[ 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.
[ an eerie blankness passes over tony's face. when he raises his head again, he smiles, too tightly, wrong on his face when paired with his haunted eyes. ] Maybe, [ he agrees, shooting for optimistic. he fails, but he tries again with more success after chasing away whatever dark thought that struck him: ] Who knows? New surroundings could knock something loose.
[He finishes the steak and resists the urge to lick himself clean. Normally, he would, but he's determined to appear more human in front of Tony. Instead, he hands him the plate.]
Uh, five hours? [ tony guesses, habitually glancing at his empty wrist. he sets the plate by his feet. ] We'll be landing around eight P.M. PST. My house will be cleared of people by then, so you'll have free rein. [ even pepper. he told her to take off before he gets back as a reward for staving the tide in his absence. when people can't harangue him, they harangue her.
he'll have to tell pepper about simba eventually, he knows. probably when he can't hide him from her anymore. he does trust her; it's just... she tried to quit on him once, when he first started being iron man. what's she gonna do when she comes face-to-maw with his newest charity project? if she thinks getting shot at in a tin can is crazy, will inviting an amnesiac lion-man into his home be a step too far? ]
[He doesn't seem especially bothered by the prospect of another five hours shut up in a box. It's not like he's had much to do with his time beyond hunting and sleeping, after all.]
Thank you again. For, um, all of this. I don't think many people would let someone like me into their home. [He looks both painfully honest and slightly awkward at the same time.]
[ tony smiles. this just reaffirms his belief that going through this trouble is worth it. that this is the right thing to do. ] I'm not many people, [ he reminds him proudly. then tony slaps his own knees, pushing into a stand, buoyed. ] Now c'mon. Back in your hole. Anyone can walk in here and I doubt our NDAs include gion sightings.
['Gion?' he mouths and makes a face, then shakes his head. Instead of questioning Tony, he starts to rearrange the armor on top of and around him until the lid can fit back on the crate again.]
Sleep tight. Don't let the armor bite, [ tony teases, his smirking face the last thing simba sees before the lid slides closed. the buckles and straps are reinstalled, but instead of retreating footsteps, something hits the corner of the crate and pries. the wood creaks. ] Airflow, comin' in cold! [ tony shouts. he jimmies loose the corners nearest simba's head, just enough for the gion to whiff fresher air. the heat insulation will be worse (part of why tony asked for the straw; the cargo hold is pressurized, not heated), but he's more concerned about carbon dioxide build-up now than anything.
i'm gonna take care of you, he's vowed, like you took care of me. besides, you need it. this is just me payin' it forward and back. if you're gonna thank anyone, thank yourself, and a man named yinsen.
tony picks up the empty glass and plate and returns to the cabin, where he pretends to be interested in meetings about profit margins. he sneaks a look out the window to imagine flying in the armor only once. ]
[He doesn't mind the chill; it might be cold in the plane, but it's still warmer than a winter night deep in the mountains. Besides, the enclosed space of the crate and the straw trap his body heat enough that it's bearable.
(He remembers winters in the city, wearing every piece of threadbare clothing he owned to try and save on coal. Remembers not being able to afford any coal and huddling in bed with his ma. And, just before he falls asleep, he remembers the cold water rising to meet his body, embracing him like a lover.)
When he dreams, he dreams of a man on stage like he owns the place, showing off a shiny red car - the bustle of people around him, the excitement almost electric, the inventions on display. But all he feels from the situation is disappointment and failure, and he doesn't know why. He shifts in his sleep, and a draft of cold air turns into the wind whipping through an Alpine pass as he clutches desperately to a train, one arm outstretched for a grip that will never come.]
