Ayup, [ tony says, clearly distracted once more as he feels inside the seams on both sides. he bumps his fingers into simba's, telling him to "scooch" them when they get in his way (in the dark tony is operating mainly on touch), until finally every lock releases and he catches the breastplate before it falls. the back half comes loose in simba's paws, allowing him to pull off the plating. underneath is an intricate silver mesh of metal built to form around the ribs and back with elegant grooves and complex, interlocking parts; the front is similar, too, except more solid and centered around the reactor. ]
All right, I got it from here, [ tony grunts, despite removing everything normally being the task of a large automated machine. he begins manually loosening the plackart around his stomach and waist. ]
[He pulls the plating off once it's loose and gently sets it down with the other parts of the suit. He's sure it's durable - it's armor, after all - but he's still careful with it because he knows that's what Tony would want.]
You decide to go all King Arthur or something when you built this?
[He remembers fiction more easily than he does his own life - in this case, books read when he was younger, one of the few things that could keep him occupied when he was stuck in bed.]
No, but he was an inspiration, [ tony answers idly. he wasn't going to say more, not at first, but his own guilt trips him up. he might not talk about the cave or what happened there ever, but he can talk about this. sure simba can just look him up online once he learns how, but he deserves to hear it from tony's own mouth.
tony sighs, pausing the removal. ] I used to make weapons, [ he admits. ] Decided I didn't want to anymore, so ... I made armor. [ silence settles in. to busy his hands he twists one last thing. with a loud clunk the plackart comes free. the lower back of the armor shifts, too, the bits that are modeled like vertebrae whirring and lifting out. tony flips the plackart around so that the red gleams back at him, his reflection vague and shadowy. nothing interrupts him, and he can't bring himself to look back at simba yet, so he continues, his voice lifting with pride, ] And now I protect people. Best decision I've ever made. [ finally, he cranes his head around and catches simba in the dark. his smile looks genuine. ] Not that the bar was ever that high.
[As Tony drops each piece to the floor, he picks it up with more care, adds it to the collection.]
Armor's a better choice, [he agrees softly. He thinks of the shield tucked away in the pack. He'd protected people once, before they'd turned him into a killing machine. Now the best he can manage is keeping people safe passively, by staying away from them.] Anyone can kill people. The real work is in protecting them.
[ tony fiddles with the silver casing next. one of the heavier parts, it houses a lot of the circuity and mechanical guts. ] I dunno, been kinda a breeze so far. A blast, even. [ ha. ] You know we're in talks to make an action figure of me? [ his grin is filled with a childish awe and glee. ]
An action figure. It's a toy. A lil' Iron Man. Yea big. [ tony demonstrates with the space between his thumb and pointer finger. ] We're thinkin' light-up eyes and reactor right now. Maybe a mini-missile launcher. Although, don't little kids swallow those?
[He just looks a little baffled in the dim light.]
Like a doll?
[l o l]
I don't see a rocket launcher.
[He doesn't even try to look at the suit again. He's familiar with the concept of shoulder-fired missiles - barely - but as a separate entity, not anything that could be contained in the suit.]
[Drawled sarcastically in that Brooklyn accent again. Something in the sound of his own voice sparks a memory, a man with a quick smile and dark hair slicked back with pomade, wearing a crisp military uniform. The memory bursts like a bubble, like they always do, and he's left with nothing. He huffs, exasperated by his own fickle mind.]
Should I be making this a striptease? [ tony looks down to his hands on the silver casing as if honestly pondering it. simba's certainly joked like that enough to warrant some gay chicken. ]
[A slow blink, like it's taking him a moment to get it. Some concepts are easier to remember than others.]
This sure ain't a joint in Harlem. Or maybe the Village.
[He isn't sure where these things come from - the vague knowledge from a life lived before he was transformed into a monster. It's not quite on a conscious level - if he tries to force it, it slips through his fingers like sand. But the person he used to be is there, deep down inside.]
