bigapplesauce | call me up day or night, free drinks and bad advice [closed]

Current Location: Greenwich Village and elsewhere
Current Music: September 12th

Entry tags:

call me up day or night, free drinks and bad advice [closed]

For those who missed it, Iman's magical prosthetic is out of commission and she's havin a rough time. TW for denial, dysphoria, and some internalized ableism.

This is fine.

She starts every day this way. Waking up, looking at the ceiling, remembering through dull ache and a gradual loosening of dreams where she was still whole that her arm is gone. Not quite gone, not literally missing, still hanging there limply because it's easier to fake it and she gets enough stares already. Reminding herself of the subtle changes in her own weight distribution, how she must hold herself, the effort that goes into things like rolling out of bed and showering and dressing. And she says: this is fine.

First order of business is checking her phone. A real one now, now that she can no longer use her arm for this purpose, or for opening doors, or for punching holes through walls if need be, or reshaping glass, or anything. She is normal. She is less than normal.

What time is it even.

Some texts, she doesn't check them now. The clock tells her she has managed to sleep until 2pm. Fucking fantastic.

Okay well by the time she gets showered and caffeinated and presentable, it'll be happy hour.

Who's she gonna drink with. Rush? Sounds amazing, actually, but how long will it take him to get back around to wanting to fix her unfixable fucking arm? Fuck that.

She punches in a text to Greta.

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Iman's text arrives quite some time after Greta's initial 'good morning' and 'how are you' - which she'd sent rather late in the morning, anyway, after some debate over whether or not they would come across as smothering. It's been proving rather difficult to find a balance between making sure Iman is all right (or as 'all right' as she can be, given the circumstances) and not fussing over her to the point of being bothersome. She hasn't forgotten the way her friend had pulled away from her at first, or her strained insistence that she needed to be alone. However apologetic they both had been afterwards, Greta has no desire to repeat that scenario... which is why she didn't object to Iman returning to her own apartment, even though she would've preferred to keep her closer.

It's a pleasant surprise when the text turns out to be an invitation. A little bewildering, perhaps - out for drinks, as if nothing has happened - but maybe that's the point, just having a bit of fun for a change. Anyway, it's not as if she's going to turn it down. It would be nice to visit Wilmot's again under less dire circumstances, and nicer to spend time with Iman and see how she's faring.

She drags herself from bed to bathroom without bothering to wait for a response, disproportionate to her usual attitude, but she feels like she's moving through fog right now anyway. Everything's been off, sort of surreal, since the incident. She turns the water on hot and stands in it for a while. Washing with one hand is hard work and she hasn't done it in a long time. She half-asses it within the realm of satisfaction and spends several minutes longer than she'd like drying off.

She answers Greta's response rather late, then dresses herself, slow and meticulous. She's done this before. She's not new to having a disability. Just because she made it into something more doesn't mean she doesn't remember.

But there's such a numb feeling there. No innovating her way out of this. Fate beat her. Her biggest fear.

She perches at her desk with a cup of coffee that she sips slow and tenuous, waiting for Greta to arrive.

It doesn't take Greta too long to freshen up and make herself presentable - just as well, as it's a fair distance to Iman's apartment. She changes into clothes that aren't flour-dusted and redoes her hair, pulling it out of its messy bun, brushing it out, and twisting some of it back enough to keep it out of her face without looking quite so domestic. No need to get fancy, not when they're going somewhere as familiar (and poorly lit) as Wilmot's. And not when Iman would be finding it more difficult than usual just to do as she usually would, let alone dress up.

The trip to Greenwich Village feels longer than it is. She must be acclimating if traveling at such a comparatively cracking pace is starting to feel slow. But it isn't so long, really, before she's reached Iman's building. She fires off one last text, then buzzes Iman's unit and waits.

She doesn't bother answering the text, just heads downstairs and puts on a smile for her friend who is altogether too patient and too generous and too beautiful oh no look at her hair oh god she's so cute. Maybe this is a bad idea. This is probably a terrible idea. Wilmot's is a bad plan anyway. They should go somewhere new. Somewhere norther. Closer to Greta's digs. So Greta can escape if she needs to.

