Author's note: Christmas holidays are awesome; lots of time off to work on this story, yay! :D
Hope you've all been enjoying your holidays as well, dear readers!
Another day, and not much has changed since yesterday, or the day before that. The resentment at the indignity of his station is still burning in his chest, but he firmly keeps a lid on it, full well knowing there will be nothing to gain by doing anything else.
He glares at the heaps of shoes piled all around him on the floor, silently willing every single one of them to self-ignite and burn into a fried crisp. Not so much out of the desire to spare himself this humiliating task as for the satisfaction of seeing the exasperated horror on Tony's face as he realizes his entire shoe collection has been reduced to ashes.
The shoe collection that Loki has been ordered to polish, like he's some sort of servant boy. Of course, he if full well aware that his status is even lower than that, but that's beside the point.
As it soon turned out, the man has more footwear than Loki thought possible for one single person to own. Even the court ladies in Asgard would be put to shame by Tony's extravagances in the shoe department. He wonders if the man has even worn them all, or if they're just another pointless diversion into which to channel a tiny stream of his riches. Loki's known some men like this, who'd go to great lengths to obtain beautiful weapons or ancient books or other special items that look impressive on display, but never made much use of the remarkable things they so laboriously amassed. None of them ever collected shoes, though.
He isn't sure if this task is more or less demeaning than the one he had to perform yesterday, when he spent a good chunk of his day cleaning up the grime in Tony's workshop, after the man had given him very clear instructions not to tamper with any of the technical equipment or half-finished suits, or Jarvis would fucking tase him so help him god. He remembers the look of the place with abject distaste, like it hadn't been cleaned in centuries with all the black grease and dirt and smears of unidentifiable substances staining more square inches of surface than not. How the man can at all stand to work in such abject filthiness, Loki has no idea.
He wonders how many more of these degrading chores that Tony is going to heap upon him before moving on to more... hands-on ways of meeting out revenge. But he supposes the delay makes sense upon closer consideration; Tony has all the time in the world, or at least the short life span of his own existence, to avenge himself and he clearly wants to have Loki thoroughly humiliated first by having him perform these debasing, menial tasks. The man's not going to pass up on the enjoyment of reducing his enemy to the lowliest of the low, to pull his leash and order him around in the satisfaction of seeing him submit to servitude and bondage.
But he can't scrub floors with broken bones, after all, or perform any other of these degrading chores; even Tony is aware of that and acts accordingly for now.
Knowing that, he works slowly in a futile effort to stave off the inevitable awaiting him.
Grimacing to himself, he remembers the words spoken to him when he faced off with the man in this very tower, back when he still held his godly powers, as he stood here and threatened Tony in his own home, the light of impending victory shining in his eyes and the rush of heady self-assuredness surging through his veins.
"… but it's all on you. Because if we can't protect the Earth, you can be damn well sure we'll avenge it."
In the end, they did manage to protect their planet. He isn't naïve enough to believe that means that the 'avenge' part has been taken out of the equation, though.
There is only one sliver of hope left on the horizon for him; if he perseveres and gets through this, then eventually, some day, Tony might tire of him. And then… who knows. It's not a great prospect, but it's his best bet, his only bet. If he is patient and endures, his situation might be somewhat improved in the future. Perhaps he will even be able to find a way out of this somehow, though he doubts it. But as it's the only hope he has, he stubbornly clings to it, refusing to let go. Spending the rest of his life like this is just too disheartening to consider, even though he knows that it is the most likely alternative.
Right now he doesn't have any other choice than submitting, but hoping there might eventually be some change or a way out is what keeps him going and lets him accept all these indignities piled upon him as well as the prospects of even worse looming on the horizon.
At least he gets fed properly, though that's about the only positive thing about his current situation, apart from the fact that he is still alive, though he isn't sure just how long he's going to keep counting that as something in his favour.
He looks down on his hands, knuckles whites from strain. The black grease he's been smearing over the shoes is blotchy on his hands and all the way up to his wrists, turning his fingernails into dark half-moons. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have cared overly much about getting his hands dirty, but given the situation, it only adds further to his degradation.
There's a slam of a door coming somewhere from the hallway to his right, and only moments later, a shirtless Tony Stark walks in. Judging by the towel slung over his shoulders and still wet hair and bare feet, the man has just stepped out of the shower. Loki can almost feel the dampness radiating from his skin, and he can't help but feel a sting of irritation, how his being all filthy and dirty in comparison only adds further to his image as a lowly slave.
Tony comes to a sudden stop a few yards from where Loki is sitting on the floor with his legs crossed and surrounded by an ocean of shoes, almost as if he's surprised to see him there.
And Loki knows that he would be better off focusing on the task in front of him, to pretend as if Tony isn't there and just keep smearing the dark, stinking polish on the shoe in his hand, but as Tony is standing there in front of him, he can't help but stare.