[ he might come to once the motion of the crate finally stops after hours of travel. there are voices, one tony's, who thanks someone named "hap" and tells him to have a good night. a car drives away. after more stillness, the straps are unbuckled and tony shoves the lid open to a room with fluorescent lights. he leans over, says, ] All right, hibernation over. Welcome to your new foster home, sport, [ and lugs out the chassis, carrying it to a nearby table.
once simba sits up, he'll see a mechanical wonder land: tony stark's home workshop. the crate sits in the garage, where there is a line of modern and classic cars, all shined to perfection. past them are rows of tables and desks covered in blue prints and drafting paper and various tools. in the back is heavy machinery for fabrication; and another desk, closer to a leisure area with a couch, a wall-mounted TV, and a kitchenette, looks like a command center with a semi-circle of computer monitors and keyboards. every surface of the workshop is organized chaos, from the tables to the walls with its pipes, metal cabinets, and multiple circuit boxes.
tony returns to the crate just when a robot-arm wheels over and beeps curiously at the gion. it reaches in without preamble to remove a gauntlet, mimicking tony's process. ] Already? [ he sighs at it. ] Shoo. I got this.
[He stares wide-eyed at his new surroundings. Objectively, he knows the world's changed over the years, but this is incontrovertible proof, right in front of his eyes. Even the cars look different, sleek and streamlined where he's used to seeing curves. As for the technology, well, that's completely beyond him.
There's some kind of automated arm picking up a gauntlet, and he assumes it's just a normal process, but Tony talks to it like it's a human being. He blinks slowly and carefully moves some of the armor off of himself.
Once he's out of the crate, he realizes just how filthy he is in comparison to his surroundings. It's not like he can help it, but he still feels ashamed of everything down to his pieced-together loincloth.]
Is- is there a tub I could use? [he asks awkwardly, clutching his pack to his chest. In that moment, his body language belongs to someone much smaller than he is.] And maybe an old bedsheet I could have? Doesn't have to be anything fancy.
[Although he's rapidly coming to suspect that everything Tony owns is fancy.]
[ the whole procedure of getting him out of the crate tony fills with chatter, whether at simba ("how was your experience with crate airlines?") or at the robot trying to assist ("what're you doing? give 'im space"). as soon as simba's free, tony struts over to a console, talking about adding him to jarvis's systems, when the awkward requests finally slow him down. he turns, his eyes a smidgen too wide and alert for the darkening circles underneath. ]
Yeah, [ he answers, breathless. ] Yeah, you wanna wear it like a toga? Toga party. Speakin' of, first, stand over here for me, please. [ walking backwards, he beckons the gion over to and points at a grid on the floor. ]
[The constant flow of chatter only makes him more uncomfortable - he's been living by himself for years - and he slowly flattens his ears against his skull. The very tip of his tail twitches, but other than that, his body language is unusually still.]
Toga...party? [is all he has to offer as he stands in the grid. It's honestly about all he can get in edgewise with the way Tony talks.]
JARVIS? [ tony calls out instead of addressing toga party, barreling forward to the next topic, arm still extended to where he pointed. from everywhere and nowhere a dry british voice answers, "online, sir." apparently satisfied, tony nods and drops his arm. ] Scan our guest in as Simba, [ he orders. ] Grant alpha access to all sectors save for section four. Take measurements while you're at it and set a reminder to call my tailor.
[ while cyan lines of light flash up and down the gion, jarvis inquires, "shall i leave the note for ms. potts?" ]
No. Personal matter.
[ "voice recognition in progress." ]
[ tony smirks at the gion, eyes bright and exuberant. he acts similar to the reactor in his chest, energy crackling beneath a smooth, contained exterior. it bleeds out like radiation through his manic eyes. ] That's JARVIS. Say hi.
[He blinks, tilts his head slightly.] Is there a two-way mirror in here? Where is he? He's your butler, right?
[Of course Tony has a butler. That just seems normal to him - he's rich, after all. Rich enough to fly whenever and wherever he wants, rich enough to own all those fancy cars. It's more wealth than he can possibly imagine.]
