where&#x27;s ma hugggg

#YEEEEEHAWWWWWW #deborah.#swallowpitted

DEBORAH VANCE SITS DOWN AND TALKS. VARIETY NOW, CIRCA 1976.

ava-deb

Guess I didn't figure it out. Well, no, but that's okay. We will… or we won't, you, but at least it'll be on us. Hell yeah.

HACKS: S05E06, "QuikScribbl"

#iiiii love them #deborah.#ava.

you know, david, people ask me what the difference is between men and women, and honestly? they both have drawbacks. men are lazy, and women are annoying. the battle of the sexes is a fucking tie. @swallowpitted.

#swallowpitted #i be cookin #deborah.

it's certainly a concept. she'd always said she'd write anything for her, and a show seems like a pretty good place to start. a proper show, not just punching up the bits that don't land quite right in comedy clubs across hollywood boulevard. she can see it - them baking in memphis, or eating bagels in chicago. all they need is a wad of cash and a few packs of cigarettes to keep them working through the night, and they'd be fine. (she's confident in deborah - deborah can make anything funny, and she can figure out exactly what each audience wants. or what they need, more specifically.)

"then what are we waiting for, deb?" if all that's left is a shattered reputation, then they can rebuild it over time. piece by piece - funny story after funny story. it can be real, and full of heart, and all of the things that deb doesn't share right now because it's just - not the right time. they can work on that, and they can make it funny, more importantly.

"it's deborah's time now. not frank. not kathy. not who's making dinner, or late night, or whatever else - you get on that stage, and that's all that matters." she turns her hand, mostly to hold deb's, and gives it another squeeze, before turning into the side street.

"if that's what you want to do, i'm with you a hundred percent of the way. because - yeah. we are good together."

deborah has always been very good at the bigger picture; even danny marsh, a producer on the first couple seasons of the show, said she would make an incredible director. she can envision the stage lights almost immediately, the beats they would need to make it work and how the spotlight would follow her from left to right, emphasizing any physical bits she might need to do, the raunchy, loud parts and the quieter parts that set up the pay off. ava's always been more prone to the kind of stand up that relies on storytelling, versus deb who preferred a quick set up and punchline standard. it wouldn't be so hard to adjust.

"we should do it. we should write a show together. we could go west to east coast, maybe even canada for a stop or two?"

they already have a great way of working. she's already selling out more and more clubs, grabbing bigger headline and later night spots when everyone is warm, has a little more liqour onboard. early spots are the hardest -- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

she lets go of ava's hand so she can shift gears again as they slow down outside the apartment block she's been forced into, a two bed rental where the bathroom hasn't had a refurb since the 20s. the taps leak, the tiles are cracked, her landlord is a sexist fucking jerk and dj, all three years old of her, cries because the a.c. is never quite cool enough. she hates this place. hates los angeles.

"do you want to come inside? i should at least offer you a drink or something for helping me out so late." the last thing she needs is more booze but she's warm and easy in the car, and the world isn't quite spinning yet. she's drunk enough to be bold.

the idea of spending even more time with deborah does nothing to douse the total miserable fucking yearning in her chest. that’s the hard truth of it. deborah swans into her life, all 5ft 3 and all that hair, and they make it work. deborah sells out clubs, and bars, and any theatre or establishment that’ll sell you a coke float and a few pills on the side all at once, and ava’s bunched up on a little stool down the side of the stage with a notebook and three hundred scribbled jokes and ideas that they distil into something great. they are, in all ways, creative partners, and it’s only in the street lamps and the way deb leans back in the seat, that ava quiets the rising concern in her brain: deb has had partners before - she’s had shows that everyone and their mothers tune into every week - but for ava, this feels pretty much like it.

“i’ve never been outside the country,” and it’s not a reason not to. her mom would kill her, probably, quoting the hundreds of aviation-related deaths that happen every single year because of drunk pilots and bad seatbelts, but it doesn’t matter much. she’s like that with everything. “you tell me where we’re going and i’m there.”

you and me, babe. it sounds like something remotely similar to something she’d hear on the radio, and when she pulls up to that quiet street and turns the engine off, she glances back round at deb. she thinks she’ll ruin her, in the low glow of the street lamps. okay.

“i could do a night cap. if i’d have known, i would’ve worn something less… pyjama-y.” the door shuts behind her, and ava digs her hands into her jacket pockets.

“i meant what i said, deb. he never deserved you.”

#swallowpitted / jimmy.#suicide /

fadeintoyou1993

AVA DANIELS HACKS | SEASON 1

#ava.

arguably, the worst thing you could have said. but it’s out there now. /jimmy

"look, i'm not a homophobe. i was saying that i think it's real ironic that the senator who sent his kid to conversion camp like it's nineteen fifty fucking five got caught sucking dick in his office," and it comes out of her mouth and even makes her cringe, so when she takes a quick hit of her vape and stares out at the boulevard below them, there are a thousand different thoughts running through her brain. this business is cruel, dark, and you really figure out who your friends are when your back's against the wall (and you double down in a twitter rant that spans about twenty tweets. holy fuck, she feels like kanye.)

there's a silence that sits between them, and she hits her vape once more before closing her eyes and pressing a soggy forehead against the window.