"Hi," she says, her smile getting big and awkward, like she's forgotten how to socialize, which she basically has. "You look pretty."

That's terrible. Why would she say that. Greta probably knows she looks nice, she doesn't need to hear about it. What is she, some catcalling jerk on the sidewalk? Now Greta is going to feel that social pressure to return the compliment and she'll feel awkward about it because do people with one arm want to hear that, will Iman only react like a huge fucking asshole like she did before, no I'm not I'm broken don't you dare be nice to me okay okay calm the fuck down.

"Um," she says quickly, blinking a lot. "Sorry, I just, uh, I know I made you come all this way but I was thinking it might be nice to explore your neighborhood a bit, you know, find a nice place closer to you. Thought that might be nice, yeah? If you don't mind walking. I don't mind. If you don't. It is a nice day and stuff."

Stop. Talking.

Holy shit.

The compliment is a pleasant surprise, and Greta ducks her head a little, cheeks flushing. It's been some time since anyone complimented her appearance with any regularity, and it's especially sweet coming from Iman, who always looks pretty without any apparent effort.

She's about to point that out when Iman hastily changes the subject to where they're going, and then she lifts her head with a startled blink. She'd rather liked the idea of going to Wilmot's again, but she's inclined to follow Iman's lead. A walk does sound nice. Frankly, a stroll through the fresh(ish) air would do them more good than just sitting in the dark. And if they end up back in Greta's neighborhood, she might be able to coax Iman up to her place for some food after they get drinks.

"No, I wouldn't mind at all," she says. "We can cut right through the Park, too; it'll be lovely."

Her smile takes a turn for the wryly amused as she adds, "And you look pretty, too - as ever." It's almost not fair. "Although..." she reaches out to make a little adjustment to Iman's hijab, an affectionate, half-automatic gesture. She might just as easily have been straightening her husband's collar. "There we are," she says with a satisfied smile. "Perfect. Come on." She takes Iman's arm with the same fond familiarity and gives her a gentle, encouraging tug in the right direction.

And there it is, though any discomfort she might feel is flushed out by the more immediate issue of Greta so casually, naturally, affectionately adjusting her hijab. Oh god. Does she realize how intimate that is? It's not like - it's not like it's outlandish or unwelcome but if someone saw her doing it they'd just assume there was something going on between them, and-

And so what if they do? Remember when you didn't give an ounce of fucks about what anyone thought?

She tries to ground herself and grips onto Greta's arm when it loops through hers, keeping step with quiet determination. She is going to be fine. Everything is fine.

She's not sure if this silence is comfortable and friendly or not. It's probably fine but it makes her uneasy all the same, and yet she knows she can't break it without babbling more. So she just chews her lip and keeps her head tucked down, wishing she could do something with her 'free' hand.

As far as Greta's concerned, she hasn't done anything unusually intimate - certainly not by the standards she and her friends set back home, when they were younger. It could be argued that she should have outgrown such closeness with her peers, but this is a special case - both because there's no husband or child to claim the bulk of her affection here, and because Iman's having a difficult time and could use the extra care (whether she'd ever admit to needing it or not). And if she didn't want the attention, she'd say so, wouldn't she? It's not as if she hasn't rebuked a kind advance before.

Greta's inclined to take the silence as companionable, at least until she glances over and sees Iman looking a bit anxious, as if this is all a more serious undertaking than it ought to be. Rather than ask if she's all right - that would just be inviting a lie - she ventures, "I've been experimenting with flour." It's not terribly interesting, but it's not supposed to be. She's just nattering in the hopes of putting her friend a little more at ease. "Did you know they've made flour out of coconuts - those giant, hairy-looking things at the market? I can't imagine how they do it."

Iman looks up at her, struggling to follow this line of thinking. Where did that come from? But that's okay, Greta's trying to fill the silence, that's good. And experiments! This is her territory and everything.

