Chapter Text
part one: deborah
It’s been four excruciating hours, and no one’s come to rescue Deborah yet.
Deborah tries not to be offended. She’s never been held for ransom before. She’s sure these things take time. There’s negotiations to be made, locations to track, deranged kidnappers to disarm. Still, she can’t help but wonder what the point of it all is — of all the people on her payroll, of her loving fan base — if none of them have bothered to show up to save her yet.
It won’t be long now. The drive from the venue to wherever the hell she is now couldn’t have been that far. They hadn’t properly sedated her, and she has a decent enough sense of time. She can’t help but mentally kick herself for hanging back behind the stage doors, for mistaking these illiterate cunts for her Little Debbies in the first place.
Deborah’s no stranger to adoring fans. Too adoring, sometimes. She’s had her fair share of stalkers. Twelve, last time she counted. She’s always tried to find it flattering as a way to cope. Up until now, that is.
Now, she sits hunched against the cement wall of an unfinished basement. It’s not exactly a cozy arrangement — her broken arm and zip tied ankles have made sure of that. There’s lots of chatter upstairs, muffled by the door, but the loud Boston accents are distinct even through layers of wood and concrete.
She figures she’ll be able to spin this into material some day — maybe a powerful through line for a special. Something about being stuck, or about shameful things hidden away in a basement.
Basements. Attics. Closets. There’s gotta be something there.
The door at the top of the staircase swings open, and Deborah is greeted not by one of the burly men who’d manhandled her into the basement in the first place, but by a scrawny redhead in sweatpants and a hoodie. She closes the door behind her and trots down the stairs.
“Hey. Thought you might be hungry,” she holds up a sleeve of saltines. “Want some crackers?”
It’s an absolutely absurd thing to ask, and so casually given the circumstances. Deborah glares at her.
“Oh honey, absolutely not. I can’t imagine the stress-weight my body’s going to want me to gain from this.” She tries to speak with the usual confidence that guides her through her act on stage, but her voice wavers against her will.
“Suit yourself.” The girl sits cross-legged on the floor across from her. She tears open the pack of saltines and begins eating them by herself. “I’m really sorry about all of this. I’m Ava, by the way. I doubt Uncle Mitch mentioned me.”
Uncle Mitch, Deborah concludes, is the ringleader of this whole operation. He was the one to grab her after her set, the one to force her into the trunk of his car, the one who broke her fucking arm. She winces as she recalls it all in vivid detail, then simply says, “He didn’t, no.”
“Yeah, well, here I am,” Ava gestures grandly to herself. “What’s your name?”
Deborah narrows her eyes. “Shouldn’t you know?”
“They didn’t tell me anything,” Ava shrugs. “I just got here.”
“It’s Deborah,” Deborah says, simply, because she’s sure Ava will find out another way if not from her.
“Well, Deborah, you’re shaking,” Ava says, through a mouthful of crackers. “My body does that too when I’m really hungry.” She holds out the sleeve of saltines again with an eyebrow waggle.
“I’m not shaking because I’m hungry,” Deborah spits. She clutches her broken arm with her good hand. Ava’s brow furrows as she puts it all together.
“Ah, shit. Uncle Mitch?”
“Uncle Mitch,” Deborah nods.
“Does it hurt?”
“What do you think, honey?”
“Probably. Looks bad. Can you move it?”
“I don’t really feel like trying.” Deborah says, tightly.
“Mm. That’s fair.” Ava pops another saltine into her mouth. “I also brought these —“ She rattles a bottle of ibuprofen above her head. “You’re supposed to take them with food, though. Hint, hint.”
“Is this a Hansel and Gretel thing?” Deborah asks. “Why are you so determined to get me to eat?”
“I don’t know? This is scary. I’d probably want food if this was happening to me.” Ava shrugs, the tiniest bit defensive.
Deborah sighs. She holds out her good hand expectantly. Ava smiles and hands her a fistful of crackers and pills.
“Wait, fuck. You probably wanna take that with water, huh?”
“No need,” Deborah says, already knocking back three pills. “I’m a pro.”
Ava watches her, studies her, like she’s trying to make sense of who she is. Deborah takes it as a challenge. She sits up and studies her right back.