[ god, talking with the gion gives tony whiplash. simba knows specific boroughs in new york (that's definitely a new york accent) but not action figures? trying to make sense of it spins tony's head around, but he's learned to just go with it.
he's letting himself get distracted. they're on a schedule. tony refocuses on removing the casing. ] And yet, it's probably the best you'll ever get, [ he mumbles, falsely sympathetic. he doesn't think any said joints allow pets inside. ]
Probably, [he agrees with faux cheer. He hasn't even thought about sex in god knows how long. Not like anyone's going to be interested in him like this, and frankly, his brain's so scrambled that he doesn't know what he wants anyway. He tries not to think about it, lest he fall into an endless swamp of self-pity.]
Just let me know if you need more help.
[Because it's better than having more time to dwell on his thoughts, that's for sure.]
[ tony hums, dismissing him with occupied disinterest. eventually the front casing comes off; he sets it down rather than drop it. after that tony walks simba through removing the back, because it's easier with a second person (and also he might feel a little bad for ignoring him). the vambraces and rerebraces tony squeezes his hands through. ]
All right, that's done, [ he says, satisfied at his pile ( which would've been more strewn if not for simba). he looks to the gion. ] I'm gonna wait by the entrance for our guests. You, hide back here. I'll bring the crate back.
[He's used to being disregarded - and, honestly, even more used to being alone - so Tony's silence doesn't bother him. He shows genuine interest when Tony walks him through removing the back casing, though, and he even gives the vertebra-like section an intrigued sort of caress. Apparently, not even lion men are immune to armor porn.]
Can do, [he agrees easily, collecting his pack and sitting down next to the pile of armor.] I won't make a peep.
Good boy. [ tony beams and pats simba on top of his head as he passes by. even in a neoprene one-piece, he swaggers. he prefers handsome or sexy, but he'll accept "pretty" well enough. either way he's attractive and he knows it.
about twenty minutes later, the whipping of helicopter blades sound closer and closer until it fills the cave. simba can't see around the bend, but he can hear tony shouting in greeting over the noise as the blades wind down. there's two other voices, both men, who call him "mr. stark." more noise and conversation, throughout which tony remains charming and smooth, and then the men offer their assistance. tony refuses it.
"as eager as i usually am to get naked," he tells them, purposely loud, "neither of you are my type." a pause. "any sisters, though?"
one of the men laughs (no sisters) while the other becomes protective in a joking-but-not way (one little sister). they allow them to leave and tony yells he'll be a bit as he reenters the cave. he turns the corner, pushing a trolley cart with. on the cart is a large wooden crate, more long than tall, like a coffin, with currently-undone buckles and straps to fasten it down. on top of that rests a neatly folded air force combat uniform.
tony holds a finger over his lips to tell simba to stay quiet. then, he contorts to unzip the neoprene and peel it all the way off, flinging it from his foot, leaving himself in nothing but a red thong. only then does tony slip into the spare fatigues and boots. ]
[He just raises his eyebrows - or what passes for that gesture on a feline face - at Tony's underwear. It seems like the sort of thing that would be more appropriate for burlesque (not that he's seen much of that, he's fairly certain of that) than any man wearing a suit of armor.
But it's not like he hasn't seen entirely naked men before, either, so he's not too concerned by the blatant display of skin in front of him. Instead, while Tony slips into the fatigues, he busies himself with fitting into the crate, holding his bundle close to his chest. He'd prefer to be able to curl up - it's a more reassuring position - but like any cat in a box, in the end, he'll settle for whatever contortion is necessary to make himself fit.]
[ dressed, tony leans over the opened crate with the gion stashed inside. a beat passes where he mentally scans the negative space to fit the armor into. juuust like playing tetris, he muses and lifts his brow. ] Comfy? [ he whispers, then disappears briefly. ] Time to change that.
