Authors note: So Loki has been upgraded to Tony's personal attendant, let's see if it will mean that things are looking up for him or not…
His stomach wakes him up, hollow and aching. Perhaps he should be used to this, but he's not, not any more. In the dungeons, they would deprive him of food for long stretches of time, but since then he's been given his usual rations three times a day like all the other slaves. Well, unless he did something that merited them being taken away as punishment, but he's always endeavoured to keep that from happening and, furthermore, virtually all punishment is corporal here anyway. So despite the meagreness of the portions and the never-quite-fullness of his stomach, he has for the most part at least eaten regular meals.
But Stark hasn't allowed him any food yet. Perhaps he wants for Loki to make himself useful before being deserving of any. What more use he could possibly be in here other than making Stark's bed and scrubbing the floor, he doesn't know. Or maybe Stark simply believes that it's a waste to let slaves eat every day. Obviously, going a few days without any food isn't going to kill him.
He wonders if he should get up, but then again, what should he occupy himself with? Stark is still asleep and any activities louder than dusting likely to wake him up. Besides, Loki already spent most of yesterday – for the most part needlessly – cleaning the chambers and their state of tidiness won't have changed overnight.
So he simply remains lying there on the carpet, rolled into his blanket, listening to the sound of Stark sleeping.
There still have been no specific instructions issued in regards to his activities for today. Stark is away for the time being, having left with his blueprints and gadgets.
So Loki dusts for lack of better things to do. Then he drinks from the tap in the bathroom, enjoying the feeling of fresh, cold water in his mouth. He's feeling oddly light-headed, so when he returns to the main room he sits down on the floor to rest for a little while until the spinning in his head has stopped.
His behind has barely touched the ground, however, before the door opens; Loki expects Stark, but it's not. It's Ulfgrimm.
And Loki is slacking on the floor, idle and unoccupied, everything a slave should not be. He curses his bad luck; the overseer must have encountered Stark just recently and realized the man wasn't in his room, or he would never have entered like this without knocking.
"So, taking a vacation, are you?" The deep voice of the overseer is deceptively sweet but mocking to its core. He circles Loki a couple of times, like a predator. The man certainly has the breath of one.
"You always were a lazy one. But I will make one thing clear to you – if Lord Stark requests you as his personal slave, then you will work for him! And that includes when he's away on business!" With that, Ulfgrimm punches him square in the face. Loki falls backward, sprawling, a hand going to clutch at his throbbing cheek.
"Don't let me catch you slacking off again," Ulfgrimm warns. "Or I will make you regret it."
When Stark returns, Loki is on his hands and knees, scrubbing the already spotless floor.
The man's first action after removing his shoes in the hallway is to throw his things on the bed and then himself, stretching his arms above his head the way someone who has spent the day sitting in a chair might do. Then he goes still, studying Loki from a half-sitting position, elbows behind him to prop himself up.
"You just get into trouble everywhere, don't you?"
Obviously he's referring to the black eye that Loki is currently sporting from his encounter with Ulfgrimm. He's seen his own reflection in the surfaces he's spent the day polishing, and the bruising isn't something one misses, even with a cursory glance. Of course Stark would notice it.
He merely shrugs in reply.
Stark makes no further comment, but Loki can feel Stark's gaze hovering over him for a long time. He doesn't particularly like that gaze.
Again, Stark is busying himself with making modifications on his enigmatic air blueprints. Loki wonders what would happen if he were to walk through the projections, if he would feel anything at all, or if they would somehow be ruined, but he has no way of asking. And wouldn't ask, of course, even if he had a way. Slaves don't ask questions if they're not directly pertinent to the tasks they have to fulfil.
Probably they're like his own magical illusions, without form or substance, of which he wouldn't feel a thing if he were to touch them.
Then again, unlike Loki's illusions, Stark can actually move his projections with his fingers, making them respond to the real world, so there is something more to them than just a mirage. Perhaps it does feel like something to touch them.
There's a bluish flicker and a second later the lines and little numbers and geometric figures are gone, Stark having turned his machine off.
Rather than putting it aside, though, the man starts to turn the gadget around in his hands with an absent-minded look on his face, forehead creased and eyes gazing at an indeterminate spot in the distance. Probably he's thinking about the next step of the project he's busying himself with, or some problem that still lacks a solution. His fingers swipe over the screen, as if trying to remove a smudge, and Loki wonders if he should offer to wipe it with his rag, to showcase his attentiveness and readiness to serve.
But he decides not to, in case he manages to break the thing. It's not worth the risk.
"You can still write, can't you?"
The non sequitur throws Loki for several seconds. Then understanding dawns of what Stark is getting at.
He nods, of course he can still write. The spell only took his voice from him.
"Well, I thought so." With that, Stark finally puts the gadget aside and goes to rummage in one of his large suitcases. He resurfaces a few moments later, holding a piece of a paper and a Midgardian pen in one hand. He hands both implements over to Loki who gingerly accepts them.
"So tell me, how did you end up here in the first place?" Stark asks as he sits back down on the bed again, the springs creaking softly as they take his weight. "Yeah, the Vanir obviously told me about it, but I want to hear your version as well."
It's not really a question he cares to answer, but Stark has asked, so he has to offer a reply. He starts to jot down an answer, hoping to be able to leave out the more… shameful parts, but then lets the pen fall before he has even completed the first sentence.
"What, you done already?" Stark asks, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. Probably he expected a lengthy exposition to follow and now suspects that Loki is trying to dodge the order, so Loki quickly hands over the piece of paper to showcase the problem before the annoyance can turn to anger.