"Yeah," she says with a weak smile. "Lots of people have dietary issues - allergies, where certain foods make them sick. It can happen with milk, nuts, soy..." She tries to wave her hand vaguely and she can't and she feels momentarily sick. It's so weird. It's not just that she feels like it's still there, it is physically still there. Hanging. Dead.

"Um," she stumbles slightly. "Uh, and yeah, some people can't have wheat. So you get almond flour, rice flour... coconuts." She manages another smile. "Any interesting results?"

Greta doesn't miss the little stumble, but Iman forges ahead, so she ignores it. The smile is more important; that's what she was going for.

"It behaves differently," she says, and her own smile is a bit rueful. 'Interesting' might be too kind a word for what her first attempts yielded. "The first loaf almost... well, it did fall apart, actually." She can't help blushing even as she chuckles. It's been years since she had anything turn out that poorly, and despite the excuse of strange new flour, it's still embarrassing. "But the second one was better. It has a nice texture when you get it right, it's just very..." she pauses, searching for the right word, "sensitive, I suppose. Little adjustments make a big difference. Normal flour is more forgiving."

Is this getting boring? She glances over at Iman, her smile widening. "I could go on about this sort of thing all day," she adds, drawing out the last two words in playful threat.

"I know you could," says Iman quietly, smiling a little more easily. She can sense that fear of babbling too, too well, and she reassures reflexively: "It's not boring. It's what you love to do, that's never boring."

She pulls herself a little closer, not quite going so far as to rest her head on Greta's shoulder or anything, but contact is finally becoming comforting again, and contact with Greta is - well, it's easy, because Greta is a naturally affectionate person and she has no idea that this could mean anything more to Iman, so - well it's disingenuous, sure, but Iman is going to take it because she can't do anything else, she's too tired and too much in need of it.

This gesture is rewarded by a sound that barely registers, but it doesn't need to for her instincts to fill her in completely because it's like an animal thing, if she does anything and a male voice is there to mutter or coo anywhere near her the words don't matter because she knows the goddamn score.

She tenses very slightly. She doesn't look around to find the guy. It's possible Greta didn't even notice, and she doesn't want to draw attention to them. It's just buried knowledge: we are now being watch, critiqued, judged. Ordinarily this would be simple. She would turn, she would confront, she would make a scene. Nobody fucks with the starfucker. She bareknuckle-boxed her way through college. She'll mess you up. All y'all better take heed.

She can't do that now. She can't fight with this uneven balance distribution, a dead limb hanging at her side, her speed and strength are halved. Without her arm she is nothing but a small, unassuming woman in a hijab, holding the arm of another woman. She is a prime target. And she can't burn anyone down anymore.

Her only response is to pick up the pace just a little.

The bulk of Greta's focus is on her friend, so it's Iman's response that she notices: the heightened closeness, which she takes as a good sign, and then the stiffness and quickening pace that seem to come from nowhere. Her brow furrows a little as she matches Iman's speed easily. What's the rush?

Then she hears him. Hears him again, really, but she hadn't noted him the first time. She almost turns around, but stops herself, because Iman didn't turn and it's obvious she's heard him, too, so she'll follow her friend's lead. The man is still behind them, though, not close enough to grab them but close enough to be unnerving. More than unnerving - after everything else they've been through, it's alarming. Who is he? What if he's from ROMAC, or whatever might be left of it?

What if they know what's happened to Iman's arm?

Greta keeps her face forward. "Do you know him?" she asks in an undertone.

She shakes her head very slightly and keeps moving. He will either jeer and leave them alone, or become aggressive. Maybe they can get underground, get on a subway - it's too nice for that and she would rather walk with Greta but at what cost? She doesn't want Greta to have to endure this bullshit.

The man is still behind them, he's following them, fucking great.

"Hey come on," he says, raising his voice a little. "Don't be like that. You girls together? I can dig that. I'm open-minded. I'll show you both a good time." He reaches out and he grabs her arm and she doesn't even fucking notice until there's a pull of tension against her shoulder and she suddenly twists back, letting go of Greta and turning to face this fuckhead with an expression torn between rage and terror.

