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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"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."

"Ooh, okay," says Iman contentedly as Greta wanders off to the kitchen. She engages with her phone for a while, giggling to herself periodically as Rush struggles to maintain his Rush-ian (Russian?? that merits another cackle) cold distance in her drunken wake. Texting is pretty hard already, and harder with one hand, but with enough focus she finds she can manage.

"Can we have pie?" she asks hopefully, pausing her text conversation to loll her head back, gazing at the upside-down Greta in the kitchen.

Whoever Iman's texting, she seems to be having a grand time over there, and Greta smiles to herself as she... what is she doing over here? After a moment of intense contemplation of the wall above the stove, she remembers: getting food, that's right. Because she wanted Iman to try the coconut flour bread. The loaf that didn't fall apart. Yes. She'll like it, won't she? Greta hopes she'll like it. She just wants Iman to be happy all the time, like she is now, sprawled and giggling on the floor.

She registers a few gentle clunks and the sound of a drawer sliding shut, and is vaguely startled when she looks down and sees she's fetched out the bread knife and a cutting board. Oh! It's the thing, the Rift Thing! She glances back to see if Iman saw it just as her friend asks about pie - apparently not - and she blinks a few times, thrown. Does she even have pie? Better check for that, first.

"Let me see," she says, puttering over to the fridge. It's been a day or so since she made any pie, but as luck would have it, there's still a slice of strawberry-rhubarb left. It's a bit too small to split, but that's all right. "You can have pie!" she announces triumphantly, pulling out the little dish. She sets it on the counter, and then leans against the fridge for a moment, thinking.

"I was going to tell you something." She peers down at Iman for a moment, eyes narrowed pensively, before it comes back to her. "Oh! I did the Rift Thing, I think! Just a moment ago." She points at the cutting board by way of explanation.

"Rift Thing?" Iman leans her head back again, staring for uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Oh! Your power!" She tries to roll over but succeeds only in getting stuck halfway. Stupid useless arm. She puts her phone on the floor so she can stab at the keyboard with greater precision and also take another drink. "That's awesome! Did it work cause you're..." She trails off, distracted by Rush's increasingly wrongthinking texts, and makes an annoyed grunt as she tries to explain the situation properly to him, she can't just come out and tell Greta she loves her jeeeez.

"...drunk?" she finishes eventually, looking back up.

Greta arches an eyebrow as Iman lapses back into texting mid-sentence. A moment later, her friend lets out a huff of frustration. She's about to ask if everything is all right over there when Iman finally finishes her question, and then she wrinkles her nose. Drunk. Certainly not. She's just pleasantly tipsy, is all.

"I got distracted," she explains with a vague flap of her hand. After a moment's further consideration, she elaborates, "I knew what I wanted to do, I just wasn't thinking about it. But then my hands did it anyway." She gives said hands a slightly dubious look, as if she's not sure they can be trusted. Granted, it's not as if her Rift Power has ever led to her doing anything she didn't want to do. Unless you count hitting the pigeon, which certainly wasn't intentional... but then, it did give that awful man something to think about, which was what she wanted, so perhaps it evens out.

Iman's set for a snack, but she's not going to ask her friend to split what little pie there is left. She can have some of the bread, and then it'll be there for Iman to try. "Maybe it'll happen again," she says as she wanders back over to the cutting board. She intends to focus a bit more this time, though - at least while she has a knife in her hand.

"I seeeeee," says Iman, most of her attention back on her phone as Rush continues to be a butt. Once she's replied to him she looks back up. "We'll have to see if other people can actually trigger distraction intentionally or if no one can be paying attention," she muses. "That'd be really interesting."

She flops back down, fiddling with her phone. She clicks her tongue. Rush keeps insisting she come clean with Greta which is preposterous obviously, and clearly the answer is to drink more. "You want me to make you another drink?"

"Oh," Greta says, rather startled by the thought of everyone's distraction being part of it. Granted, she's been too preoccupied each time it's happened to judge how much anyone else was paying attention, but she's guessing quite a few eyes were on her when she hit that poor bird. Not that anyone would have predicted her smacking a pigeon into someone's face, of course.

And how could they even begin to test it without at least someone paying attention to what's going on? Distracting her on purpose seems more doable. Not that she's necessarily looking forward to that.

"Well, just don't try to distract me when I've a knife in my hand," she says, giving said knife a waggle for emphasis before she starts cutting a few slices off the loaf.

Another drink might not be the best idea, and she doesn't want Iman troubling herself in the least on her account. But it's not the worst idea, either - she could always just drink it slowly, make it last - and Iman will have to get up shortly if she wants her pie, anyway. "If you're already making one for yourself, I'll have one, too," she decides. In the meantime, she's going to try toasting this bread. Then the butter will get nice and melty when she spreads it on, and she can sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top.

"Mmmm'okay!" says Iman gamely, shifting and flopping awkwardly around like a beached fish as she forces herself upright. This isn't so bad! She can do this! Yeah!!!