"do you reckon they'd just pressure-wash my brain off the sidewalk if i jumped? do you think it'd take long to clean up?"

the tension in the cab swells when ava touches her; she thinks about frank suddenly, the way they would go to the lookout point not far from her house and watch the sunset (because she couldn’t be out too late in case kathy needed her) and makeout in the backseat until they were red faced and breathless. she thinks about all the things they did in that car — the dreams they came up, mindlessly wishing away their lives and reimagining it as some grand adventure. they came up with the show in that car.

she clings onto the feeling of hopefulness, of eager hands and hearts, wishing that just once she got to win. if just once she got to have what she wanted (because all she had ever wanted was to be with him, to be wherever he was even if it meant uprooting her whole life to la on a whim). can’t someone look at her like she hung the moon? is it so bad to want someone to touch her like they meant it, as if they couldn’t imagine not wanting her only all the time instead of only when nothing else were available?

ava squeezes her leg and deborah thinks she could melt with affection, the honest kindness of a friend just being on her fucking side for once. another thing deb lost in the divorce along with a sister and her career: everybody else, except one or two people from the show.

“we could do it, you know. write a show. tour it. you’ve made me funnier in a handful of months than he did in four years.” she covers ava’s hand on her knee to keep it there. “we’re good together.”

"if that's what you want to do, i'm with you a hundred percent of the way. because - yeah. we are good together."

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Late Night is for housewives and mechanics. You're very good at what you do but you are not the right person to lead that show!

HACKS 4.02 "Cover Girls"

#ava.#deborah.

deb could drift away listening to ava talk about her mother and whatever else she might want to ramble about, boston and the drive to los angeles, or the latest get-money-quick thing she's tripped and fallen into, writing jingles for washing powder. she almost wishes she had dragged her into teegees.

the image of ava keying franks car is satisfying for a moment, enough to smile sadly and run a hand through her hair. "it's fine. at least he's keeping her honest and it's serious. i'm not sure what's worse - my husband fucking her just to fuck her, or falling in love with someone else."

"yeah, well. he never deserved you anyway." she doesn't know much about frank - who's making dinner was never really on in her household growing up. (mostly because her mom believed the thought that your eyes would go square if you watched television too much, and her dad would much rather watch some sports game and listen to the commentary on the radio instead). but she does know everything deb's told her - that is, that he's an asshole. it's not all bad - it led them to work together, and while ava punches up shitty ads because it's paying thirty bucks and rent is due, deb cracks open a new notebook and they wrestle with her own stories to tell.

"he was never the star of that show. i still think i hitched my wagon to the right star. so fuck him, fuck his mustang, and fuck his receding hairline, but - let's make something better. let's show everyone that he was just some man that got lucky. you're the funny one, deborah - not him." she offers her hand out, and gives her knee a quick squeeze because she'd much rather pull her in for a hug but she figures deb would much prefer them not veering off into a five and dimes.

"you are brilliant. and he did never deserve that."

it is barely there. the friction lasts for less than a second and yet manages to be one of the most erotic thing that's happened to her since her marriage exploded. electric, pure impulse, a barely there tell-on-yourself ava gives away that makes deborah suddenly throb. you call, i answer. there it is again: such obvious devotion.

(love me love me love me was always the heartbeat of her life; she has clung to her mother when her father couldn't see straight, clung to kathy when it was just them alone, clung to frank because he plucked her out of obscurity, clung to the audience because her husband couldn't care less about anything she did anymore, clung to her microphone in a desperate attempt to claw back some semblance of herself.)

"five star service here in los angeles," she laughs softly and lets her head drop back against the headrest, unable to look away from the outline of ava across the console. her mirth gives way to melancholy after a moment, and she picks at her nail. "frank and kathy are getting married."

"my mom always told me i was gonna do great things," it's intentionally glib, maybe. the main aim is to cut through whatever's closing in on each corner of the car - ava puts it down to deb's bad night, and focuses on the breeze biting her neck and the lights starting to fall away from the street. there's some eagles song on the radio that hums along through the silence, before she steals another glance over.

"except she didn't, and she still sends me letters with newspaper cuttings about californian crime rates."

oh. that's it. that's why the bad night. and ava can then almost forgive the smell of tequila on her breath and the teegees of it all, because it slaps a frown on her face and a sigh through her lips.

"well, as part of that five star service - i could go key his mustang. or... sugar in the gas tank, a slugger to the windscreen - what're we thinking?" god, it feels shitty. even for her, and she never met him! he's an asshole!

"i'm - sorry, deb. that must be really hard. can i - help at all?"

deborah laughs - loud, head thrown back - and flicks the butt of the cigarette into the darkness, just in time for her big and tall loser to come staggering out of the bar searching for her. she grins and waggles her fingers in a wave as the car drives off, cackling at the angry and bereft look on his stupid face as he watches the, disappear down sunset strip.

the high wears off after a second. she leaves the window down, lets the summer air wash over her, the bad mood and anger numbed to a dull insult.