"Don't fucking touch me," she snaps and she pulls back but she can't, she actually can't get her arm out of his hand because it's a dead limb, she can't even FEEL his hand, it's just some vague tug keeping her pinned and that's the worst thing in the fucking world.

"Why you gotta be such a bitch?" he snaps right back. And then he calls her a word. A couple words, actually, one of them she knows and it's not entirely accurate but whatever; the other she's never even heard before but it's self-fucking-explanatory. Her eyes go wide for a moment and she just freezes right up.

What on earth is he talking about? Why is he following them? Greta does glance back at him, now, bewildered and indignant, and as such she has a clear view of him grabbing Iman's arm and twisting her friend out of her grasp. She inhales sharply, horrified. And Iman can't pull away, can't free her arm; he has her as surely as if he'd grabbed her by the hair. Then the man calls her something - several somethings - and Greta hasn't a clue what they mean, but she can tell it's something awful by the way Iman responds to it.

Why is this happening? Haven't they earned a little peace? Hasn't Iman been through enough?

Greta's gaze hardens, and she puffs up like an outraged cat. First ROMAC, then the Rift, and now some--some rogue has the nerve to accost them for no reason other than the fact that he can. She won't stand for it.

"How dare you?" she snaps, seizing the man's wrist, digging in her fingernails for good measure, and pulling Iman's arm out of his grasp. It's not difficult; he loosens his hold in surprise the moment she grabs him.

"Christ!" he objects, wrenching himself free and stumbling back a step. A coward, then; well, of course he is. They're drawing looks from passers-by, now, which is probably what prompts him to add, "I barely touched her!"

Greta advances on him, cold and furious, forcing him back another step. "You grabbed her, you loathsome excuse for a man!" More people are staring. Good. Let him feel besieged, the scoundrel. "Why don't you--"

She lifts her arm to gesture towards him, sharp and aggressive and dismissive, and she doesn't even see the pigeon taking off from the sidewalk, but she somehow manages to strike the poor bird squarely and send it, flapping and burbling, right into the man's face. She starts back in surprise, then decides this is as good an opportunity for escape as any, turns on her heel, and rushes back to Iman. "Quickly," she advises in a strained, sing-song undertone, nudging her along with a hand on her back.

Iman jolts, startled, when Greta pulls her free, and to her latent embarrassment can only stand there gawking as Greta tears him a new one, descending into a vehemence Iman has never seen in her before. It's impressive and alarming, and she's worried he's going to react even worse - Greta's making such a scene that it probably wouldn't go well for him, but even so, Iman is in a rare state where she would rather avoid any further altercations. Still, Greta is actually defending her. And that's. Well. It's kinda hot.

And then she smacks a pigeon right into his face.

She can't even speak before Greta is hustling her along, and she doesn't have to be told twice to hurry. Recovering somewhat, she grabs Greta's hand and tugs her around the corner, aiming to take them on a somewhat circuitous route to put several blocks of separation between them and the guy (who can still be heard distantly cussing about this whole debacle to whomever will listen).

It takes her several steps before she finds her voice again.

"How," she blurts, "did you do that?"

It's a relief when Iman takes her hand and pulls her along. She's still buzzing with adrenaline, but her righteous indignation is quickly giving way to embarrassment. She'd much rather relinquish charge of the situation than keep pretending to know what on earth she's doing. What a frightful mess that all was.

When Iman puts her question, she covers her face with her free hand and shoots her a look of deepest mortification. "It was a complete accident! That poor pigeon." She couldn't care less about the man, who deserved worse, but the bird was innocent.

As they round another corner, far enough from the scene that it's safe to slow a little, she adds, "Actually, it... it might have been a Rift... thing." Greta winces. As magical powers go, it's not particularly impressive, and it's so dratted vague. "I do things by accident, sometimes. It only seems to work if it's an accident."

"What??" Iman looks at her in open amazement. "That's - that's incredible, how long have you known that?" She takes them quickly across the street and onto the next block, slowing now that they're heading back in the right direction and she's confident they're not being following.

