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

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

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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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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.

"It was an accident!" she insists between giggles. The whole thing is both more embarrassing and more hilarious than it has any right to be, and her vague awareness of that fact only makes her laugh harder. By the time she's able to shove herself upright, she has to sheepishly wipe a few tears of mirth away. Honestly. She should probably get a glass of water or something.

She props her head against the heel of her hand and smiles down at the table. "Well, you can always get some here," she says. It's partly a standing invitation, and partly a statement of fact. Store-bought bread might keep longer, but in her opinion, it's not as good as what she can make, herself.

Then, with an amused glance at Iman's phone, "Who on earth are you talking to?"

"Rush," she says idly. "I'm interrupting very important science with my drunken shenanigans." She smirks, keeping the phone under her hand with an impressively nonchalant air. "I gotta get him drunk one of these days. I bet he's a great drunk."

Actually there's pretty decent odds he'd be an incredibly sad drunk, but no point wondering about that now. She clicks her phone off and goes back to eating the bread. "Did you ever do much drinking back home?" she asks curiously. "I mean, like... what did you and your... um, what did you guys do for fun?"

This might be a sensitive question, and she half-regrets asking it, but after so much shared experience and so many feelings had she still feels like she doesn't know that much about Greta's past, and this is the sensible time to ask, while they're both less inhibited.

She wonders if the interrupted science is anything to do with Iman's arm - if there's anything else it could be, given how determined Rush was to fix it. But she also doesn't want to ask, especially if Iman views it as interruptible. This doesn't seem the time for anything serious, or any topic as potentially fraught as her friend's recent loss.

Her own losses are less recent, but Iman's questions still pierce through the placid warmth of her buzz like a stone dropped into a bog. A faint, dull ache rises in her chest, and she drops her gaze to the table, smile fading. She knows Iman didn't mean to hurt her - the way she stumblingly avoided the word 'husband' is telling enough - but for a few moments, she resents the questions, anyway. As if she wants to think about the fun she used to have, as if those memories aren't a greater torment than memories of the silly arguments they got into or the assorted frustrations of running a shop and raising a child - both of which left little time for fun, anyway - with a husband who was far more comfortable with the former than the latter.

She doesn't want to be angry with Iman. Maybe she just meant it... generally. She's from such a different time, after all. It's just curiosity. There's nothing wrong with that.

Greta pulls in a breath, then lets it out with a hum. "Not much," she admits, still looking down at the table, "especially after the baby. But when we were younger, we'd... go out." She shrugs. "Walk around the Village, visit the Inn - the ground floor was basically a pub, and it was a good place to get news from outside the Village. Or get a drink, though it was just ale, nothing like this." She tilts her head towards her glass. There was more to the pub than just news, of course - there was music, and dancing, things she'd rather not recollect in any kind of detail right now.

"But running a shop took up most of our time," she says instead. The daily grind, she doesn't miss so much. She tries for a wry smile. "I'm afraid we were rather boring, compared to..." she trails off and makes a vague gesture meant to encompass everything around her: this city, this century, even Iman herself.

Her face falls and she sits up a little straighter. Greta's trying to hide it, but the change in her demeanor is too clear; she's been hurt, and Iman can barely even track her response, she's so desperate to make things right as quick as she can. She hurt Greta, this is terrible, she must fix this immediately.

"I'm sorry," she says, setting the bread down and reaching out for Greta's hand. "I didn't mean to - that was really stupid of me, I shouldn't have asked that. I was just... I let curiosity get the better of me and I didn't think, I... I'm sorry, Greta." She chews her lip, seeking out Greta's eyes. "Are you okay?"

Oh, dear. Iman knows she's hurt, and she didn't want that. It shouldn't even be this painful, really. She's been here for well over a month, now, long enough that an innocent question about home shouldn't upset her, especially coming from such a dear friend.

But a month is a long time to be presumed dead. And every day she spends here widens the gulf between herself and her old life, and one day it will be so wide that even taming the Rift won't be enough to bridge it. She might return home only to find that it isn't hers anymore.

