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Etta lives in an attic flat in Kensington, a rare find once upon a time and meant to be a temporary home. Surely she would meet her future husband soon, move into a house – it needn’t even be that big – and raise a few children, she’d thought back then. Younger Etta had quite a few plans and dreams that older Etta now scoffs at; among them her naive delusion about just how much husband material roams the busy London streets at any given time. But both men and children, Etta has decided, are a little bit like large and expensive potted plants – a nice addition to any household, of course, but also difficult to acquire and harder yet to keep happy and ultimately something she can well live without.
When Diana steps into Etta’s living room for the first time, a ray of sunlight falls through the attic window onto her dark hair and makes it shine. It makes her look unreal, ephemeral. Like an illusion, something temporary, bound to vanish upon closing one's eyes to the sight. Maybe that's how Steve felt when he whisked her away from her mythical island like the prince from some old tale. Except, of course that comparison is lacking, seeing how no one had to rescue Diana from anywhere or anything and that she left said island on her own free will, even bartered with him so he would take her along. Yet, she still seems misplaced.
How much Etta believes of the stories Diana has told her since her return from the front, about gods and amazons and an island full of near immortal women, she has yet to figure out. The earnest enthusiasm with which Diana spins tales of her home makes Etta want to take them as truth, and besides, if she’d thought them lies then that would mean Diana was touched in the head, utterly insane, and Etta can’t bring herself to entertain that assumption. In the end, it doesn’t matter. She’s here and she’s a friend and she’s lost someone important to her, to both of them. What is Etta to do? Send her to the asylum? Not a chance.
Diana walks around the apartment and touches things at random, a small blanket laid across the backrest of the couch, a picture frame on the coffee table, a vase on the window sill. Etta resists the urge to explain all these things to her, a task she both enjoys and feels a smidgen awkward about. She figures it’s what’s left of her motherly side, the dream itself long since discarded but the instinct to nurture and protect still buried inside her somewhere; not like Diana would need either nurturing or protection. But she needs guidance, needs someone to show her the ways of a world that is entirely alien to her, and Etta had signed herself over to the position back in that department store, before Diana and Steve left for their mission. Steve couldn’t have done it. Even had he returned, he’d have been hilariously ill-equipped to explain to anyone how the reality of civilian live works, and now… well.
“Do you want some tea?” Etta asks, because the loss is still too fresh, still hurts, and at least putting on a kettle will give her something to do with her hands. Besides, it'll warm them up a bit.
Diana blinks, like she has to dig around for the meaning of the word, and then nods. She smiles, polite, unsure, but genuine. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”
There's a yearning in her when she turns back around to keep looking out the small window, at the gray London sky. It's been drizzling all day, cold but not freezing. Normal weather for this time of year, here, but suddenly Etta wonders if Diana has ever experienced rain on her island. She doesn't ask because that would be odd. She walks over into the tiny kitchen, puts a kettle on, and tries to get used to the idea that she's got a housemate now and that said housemate is either insane or a literal goddess.
***
The one thing that Etta can't share with or provide for Diana are clothes, and so it's a mere two days before they endeavor on their second shopping trip together. Predictably, the mood is a lot more subdued than the first time around, both of them acknowledging the ghost walking between them, the missing piece that connected them in the first place. Diana is still a picky shopper, and Etta's budget isn't as high as the one Steve set them out with, and so their excursion takes the better part of the afternoon. By the time they're walking out of the last shop on High Street, Etta's feet hurt and her fingers are numb, and she's in a bit of an unpleasant mood. Music fills the air from a street gramophone nearby, and Etta recognizes the song. She likes it. She can't tell where she first encountered it, but it's popular and she's heard it several times, although she fails to remember the title. A lot of things on her mind, see, what with the end of the war and the death of her direct employer and accommodating her new housemate, and Etta is about to keep walking when she notices that, beside her, Diana has stopped, head cocked to the side and listening.
“That's beautiful,” she says, with the curious edge to her voice that means she has found something new and exciting, something she likes. It's a joy to see every time it happens, and Etta is glad that it survived Diana's stint in the war. “We sang, back in Themyscira, and some played instruments. We did not have music from a box.”
Etta smiles, amused, her bad mood evaporating a little. Diana has a habit of doing that, describing things in such simple, obvious ways, but always on point. She's not wrong. It is a box that plays music.
“I've been saving,” Etta says, setting her share of the shopping bags down and blowing into her palms. She shouldn't have left her gloves at home. She looks at Diana, not yet wearing her brand new winter coat, and seemingly unbothered by the cold. Does she even feel it? Summer or winter, does that make a difference to her? Another question Etta won't ask, even though she doesn't doubt that Diana would answer and not take offense. “So I can buy a small, used record player of my own. Perhaps in a few months, we can listen to music at home all day long.”
Diana's expression brightens further; a little more, and maybe she'll dispel the persistent rain clouds all by herself, a second sun right down here on earth. “Like this? Can we get this one?”
“Sure,” Etta assures her, even though she still can't remember the title. But they'll figure it out. That's a small mystery, compared to all the problems they've already solved. “It'll be the first record we'll buy.”
***
After they return, Etta draws a bath and ushers Diana into it. Her earlier question gets an indirect answer when Diana protests, arguing she can't feel the cold, but Etta insists. She has no proof yet that not feeling the cold will equal not getting sick, so she's not taking any chances here.
“Then do it for me,” she says, fully aware it's maybe a little manipulative. “I've been shivering by proxy, seeing you walk in the cold in just that flimsy blouse. Doing something nice for you will make me happy.”
“You already paid for those clothes,” Diana says, unmoving. “That was very nice.”
Etta points to the bathroom door. Diana stares back at her. Etta points again, with a little more fervor. Diana sighs, and relents, and ten minutes later she's in the bath – the door left ajar because, apparently, she doesn't feel the draught in this place either – while Etta folds the new clothes and sorts them away.
She doesn't hear it at first, or at least doesn't recognize the voice as Diana's; she figures the singing is wafting up from the busy street below, or that it's from somewhere in the house. It's not until she walks back into the living room that she realizes that the person singing is Diana. Not at full tilt, but silently, as if to herself, an almost unconscious act like the way Etta hums sometimes when she's cooking.
I'm always chasing rainbows, watching clouds drifting by – the song they heard on the street, although it sounds different sung in a female voice, and Etta stops, leans towards the bathroom door as much as she dares. It's off-key and the acoustic in the tiny bathroom doesn't do it any favors. It kinda sounds like a drowning cat, and Diana gets more notes wrong than she gets right. But it's endearing and so unexpectedly human that Etta keeps listening regardless, smiling to herself.
“When you're out,” she says, knocking on the bathroom door, and she grins when she hears water splashing, Diana falling silent. “I'll make us warm milk and see if I still have some scones lying around somewhere.”
She doesn't wait for a reply, walks into the kitchen to look for those scones, and her heart does a little lurch when she hears Diana picking up her singing again, and louder, like she's aware she can be heard now and doesn't mind. Some fellows make a winning sometimes, I never even make a gain; believe me, I'm always chasing rainbows and it doesn't sound any better with increased volume, but Etta starts humming in response anyway.
Maybe she's got a literal goddess in her home. Maybe Diana doesn't feel the cold or get sick. Maybe she can jump high as a house and walk across a battlefield without a scratch. Etta decides, then and there, that none of it matters. Diana is her friend. To her, she's human, and that's how she deserves to be treated.