This girl is pale and bony in a way that’s hard to tell if it’s genes or malnourishment. None of her clothes fit right — her hoodie is two sizes too big and her ratty little tanktop underneath is two sizes too small. And her posture? Terrible. Like a slinky with skin. Deborah finds it easy to pass judgment on this kid. She doesn’t owe her captors any kindness, after all.
“So you’re famous?” Ava asks, wrenching Deborah out of her train of thought.
“Yes, I’m famous,” Deborah says. “Let me guess, before your time?”
“I dunno. My mom doesn’t really let us watch TV, but I have my ways.” She gives Deborah a sneaky smile. Deborah doesn’t return it.
“Your mom doesn’t let you? How old are you?”
Ava shrugs. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five and you’re still doing what your mother tells you? Jesus.” She leans back against the wall. How is this the situation she’s in? Deborah’s far from perfect (though she’ll never admit it) but she’s never done anything awful enough to deserve this.
“I mean, yeah. It’s her house, so her rules,” Ava wrings her hands together. “Do you have kids?”
“I have a daughter.” Deborah wonders if DJ’s gotten a call yet about her mother being held in a bunker somewhere outside of Boston.
Bunker. Basement. Boston. There’s some good alliteration there, maybe she can write something around that.
“Does she still do what you tell her to?" Ava asks. Ah, right. They're still talking about DJ.
“She never did to begin with,” Deborah says.
“Do you wish she did?”
“That’s different,” Deborah says. “I tell her to stay off sugar, not kidnap fabulous comedians and hold them for ransom.”
Ava’s eyes light up. “Oh, shit, you’re a comedian? Tell me a joke.”
“I don’t entertain for free, darling,” Deborah says, picking a broken sequin off of her blouse with her good hand. “Besides, this entire situation is a joke.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Ava winces. “Look, I’m really sorry my Uncle Mitch hit you. Seriously. I don’t like when people get hurt.”
“No? This isn’t your career path of choice?” Deborah says. Ava shakes her head.
“No way. Blood makes me squeamish.” Of course it does. Deborah files that away in the back of her mind. Maybe that will work in her favor, if she has to take her rescue into her own hands.
“So why are you here, then?” Deborah asks.
“I live here. Just got home from work and Mitch filled me in.” Ava breaks eye contact with Deborah and stares down at her lap. “He says we need the money.”
“Oh yeah? Price of meth went up on this end of the state?”
“No. Medical bills," Ava fidgets with her hands. “My dad’s dying.”
Oh. Deborah goes quiet. She hadn't fully considered the why behind the what, but also, she can’t exactly blame herself. Just because some poor girl’s dad is dying doesn’t mean she has to be locked somewhere against her will.
“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Deborah says, carefully.
“I mean, yeah. It sucks. We’ve all been trying to pitch in where we can. I’ve started working at my dad’s autoshop, but like, do I look like a mechanic?” She flexes her muscles, though muscles is a generous word when there’s nothing there. “But I guess Mitch came up with another one of his brilliant ideas. I really had no idea this was happening. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, clearly,” Deborah puts on a sarcastic smile. “Think you can sweet talk them into letting me go?”
“Honest answer? No,” Ava lets out a sad laugh. “I think they’d beat my ass.”
“They beat mine too, honey. You’re not special.”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right.” Ava stares guiltily at her lap. She looks so broken up about this. Good, Deborah thinks. This kid is the weak link in this deranged operation. This’ll be her key to escape.
“Well, you wouldn’t have to sweet talk your family at all if you just called my team,” Deborah says. “Or, better yet, let me call them.”
“I don’t have a phone,” Ava says.
“You’re kidding.” Ava shakes her head. “Let me guess, your mom won’t ‘let you’ have one?”
Ava squirms uncomfortably. “She’s strict.”
“You’re twenty-five!” Deborah snaps.
“I don’t need one! My whole family’s here in town. I don’t have anyone to call.”
It’s a funny thing to say. Deborah can’t remember the last time she used her cell phone to call her own family. It’s always Marcus, or Josefina, or exhausting calls with Jimmy who’s struggling to pick up where his father left off. God, this kid’s world is small.
“What are you supposed to do in emergencies, then?” The question puts a distant look into Ava’s eyes. She looks away.
“Uh, landline, I guess.”
“Perfect. Use the landline, then.” Deborah says with a tight smile.
“I just told you, I can’t. Uncle Mitch will —”
“Beat your ass, I know, I know.” Deborah pinches the bridge of her nose, frustration mounting. “I’m supposed to be in New York tomorrow. I don’t need this.”