[ he begins slotting the pieces of the armor into the open spaces around simba, shoving them into the straw. the larger sections he lays more on top, across the legs and body, and the helmet he sets with a grin next to simba's head so that they face each other. lastly, he whispers, ] There ya go, breathe that in, [ and drops in the undersuit. tony heaves the cover back over the crate. ] Hope you don't have to pee, [ he grunts, then pauses and peeks at his charge through the crack. ] I'll try to open it as much as I can, okay? [ he says, sincerely compassionate for all his joking. ]
[For all the shit Tony gives him, he seems to have no problem with the way he arranges the armor around and on top of him. He knows the risk involved here, and he's not going to complain about the method involved - for one thing, it's not like he has a better plan.
He does bare his teeth at the reflective surface of the helmet in a mock growl - but that's more for the sake of amusement than anything else. Nor does he bother to complain about having a sweaty bodysuit dumped unceremoniously on top of him. If that's what he has to deal with, then so be it. He doesn't make a sound as Tony shoves the lid on top of the crate.]
[ the crate is jostled a lot. tony's voice always sounds closest, muffled though it is, but for a long time nothing else can be heard above the helicopter blades. after that, there's more jostling, more commotion, no silent moments to be had until a peaceful few minutes before the crate is in motion again, smoother this time. it goes up an incline, then into somewhere dark where no light seeps in through the lid's seams. then it's quiet, for hours and hours at a time, with only a faint rumble and distant roar of engines.
at some point something shuffles outside the crate and then knocks three times on the top. more rustling as the straps are unbuckled, then the lid scoots over to reveal tony leaning over it, holding a plate. he's dressed in a casual shirt and pants now. he looks both relieved and pleased. ]
Meal time. Figured you'd be hungry.
[ once simba shoves off the armor and straw that's no doubt nestled into his mane and sits up, he'll see they're still in the cargo hold of a plane: the engines and rumbling come from its flight. on the plate tony holds, though, are two cooked slabs of steak. ]
[He smells the steak from inside the crate, even before Tony says anything, and the sound of his stomach rumbling is almost audible. Once Tony moves the lid out of his way, he starts moving the pieces of armor off of him enough to be able to sit up. He doesn't worry too much about any wisps of straw stuck in his fur; there's doubtlessly going to be more, and not much he can do about it for now (but he knows it's going to be incredibly itchy later).]
God, I think I'm in love.
[Although he doesn't mention whether the object of his affection is Tony or the meat. He takes the plate once he's sitting up and simply holds the steak to eat it, taking neat bites.]
's something with my metabolism, [he offers. Another peculiar concept for a lion-man to know about.] I burn through a lot of food, and fast. That's why I nap so much - I don't need the sleep, I'm just tryin' to conserve energy, do something that doesn't burn calories.
[He's been habitually underfed for as long as he can remember - by the scientists, then simply hampered by the scarcity of food in his territory. It's a little worrisome to think that he could put on more weight and muscle.]
[ tony sits on the crate's edge, twisting to watch him. all seems well. after hours of dealing with S.I. matters while flying home (his promise to pepper for not making it to work in person), simba's candor is refreshing. he's a hell of a lot more interesting than statistics and charts and reports, too, but the company is finally making progress into newer, more charitable products that tony can be proud to put his name on. he wants these things to go right. so while part of his mind lingered on the crate in the cargo hold, he still lost hours to screens and digital paperwork he needed to catch up on, and by the time he noticed that, the morning rush had hit the pacific and he became swamped by urgent calls or intrigued by proposed projects. once people learned he was available, even remotely, they took full advantage. when lunch break in malibu finally rolled around, granting him reprieve, tony was surprised again at the passing of hours. (god, he really took for granted how much work stane took off his shoulders–) the steaks, which he faked to the stewardesses as his own meal, were his apology. "hey, sorry for leaving you locked in a dark box with my B.O. for upwards of ten hours." ]
Well, you won't have to worry about that anymore, [ tony reassures. he picks up and offers simba a glass of water next. it's full, with a brim wide enough for a lion tongue to drink out of, tony hopes. ]
[The first steak disappears at an astonishing rate, but it's also clear that he's trying to have something like table manners, even without using a knife and fork to cut the meat. He takes the glass from Tony with his clean hand, and instead of lapping the water up, simply tips the glass and pours it into his mouth in measured gulps. It isn't quite drinking like a normal person, but it's close.]
