TM 184 -- Change
Curt: We set out to change the world and ending up… just changing ourselves.
Arthur: What's wrong with that?
Curt: Nothing! … If you don't look at the world.
(Todd Haynes, Velvet Goldmine)
(Set during the Disney summit; borrowing tm_cable and gartersandstars with permission)
One week at Disney wasn't going to change the world.
Not that this should be a news flash. These meetings never changed anything. If Irene was brutally honest with herself, the summit she had organized on Providence hadn't changed anything. Sure, it had proved to the world that Nathan was related to or could call in chips from enough members of the hero community that they could put together an impressive guest list. It even proved that they could sell a bunch of really ugly T-shirts (so far, the island nation's most successful export). But as far as making any meaningful change, not so much.
Here they were at Disney, a few months later, and it seemed like a replay of the same old thing. Providence didn't even have a representative on the program, and Irene was ready to stand in the corner with Nathan, fuming about it, except. . .
Well, Nathan really didn't look like he cared. He and Domino seemed to have something planned, every minute of the day and night - seemed to; when they were on vacation, suddenly, Irene wasn't in charge of his agenda anymore. It ought to be a relief, really that he was capable of running his life without her (He's done it before, said a voice in the back of her mind, sounding alarmingly like Domino. He'll do it again one day.) Nathan wasn't here for the meetings. He was here for Domino, and for Beatrice, and if he could manage it, Rachel and Jean and Scott as well. He would let the serious business go on without him - it would have, anyway, to be honest. He just refused to get upset about it. As for Irene. . ."Go on and have some fun," he said, with a wink at her.
It was like he had acquired a life or something and - insult to injury - he expected Irene to have one too. That was all good and well. She used to have a life. She used to have friends, and dates, and family members who spoke to her. She used to know people who didn't either expect her to have everything in perfect order and running smoothly, or at least to know why it wasn't (everybody on Providence), or think she was completely insane ( everybody else in the world). I used to have a life and Hurricane Nathan came along and uprooted it and now he looks at me, all innocent, going 'what happened to your life?. She loved him; she believed in him. He just drove her really really crazy sometimes.
She didn't know why the hell he wanted her to come in the first place. She hated theme parks, the way she hated American talk radio and recreational softball (she swore her foot still ached from her Daily Bugle days, when that klutz Peter Parker had dropped a bat on her). There was no way, Irene knew, that she was going to enjoy herself at all.
Life was funny. Lives were funny, actually. Someone else's ended up converging with yours, just when you least expected it. She had met Hank McCoy years ago, when Nate put her to work gathering records on the Summers-Grey family and everyone they had associated with over the years. She hardly even remembered the meeting. She knew who Hank was, of course - he was famous, and not in the 'because SHIELD occasionally goes to war with you' sense of famous that Nathan was. Hank was a genuine celebrity.
Still, Henry McCoy was the last person Irene expected to come along and sweep her off her feet. But he did - literally, a few times, when her legs were shaking from the rides he had dragged her on, and her eyes weren't quite focusing right. Most of the time, though, they just relaxed, talked about an array of inconsequential or earth-shattering things, and felt very much at ease in each other's company. Then their lunch date stretched into an evening - and a morning -
And Irene woke up to see Hank, sitting in his robe, by the window, quietly reading the park guides by the little bit of light that slipped in past the blinds. He hadn't even wanted to open the curtains and risk waking her.
"Irene," he said, smiling as she stirred. "I was just perusing the park literature, in the hope of locating some attractions that would be equally satisfactory to yesterday's experiences -" He faltered. "That is, of course, if you'd like -"
She smiled at him. "Oh, I'd like, only -" Then she gestured , pointing to the bed beside her. "Not just yet."
It was true.
One week at Disney just might change everything.
Arthur: What's wrong with that?
Curt: Nothing! … If you don't look at the world.
(Todd Haynes, Velvet Goldmine)
(Set during the Disney summit; borrowing tm_cable and gartersandstars with permission)
One week at Disney wasn't going to change the world.
Not that this should be a news flash. These meetings never changed anything. If Irene was brutally honest with herself, the summit she had organized on Providence hadn't changed anything. Sure, it had proved to the world that Nathan was related to or could call in chips from enough members of the hero community that they could put together an impressive guest list. It even proved that they could sell a bunch of really ugly T-shirts (so far, the island nation's most successful export). But as far as making any meaningful change, not so much.
Here they were at Disney, a few months later, and it seemed like a replay of the same old thing. Providence didn't even have a representative on the program, and Irene was ready to stand in the corner with Nathan, fuming about it, except. . .
Well, Nathan really didn't look like he cared. He and Domino seemed to have something planned, every minute of the day and night - seemed to; when they were on vacation, suddenly, Irene wasn't in charge of his agenda anymore. It ought to be a relief, really that he was capable of running his life without her (He's done it before, said a voice in the back of her mind, sounding alarmingly like Domino. He'll do it again one day.) Nathan wasn't here for the meetings. He was here for Domino, and for Beatrice, and if he could manage it, Rachel and Jean and Scott as well. He would let the serious business go on without him - it would have, anyway, to be honest. He just refused to get upset about it. As for Irene. . ."Go on and have some fun," he said, with a wink at her.
It was like he had acquired a life or something and - insult to injury - he expected Irene to have one too. That was all good and well. She used to have a life. She used to have friends, and dates, and family members who spoke to her. She used to know people who didn't either expect her to have everything in perfect order and running smoothly, or at least to know why it wasn't (everybody on Providence), or think she was completely insane ( everybody else in the world). I used to have a life and Hurricane Nathan came along and uprooted it and now he looks at me, all innocent, going 'what happened to your life?. She loved him; she believed in him. He just drove her really really crazy sometimes.
She didn't know why the hell he wanted her to come in the first place. She hated theme parks, the way she hated American talk radio and recreational softball (she swore her foot still ached from her Daily Bugle days, when that klutz Peter Parker had dropped a bat on her). There was no way, Irene knew, that she was going to enjoy herself at all.
Life was funny. Lives were funny, actually. Someone else's ended up converging with yours, just when you least expected it. She had met Hank McCoy years ago, when Nate put her to work gathering records on the Summers-Grey family and everyone they had associated with over the years. She hardly even remembered the meeting. She knew who Hank was, of course - he was famous, and not in the 'because SHIELD occasionally goes to war with you' sense of famous that Nathan was. Hank was a genuine celebrity.
Still, Henry McCoy was the last person Irene expected to come along and sweep her off her feet. But he did - literally, a few times, when her legs were shaking from the rides he had dragged her on, and her eyes weren't quite focusing right. Most of the time, though, they just relaxed, talked about an array of inconsequential or earth-shattering things, and felt very much at ease in each other's company. Then their lunch date stretched into an evening - and a morning -
And Irene woke up to see Hank, sitting in his robe, by the window, quietly reading the park guides by the little bit of light that slipped in past the blinds. He hadn't even wanted to open the curtains and risk waking her.
"Irene," he said, smiling as she stirred. "I was just perusing the park literature, in the hope of locating some attractions that would be equally satisfactory to yesterday's experiences -" He faltered. "That is, of course, if you'd like -"
She smiled at him. "Oh, I'd like, only -" Then she gestured , pointing to the bed beside her. "Not just yet."
It was true.
One week at Disney just might change everything.