Chapter Text
RUTH
They don’t get much sleep that night; Ruth figures no one at the Fan Tan does, except the homophobes. They do finally drift off, but in what feels like no time at all, they’re awoken by the sound of Randy sobbing his little eyes out.
When she feels Debbie start to get up behind her, Ruth is overcome with a fit of predawn chivalry. “I’ve got it!” she says, leaping out of bed so fast she gives herself a headrush.
Debbie sits on the edge of the bed, her face lit only by the narrow bands of neon light leaking in through the Venetian blinds. “Ruth, no, you—”
“No, no, I’m all over it! Go back to sleep. I’ll figure out what he needs.” She walks to the crib and picks up a wailing Randy, giving him a few experimental bounces and a goofy smile; but he only cries more.
“Okay, so not that. How about…” She lifts him in the air and spins around, making her best attempt at airplane noises. Aaaaand now he’s screaming. “Do you need to be burped? Or… Shit. I swear I’m gonna figure this out.”
Randy’s so loud that it takes Ruth a few seconds to clock uproarious laughter behind her. She turns and sees Debbie sitting on the edge of the bed, losing her shit.
“Oh, this is funny to you? Watching me do everything in my power to soothe your distressed child?”
This only makes Debbie double over with mirth, to the point where she actually…yep. That was a snort. Finally, she catches her breath and holds out her hands for Ruth to pass Randy over.
“I swear I was just about to figure out what he wanted!”
“I appreciate the effort, but it’s not anything you’re equipped to give.”
“Are you saying I can’t handle— Ohhhhh.” She cuts herself short when Debbie pulls one breast from her nightgown, and Randy immediately latches on.
“God, you crack me up,” Debbie tells her in the sudden, blessed silence.
“Happy to entertain,” Ruth says, sitting beside her on the bed. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as when you do it.”
“Deb!”
“What? You’ve got teeth, he doesn’t.”
It all feels so natural, the two of them trading sleepy banter as Randy drinks his fill, like they’ve been doing this forever. This, Ruth realizes, is what had been waiting for them past all the walls, all the betrayals, all the secrets. And now that everything’s out in the open, they’re free to just be…this.
“Hey. Hey, Debbie.”
“Yes, Ruth?”
“Are you my girlfriend?”
“What are you, twelve?”
“Say it. Say you’re my girlfriend.”
“Jesus christ, woman. It is four thirty in the goddamn morning and I’m getting the lifeblood sucked out of my tit in a three-star hotel after the longest night of my life, and you’re asking me if I’m your girlfriend?”
“Well…yeah.”
Debbie lets out a long-suffering sigh worthy of Joan Crawford, then grabs Ruth by the collar with the hand that isn’t holding Randy. When she’s inches from her face, she hisses, morning breath and all, “Yeah, Ruth. I’m your friggin’ girlfriend.”
Since G.L.O.W. is canceled tonight (along with every other show at the casino) and Debbie is off to do some mysterious business lady thing, Ruth decides to go check in on Bobby. She finds him standing beside the charred remains of the cabaret. He’s a sorry sight—still in his costume, now torn in places and stained with ash. Without a word, she brings him back to her and Sheila’s room and hands him a cup of black coffee.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got anything stronger than this in that mini-fridge?” he mutters, hands shaking around the mug.
“I do, but…maybe take it slow to start out?” she says gently.
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right.”
“How about you go take a shower and I’ll see if I can find you some clothes to change into, okay? There should be some Pond’s by the sink for your makeup.”
When Bobby just nods and stares off into space, she gives him a quick hug and leaves him to get cleaned up.
Once she’s in the corridor, Ruth cycles through the men she knows at the hotel and comes up with exactly two. Both of them suck, but one requires taking the elevator and the other is right across the hall.
After a few knocks, she hears a series of bearlike grumbles from deep inside the room, followed by a raspy, “If you’re banging on my door this batshit early, you better have a damn good reas—”
Sam stops short when he sees her, a trainwreck in a ratty bathrobe, the remnants of Debbie’s punch a sickly shade of yellow around his eye. “Not interested in what you’re selling, ma’am,” he says, but Ruth wedges herself between the door and the frame before he can lock her out.