Stark takes a look, his brow furrowing at the sight. "Runes, huh? Can't you write, like, you know, normally?"
Loki shakes his head no. The Allspeak only translates languages, not writing systems or alphabets. True, he did learn Midgard's alphabet shortly before travelling there, but he has mostly forgotten it by now, having only used it very briefly.
"Hmph," Stark mutters as he crumples the paper, his disappointment obvious. Too late Loki realizes that he should have written his communication in Vanir rather than Aesir runes – unlike most, he's familiar with both writing systems – because then someone here could read it out in Allspeak to Stark. Only dedicated scholars and the most advanced of magic users normally learn the runes of the other realms, and there are precious few of those.
But then again, what would be the point of that? They want him silent, so why should anyone care about translating any of his written communications correctly? They'd immediately understand who had written the note in Stark's possession and probably mistranslate it into something unfavourable so that he'd get into trouble with Stark as punishment for trying to circumvent the speaking ban they have laid on him.
The man tosses the crumpled piece of paper between his hands, the look on his face still one of disappointment. "I'm sure there's a way around this problem somehow, but I just don't see it right now."
And Stark is right; there is a way around this, but Loki knows it's never going to happen, so he makes no acknowledgement of Stark's assertion.
Stark has left again for his third meeting today, and Loki surmises from the man's demeanour and a few muttered comments that he and his Vanir counterparts are reaching the final negotiating phases. Whatever deal it is they're making, they're now down to ironing out the details.
But he's not as interested in those details as he is in getting something to eat. It's been two days since his last meal, and he's gone from merely hungry to positively ravenous. But he still doesn't dare to sneak out during meal times – what if Stark comes back from an important negotiation and urgently needs Loki to do something for him? He can't imagine what that could possibly be, but he doesn't want to risk Stark's wrath after all that has transpired.
Besides, if Loki's hunch is right, Stark's stay here is coming to an end and he will soon be back in Midgard. And that means that Loki will be back to his normal tasks, and to eating normally again. A couple of more days without food won't kill him. Especially not when his duties here are so light in comparison to his usual working schedule, requiring little in the way of physical exertion.
No wonder Stark doesn't think it's necessary to feed him.
Still, his thoughts stubbornly keep returning to the lavish feast two nights ago and all the food he carried up the stairs, of which he got to eat nothing but could still smell perfectly fine. All those fine meats and tender vegetables and creamy sauces and sweet pastries and…
Stop it, he tells his brain, but it doesn't care one bit about his impotent orders, instead taunting him with the most delicious images it can conjure.
He's grateful when Stark returns. At least the man's presence will serve to break the monotony somewhat, giving his obsessive mind something else to think about than the complaints of his shrivelled stomach.
Then his heart sinks miserably as Stark enters the main room.
No. It's not fair.
The man is carrying a wooden basket and from the lovely smells surrounding it it's clear that Stark has taken a detour to the kitchens to pick up some freshly prepared dinner.
And he obviously plans to eat it right here in Loki's very presence.
Why couldn't he just have had dinner with his Vanir friends like all other nights? Why, why, why?
To make matters worse, Stark hands Loki the basket, obviously expecting him to go ahead and set the table for him. Which is stupid, because guest rooms aren't made for eating in, dining halls are, there are no plates or cutlery here. He can't prepare a proper dinner table in here for Stark, and the food smells so wonderful and…
"It's for you," Stark says. "I thought you might want to eat something."
What?
There must be a mistake. Slaves don't get to eat food like this. This is good food, not thin porridge or stale bread or tasteless gruel.
"Not hungry?" Stark inquiries at Loki's frozen passivity in face of the meal handed to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, clutching the basket possessively to his chest. Totally improper behaviour for a slave, thinking he's entitled to claiming something for himself, but he can't help it.
"Well, you're free to have it." Stark says with a shrug. "I've already eaten."
It's unbelievable. And better than anything he's had since coming here, much better. A creamy stew with meet and mushrooms and carrots. And bread still hot from the oven, softer and whiter than a summer cloud. He just can't believe that this feast is his.
As he eats, each morsel melting on his tongue like butter, he wonders if Stark's magnanimity is because he has everything in his hand, now, the deal about to close. But as he surreptitiously watches the man fiddling with one of those gadgets that are his constant companions, a deep crease on his forehead that wasn't there before, Loki realizes that no, that can't be it. Stark seems uncharacteristically subdued, cowed even. Something must be wrong.
Maybe the negotiations aren't going so well and there has been an unexpected setback. Perhaps the Vanir aren't keen on sharing as many of their secrets as Stark had been hoping for.
Well, whatever it is, it is of little consequence to him. He picks up the last piece of bread and uses it to wipe the inside of the pot clean, making sure to get to every last little bit of stew.
He remains sitting on the floor for a few heartbeats after the food is gone, partly to savour the remaining taste and partly because he's not overly fond of what comes next, but he knows full well what's expected of a slave having had something like this bestowed upon him.
So he gets up and heads over to where Stark is sitting. The man looks up as Loki kneels down before him.
"What do-"
He reaches out to grab Stark's hand and then presses the knuckles against his lips. There. That should convince the man that he knows how to behave; he knows their relative places.
For some reason, and contrary to expectations, this course of action does not seem to please Stark, though.
"Loki, don't… do that, okay?" Stark appears oddly flustered as he pulls his hand back, looking at the empty space next to Loki's head rather than directly at him.
He's confused at Stark's reaction, but surmises that it really doesn't matter. He's just had the best meal in ages, and that's all that matters for now.
End note: I guess late food is better than no food…