[ "voice recognized. designation: simba," jarvis reports, unperturbed. "a new home profile has been uploaded. would you like to set your preferences now?" ]
Delay that, J. One hour. [ tony ushers simba off the grid and leads him through the workshop to the wall of glass windows and door, where a staircase lies in wait. he takes the steps two at a time, expecting to be followed. ] No, he's–well, sort of? He's my NLUI. AI, whatever. He's the smart part of a smart house. My own code. I named him after my old flesh-and-blood butler, Edwin Jarvis.
[ a wall fountain trickles into stones at the top of the staircase, which leads into a living room with more wide window walls, the pacific ocean at night beyond them. the decor is modern and sparse, a tasteful, elegant simplicity, mostly soft, neutral or earthen tones like white, beige, brown, and pastel green. spacious and open, the room sports a long sectional sofa (some of the couch pillows have fuzzy edges, oddly feminine for tony; same with the bowl of realistic white orchids on the wooden table) and squat, cushioned stools, with decorative nick-knacks like an electric guitar leaning against the wall and modern art statues strategically placed in corners or as centerpieces.
tony zooms right past it, by the fireplace and grand piano and bar and all, to the next level staircase right above. they'll be passing by a lot of sights like this, classical wealth with modern tastes. ] C'mon. We're headed to the pool.
[...what. He doesn't understand a word of anything Tony just said, but he feels like it's useless to ask him to explain it now, when he's clearly so keyed up. Besides, the opulence of the rest of the house is more than a little overwhelming. He's never seen anything like it - which admittedly isn't saying much, but he simply doesn't have anything to compare it to.]
I don't need- [He breaks off in mid-sentence and shakes his head.] You probably don't have a tub big enough. [He remembers bathing in a tin washtub, being small and skinny enough to fit, knobbly knees sticking up out of the water. Sometimes he forgets how big he is.] Although I'm kinda surprised you don't, with everything else around here.
Oh, I probably do, [ tony throws over his shoulder with a sly grin, clearing the top step. he keeps right on strutting down the hall. ] But c'mon. The pool'll be more fun. Surer shot, anyway.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Yeah, I come across lots of weapons in the middle of nowhere.
[He remembers everything recent with perfect clarity. This is part of the murky depths of before, but he doesn't want to get into that.]
Maybe it'll come to me.
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[He finishes the steak and resists the urge to lick himself clean. Normally, he would, but he's determined to appear more human in front of Tony. Instead, he hands him the plate.]
How much longer till we land?
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he'll have to tell pepper about simba eventually, he knows. probably when he can't hide him from her anymore. he does trust her; it's just... she tried to quit on him once, when he first started being iron man. what's she gonna do when she comes face-to-maw with his newest charity project? if she thinks getting shot at in a tin can is crazy, will inviting an amnesiac lion-man into his home be a step too far? ]
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[He doesn't seem especially bothered by the prospect of another five hours shut up in a box. It's not like he's had much to do with his time beyond hunting and sleeping, after all.]
Thank you again. For, um, all of this. I don't think many people would let someone like me into their home. [He looks both painfully honest and slightly awkward at the same time.]
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i'm gonna take care of you, he's vowed, like you took care of me. besides, you need it. this is just me payin' it forward and back. if you're gonna thank anyone, thank yourself, and a man named yinsen.
tony picks up the empty glass and plate and returns to the cabin, where he pretends to be interested in meetings about profit margins. he sneaks a look out the window to imagine flying in the armor only once. ]
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(He remembers winters in the city, wearing every piece of threadbare clothing he owned to try and save on coal. Remembers not being able to afford any coal and huddling in bed with his ma. And, just before he falls asleep, he remembers the cold water rising to meet his body, embracing him like a lover.)
When he dreams, he dreams of a man on stage like he owns the place, showing off a shiny red car - the bustle of people around him, the excitement almost electric, the inventions on display. But all he feels from the situation is disappointment and failure, and he doesn't know why. He shifts in his sleep, and a draft of cold air turns into the wind whipping through an Alpine pass as he clutches desperately to a train, one arm outstretched for a grip that will never come.]
