quigonejinn | (no subject)

(no subject)

SO. There are, I am told, now a variety of Iron Man kinkmemes out, but how about a good ol' Doomthreading? Talk, riff, fic, Iron Man One or Iron Man Two, porn or not porn, anon or not anon. Open to all.

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Obie taking five year old Cecily turkey-shooting at the summer estate, but it's fall. Her hair like wheat, but not golden, just like the grasses, like the fall grasses that don't reflect light under an overcast sky, the rifle taller than her, and he gets down one one knee to help her aim and steady. There is a list of procedures about firearms, there is a little world of rules and mechanisms, of mannerisms and signals. It's organized. There are steps. She liked them already.

I have been thinking about this all night and have nothing, nothing, nothing to offer except for my fangirling.

It's cool, I got this. Because I like very much to think of Cecily as a person who appreciates a good system. The judicial system, for example. The system that mom had for organizing where things went in closets or drawers and God help you if you mis-filed a spring jacket with the fall coats. Because the key to any effective system is categorization, and for that you must accept that each thing, each categorized object, person, genus, what-have-you, has certain inherit qualities.

Spring is like this, Cecily. It is not like fall. That is why the outerwear is different. The difference is as distinct as that between a 9mm Glock and a long, skinny turkey-shooter. Not to know the difference is to be an inexcusably lax observer of the world, of the people in it.

Sometimes it does happen that radical changes will alter a thing's categorization, will change how it fits into the system. Like when dad oversaw the re-development of the Baretta CX4 to bring it up from single- to double-action. Or the easy, profound change when Cecily was 16 and could go to the shooting range on her own. Like Madonna going from cool to old. Or like when she's 13 years old and her brother, 10 at the time, is the first person to call her a mutie. Like how it takes the space of an hour for Tony Stark to go from Uncle Tony to a hollowed-out space in the room, at the dinner table, as palpable as dad's empty chair. Like the way mom takes up smoking a year later, and seems to find some measure of peace in it.

Sometimes it does happen that radical changes will alter a thing's categorization, will change how it fits into the system.

Augh. I love this. I love how Cece's mind works, how a system in place means people change, the structure doesn't, there's a given protocol already in place, you just have to find it, you just have to make the effort.

And it pinpoints how, really, Minnie ticks her off on a most basic level, because all that means nothing, all structure serves for Minnie and Tony and the whole ilk, is a formality. Something that gets gladly waived at a little flash of money or genius.

I cannot tell either of you how profoundly I ship Cece and Minnie at the moment, guys.

And you know it peeves Cece a little that Minnie, with her paradigm-busting engineering brain, is not a mutie. She has mutant-link abilities with math and anything requiring a soldering iron, but that is nothing more than your Dad independently inventing calculus at eleven because he feels like the world needs it, and nobody told him about Leibnix. And he is the stupid one in the relationship.

Thinks like a mutant, talks like a mutant, dresses like Emma Frost at a swinger party, but isn't.

I cannot tell either of you how profoundly I ship Cece and Minnie at the moment, guys.

RIGHT, RIGHT? The fact that they become grudging brothers-in-arms over opposition to the Registration Act, of all things is just. So delicious Rhod, SO DELICIOUS. A bill that came into being through purely legal means, worked its way through system transparently and purely legal. This thing, this mockery of the purpose of the government, warping its intent by taking advantage of the mechanism in place.

Minnie's text to Cece's fucking fridge, of all things, flashing mike says the president is going to do nothing. it's happening. told you. before the press and twitter lights up with the sonic boom over the Eastern seaboard, of Minnie Stark taking billions of dollars, millions of American man-hours with her to France to fuck off with models and snort coke off of bars and a fucking text? A fucking text message two seconds before it hits the crawl and what is Cecily going to climb into at that late notice? Personal jet suits are still science fiction for 99% of the world, Minerva Stark, so fuck you very much.

The fridge beeps again telling her she's out of scotch. Minnie's way of saying I heard that.

Cecily flips herself off in the black polish of the fridge, content that that the message'll get across.

This is the perfect thing.

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