“Is that where you live?” Ava asks.
“No,” Deborah says, coolly.
“Do you have, like, a super big house or something? Because you’re rich?” It’s a weird pivot, honestly, but it’s on the bottom of the list of weird things tonight. Deborah takes it in stride.
“…Yes.”
“What’s that like?”
“It’s… I like it.”
“Do you have a pool?”
“I do, actually.”
“That’s cool,” Ava leans back against her arms. “I always thought it would be sick to be rich enough to have a pool.”
“You like to swim?” Deborah asks. It’s not that she's enjoying the conversation, but it’s all she’s got. May as well make the most of it.
Ava shakes her head. “Don’t know how.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“No one taught me —”
“Oh, sure, but they taught you hostage negotiations young and early, clearly.” Deborah scoffs.
“They didn’t teach me that either —”
“Jesus. These people teach you anything?”
“I mean, yeah. I was homeschooled.”
“Homeschooled!” Deborah laughs. It all makes sense now. “That explains the social skills.”
“Hey fuck you, lady. I’m being nice,” Ava sits up, defensive. “I don’t have to keep you company.”
“I think it’s more of me keeping you company, dear. Your family doesn’t exactly seem thrilled to have you around.”
“What? Of course they like having me around! What the hell do you know?”
“Oh, please,” Deborah laughs. “You’re downstairs hanging out with the hostage they didn’t even tell you about. They probably forgot you’re even here.”
The look of hurt on Ava’s face is priceless. Deborah delights in how easy it is to rile this kid up. The way she sets her jaw and balls her fists up — it’s all very boyish. It excites Deborah, just having this one little ounce of power over someone while everything else is so out of control.
“Yeah? Well what about your fucking family?” Ava spits back. She rises up to her feet, because she’s got to make herself feel big and powerful somehow. “Why haven’t they paid the ransom yet? If you’re so fucking special, why are you still here?”
“Because negotiations take time, honey. Your Uncle Mitch upstairs is probably making things very difficult for my people.”
“I think you’re being difficult,” Ava says, all worked up like a child with hurt feelings. “I hope your husband hurries up and pays us so you can get the hell out of here.”
“Oh, honey. My husband won’t be paying anything,” Deborah says, sharply. “We’re long divorced, and he’s long dead.”
“Oh,” Ava’s face falls suddenly, rage quickly replaced by remorse. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s not my problem anymore,” Deborah says. “They do know that, right? They’re not just upstairs ringing a dead man’s phone?”
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything.”
“Probably for the best. It’ll make you all the more innocent when my lawyers come after you all.”
Ava blinks, like the concept of legal retribution is entirely new to her. “They’re gonna do that?”
“Well, you’re not just gonna get away with this. These things – they only work that way in movies.” Deborah says, then remembers — bad example for the homeschooled freak. “Your people, my people — they’ll negotiate. Then they’ll get me out. Then my legal team will get involved and you’ll all go to prison, but it’s fine. Really. Your uncles can have a nice little dick swinging competition and sound real scary on the phone, and that’ll give them a fun story to tell behind bars.”
Ava looks sick. “I don’t wanna go to prison.”
“Then tell your uncles to call the whole thing off.” Deborah says, firmly.
“I told you, they’re not gonna listen to me! You saw Uncle Mitch —”
“Tell them I’ll make a charitable donation myself then. You won me over with your little sob story about your dad. I’ll pay and be on my merry way, but you have to act soon. Otherwise, things will get messy.”
Ava twists her hands together, weighing her options. Deborah white knuckles every last bit of patience she has left in her system, waiting for her to speak. Finally, she looks up and says, “Okay. I’ll talk to Mitch.”
“Atta girl. Go be the hero. Maybe I’ll write a nice, fat check for you as well.” Deborah says with a smile, but like hell she will. She hopes to never see this fucking girl or her horrid, inbred uncles ever again, unless it’s their unflattering mugshots on the front page of her morning paper that she’ll read at home where she belongs. She should never have come to Boston. She should never have gone back on the road. Fucking Marty buying her out of her fucking contract. She can’t wait to see his face when this story hits the news.
“Okay. Um. I’ll be back in a bit,” Ava says, turning and heading up the stairs.
“Looking forward to it,” Deborah says, as she pictures Ava’s sad, pale little face behind bars. “I’ll see you soon.”