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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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.

"Oh I will," Iman assures her with a little smile. "You'll probably have to help me."

And that's okay. Greta's happy to help. Iman's happy to show her. It's fine.

She follows Greta into the kitchen and starts snooping through the cupboards for glassware. "These'll do," she says, taking out a couple simple tumblers - not appropriate for proper cocktails but who's counting. She sets them beside the bottles and starts pointing to each in turn. "All right, these fellas are gin and vodka, soon to be our best friends. This one's triple sec, less of a friend and more a notable acquaintance. The soda water and the cranberry juice are gonna go in your fridge, and we'll see what else we can throw together. D'you happen to have any limes?"

There now, starting to feel more like yourself, now that you've got business to attend to, instructions to dole out. She fusses slightly over her hijab before pushing it back entirely. Fuck it. It's warm today and she's still feeling vaguely unsettled, needs to strip a layer.

Well, of course she's going to help. She doesn't like sitting idly by. It was difficult enough when she was dreadfully ill; now, there's no excuse. And she's not letting Iman try to open any of those bottles one-handed. Much as she wants to avoid mothering her friend, there's clear line between letting her be self-sufficient and making her struggle.

"Um..." Greta checks the fridge as she slides the juice and soda water inside. "I have lime juice. Will that work?" She plucks the little green bottle off the refrigerator door and sets it on the counter as Iman pulls off her hijab.

Seeing her without it hasn't entirely lost its strangeness, but it's also oddly flattering, knowing she gets to see something that her friend doesn't typically show everyone. "Would you like me to take that?" she asks, nodding towards it, resisting the urge to reach for it as if taking a coat. "We could hang it up or fold it or something." It is on the warm side, and if Iman isn't wearing it up, she might be more comfortable just removing it entirely.

"Perfect," she says of the lime juice, and then nods at the invitation to take the hijab. "Sure." She lets Greta draw it off her, focusing her attention on the bottles. "The names that fucker called me - well, some of them, anyway - they're because of that." She can't open the bottles one handed so she just slides each of them down the counter for Greta to handle. "People in my universe didn't give much thought to religion, it was kind of a family thing. It was important to my mother so it was important to me. I grew up with it. But here, it's... they take it so seriously. And they hate each other for it. I get stared at all the time, like people think I'm gonna do something terrible, just because of that." She jerks her head back toward the hijab, and stares gloomily at the glasses in front of her. "Sometimes I think I should just stop wearing it."

Greta takes the hijab and folds it with care. She's not sure if there's any specific way one is supposed to handle a hijab, but she's mindful of the garment's significance and not about to treat it poorly. As Iman starts to speak, she sets the folded scarf atop her dresser, where it will be safe from spills or crumbs or accidentally being sat upon. Then she returns to the kitchen, a frown clouding her expression as she absently opens the bottles.

So, that explains the looks they were getting. All because of a scarf. And it's not as if Iman is the only woman in the city wearing one. Greta's seen plenty of other people wearing hijabs or similar head coverings and concluded it was normal - or normal enough, in a city like this one. Do all of them get nasty looks from passers-by? What utter rubbish - as if the world is so short of real problems that new ones need to be created.

Ones based on religion, no less. It does exist in her universe, and stories about God are generally regarded as no more or less plausible than stories about fairies, the main difference being that fairies - to the village Priest's consternation - tend to make their presence felt in ways God rarely bothers to. Goodness knows how the poor man's coping with the knowledge that there are giant people in the sky, lots of them, and that they view humans as snacks. ~~Presuming he's still alive to cope with anything.~~

Greta's frown deepens when Iman admits that she's thinking of giving up the hijab altogether - a blow that strikes especially hard knowing that it's something she'd shared with her mother. "You shouldn't have to give up a thing," she says firmly, turning to face her. She wishes she could add that the locals' small-mindedness is their problem, but she knows better; she's just seen the way they'd make it Iman's problem, instead. But it's not fair, and it's not right, and she won't let her friend be bullied into doing something she'd rather not by awful people like that man on the street. "Not for them. If you want to wear it, wear it, and I will..." she purses her lips briefly, aware that this isn't a problem she can really solve and hating that, too, then concludes, with absurd vehemence, "I will smack as many pigeons as I have to."

Ridiculous. She reddens slightly and slides the bottles back over to Iman.

Iman glances up at Greta, smiling faintly, turning more to a grin at the hilarious threat.

"Thanks," she says, leans up and gives her a little kiss on the cheek which is a terrible, stupid idea and she should not have done it but it's too late now so she just reddens equally and focuses on making drinks, dropping into a teacherly tone as she walks Greta through it.

Several drinks later (she hasn't been counting, whoops) she's lying on the floor with her legs up on the couch, giggling uncontrollably, useless arm propped on a pillow and the other one thrown over her face.

"But that doesn't make sense!" she wails, half-weeping in hysterics. "You can't have birds just like LIVING in a baked pie that - your world makes no sense!" This with an accusing finger which very quickly retracts to a hand over her face, and another peal of embarrassed laughter.

Greta leans - well, keels - against the arm of the couch, her flushed face propped in one hand as she titters helplessly. "And there were so many of them!" More than a pie of that size should have been able to hold, but, well, that's magic for you.

"But I'll have you know," she adds in a more serious tone, sitting up and patting Iman's shin in a now-you-listen-here sort of way, "that my pies have never turned to birds." She convulses with a barely-suppressed laugh, then adds, "Ever." And then she lolls back onto the arm of the couch, cackling.

This is nice. Look at how happy Iman is! Greta's so glad they're doing this. Once she's recovered herself somewhat, she says, "I don't think any world makes sense. They're all strange. This one's strange." They can both agree on that one, she's certain, and she gives Iman's leg a judicious little pat.

"Oh that's good," says Iman very seriously before dropping into a cackle of her own. "I bet your pies are amazing. I KNOW they are." Man she could really fuckin go for some pie right about now.

"It is pretty strange," she agrees. "So's mine. But they both operate under a logic that I get. Yours is just..." She waves her hand, smiling vaguely up at Greta, enjoying the cute little leg pats, before turning her head away.

"Can I have my phooone?" she asks, pointing toward the endtable. "I gotta text someone. Right now. S'very important."

Sure, sweetie.

Greta grins at the compliment, then shrugs. "Magic," she says, as if that's explanation enough. Well, it's the only explanation she can really offer. Back home, it was just something to be borne, like the weather - or combatted, if at all possible. If it tended to leave their bakery alone, she imagines it was because the neighbor's house was far more interesting. But magic, generally speaking, wasn't all that outlandish.

Iman's arm is far more astonishing. Was. Is? Will be.

"Of course, dear," she says absently, getting to her feet and then pausing a moment to steady herself before heading for the end table and retrieving the phone. "Are you hungry?" she asks as she passes it down to Iman. Before her friend can even answer, she decides, "We should eat something. You sit tight and I'll see what I can find."

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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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