You mean you're up for showing off more, [ tony says with a hint of pride. he glances to the table. if simba wants to show off, tony will provide a platform. ] All right. Let's see what you can do. [ he sets his glass down and strokes his chin. after a couple moments, he begins rearranging the pool balls. ]
[His eyes dart as he follows Tony's moves, not unlike a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. They certainly seem to sparkle with that same intensity, the pupils growing larger. Even his tail starts to twitch.]
[ without looking up, tony distractedly mutters back, ] Because I can't want to encourage someone's potential without having a selfish ulterior motive? [ despite his words, he crouches on the opposite side of the table to level his eyes with the balls, unbothered. ]
[ tony glances at him. to many the glance may seem unreadable or guarded, but the micro expressions he lets slip through depict a brief, quiet puzzlement. ] I am having fun, [ he says. sure, this isn't a high thrill like jet skiing or the full-bodied anticipatory tingle of a beautiful woman pushing him into bed, but tony wanted to spend the night in simba's company and he is. that's all he needs. well, that and his drinks.
tony stands and plucks a couple more balls out of the table pockets. aaaalmost done. simba will need more than good angles to solve this. ]
[He crouches down, then ends up on his knees to get him at eye level with the table as Tony sets up the last few balls. Though he's not quite aware of it, the muscles in his shoulders bunch slightly as he envisions the shot - or the shot thus far - and the cue ball ricocheting off the felt walls of the table. His hands rest on his knees - thankfully, because his claws flex in and out, digging into the (probably expensive) cotton of his bedsheet.]
[ tony tosses up and catches the cue ball in his hand during his final checks. when he sees simba, his pleased smirk scrunches up against a joke. ("you want the ball, boy?" he could say, but not only did he learn his lesson that night at the pool, he actually does respect the gion. he's trying to show it, even if it's kinda cute the feline way simba expresses interest.) instead, tony sets the cue ball down in a new location, throwing off all of the gion's calculations, and challenges, ] All right. Puzzle this one out.
Rules are as follows, [ he declares, continuing, as he leaves for the bar counter with his glass: ] sink all stripes and none of the solids in two shots or less. You scratch on the cue or eight ball, you lose. [ after refilling his glass, tony leans his elbows back on the counter, ankles crossed, patiently spectating, but his eyes sharp on simba. ] No do-overs, so take your time. [ siiiip. ]
[He huffs at the placement of the cue ball and scrunches his nose. Rising to his feet, he moves closer to where the cue ball is and studies the table from that vantage point. Someone else might move around the table to examine other angles, but he doesn't need to do that. Instead, he spends about five minutes working it out - and, honestly, that's more time than he really needs.
With the first shot, he only sinks three, but one is a trick shot Tony's set up, one that requires a particular spin on the ball from a ricochet to keep from knocking one of the solids in. But since Tony hasn't said that the cue has to be in a particular place after the first shot, he gets to set it up - and it might not be where Tony expects it. He seems to rely more on spin and ricochet than a normal player might, because that's how the shots unfurl in his head. Getting the cue ball to do what he want is almost innate.
At first, it looks like he might have one ball left, but the second-to-last ball knocks against it at just the right angle to sink it, and both end up cleared.]
You gonna make me a custom pool cue next?
[He looks up from the table to meet Tony's eyes, and he smirks.]
Too short, too light. Needs more weight at the base for a good balance. Something thicker in the middle.
Nicer to grip? [ tony fires back words and smirk both, his eyes alight. he believed simba could solve the puzzle, and he was right–did it in good time, too. tony was just finishing off his latest glass, which has loosened his already questionable decision-making. ] Don't worry. I don't judge a man on having a shaft preference. [ he breezes past, outwardly fine; he has to be able to sober up quickly if iron man gets called out, after all. picking up the cue ball, he observes it under the pendant lamps like a gem collector with a new jewel, turning it like each new angle sparkles with possibility. ]
[ well, that confirms that, tony supposes. ] At satisfying you? We talked about this. I prefer pockets over cues, [ he says, purposely misreading (and conveniently forgetting the thought that ran him out of the bed earlier), and–off he goes again, taking the cue ball to the bar, doing something with it without explaining what or really anything first. you're used to that by now, right? ]
[he makes a face at tony and his misinterpretation - though he's not sure how far off the mark it is. but instead of thinking too hard about that, he trails after tony, picking up his abandoned drink and finishing it off.]
What're you doing?
[he cranes his neck to peer at tony and the cue ball, curious.]
