don't worry, she writes (Debbie can almost hear the way her voice curls around a laugh), I'm watering the vodka down like a pro. Lou has always been Lou, after all. She isn't as willing to dive into the deep end as Debbie is, but she's never been afraid to get wet. It makes Debbie want to laugh and never stop.
When she perfects the foundations of her heist that same night, she allows herself to think of vengeance. Becker deserves a taste of it, and she's sure she can work him into her plan. The thought of him getting his just desserts warms her well enough, until she is notified of her brother's death.
Then, all she can think of is how she wishes Lou was with her. Danny had always pulled off his most breathtaking heists on a quest for some kind of vengeance, but Debbie isn't sure she wants to do the same. Not if the same end is waiting for her. And Becker just doesn't rate the same whole-hearted fury— in the end, he was just a diversion. If she can fit him in the final plan, she will. If not, a good old-fashioned threat will do her just fine.
Before her release, she asks to make a phone call.
"Miller speaking," says a voice Debbie hasn't heard in more than five years. It's every bit as dark and sweet as she remembers, and Debbie finds herself blinking back tears.
"Baby," says Debbie, "I'm coming home."
"Right here waiting, honey," Lou answers, and if her voice cracks on the last word, no one's around to tell.
Lou is in Oregon, today, visiting Crater Lake. She's been on this cross-country road trip for about four months and counting, and she hasn't spoken to Debbie once. She's taking some time for herself, thinking about where she wants to go. Where she wants them to go, or if them is even a thing she still wants, after the heist.
Right now, staring out at craggy, snow-capped mountains surrounding the deepest lake in the world, Lou closes her eyes and thinks: yes. Perhaps for Lou, the answer to the question Debbie Ocean will always be a yes. She can't say she minds overly much.
She buys a postcard in the gift shop. Thinking of you, she writes, and addresses it to Deborah Ocean.