“Wait! I know you hate me right now, but I need a favor. For someone else, not me.”
“Is it Debbie?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Bobby.”
Sam scoffs. “The fag who dresses up like a woman and prances around onstage?”
Ruth holds herself back from slapping him across the face, because she doesn’t think he could handle another bruise right now. “The gay man who performs in drag, yes.”
“Whatever. What the fuck does he need that I have to offer, aside from my charming personality?”
“So, I’m sure you heard about what happened last night at the Libertine Ball.”
“The what?”
“Seriously, Sam?”
“I’m not exactly in the loop these days, Ruth.”
“Christ,” she mutters, massaging her temples. “Well, if you’d bothered to leave your room last night, you’d know that Bobby threw a big event in the cabaret space to raise money for AIDS victims, and then a bunch of motherfuckers set the building on fire.”
Sam’s disinterested expression dissolves into concern. “Holy shit. Were you there?”
“All the girls were. Sandy, too.”
To her surprise, Sam grabs her by the arms and pulls her into his room. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
She’d be touched by his concern if she didn’t sense an ulterior motive. “Yeah, I’m fine. We all are. Physically, at least. But it was really, really scary.”
“Fuck.” Sam sits down on the edge of his unmade bed. His room is even worse than last time Ruth saw it—dirty clothes and empty liquor bottles strewn everywhere, ashtray crammed with cigarette butts. It smells like a frat house. She glances over to the empty drawers and worries that maybe he doesn’t have any clothes Bobby could wear that aren’t totally rank. “Y’know, I did hear all the sirens last night, but I figured it was just a drug bust or something. Plus, I was…”
“…Completely hammered?”
“Yeah.”
Despite her distaste for Sam and everything he stands for, Ruth thinks back to the days when he was her only friend, and finds herself caring again. “I’m worried about you.”
“My liver’s already well past pickled; I’m fine.”
“You’re really not.”
He runs his palm across his face. “Look, I’m not the issue here. What does Bobby need?”
“Well, he’s still wearing his costume from last night, and since everything he owns was in his dressing room…”
Sam laughs. “Well, good luck finding clean…anything in here, but you’re welcome to whatever.”
Ruth steels herself to rifle through his drawers and, miraculously, comes out with a T-shirt and pair of jeans that seem to be relatively fresh.
“Thanks. I’ll bring these back later.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
She’s about to leave, but then she turns and watches him struggle to light a cigarette dangling from his lips. His hands are shaking—but for an entirely different reason than Bobby’s were. She takes the Bic and sparks it herself, holding it out to him. He takes a heavy drag on the Camel and rests his head in his hands.
Maybe it’s almost dying, or confessing her love to Debbie, or feeling herself on the cusp of a whole new life—but she suddenly wants to make things right with him before G.L.O.W. packs it in.
“Hey, Sam. Are we…okay?” When he laughs darkly, she walks it back. “Or, clearly we’re not, but. Maybe we could work our way back to being okay?”
“Yeah, sure, Ruth. We’ll split a steak at Musso & Frank’s.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. And I fuckin’ hate when you’re serious. Always lands me in hot water.”
She sits beside him on the rumpled duvet, trying not to wince at the wave of nicotine and old whiskey that assaults her senses. “I care about you, Sam. Not in the same way you care about me—or, cared about me, I guess. But you’ve kind of changed my whole life for the better, even if you didn’t mean to, and it’d be a shame to part on bad terms.” She considers her words carefully before adding, “Also, you’re slowly killing yourself with drugs and booze, and I’d appreciate it if you stuck around. Y’know, as a personal favor.”
“As if I haven’t done enough fuckin’ favors for you,” he grumbles; but he’s smiling, just a little.
DEBBIE
Debbie wakes up that morning to a call from Bash, who sounds unusually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, asking her to meet him in the lobby ASAP. So after she gets Randy settled and kisses Ruth—her girlfriend —goodbye, she heads downstairs without bothering to do her hair and makeup. Bash can cope.
She finds him pacing directly in front of the elevator. “There you are!”