Might wanna invest in a cattle farm, then, [he replies wryly. It's clear that Tony has enough money to do that. He pauses for a moment in mid-gulp as a memory shakes loose in his brain.]
They called you Mr. Stark. [Something about that is familiar, but he doesn't know what, and his patchy memory doesn't offer anything else up.] That's- I know the name from somewhere.
[ actually not a bad idea, it'd help some struggling farmer if tony bought meat from them directly– ] You've heard of my company is my bet. [ he frowns at his chest. ] Name's plastered on enough weapons.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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All right, I got it from here, [ tony grunts, despite removing everything normally being the task of a large automated machine. he begins manually loosening the plackart around his stomach and waist. ]
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You decide to go all King Arthur or something when you built this?
[He remembers fiction more easily than he does his own life - in this case, books read when he was younger, one of the few things that could keep him occupied when he was stuck in bed.]
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tony sighs, pausing the removal. ] I used to make weapons, [ he admits. ] Decided I didn't want to anymore, so ... I made armor. [ silence settles in. to busy his hands he twists one last thing. with a loud clunk the plackart comes free. the lower back of the armor shifts, too, the bits that are modeled like vertebrae whirring and lifting out. tony flips the plackart around so that the red gleams back at him, his reflection vague and shadowy. nothing interrupts him, and he can't bring himself to look back at simba yet, so he continues, his voice lifting with pride, ] And now I protect people. Best decision I've ever made. [ finally, he cranes his head around and catches simba in the dark. his smile looks genuine. ] Not that the bar was ever that high.
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Armor's a better choice, [he agrees softly. He thinks of the shield tucked away in the pack. He'd protected people once, before they'd turned him into a killing machine. Now the best he can manage is keeping people safe passively, by staying away from them.] Anyone can kill people. The real work is in protecting them.
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[Sorry, all of his human-specific concepts are extremely dated.]
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Like a doll?
[l o l]
I don't see a rocket launcher.
[He doesn't even try to look at the suit again. He's familiar with the concept of shoulder-fired missiles - barely - but as a separate entity, not anything that could be contained in the suit.]
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[ :| ]
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[Drawled sarcastically in that Brooklyn accent again. Something in the sound of his own voice sparks a memory, a man with a quick smile and dark hair slicked back with pomade, wearing a crisp military uniform. The memory bursts like a bubble, like they always do, and he's left with nothing. He huffs, exasperated by his own fickle mind.]
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This sure ain't a joint in Harlem. Or maybe the Village.
[He isn't sure where these things come from - the vague knowledge from a life lived before he was transformed into a monster. It's not quite on a conscious level - if he tries to force it, it slips through his fingers like sand. But the person he used to be is there, deep down inside.]
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he's letting himself get distracted. they're on a schedule. tony refocuses on removing the casing. ] And yet, it's probably the best you'll ever get, [ he mumbles, falsely sympathetic. he doesn't think any said joints allow pets inside. ]
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Just let me know if you need more help.
[Because it's better than having more time to dwell on his thoughts, that's for sure.]
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All right, that's done, [ he says, satisfied at his pile ( which would've been more strewn if not for simba). he looks to the gion. ] I'm gonna wait by the entrance for our guests. You, hide back here. I'll bring the crate back.
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Can do, [he agrees easily, collecting his pack and sitting down next to the pile of armor.] I won't make a peep.
