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As much as Zazu would hate to admit it, sometimes Timon and Pumbaa had good advice to give. Like where to find the best bugs, and what time of day is best to hit the feeding grounds, when there’d be less of a crowd.
This is kind of nice, Zazu thinks, plucking a worm from the dirt. There’s no one else around, no one to compete with for food (though the animals of the pridelands never really competed with each other). First pick on all the best grubs and worms, and no worrying about eating too much and not leaving enough for anyone else.
If paradise was a time and a place, this would certainly be it.
Though, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. The eerie feeling of someone else’s presence nearby—but he’d checked, looking over his shoulder multiple times, and found nothing. Saw nothing.
“Maybe I need to get more sleep at night,” He says to himself, mentally adding an earlier bedtime to his daily agenda. He reassures himself that no one else is around. Tells himself that he’s a bird, birds have the best sight out of all the creatures in the pridelands, and if someone or something was there, he’d have seen it by now.
He turns his attention back to the dirt, using his beak to dig for any good bugs that may be hiding under ground, and tries to forget the eerie feeling.
The tall grass is the perfect cover for Simba. Even with his thick mane, the grass blends perfectly with his fur, keeping him out of sight. It helps that he’s downwind, too. Practically invisible.
He’d spotted Zazu headed this way while coming back from his mid-morning patrol of the pridelands, and with no other immediate business to attend to, decided to follow after him.
A quick pouncing lesson, for lack of a better description.
Zazu still hadn’t spotted him.
Now, Simba isn’t the best hunter, relying more on instinct than skill, but he figures he must be getting better. A whole lot better.
He accidentally ruffles the grass with his tail as he shifts in to a crouch, a sound and movement too unnatural to play off as wind. Zazu looks in his direction, looks right at him, but still doesn’t see him.
Simba holds his breath, Zazu looks on just a moment longer.
As soon as Zazu turns his back to Simba, Simba pounces, roaring for effect.
The noise Zazu makes is incredulous, he rockets in to the air, wings flapping, and the grub he’d been picking out of the dirt scurries away, back to the safety of it’s little dirt tunnel.
“Sire!” Zazu scolds, sending a glare down at Simba. It’s met with a swipe of Simba’s paw, missing Zazu by a mere inch. “Oh dear. Not this game again!”
Zazu dodges hastily, heading in the direction of the nearest tree—safety—only managing to flutter just out of reach every time Simba rears up and takes a swipe at him.
“Simba, this is not very king-like! I do not enjoy this game! I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to!”
The claws on his talons dig in to the branch of the tree, swaying because of the quick and heavy landing.
“Sire, aren’t you a little too old for this?” The look Zazu sends down at Simba is disapproving.
“Too old for fun? Zazu don’t get your feathers twisted! I’m only playing!” Simba shouts up, circling the base of the tree.
“Go play somewhere else!” Zazu turns his beak up at the young king, shuffling around on the branch to but his back to him as well.
“I’m the king now, remember? You can’t give me orders,” Simba’s tone is playful, no trace of the arrogance he held as a cub. “I’ll just come up there and get you myself.”
“Nice try, sire, but if you think that’s gonna get me to—Simba? What are you doing?!” The tree shakes, Zazu turns himself around to see Simba climbing up the trunk, long claws digging in to the bark. “This is not a fair game.”
“I told you I was gonna come up here!”
“And you should get down before you break something!”
“Don’t be silly Zazu! I know how to climb a tree!” Simba says, settling himself on the base of a thick branch. Zazu sits only a short leap away.
“Simba,”the disapproval in Zazu’s tone is evident, feathers standing on end at The way Simba bunches his muscles up, preparing to pounce, “jumping is not a good idea!”
But the warning comes far too late.
It all happens in the same second; Simba jumps. Zazu leaps as well, hoping to flutter away, but Simba’s teeth clamp down on the end of his tail feathers, and the branch can’t take the 600 pounds of weight suddenly applied to it. It snaps, and down goes Simba, yanking Zazu right out of the sky.
“I told you that was a bad idea,” Zazu grumbles, feathers obviously ruffled (and a few missing from his tail, thanks to Simba).
“It wasn’t that bad.” Simba, of course, is able to shake it off and get back up in a matter of mere seconds .
“Why don’t you go find someone else’s feathers to ruffle?” He brushes the grass and dirt off of himself, giving Simba one last disapproving look before taking to the sky, Simba’s laughter fading with distance.