“Jesus, what bug flew up your ass?” Debbie says, bouncing Randy on her hip. “C’mon, I gotta get him to the buffet before he starts wailing his little brains out.”
“Debbie! I have huge news, and you want to discuss it over hashbrowns?”
“Yes,” she says flatly, not bothering to see if he’s following.
Once they’re settled into one of the butt-ugly booths and Randy is happily sucking Jell-O into his mouth, Bash begins.
“So remember the little pipe dream we were talking about the other day?”
“It’s been a hectic forty-eight hours, Bash. You’ll have to jog my memory.”
“The one where you wanted to, and I quote, ‘buy the fucking TV’?”
“Oh, right, that one. I was riding bisexual-awakening anxiety. Take it with a grain of salt.”
“You don’t get it, Deb. I did it.”
“You…”
“I bought the fucking TV.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He leans in conspiratorially. “Well, a little birdie told me—in the form of a table of bigwigs I was eavesdropping on at the blackjack tables last night—that there was a television network up for sale. They were pitching it to this oil exec in a ten-gallon hat, and he was clearly playing hardball. So as soon as he left, ol’ Bash sidled into his seat and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. By which I mean, the offer the other guy refused.”
Debbie feels like she’s just mainlined way too much coke at a terrible party in the Valley.
“I mean, I’ll have to sell my share of Rhapsody and maybe move into a slightly smaller house, but…this is huge, Deb.”
“And you actually want me to be involved?”
He leans in and grasps her hands. “I don’t want you to just be involved. I want you to be the president of the network. Full creative control.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As the Challenger disaster.” He grimaces. “Too soon?”
“ Yes, too soon!” She narrows her eyes at him. “Why are you just…handing me this on a silver platter? I know you, Bash. You never do something for nothing. So what’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Bullshit.”
“Oh, my god, Debbie! Can’t you just trust me for once? I’m about to make all your egocentric dreams come true!” He immediately holds out his palms in surrender. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m trying to not be a knee-jerk asshole anymore.”
This piques Debbie’s interest, because she’s been going on the same journey lately—more for Ruth’s sake than anyone else’s.
“You’re really good at this, Debbie—producing, spearheading projects, being a hardass when you need to be. I’d have to be blind not to see that. And you’re also really good at finding the people who can help you realize whatever your crazy, insanely ambitious vision is.”
Wow. She genuinely believes him.
“And look—I like to think I’ve become slightly more self-aware since deciding to start my own wrestling show on a whim. I know I’m just the money, the pretty face. So I have a hunch that if I take a backseat and let you run the whole shebang, I’ll make a nice fat return on my investment.”
For the second time that week, Debbie looks at the asshole business partner she’s been saddled with and sees him with new eyes. “Damn. You really mean it, don’t you?”
“I really mean it. I just have one request.”
“Heeeere it comes.”
He quirks a smile. “The network’s first original series: an all-female wrestling show.”
Now that’s a project Debbie can get behind. She goes into business mode. “I’ll need to talk to my lawyer about drafting a contract, and believe me, you’re probably not gonna like the terms.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“But assuming you’re amenable…” She maneuvers her right arm around her Jell-O-obsessed child and over the plate of lukewarm hashbrowns. “…Then you’ve got a deal.”
He shakes vigorously with both hands, looking like a kid at Christmas—which is in just a few days, Debbie realizes. Gift shopping hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of her mind.
She starts to withdraw her hand, but he holds it in place. “Hey, really and truly,” he begins, voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for listening to me the other day. About…y’know. You made me feel like maybe I didn’t actually want to die.”
For just a moment, Bash’s charming cad mask falls away, revealing the terrified, misunderstood kid who learned very young that even a gilded cage can’t keep the bullies out—especially if you’re a fairy.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to come out—and frankly, I’m scared shitless to screw the wrong guy and get sick,” he says. “But sometimes it’s just like: What am I doing all this for? Because it’s so, so much work.”
“Being in the closet?”
He shakes his head. “Being me.”
“Oh, Bash.”
“Don’t you dare pity me,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “It’s incredibly off-brand.”