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

[etherthief]

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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[etherthief]

"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."

[andhiswife]

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.