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about twenty minutes later, the whipping of helicopter blades sound closer and closer until it fills the cave. simba can't see around the bend, but he can hear tony shouting in greeting over the noise as the blades wind down. there's two other voices, both men, who call him "mr. stark." more noise and conversation, throughout which tony remains charming and smooth, and then the men offer their assistance. tony refuses it.
"as eager as i usually am to get naked," he tells them, purposely loud, "neither of you are my type." a pause. "any sisters, though?"
one of the men laughs (no sisters) while the other becomes protective in a joking-but-not way (one little sister). they allow them to leave and tony yells he'll be a bit as he reenters the cave. he turns the corner, pushing a trolley cart with. on the cart is a large wooden crate, more long than tall, like a coffin, with currently-undone buckles and straps to fasten it down. on top of that rests a neatly folded air force combat uniform.
tony holds a finger over his lips to tell simba to stay quiet. then, he contorts to unzip the neoprene and peel it all the way off, flinging it from his foot, leaving himself in nothing but a red thong. only then does tony slip into the spare fatigues and boots. ]
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But it's not like he hasn't seen entirely naked men before, either, so he's not too concerned by the blatant display of skin in front of him. Instead, while Tony slips into the fatigues, he busies himself with fitting into the crate, holding his bundle close to his chest. He'd prefer to be able to curl up - it's a more reassuring position - but like any cat in a box, in the end, he'll settle for whatever contortion is necessary to make himself fit.]
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[ he begins slotting the pieces of the armor into the open spaces around simba, shoving them into the straw. the larger sections he lays more on top, across the legs and body, and the helmet he sets with a grin next to simba's head so that they face each other. lastly, he whispers, ] There ya go, breathe that in, [ and drops in the undersuit. tony heaves the cover back over the crate. ] Hope you don't have to pee, [ he grunts, then pauses and peeks at his charge through the crack. ] I'll try to open it as much as I can, okay? [ he says, sincerely compassionate for all his joking. ]
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He does bare his teeth at the reflective surface of the helmet in a mock growl - but that's more for the sake of amusement than anything else. Nor does he bother to complain about having a sweaty bodysuit dumped unceremoniously on top of him. If that's what he has to deal with, then so be it. He doesn't make a sound as Tony shoves the lid on top of the crate.]
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at some point something shuffles outside the crate and then knocks three times on the top. more rustling as the straps are unbuckled, then the lid scoots over to reveal tony leaning over it, holding a plate. he's dressed in a casual shirt and pants now. he looks both relieved and pleased. ]
Meal time. Figured you'd be hungry.
[ once simba shoves off the armor and straw that's no doubt nestled into his mane and sits up, he'll see they're still in the cargo hold of a plane: the engines and rumbling come from its flight. on the plate tony holds, though, are two cooked slabs of steak. ]
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God, I think I'm in love.
[Although he doesn't mention whether the object of his affection is Tony or the meat. He takes the plate once he's sitting up and simply holds the steak to eat it, taking neat bites.]
's something with my metabolism, [he offers. Another peculiar concept for a lion-man to know about.] I burn through a lot of food, and fast. That's why I nap so much - I don't need the sleep, I'm just tryin' to conserve energy, do something that doesn't burn calories.
[He's been habitually underfed for as long as he can remember - by the scientists, then simply hampered by the scarcity of food in his territory. It's a little worrisome to think that he could put on more weight and muscle.]
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Well, you won't have to worry about that anymore, [ tony reassures. he picks up and offers simba a glass of water next. it's full, with a brim wide enough for a lion tongue to drink out of, tony hopes. ]
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Might wanna invest in a cattle farm, then, [he replies wryly. It's clear that Tony has enough money to do that. He pauses for a moment in mid-gulp as a memory shakes loose in his brain.]
They called you Mr. Stark. [Something about that is familiar, but he doesn't know what, and his patchy memory doesn't offer anything else up.] That's- I know the name from somewhere.
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