Iman was supposed to get her out of here, and now, with her arm as it is, she can't. And that hurts Iman more than it hurts her, she knows that, and she refuses to even--even begin to imply that her friend is some sort of disappointment, or that she hasn't held up her end of a bargain, or that she'd be worth more if her arm was working. But how can she explain herself without that ugly implication lurking beneath the surface of everything she says? How can she tell Iman her journey home might have an expiration date without pressuring her to meet it?

She sees Iman's hand reaching for her out of the corner of her eye. Meeting her friend's gaze is still beyond her, but she takes her hand without hesitation, squeezing gently. She's not angry or upset with her, and Iman has to know that, she has to. "It's not your fault," she insists. Why can't her voice just be steady? She huffs out an impatient, self-recriminating sigh and stares down at the table, willing herself to pull it together. "I'll be fine, I just..." ugh. She leans her forehead against her hand and shuts her eyes, running her thumb over Iman's knuckles in an absurd parody of reassurance. "It's not your fault," she says again.

They were having such a good time, and now she's ruining it. This is awful.

"Hey." Iman scoots her chair closer awkwardly, pinioning herself on Greta's hand until she's close enough to lean in, offering bodily support if it's wanted. "It's okay." She presses her forehead briefly to Greta's shoulder. "Look, you don't have to talk about it, but you can, too. If you want to. That's what this is about, yeah? That's what I'm here for. You can talk to me about anything you want. You know that, right?"

She wishes she had both hands, she wishes more than anything she could reach out to stroke Greta's back or her hair, something more than just being a hand to grip onto. But that's what she has, and it'll have to be enough.

She could talk about it, but that doesn't mean she should. Not if there's no way to explain herself without making her friend sound like a failure. But where else can she even go with this? If she shuts Iman out, her friend won't know what she's trying to protect her from: she'll just know she's been shut out, after everything she's done and what a good friend she's been.

Greta's on the verge of tears, she can feel it. One good rattle will send her there, no matter how hard she tries to hold on; another foregone conclusion. She leans against Iman, as if taking everything she's offering will counteract what follows instead of just making it a more grievous betrayal. What can she say? How can she make this as little about her friend as possible?

She takes an unsteady breath or two, then opens her eyes and turns her head to look at Iman. There's nothing but concern in her friend's eyes, no suspicion, no smallest hint that she has any inkling where Greta's headed, and oh, here come the tears. Wonderful. Greta turns her face back toward the table, pressing her lips together tightly, but she can't hold it back, she can only distill it into something about home, and him. As if Iman wasn't supposed to get her there.

"He won't wait for me." She pulls in a deep breath and sits on it for a moment, not allowing it to become a sob. Not for--for long."

Oh.

She feels it like a stone, deep in her gut. It unravels so clearly: that she promised to get Greta home, and now she can't do that, and how Greta must think this sounds, like an indictment, when of course Greta would never blame her for this (and Iman is good enough at blaming herself).

How long has she been harboring this?

And why, she almost asks, why wouldn't he, but that wouldn't help, and anyway she's smart enough to work it out. It's a different time, isn't it, average life expectancy wouldn't have been much beyond, what, 40? 50? Shit happens and people moved on, probably. But Greta is... Greta, why wouldn't anyone wait for her, how could anyone just-

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs, she lets go of Greta's hand and wraps her arm around her instead, pulling her in, leaning her forehead against Greta's temple. "I'm so sorry."

This is appalling, this is unforgivable, this mess she's become, this weight she's dropping on someone who has more than enough to bear already. As if her own little tragedy is more important than anyone else's, as if everyone here hasn't suffered a loss. But it can't be unsaid, and when Iman pulls her hand free, Greta thinks: well, I probably deserve it.

But she isn't being abandoned. Instead, Iman puts her arm around her and pulls her close, and apologizes, and she'd be mortified if Iman's tone was guilt-ridden. It's not, though. It's sympathetic - the apology you give when you're both in a rotten situation and you both know there's nothing to be done about it, but with no implicit blame or fault laid at anyone's feet. She knows Greta isn't blaming her, and the relief is enough to start her sobbing in earnest, one hand over her face and the other wavering blindly for a few moments before finding Iman's hand where it's curled around her waist.