That whole experience could have been horrifying, but in fact it just led to Greta being a huge badass on her behalf and hitting a man with a pigeon. That was kind of exactly what she needed.

"Oh..." Greta flaps a hand bashfully. It's not that astounding. How can it be? It just amounts to little, happy accidents that she can't predict or even begin to control. She can't even give a demonstration, because it never works if she's trying. Honestly, hitting that pigeon is probably the most impressive thing she's managed to do with it, and it's pure dumb luck that Iman was there to witness it.

"I don't know. I think it was... that dream where everything kept breaking or falling to pieces and everyone was terribly clumsy." She gives Iman a brief, inquiring look to make sure she's following, then continues, "I, er... I kept fixing things, or catching them before they fell. Not on purpose, only when I was caught by surprise or distracted. Gabriel was there, and he said it might be some sort of Rift Enchantment."

"That's..." Iman nods thoughtfully, trying to work out what that might be, in a strictly codifiable sense, though it is awfully vague. That's part of what makes it fascinating, and it makes that warm, familiar sense of curiosity climb back up under the layers of fucking surrender under which she's been trapped, and that's so great.

"Maybe we can do some experiments," she says a bit playfully. She loops her arm back through Greta's pulling close again, eager to shake off the unpleasantness that just happened. "Thank you, by the way, for sticking up for me."

She wishes she could have defended herself, but she'll take it from Greta - especially if it involves smacking a pigeon into a jackass's face.

Greta huffs out a laugh. It's good to see Iman in better spirits, it's just the thought of doing experiments that has her a bit dubious. "How?" From what little she understands, trying to make it kick in is the surest way to see that it doesn't. "Wait until I'm in the middle of something, and then throw things at me?" Oh, dear, that might actually work. She grins over at Iman as she takes her arm again, adding, "Maybe I shouldn't tempt you."

Her expression softens at the thanks. "Of course. He deserved worse." She purses her lips, her expression hardening into an echo of her earlier righteous indignation. "Beastly fellow." Ugh. Greta shakes her head briskly, as if to fend off a troublesome insect, and walks in silence for a few paces. An irrepressible smile starts to reassert itself, though, and she mutters, "Right in the face," before starting to giggle.

That is actually a pretty solid idea, though maybe something less potentially destructive would be best. She'll have to give it a think.

"Maybe you shouldn't," she agrees with a little grin, and feels an uncomfortable twist in her gut at the same time. This temptation is definitely not the worst of it, but she doesn't want Greta to sense any discomfort, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to avoid her. She needs this, even if it all feels a little cloak and dagger, a little like lying. Bullshit. Get it together. Gotta get those drinks.

Though now, after that experience, the idea of going into a bar is less than appealing. She smiles at Greta's little giggle and says, "I have better idea. Since we're headed this way already, let's stop at a liquor store and then just go to your flat. We'll make our own drinks and then there'll be no need to harm any more pigeons. Yeah?"

Well, it'll serve her right if Iman hurls a cushion her way while she's trying to do the dishes or something - not that she'd really expect her friend to risk the safety of her crockery for an experiment's sake. Still, she'll probably have to be on her toes.

The suggested change of venue is a slight surprise, but it's more than welcome. Greta had been half-hoping to get Iman back to her flat at some point, anyway, and this means they can skip the middle bit. But even if she hadn't been harboring secret plans to feed up her friend, she could hardly refuse - not when Iman seems so much more comfortable with this new plan than she ever was with the original.

"That sounds perfect," she says, patting Iman's hand. "And you can try some of the bread that didn't fall apart."

"Awesome," she says, feeling more buoyant than she has in days. This'll be nice. Relaxing. Fun! She's going to have fun, god damn it.

It's not a short walk but the rest of it remains peaceful - Iman does note some judging looks here and there, but that's to be expected, and she draws no attention to them. She stops them at the first liquor store she sees and buys them a modest assortment of supplies - enough for some good cocktailing, and if they need more then they can get more. And then they're at Greta's building.