She staggers to the kitchen holding her drink and Greta's empty glass in one hand, gently nudging her phone along on the floor as it continues to chirp with Rush's helpful fucking advice nuggets.

"Don't touch it I got it," she says, setting the glasses down and folding over on herself to recover the phone. She studies his nonsense for a while before punching out another response, then pockets it and looks up at Greta. "Okay, what're we doin? PIE!" She grins excitedly as she notices the piece of pie. "Is that for me?? Gretaaaa, you got pie for me!" She slumps forward and wraps her arm around Greta's shoulders.

Greta's a bit too focused on getting her bread into the toaster to notice the amount of awkward effort Iman has to put into picking herself up. Instead, when she finally does turn to watch her friend make her way over to the kitchen, she's impressed by how deftly she's carrying both glasses in one hand. Since she so clearly has things under control, Greta doesn't object when she insists she can fetch her own phone. Besides, they're having a good time, and she doesn't want to sour the mood by babying her friend when it's not necessary.

And she's rewarded with an enthusiastic - if perhaps a little undeserved - hug. Greta returns the gesture with a giggle. "It's for you, but I hardly got it," she says, because that makes it sound as if she's put a certain amount of effort into it, as if she'd swiftly made a whole pie while Iman was distracted with her phone. "It was already in the, er," she falters, then frowns over Iman's shoulder at the fridge. Loosening her hold with one arm so she can flap her hand at it, she continues, "the thing whose name I can't remember. Cold box thing. Fridge! That's the one!"

Well, that was silly. She has another giggle at her own expense. "Anyway," she says once she's recovered, "it should still taste just fine, even though I didn't make it today. And it's all for you." She turns to kiss Iman's hair with an extravagant 'mwah!' then releases her as the toaster pops.

"Ooh! And that's for me," she explains with a conspiratorial air as she toddles over to finish preparing the bread. "Though you can try some, too," she adds. "It's the coconut flour."

Iman practically squeals when Greta kisses her hair, oh gosh - as if to remind her of her earthly business her phone chirps again from her pocket. Shut UP Rush. He's an excellent cockblock and that's probably why she texted him in the first place if she's being honest with herself.

"I wanna try that for sure," she says, then flounces over to the counter to prepare new drinks. Not so careful and measured this time, just a splash of this and that, and they're all set. Drinkmaking gets so much easier as time goes on.

She slumps down at the table and sets her phone gingerly beside her before digging into her pie.

It takes about as long for her to butter the toast and sprinkle it with some cinnamon and sugar as it does for Iman to prepare the new drinks and settle herself at the table. Greta joins her there a moment later, setting down her plate within Iman's reach, an implicit invitation to try the bread whenever she likes.

As she tucks into her own slice of toast, she watches for Iman's reaction to the pie. It's impossible not to enjoy watching someone else enjoy something you made, and she props her chin on her hand and grins. It seems a few days in the fridge hasn't done it any harm. "How's the pie?" she asks anyway, because verbal confirmation is always nice.

"It's wonderful," says Iman with an air of duh and a cocked eyebrow at Greta. "Just like you."

Okay girl slow your roll. She distracts herself with eating until the pie is gone, and she washes it down with more vodka and cranberry juice, letting out a stiff gasp afterward.

"Gonna try some coconut bread," she says in a drunken little sing-song, reaching out tentatively, though she doesn't quite want to just take off Greta's plate. That would be a thing a COUPLE does. On a DATE. This is not a date. Nope.

Her grin widens, then turns to a guffaw as the compliment takes a turn. "Wonderful!" she repeats, incredulous, around a mouthful of toast - it's sheer luck that she doesn't spew crumbs everywhere. She makes herself swallow, then giggles. "I'm not sure about that. My pie doesn't even turn into live birds."

She takes a measured sip of her own concoction. It might be stronger than the last one. At this point, it's sort of hard to tell. She plans on taking it slow, either way; one of them ought to at least be in somewhat decent shape, and Iman is more in need of some fun.

When Iman starts to go for the bread, Greta gives the plate a little nudge. "That's the idea," she sing-songs back in the same key. She's not entirely sure why her friend seems hesitant to just take a piece, so she lifts it off the plate herself. "Here," she says, and she honestly means to just pass it like a normal person, but she somehow misjudges the distance and comes perilously close to thrusting it right into Iman's nose. "Oh no!" she gasps out, equally mortified and amused. "I'm so sorry! Did I hit you?" She keels over the table with a thoroughly embarrassed cackle, burying her face in the crook of one arm while the other lists a little, bread still technically on offer.

Iman takes the offered piece of bread while laughing uproariously, waving off Greta's adorable mortification. "I am tougher than I LOOK," she says with a big grin, and takes a bite. "This is good!" she decrees with her mouth full. "I mean obviously." She pauses to answer another text with a little snort, then goes back to chewing thoughtfully.

"Turned out pretty good I think," she says appraisingly. "I mean, as far as I can tell. I don't get home baked bread too much." She smiles broadly, an implicit display of gratitude for the opportunity.

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