It's a minute or two before she can speak, or do anything but slump against her friend, weary and heartsick. "I wouldn't... want him to," she haltingly admits once her breathing has steadied. She wipes her cheeks, then lets her hand drop into her lap with a sigh. "I couldn't wish that on him, if I'm to be here for... a while. He's already lost so much. He shouldn't have to--to raise our son alone." All true things, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear the thought of her world moving on without her.

It happens. It happens all the time. It just wasn't supposed to happen to them.

She sighs and rocks Greta gently, biting her lip to keep from tears herself; she doesn't cry easily, but she's drunk and it's been a rough time, and she can't bear to see Greta in pain like this. When Greta finally settles a little and starts speaking again, Iman lets her hand stray to Greta's head, stroking her hair a little.

"You can say that all you want," she says, "and you can believe it, too, but that doesn't make it easier. It's okay to hurt over this."

She feels like she's feeding back advice that has been fed to her. Well, maybe Greta will be more receptive than she is.

There's no solution she can offer - she can't say she'll get her back, even if she still could do that it would be a false hope, crueler to force optimism than to allow her to accept this wound as part of her reality.

A really repulsive part of her, buried somewhere deep down, is almost relieved.

Disgusting. She represses a shudder and forces herself up. "Come on," she says. "Let's have a lie down. I'm gonna play you some nice music."

Iman's right. Of course she is. Still, part of her feels terrible for hurting so... openly. Not that she doesn't trust Iman - if someone has to see her like this, she'd rather Iman than anyone else - but Iman shouldn't have to deal with this, not now, on top of her own troubles. Greta ought to be cheering her up, giving her less to worry about, not falling to pieces in her lap. Another broken thing for Iman to try and put back together. All the King's horses and all the King's men... well, they're a universe away, too. No help from that quarter.

However little Iman deserves this, she shoulders it well. A lie down sounds... a little pathetic, if she's being honest with herself, but also far too tempting. She doesn't have the wherewithal to do anything but let Iman take the lead. "All right," she agrees, pushing herself to her feet and wincing a little as her head swims. She feels so squashy. She waits a few moments for the room to settle, then shuffles toward the bed.

Iman leads her gently, shufflingly, across the room, keeping her hand on the small of her back. She feels awful, selfish, for bringing this on, but she can't worry about that right now. It'll probably be good to get it out, eventually. Hopefully.

She sits down with Greta, trying to help support her weight down onto the pillow, difficult with one arm and blood full of liquor, but she manages. She kneels beside her, stroking her hair for a few moments before recovering her phone and flipping through her rather eclectic music selection.

"Let's try this," she says softly, and puts on some of the most soothing indie folk she can think of.

Greta lets herself be led, lets Iman help ease her down onto her pillow. Maybe it's just as well, she thinks, a bit distantly. Iman can't take care of her and feel useless. She still might be helping her friend, in a backwards sort of way. Not that this is any more fixable than Iman's arm.

The hand on her hair is nice, though, and she manages a weak, bleary smile - though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. As Iman fetches her phone, Greta scoots back on the bed, making room. Presuming Iman's joining her. She hopes so. She doesn't want to feel like an invalid, being tended again, she just wants...

... Well. Many things, most of which are beyond her. But Iman isn't, and Greta's arm scoots forward across the coverlet, a not entirely conscious reach for her. "That's nice," she murmurs a few moments into the song.

Iman smiles faintly, going back to stroking her hair for a bit before settling down next to her, the invitation implicit, and there's no reason not to as far as Greta's concerned. It's a weird kind of torment - lying down, holding Greta and just wanting to soothe her, Iman wishes it could be more than that, but this will just have to do for both of them, this which isn't quite enough for either.