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once simba sits up, he'll see a mechanical wonder land: tony stark's home workshop. the crate sits in the garage, where there is a line of modern and classic cars, all shined to perfection. past them are rows of tables and desks covered in blue prints and drafting paper and various tools. in the back is heavy machinery for fabrication; and another desk, closer to a leisure area with a couch, a wall-mounted TV, and a kitchenette, looks like a command center with a semi-circle of computer monitors and keyboards. every surface of the workshop is organized chaos, from the tables to the walls with its pipes, metal cabinets, and multiple circuit boxes.
tony returns to the crate just when a robot-arm wheels over and beeps curiously at the gion. it reaches in without preamble to remove a gauntlet, mimicking tony's process. ] Already? [ he sighs at it. ] Shoo. I got this.
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There's some kind of automated arm picking up a gauntlet, and he assumes it's just a normal process, but Tony talks to it like it's a human being. He blinks slowly and carefully moves some of the armor off of himself.
Once he's out of the crate, he realizes just how filthy he is in comparison to his surroundings. It's not like he can help it, but he still feels ashamed of everything down to his pieced-together loincloth.]
Is- is there a tub I could use? [he asks awkwardly, clutching his pack to his chest. In that moment, his body language belongs to someone much smaller than he is.] And maybe an old bedsheet I could have? Doesn't have to be anything fancy.
[Although he's rapidly coming to suspect that everything Tony owns is fancy.]
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Yeah, [ he answers, breathless. ] Yeah, you wanna wear it like a toga? Toga party. Speakin' of, first, stand over here for me, please. [ walking backwards, he beckons the gion over to and points at a grid on the floor. ]
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Toga...party? [is all he has to offer as he stands in the grid. It's honestly about all he can get in edgewise with the way Tony talks.]
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[ while cyan lines of light flash up and down the gion, jarvis inquires, "shall i leave the note for ms. potts?" ]
No. Personal matter.
[ "voice recognition in progress." ]
[ tony smirks at the gion, eyes bright and exuberant. he acts similar to the reactor in his chest, energy crackling beneath a smooth, contained exterior. it bleeds out like radiation through his manic eyes. ] That's JARVIS. Say hi.
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[He blinks, tilts his head slightly.] Is there a two-way mirror in here? Where is he? He's your butler, right?
[Of course Tony has a butler. That just seems normal to him - he's rich, after all. Rich enough to fly whenever and wherever he wants, rich enough to own all those fancy cars. It's more wealth than he can possibly imagine.]
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Delay that, J. One hour. [ tony ushers simba off the grid and leads him through the workshop to the wall of glass windows and door, where a staircase lies in wait. he takes the steps two at a time, expecting to be followed. ] No, he's–well, sort of? He's my NLUI. AI, whatever. He's the smart part of a smart house. My own code. I named him after my old flesh-and-blood butler, Edwin Jarvis.
[ a wall fountain trickles into stones at the top of the staircase, which leads into a living room with more wide window walls, the pacific ocean at night beyond them. the decor is modern and sparse, a tasteful, elegant simplicity, mostly soft, neutral or earthen tones like white, beige, brown, and pastel green. spacious and open, the room sports a long sectional sofa (some of the couch pillows have fuzzy edges, oddly feminine for tony; same with the bowl of realistic white orchids on the wooden table) and squat, cushioned stools, with decorative nick-knacks like an electric guitar leaning against the wall and modern art statues strategically placed in corners or as centerpieces.
tony zooms right past it, by the fireplace and grand piano and bar and all, to the next level staircase right above. they'll be passing by a lot of sights like this, classical wealth with modern tastes. ] C'mon. We're headed to the pool.
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I don't need- [He breaks off in mid-sentence and shakes his head.] You probably don't have a tub big enough. [He remembers bathing in a tin washtub, being small and skinny enough to fit, knobbly knees sticking up out of the water. Sometimes he forgets how big he is.] Although I'm kinda surprised you don't, with everything else around here.
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