[ tony is crouched perusing the different bottles. ] I'm kickin' things up a notch. Here we go, this'll do. [ he places a squat bottle on the counter and balances the cue ball on its opened top like it's a golf tee. ]
Isn't it obvious? This is your next challenge. [ tony smiles crookedly. ] See, I figure anything I set up within the confines of the table is already beat, so I'm changing the playing field. Same principle, but the cue ball starts here. How many you think you can knock in? One? Two? Don't feel bad if it's none, [ he "reassures." if he's read simba right, this should only spur him on. ] You're technically a novice. There's no shame.
[It does spur him on, but he can also tell that Tony's pushing him deliberately, and he can't help but roll his eyes slightly at Tony's last statement.]
'No shame,' [he echoes as he squeezes past Tony to take his place. The cue is harder to manipulate here - there's enough room behind the bar for it, but not a whole lot to work with - and he has to crouch down at a slightly different angle. He eyes the balls on the table, scoots to one side a little, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. He hits the ball, and it flies onto the table, striking the remaining balls to knock two in (one being the ball he'd had to work around previously).
Unfortunately, he also knocks the bottle over.]
Goddamnit, [he swears as he fumbles to pick the bottle up.]
[ tony has seceded just enough room for simba to work in, peering with interest and a boy-like excitement by the gion's side. the bottle spills a little puddle of amber liquid (he chose one more empty than not for that reason), but he watches the ball instead and crows, ] Oh! Ladies and gentlecats, he nails it, [ when it knocks in two.
elbow on the counter and unbothered by the spill, tony leans in and prods, ] What's your secret? Genetic modification? Bit of eye of the tiger mixed in with the guy and lion?
You know, like they edited in a bit of Rudolf Wanderone, or... Actually, never mind. Forget it. [ tony screws the lid back onto the bottle. ] The matter at hand here is, just how crazy of a shot can you make? [ with a glance around the room, tony gets Ideas, both good and bad. the dimple on his cheek deepens as he turns back to simba. ] Prepare yourself, Pinky. I know what we're doing tonight.
[It's not exactly hard to figure out what Tony's pondering, at least on a basic level. But-]
...Pinky?
[He spends most of their conversations feeling like he's two steps behind Tony, but that's probably how most people feel around a slightly manic genius.]
I'm gonna guess it involves bad decisions and alcohol.
The latest in a long list of 'em, [ tony chirps and claps simba on the back. before he returns to the table to formulate the next challenge, he refills his glass. ]
[He gives Tony a wry grin as the man refills his glass, then stays behind the bar when Tony goes to set up the next challenge. Instead of drinking his martini, he picks up the abandoned bottle of water and finishes it off.]
[ after a series of increasingly convoluted shots with a light bulb as thankfully the only real casualty (tony needled the gion into ricocheting the ball off the inside of a lamp), tony graciously concedes–though "concedes" may be the wrong word, since his goal seemed closer to pushing simba to greater heights than any sort of victory over him, given how after each successful shot tony mainly got excited for the next.
either way, in reward for simba's stellar performance, tony pulls up a world series match for him to watch on the massive TV. it's an old recording uploaded to youtube, so it's grainy footage with muddy audio for modern standards, but simba seems happy. tony watches only until he's done snacking from a bag of mixed nuts and then stretches out on the couch, his feet pointing toward simba, hands folded on his stomach, and his head on the armrest. behind closed eyes, he brainstorms applications for his improved sonic technology; slowly, the announcer's voice and crowd roaring and the smack of ball and bat from the surround-sound speakers fade into white noise. it's been a good night, he thinks. no work got done, no superheroing was needed, and his underwater issue persists, but he had a good time.
bit by bit, tony drifts into a light sleep, his body relaxing and face going slack, a tiny part in his lips. he could blame the steady trickle of alcohol in his system, but along with that, with simba nearby, he likes to think he's safe. ]
[He's inordinately pleased that the game Tony finds is between the Yankees and the Dodgers - sure, he'd happily watch any game, but god, he remembers being at Ebbets Field, no matter how ephemeral the memories are. There's a Black man playing for the Dodgers, and he makes a mental note to ask JARVIS about him later.
Sometime around the sixth inning, he looks over, and Tony's dozed off. He smiles softly, a little fondly. It's good to see Tony relaxing, and even better to see him sleeping. He needs it.
When the game's over, the Dodgers have squeaked out a win, and he's feeling good. He glances over at Tony, then stands and gently picks him up, cradling him in his arms as he carries him back upstairs.]