He's never seen anything like it before, the foreign object that is planted in the middle of Tony's chest. Its white-blue light shimmers softly, casting a ghostly hue of brightness. The other-worldly colour is not one he's seen before, neither in sky nor in ocean nor in winter's ice, but it's beautiful nonetheless. And he can sense it pulsating gently, creating little shimmers of undulating disturbances in the surrounding air, not entirely unlike being in the vicinity of another magic user weaving a spell.
But it's not magic, he knows that. It's a human invention, the mortal child of technology and science, created by some Midgardian, perhaps even by Tony himself.
His unabashed staring doesn't go unnoticed for long. "Oh, this thing in my chest?" Tony says flippantly, apparently used to inquisitive stares. "It's an arc reactor and a little souvenir from my getting almost blasted to pieces in Afghanistan." There's a short pause as he taps a fingernail against the ghoulishly glowing surface. "And it's also what caused your lamentable performance issues that one time, by the way." Loki can almost hear the smirk underneath, and the reminder of his failure stings.
"I see," he says flatly in response, not happy about being reminded of that miserable day. He's not quite sure what the arc reactor is really doing in Tony's chest, but he decides it might be unwise to prod further.
Tony regards him for a few moments, then pulls out a chair, turning it around so he can straddle it, arms resting on top of the backrest. "Don't mind me," he says to Loki with another one of those cocksure grins of his. "I just happen to enjoy watching other people working, so just continue as you were." He waves his fingers at him, shooing him on.
Of course. No fun humiliating the fallen enemy unless you're there to watch, is there?
Silently fuming, Loki clenches his teeth as to stop his tongue from rattling off a few select ill-advised truths at the smug man lounging over the backrest of his chair as if he's about to watch a show with trained animals doing little tricks for the amusement of the spectators. Perhaps if he keeps ignoring him, he will tire and go away to play with his inventions and Midgardian technology instead.
So he scrubs the shoe brush against the dark leather in his hand, smearing the foul-smelling substance all over the piece of ugly, uncomfortable-looking footwear, trying to pretend Tony isn't there.
Tony remains silent for a few merciful seconds, but it soon proves too much for him and he starts another round of inane blabbering.
"Actually, Reindeer Games, it's nice seeing you doing some honest work for once. You know, as opposed to trying to take over the planet." He eyes the shoes littering the floor and then bends down from his chair to pick one up, studying it with feigned interest. "You're not too bad at it either, for an alien not used to this kind of stuff. But you clearly have talent, so perhaps I should start a small-scale shoe-polishing business here and rent your services to the good citizens of New York, how about that?" He drops the shoe back to the floor and strokes his bearded chin with one hand, as if in deep contemplation over philosophical issues.
Then he snaps his fingers and points at Loki. "I got it – Stark's Shiny Shoes!" He grins again. "You like that name? Kinda snappy with the three identical initial letters combination, that sort of stuff psychologically appeals to people, you know."
Unconsciously, Loki's hand tightens around the shoe in his hand, crumpling the black leather until it creaks in protest at the ungentle treatment.
"Hey," Tony snaps, snagging the shoe out of his grasp. "Don't ruin my stuff. These beauties cost me over four hundred bucks."
Midgardian currency means nothing to Loki, but he figures the footwear is expensive, high-class like most everything else in the man's possession. Though, if the shoes are truly that superior, they should be able to withstand a little clenching. But what is to expect from Midgardian quality anyway?
Loki can feel a muscle in his cheek twitch in annoyance, pulling his lips upwards in a snarl. If Tony wants to tell him how to do things, then he might as well do them himself, and he's really itching to tell the man just that.
Ever observant, Tony notices the little spasm of irritation. "You heard me, princess. Don't ruin my stuff." He motions with the shoe, punctuating the four final words with a downwards stab for each one before finally pointing the thing at Loki. "Got it?"
Loki gives him a glare, as frosty as he dares. "I got it," he says, slightly wincing at the ill hidden animosity he can hear in his own voice.
Tony straightens in his chair, crossing his arms just below the eerie glow of his chest, obviously having heard it as well. "My house, my rules, buddy. Though, if you prefer, I'm sure we can arrange a transport back to Asgard if following a few simple rules is too much for you." Brown eyes are boring into his. "Is that what you want?"
The threat makes a prickle of icy dread stir within him, and he lowers his gaze, shaking his head. No, he doesn't want that, knowing the kind of justice that would await him there. Even Tony must surely realize this, though the man obviously relishes in the opportunity to force the choice out of him (as if he even has one), humiliating him by having him openly admit his preference for living under Tony's yoke as opposed to getting sent back to Asgard for a long-winded execution.
And once more, he finds himself wondering how long he will be able to keep a lid on his simmering anger, how much more of this he can take before the kettle will blow and he will do something that he will sincerely regret for the rest of his miserable existence.
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