She isn't sure what else to say. Apologizing, empathizing, all of it might just make things worse, and she doesn't want to risk that when Greta's calming down. So she doesn't say anything for now, waiting for a cue from Greta, just offering presence for now.

Greta lets out a sigh of relief when Iman settles in beside her, as if she's read her mind. As if her body language hadn't been plain enough. She curls toward her, resting her head on Iman's shoulder. She hopes it's not too heavy. It feels too heavy, overfull. But Iman doesn't seem to mind. Of course she doesn't.

"You're my dearest friend here," Greta says quietly. "Did I tell you? Maybe I only told Rush." Regardless, it seems very important that Iman knows. And it's nothing to do with her arm, or her ability to get Greta home. She just is.

Iman blinks at her, startled to hear this. It's both the best thing she could hear and a little bit painful, twisting in her chest. Greta is her dearest friend too, alongside Rush - she just wishes she could explain how much Greta means to her without making everything worse.

And she told Rush that? Gosh. That makes her smile a little, and she curls into Greta in response, leaning against the head on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she says. "You're my dearest friend, too."

Ever. Weirdly enough.

After some moments she picks up her phone to pester Rush again. While all this sentimentality is going around she doesn't want him to miss out.

Good. She knows, now. She understands. That's so important, after how close they came to losing her, after the losses Greta has already sustained. She can't be torn away from anyone else without letting them know how much they mean to her. Once was bad enough.

Her eyes drift shut when Iman returns the sentiment. A few tears escape her lashes, but she's too worn out for a proper cry. They aren't sad tears, anyway - or not entirely. Above the ever-present ache for her absent family, there's relief that at least she has this, has someone here she cares about, and who cares about her. She couldn't bear the alternative.

She can feel herself starting to doze, and part of her rather welcomes it. Better to just sleep than to try and consciously recover herself after the fuss she's just made. Surely she'll have her head on straight after a nap. But if she falls asleep, Iman might leave, and that would be terrible. She doesn't want to wake up alone, selfish as it would be to ask her friend to just stay here -as if Iman has nothing else she could be doing with her time.

Maybe she won't mind. Greta wouldn't mind, if their roles were reversed.

She keeps her eyes shut as she reaches out a little, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of Iman's shirt. She doesn't want to see what Iman makes of this pathetic little display, she just doesn't want her to go. "Will you stay?" she asks quietly.

"Of course," says Iman just as quietly. "As long as you want."

She'd love to stay. She'd be all too happy. She shifts around a little, repositioning her loose arm, and settles in curled against Greta and trying not to think about how very weird and possibly inappropriate this is. It's fine. She wants to help Greta any way she can, make her happy, keep her company, and as long as she can do that there's nothing wrong or weird about it at all. Anyway, she wouldn't be good to head home now. She's getting pretty tired herself, still very drunk, now a little bit drained, and Greta is so nice and cozy.

"Gonna just stay right here all night with Greta," she mumbles sleepily. "Best lady in the world." It's an affectionate little joke, but it's also genuinely meant, and she's slipped pretty well out of consciousness by the time she tacks on a little murmured, "Love you."

Whatever tension she still had lingering in her system drains away at Iman's assurance that she's not going anywhere. Maybe it's childish of her to need the company, but she can't bring herself to feel embarrassed by it. Not now. Instead, she shifts a bit closer, tucks her hand into the crook of Iman's arm, and sighs. It's neither a sad sigh nor a fully contented one, but she does feel better afterwards, as if a few jagged edges have settled themselves back into place instead of grinding against one another.

Greta hums in response to the joke, a faint, fond smile coaxed out of her. At least this isn't a horrible inconvenience. Iman wouldn't joke about it if it was. And if the 'love you' is a surprise, it's not at all an unpleasant one. It's a comfort. She remembers her own mother tucking her in, the customary kiss on the forehead, the call and response. She doesn't have to think; a mumbled, "'nd I you," falls out of her - unbidden, but no less true for that.

At least she has this.

Lulled by the steady sound of her friend's breathing, Greta drifts off into a deep, untroubled slumber.

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

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