Welcome to the World of Tomorrow!!! [closed]

[etherthief]

Iman is in a perilously good mood after the last collective dream - apart from very nearly embarrassing the shit out of herself in front of the TARDIS, a situation which she's fairly hopeful righted itself, all her interactions were lovely and stress-free. She remembers meeting Greta especially, since Greta is someone she can track down, and more than that, she essentially promised to. Work moves at a reasonable pace and she manages to enjoy it - she and Rush are back to an acceptable state of banter, and Julian continues to be friendly and fine - and it's payday. Maybe she can take Greta out somewhere.

It's quick work getting the roster of registrants living at the Base, and sure enough there's a Greta Baker - Baker, really? Did she not have a last name, did they just assign her that? - up several floors in the living area. One elevator ride and several fiddling adjustments to her hijab later, she's standing outside Greta's door. She gives a quick series of knocks and then folds her hands behind her back. She's a little nervous, she thinks. Probably because they were sort of all up in each other's business last night, and this is someone she seriously doubts has any idea of bisexuality or indeed, anything outside the medieval heteronorm, but that's half the fun, surely.

Comments

[andhiswife]

"It's not very exact," she admits. At least, not the way she's used to doing it. "But once you get a feel for it, it's not too difficult."

Greta continues with the soup while Iman explains temperature. How strange, to use numbers to measure how hot or cold it is - something you could do just as easily by feel. That's how she's been using her oven; the numbers on the little wheel hadn't meant--oh.. "Is that what those numbers on the oven are? The temperature?"

[etherthief]

"Yeah!" says Iman, a little surprised. Has she just been feeling it out? Well, guess that's how they would have done it in Greta's time. "Yeah, that's what that is. It's useful, having a scale - makes it easier to prepare. You'll get used to it." She smiles and gives her a little pat on the back.

[andhiswife]

Greta tries to commit the numbers to memory - thirties is cold, seventies is comfortable, nineties is hot, and baking is into the several hundreds - as she finishes her soup. She supposes it would be nice to know specifics about the weather a few days before it happens, if the predictions are accurate. Goodness, how do they do it?

She sets the empty bowl on the chair, then leans back beside Iman with a sigh. The soup, she thinks, has helped, but more so has the company. She really has been trying not to dwell on how terribly lonely she is here, but it's hard not to feel sorry for yourself when you're alone and ill. How lucky that Iman stopped by, and how good of her to take such care of someone she hardly knows.

Greta lets herself lean into Iman a little. Well, it's easier to see the phone this way, and the bed's not that large. "Thank you," she says softly - and again. It bears repeating. Then, because it's hard to gauge something's importance when you don't know what it means, she asks, "What's humidity?"

[etherthief]

Iman's smile becomes a little softer when Greta leans against her - well this is nice, and without whatever pretense and effects of last night's dream. She turns the backpat into more of a gentle stroking motion.

"You're welcome," she says, and then, "humidity is the level of moisture in the air. On a hot day if the humidity is higher it'll make you feel sticky, which can make the heat even worse. And in the winter the air gets really dry. Technically we're on an island, so the humidity can be pretty fierce, but so far it's not been too bad." She's sort of delighted that Greta is asking these questions. She didn't want to overwhelm, but a curious person is her favorite kind.

[andhiswife]

Greta sighs, both in response to Iman's hand on her back and to the information. "You've got words and measurements for everything, here," she says in drowsy, mild exasperation. She's familiar with both the hot stickiness of summer and the bitter dryness the colder months can bring, but it never would have occurred to her to come up with a name for how the air feels and a number to measure it with.

Maybe this is just what people do when there aren't any curses or giants to distract them.

"How can you tell if the humidity's higher or lower? Is it measured the same way the temperature is?" What a strange idea. She's not entirely sure what the point of knowing the humidity would be; it's not as if she'd dress differently for hot and sticky than she would for hot.

hot meteorology crash course action

[etherthief]

"Sort of," she says. "It's a percentage system. 100% humidity would be full humidity and 1% would be the least. It's that, instead of its own scale, because it's measured in comparison with the temperature. It's relative." This is probably getting to be boring. "It's not something you have to understand in depth, I promise. Honestly you'll probably do all right operating as you always have, with your own senses." She taps out of the weather and into the map. "This will be much more useful to you. Have you used this yet?"

mmmm-mm!