[ tony twitches awake when his body is lifted. his head rolls loosely on his neck up to simba, and for just a split second, he confuses their surroundings for the desert sky. ] Wow, this some ... déjà vu, [ he murmurs. ]
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[His eyes dart as he follows Tony's moves, not unlike a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. They certainly seem to sparkle with that same intensity, the pupils growing larger. Even his tail starts to twitch.]
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Because I don't want you to feel like I'm having all the fun and you're doing all the work.
[Tony does more than enough work on his behalf as it is, after all.]
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tony stands and plucks a couple more balls out of the table pockets. aaaalmost done. simba will need more than good angles to solve this. ]
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[He crouches down, then ends up on his knees to get him at eye level with the table as Tony sets up the last few balls. Though he's not quite aware of it, the muscles in his shoulders bunch slightly as he envisions the shot - or the shot thus far - and the cue ball ricocheting off the felt walls of the table. His hands rest on his knees - thankfully, because his claws flex in and out, digging into the (probably expensive) cotton of his bedsheet.]
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Rules are as follows, [ he declares, continuing, as he leaves for the bar counter with his glass: ] sink all stripes and none of the solids in two shots or less. You scratch on the cue or eight ball, you lose. [ after refilling his glass, tony leans his elbows back on the counter, ankles crossed, patiently spectating, but his eyes sharp on simba. ] No do-overs, so take your time. [ siiiip. ]
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With the first shot, he only sinks three, but one is a trick shot Tony's set up, one that requires a particular spin on the ball from a ricochet to keep from knocking one of the solids in. But since Tony hasn't said that the cue has to be in a particular place after the first shot, he gets to set it up - and it might not be where Tony expects it. He seems to rely more on spin and ricochet than a normal player might, because that's how the shots unfurl in his head. Getting the cue ball to do what he want is almost innate.
At first, it looks like he might have one ball left, but the second-to-last ball knocks against it at just the right angle to sink it, and both end up cleared.]
You gonna make me a custom pool cue next?
[He looks up from the table to meet Tony's eyes, and he smirks.]
Too short, too light. Needs more weight at the base for a good balance. Something thicker in the middle.
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[He shrugs and gives Tony a crooked smile.]
C'mon, give me your best shot. I'll see what I can do.
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What're you doing?
[he cranes his neck to peer at tony and the cue ball, curious.]
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And you want me to do what, exactly?
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'No shame,' [he echoes as he squeezes past Tony to take his place. The cue is harder to manipulate here - there's enough room behind the bar for it, but not a whole lot to work with - and he has to crouch down at a slightly different angle. He eyes the balls on the table, scoots to one side a little, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. He hits the ball, and it flies onto the table, striking the remaining balls to knock two in (one being the ball he'd had to work around previously).
Unfortunately, he also knocks the bottle over.]
Goddamnit, [he swears as he fumbles to pick the bottle up.]
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elbow on the counter and unbothered by the spill, tony leans in and prods, ] What's your secret? Genetic modification? Bit of eye of the tiger mixed in with the guy and lion?
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[He finds a towel stashed under the bar and mops up the spilled alcohol. Needless to say, the other reference goes completely over his head.]
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...Pinky?
[He spends most of their conversations feeling like he's two steps behind Tony, but that's probably how most people feel around a slightly manic genius.]
I'm gonna guess it involves bad decisions and alcohol.
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[He gives Tony a wry grin as the man refills his glass, then stays behind the bar when Tony goes to set up the next challenge. Instead of drinking his martini, he picks up the abandoned bottle of water and finishes it off.]
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either way, in reward for simba's stellar performance, tony pulls up a world series match for him to watch on the massive TV. it's an old recording uploaded to youtube, so it's grainy footage with muddy audio for modern standards, but simba seems happy. tony watches only until he's done snacking from a bag of mixed nuts and then stretches out on the couch, his feet pointing toward simba, hands folded on his stomach, and his head on the armrest. behind closed eyes, he brainstorms applications for his improved sonic technology; slowly, the announcer's voice and crowd roaring and the smack of ball and bat from the surround-sound speakers fade into white noise. it's been a good night, he thinks. no work got done, no superheroing was needed, and his underwater issue persists, but he had a good time.
bit by bit, tony drifts into a light sleep, his body relaxing and face going slack, a tiny part in his lips. he could blame the steady trickle of alcohol in his system, but along with that, with simba nearby, he likes to think he's safe. ]
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Sometime around the sixth inning, he looks over, and Tony's dozed off. He smiles softly, a little fondly. It's good to see Tony relaxing, and even better to see him sleeping. He needs it.
When the game's over, the Dodgers have squeaked out a win, and he's feeling good. He glances over at Tony, then stands and gently picks him up, cradling him in his arms as he carries him back upstairs.]
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