"thanks for coming to get me," she says and means it. there is something inherently comforting about reliability and ava always says yes. maybe it's the tequila but in the neon glow passing them outside, the blur of traffic in the background, ava looks almost handsome. pretty. dangerously attractive to the point it makes deborah shift in her seat. what would she do if deb decided to lean over the centre console and bite her earlobe? "can we go back to your place?"

it's not just that it's a sketchy part of town - or a sketchy bar for that matter - that makes ava hit the gas. her bed is calling and while it's still balmy in downtown LA, there's a whole shudder that drips its way down her spine for no reason other than the fact that she thinks about who's been keeping deb company for the rest of the night. (she wouldn't call it jealousy, because she knows it'd never happen - plus, deb doesn't even know she likes girls like that, and even if she ever did tell her, it just opens a whole other can of worms that ava isn't sure she wants to pick at.)

"oh, please." i'd do anything for you sits on the tip of her tongue but it makes her feel dizzy to even vocalise, so she glances over at deb in the passenger's seat, all flushed in the cheeks and wrapped tight in some fur from the who's making dinner days, and she laughs. "i'd rather not see you show up on the news tomorrow morning. you call, i answer."

there's a moment where it hangs between them, and ava pulls her hand from the gear stick and brushes it against the jut of deb's knee, before changing gear and settling it right back where it belongs. too close, right?

"that's an extra buck fifty on the meter, ma'am, but the mr daniels taxi service is all about customer satisfaction, so your wish is my command."

ava hangs up in the abrupt way that she does and deborah can't help but smile to herself, resting her back against the glass of the booth, hand running through her hair. she's sweet; a good friend would be an easy umbrella to loop it under but she isn't stupid, she sees the way ava looks at her when she thinks deborah won't notice.

(it should be off-putting but it isn't. frank never liked how much time she spent with gino - who so happened to be one of the only people off the show who even still speaks to her anymore; deb makes a note to invite him round soon - and it never had anything to do with the fact gino was a man at all. he never liked the bars she went to or the girls she liked to hang out with, all smooth skin and sharp jawlines. ava's attention isn't off-putting because deborah adores being adored, and no one does it better than her.)

when the car rolls into the lot, deb cocks her head and smiles sweetly. there's a swagger in her step, a cigarette in her hand, deliberately slow as she walks up to the window knowing fine fucking well the picture she's painting with her deliberately short skirt and tall boots. she bends at the waist and leans onto the door, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

"just waiting on you, honey." she grins and blows the smoke into the cab. "my hero."

"sounds like my lucky night." she's having a bad night. and with deborah, that could be code for anything - she's thinking about frank, or she's fighting about dj, or she's reminiscing the what if's and could have's of late night television that has now been replaced by some fucking loser in a suit that does the same shit that they did ten years ago when jfk was less of a stain in a fancy convertible. ava doesn't watch it, out of solidarity, and because she thinks lat enight shows are stupid and never see the real parts of america that the WASPs try and bold-facedly ignore.

there's more than just the stepford wife and nuclear family out there now - times are a-changing and ava leans over to the passenger seat and tugs on the handle to unlock it.

"get in before you get me in trouble," it's a vague nod to a solicitation charge she's sure to be slapped with if deb struts around in shorts like that for much longer, but then there's a faint knock in the back of her head that says she wouldn't say no. deborah lights up the damn room, whether that's in neon or in stage lights, and there are lipstick stains on the butt of her cigarette that ava thinks about every time she takes a drag and - yeah. deb needs help, and ava comes running.

"um, i'm at teegees? you know it?" it's all dive and neon, a bouncer conspicuously missing from the door because they're usually inside hitting on girls and getting into fights. teegees is the sort of place you go when you've got a grand total of twenty bucks (which she doesn't even have, gross and massive who couldn't take his eyes off her tits earlier bought every round and skeeved her out when he put one meaty hand on her thigh), and not even a couch to go back and sleep on.

he's not desperate enough to let the creep inside sweat on top of her. and she has an ava.

"sorry, i know it's late. just-- having a really shitty day."

"that spit and sawdust bar that some chick got roofied in last year? deborah!" if there are two words that are synonymous with one another, it's teegees and shithole. but that's beside the point. she's shrugging her way into her jacket and thumbing her sneakers up her heels while balancing the cord phone between her ear and her shoulder, and nods.

"hey, it's okay. i'll leave now - give me, uh. about fifteen?"

she hangs up without any ceremony (she never did say goodbye on the phone) and fishes her keys out of her pocket. deborah needs her, so she comes running, in a shirt that's two sizes too big and picked up at goodwill with a couple of holes in the hem that makes it look perfectly worn.

she speeds down hollywood boulevard and manages to squint into the glowing neon TEEGEES sign in twelve minutes flat. she rolls the window.

"what's a gal like you doin' in a place like this?"