[andhiswife]

It's not boring so much as bewildering, but she's reassured when Iman confirms that she can get along just as well by feel. She'll have to keep an eye on the app to see how accurate its predictions are, but the weather, whatever it is, will have to be dealt with as it comes.

She watches Iman pull up the map, unaware that she's starting to list against the woman's shoulder. "Yes--well, no, not really," she amends. "They showed it to me when they gave me the phone, but I haven't used it, yet." A general wariness of her phone combined with the fact that she hasn't gone so far afield that she's needed the map to find her way back again are to blame for that.

[etherthief]

"Well this is gonna be very useful to you, I predict," says Iman. "See here? This little dot is you, and all the yellow lines are the streets, so you can see where you're going. Manhattan's streets are mostly numbered, and they're just lots of boxes, see?" She zooms out a bit. "There's the park in the middle, and then it's just a grid. So it's not too hard to find your way around. Plus, if you have an actual address..."

She shows Greta how to punch in an address - she uses the address of her Greenwich Village apartment - and a path pops up. "So that's how you'd get to me," she says. "But it's a really long walk, so I'd advise taking a train."

There's a lot to go over, and Greta seems to be getting a little weary, so Iman doesn't continue just yet, taking sometime to stroke her back some more. "You doin okay?" she asks.

[andhiswife]

Greta hums, both in appreciation of the map's usefulness and to demonstrate that she is awake and paying attention and not at all inclined to doze off on Iman's shoulder. "I'm fine," she says. "Much better now than I was an hour ago."

And not tired in the least. Never mind how good it feels to have Iman stroking her back - something her own mother used to do when she was under the weather, years and years ago. Greta casts about for something to hold her attention, then says, "I've never seen the trains, though." Heard of them, briefly, but never been on one. Truth be told, what little she'd heard had sounded rather terrifying. "What's that like?"

[etherthief]

"Not that exciting, once you get used to traveling so fast," says Iman lightly. "The ones underground here are all pretty grimy and loud and crowded. Everything smells terrible. They're incredibly un-glamorous. But that's sort of in the spirit of New York. And they are very convenient. I'll take you on one, if you want - you shouldn't go alone your first time, it can be overwhelming. For one thing the maps down there are way different. They don't correspond to the streets."

She can sense Greta getting tired, and tilts her head down. "You sure you don't want to rest some more?"

[andhiswife]

It doesn't sound very nice - well, the trains don't sound very nice, but the cadence of Iman's voice has grown familiar enough to be soothing. Greta's eyes drift shut and her mind wanders, idly taking in bits and pieces of Iman's explanation and letting them slip away, like flour through her fingers. I'll take you, she says. Shouldn't go alone.

She is not alone. That's nice. And good.

Is Iman asking her a question? She might be. It's too distant for Greta to tell, and it doesn't seem terribly important. Surely there's nothing she needs to do but stay just as she is, warm and comfortable.

[etherthief]

Aaaand that answers that. Iman smiles, a little bemused, and just sits still for a moment, not sure what to do. Once she's sure Greta is good and out, she delicately extricates herself, lowering the other woman carefully onto the pillow and tucking her in. She takes out her own phone and flicks on the rain sounds app, leaving it on the chair, and takes the soup bowl to the kitchen.

She does what few dishes there are to do and inspects Greta's cabinets and fridge to see what kind of things she might need, and starts making a list. Might as well, right? Poor thing will need all the help she can get.

Once she's run out of menial tasks to do, she leans against the wall and watches Greta for a moment, smiling fondly. She's not entirely sure how long she does this - eventually she realizes that she is literally watching someone sleep and turns away, looking out the window instead. She's not sure if she should just leave or stick around - evening is approach, and Greta could well just sleep through the night. She supposes if it starts getting dark she could just leave a note.

For now she recovers her phone and settles down on the little sofa for some light reading. She's started following a lot of science journals and blogs, still trying to get a feel for the weirdly removed way things are done in this universe.

She does not reflect at all that this situation is weirdly domestic, or that that's not really something she does. It's just an unusual circumstance, that's all. It's not a problem. She's just being helpful. Reading the same paragraph over and over again.

She sighs and sets the phone down for a moment, looking at the softly snoring lady. The sweaty, red-nosed, medieval, pre-queer-culture married lady.

God dammit.