"Here, let me," she says, stepping forward as Greta approaches the door - she would have liked to be able to carry their groceries but she can't do that, at the very least she can open the-

Her stomach lurches when she fails to move her arm, strange how easy it is to fucking forget, even when she's thinking about it she forgets, it's not there, she can't use it, can't do anything. She holds out her 'good' hand for the keys, trying to look like that's what she meant in the first place, trying not to look as sick as she suddenly feels.

Greta's awareness of their surroundings has been heightened by the earlier unpleasantness, and she keeps a weather eye out for trouble as they walk even as she makes cheerful conversation with her friend. It occurs to her, in retrospect, that strange men may have directed rude comments her way in the past - she's heard things in passing and ignored or dismissed them, assuming they couldn't possibly have been aimed toward her, but now she realizes they might have been. The additional knowledge that it could escalate to grabbing her is downright chilling. Back home, that's the sort of trouble you could expect if you frequented seedy pubs at unwholesome hours, not something that might happen on the street in broad daylight.

And she, at least, has two working arms with which to fend off an attacker. What would Iman have done if no one had been there to come to her defense? Survived, certainly - she is brave and capable regardless of how many arms she has at her disposal, and she doubtless would have torn into that man herself if Greta hadn't beaten her to it. But it would have been frightening, and she hates the thought of men harassing her friend for no reason when she's having a hard enough time as it is.

But it's not just men that are the problem. They're getting some unfriendly looks from women, too. Greta sees them, now, and though she tries not to let on that she's noticed, she can't help wondering if they were always there, or if they're a more recent development. More than that, she wonders what on earth these people are finding so dratted objectionable. Can they tell she and Iman are Rifties? As if either of them can help that. It makes her want to pull Iman closer, to puff up like a broody hen and hide her friend from such needlessly judgmental looks, but she suspects that wouldn't actually help matters.

She really dislikes this city, sometimes.

It's a testament to how distracted she is that when Iman offers to get the door and then doesn't move, Greta feels a stab of genuine bafflement as to why her friend's not reaching for it. She can see that Iman is thrown, too, and then it hits her - she just forgot, they both did, oh no - and a stricken expression flits across Greta's face before she can suppress it. She ducks her head, hoping Iman didn't see, and shifts the groceries to her hip, freeing up a hand to rummage through her bag for her keys.

"Here we are," she says, fishing them out and handing them over.

Iman takes the keys wordlessly and unlocks the door, giving it a good shove with her shoulder and holding it open for Greta. She forces a smile as her friend comes in. Should she make a joke about it? Will it come out strained and horrible like the last time she tried?

She ends up saying nothing, following Greta to the elevator, then to her apartment door (which Iman unlocks again), then inside.

She feels an instant lightening of tension as she steps in. This is a safe place where no one will bother them or look at her funny. They can just eat bread and drink and maybe Iman can introduce her to some movies or something. It'll be good. She'll forget all about the bile in her throat, the knot in her stomach. It'll be fine.

Greta hasn't been here for very long, but she's endeavored to make the place homey and inviting, as much for her own peace of mind as for any guests' benefit. There are a few drying bundles of herbs hanging by the window and toning down the blank brightness of the walls, and her baking endeavors have already started to inform the ambient scent of the room. It's a little too neat, perhaps - more like an inn than a home - but home is a universe away, so more time and her best efforts would still fall a little short.

It's definitely more welcoming than an unfamiliar bar, at any rate, and Greta breathes a bit easier once she's inside. "You'll have to show me what on earth we're doing with all of these," she says wryly, hoisting the bag for emphasis before settling it on the counter and starting to unpack. She doesn't even know what most of the bottles are.

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tw for more internalized ableism and social anxiety

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heads up folks gonna get into some real-world drama for a bit - tw street harassment & fear/anxiety

aaand more of the same

serious tw aggressive propositioning, nice-guy tactics, nonconsensual touching, allusion to slurs

tw for some mild violence against a gross dude and also a pigeon

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