"No? Just lucky, huh?" Tony gave him a grin and waved him inside, propelling himself back toward the table with a little push off the door frame. "Come on. Come here, I made something for you." He set his hand on the back of his chair, spun it once, stopped to finish off the remains of his drink - a taste much darker than its color, all sugar and night, with the warm, leathery tone of things that thrived quietly, impossibly old, in stifling heat - and shoved a stack of papers to one side with a theatrical sort of dash. This kind of frenetic energy wasn't that uncommon for him, but it reared up most often when he was trying to displace anxiety. What was the secret to constant self-assurance? Denial, denial, denial.
This was a combination of excitement and insecurity he hadn't felt in a long time - if ever. Wanting to impress wasn't rare for him, chasing down praise and recognition for his work was really just a part of his daily schedule; he delivered every project to his employers with the expectation that they would approve, that they'd be awed, that they would see him for what he was. He didn't give a damn if any of it made them happy. He just wanted his due. This was different. The closest to this that he could remember feeling was in the moments between handing something to his father, and waiting for a reaction.
Of course, Jarvis had never made him feel like he was two feet tall. So it was hardly a perfect comparison.
From the clearing on the desk, he snatched up a small, flattened device - perhaps the size of a cigarette case. It fit easily in his hand, and when he tapped the front of it with his thumb, it lit up to reveal a touchscreen with a miniature keyboard, not so different from any other piece of personal electronics. But he handed it over with obvious pride, practically shoving it into Jarvis' hands. "Go ahead. Write me something."