A/N: written for sunny rarepairs 2: electic boogaloo on ao3, beta read by blairkitsch on tumblr, title from run away with me by (queen) crj
It's ladies' night at the Rainbow, and the place is packed to the glittery gills with lesbians. A pop song is blaring from the speakers, and women are dancing to it, laughing and talking and looking like they're having an awfully good time. Dee isn't, though. A pretty intense glare at a femme couple half an hour ago landed her one of the precious few tables, and she's been sitting there nursing a beer for the past half hour, trying to see without being seen.
She starts to peel the label off her beer. It's weird to be here alone, but Dee can't possibly imagine going to a lesbian bar with the gang, and they really don't have a very deep bench. Sure, her lesbian awakening at the age of 40 has been very enlightening and all, but it's also kind of lonely. The revolving door of guys in her apartment was unfulfilling and self-destructive, but at least it was some company.
"Hey, can I sit here?" a woman asks, and it's just this pathetic loneliness that makes Dee say, "Yeah, whatever," before she looks up and sees exactly who it is.
Well, her plan of laying low tonight is absolutely screwed. There's a moment when the two women recognize each other, and then another moment when maybe one of them is supposed to storm off, and then too much time has gone by, and Dee finds herself sitting across the table from the waitress. In a gay bar. And it's too goddamned late to walk away.
There is a sort of sick pleasure Dee gets from this, like she now has some sort of dirt on the waitress. "So are you, like, gay now?" Dee says, smirking at her and taking a swig of her beer.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"Hey, I'm just here enjoying the view." Why did she think that would sound any less dykey? And so defensive. She backpedals. "I'm not embarrassed to be here. Gay pride, or whatever." Still, Dee says, "Tell anyone and I'll slit your throat, bitch."
"Jesus! I'm not gonna— You know, not everyone automatically just does the worst thing possible."
"Screw you," Dee says, but she doesn't get up.
"Anyway, I can't tell anyone I saw you here without saying that I was here. And neither can you."
She's got a point. Dee takes another sip of her beer, and the waitress drinks some of what looks like ice water. She's looking down at her stupid ancient flip phone, trying to text with one hand. It's safe to look at her, so Dee does. The waitress is wearing a low-cut black t-shirt with her jeans, and Dee has to admit it's a good look for her. Her stupid hair, though, is all thick and frizzy, probably from the humidity. It's kind of nice at this length, and the brown highlights really bring out the blue of her eyes (or maybe she has brown hair and blond highlights), and Dee is almost torn between insulting her and sincerely recommending the waitress the anti-frizz cream she uses. Almost.
"God, I do not get Charlie," she says.
"What?"
"Stalking you for ten years? I mean, you're cute, but seriously not worth it."
"Thanks?"
Dee doesn't answer.
"Do you ever get tired of being like this?" The waitress doesn't wait for an answer. She's talking at Dee more than to her. "There can be something in between. In between whatever this pretending to hate each other crap is and playing 'sex and the city' dress up. It might be nice."
The waitress must be pretty desperate to say all this, Dee thinks, but for once in her life she keeps it to herself. And it's bullshit, of course; Dee could have a million female friends if she wanted. Tonight, she just doesn't feel like arguing. So they don't. Dee and the waitress listen to the shitty pop music until the song ends, and then Dee says, "You wanna dance? Let's dance."
The waitress shrugs. "Sure."
Dee can blame it on the alcohol, she thinks, holding out her hand. But the waitress takes it, and she's been drinking water all night. Dee pulls her onto the dance floor, smirking. What the hell.
It's crowded, mostly women and a few men, one of whom looks disturbingly like Mac, but that's a question for another day. It's pretty fucking cheesy, but when the waitress starts to dance, Dee really does tune everyone else out. It feels rude to stare, but it's impossible not to. As they move to the music, Dee traces the waitress's outline with her eyes, imagines doing it with her hands. Blood pulses in her ears to the beat, and Dee thinks that Charlie would be so goddamn jealous if she banged the waitress. And, well, the fact that it's crossing her mind isn't insignificant. If she thinks about it—which she hasn't until tonight, not really—the waitress is kind of hot. Maybe Dee doesn't want to get close enough to the waitress to actually learn her name, but going home with her tonight is by no means off the table. And it really would make Charlie so goddamn mad. Anyway, what's the point of being a lesbian if you don't sleep with all the girls your male friends like?
Dee is considering the best way to propose this when the waitress kisses her. It's not like Dee has never kissed a girl before (there was college, and, more recently, Tinder), but this is different. It's so public, Dee thinks, leaning into the waitress, but also, well, it's the waitress. A woman Dee has (allegedly) known since high school, and at the very least a woman who has in and out of her life for over a decade. Maybe she doesn't know the waitress's name, but this is already so much more permanent than any other lesbian hookup Dee has had. To go home with the waitress would be acknowledging that this isn't something that's going to go away. Dee pulls away from the kiss.
"Let's get out of here," she says. The waitress takes her by the hand.