He wakes up as someone shakes his shoulder ungently, shattering the dream images in his head filled with cramped, colourless rooms and red-and-gold metal and green eyes burning with insanity.
Groaning, he turns around and comes face to face with Loki. He only startles slightly at the sight, the recollections from yesterday quickly returning. The injuries the god had sported last evening are gone without a trace, leaving only perfect pale skin, not even as much as a scar as memory.
"Get out of my bed, and return to your own chambers" Loki says. "I am fully healed and no longer have any use for your presence here."
Rubbing the remaining sleep out of his eyes, Tony pushes himself up into a sitting position and then yawns, stretching his arms over his head in feigned nonchalance.
"Kicking me out of bed already, Loki? Without even offering me breakfast? You know, not even I ever had the gall to do that to any of my bed partners," he quips in an attempt to get rid of the discomfort knowing he has just spent the night snuggled up against the guy who royally fucked up the whole planet. Yeah, he's going to take a very long shower.
"I grow weary of your insolence, Stark," the god says, his voice harder, now. "You'd do well to remember you're speaking to your king."
"Oh, and you're very welcome, by the way," Tony says, making to stand up and get his clothes still strewn out on the floor. "Though next time you want my services, you might wanna consider asking nicely and saying 'please' instead of order-"
A hand in his hair yanks him back to the bed before he's barely gotten his ass off it.
"Ouch!" he yelps, grabbing at the offending hand with both of his own. "What the hell are you-"
Loki's mouth is far too close to his ear for comfort as he leans in over Tony. He can't see the god's face hovering somewhere behind him, but from the tone of his voice as he speaks, it's clear that it's looking pissed.
"Your services are mine to use as I see fit," the god hisses. "And I am under no obligation to offer you any thanks for making use of what rightfully belongs to me, which so happens to include you."
Well, fuck. "I don't belong to anyone, Loki. And certainly not to you."
Judging by the way the fingers are tightening in his hair, that wasn't the right thing to say. Well, not that it wasn't obvious regardless.
"Oh, but you do," the voice says in his ear. He still can't see Loki's face, and he doesn't like that one bit. "In case you have forgotten, I have defeated you in battle and claimed you as spoils of war, so by law, you are mine. Keep that in mind, or your life here will be a lot more unpleasant than it would otherwise have to be."
Tony doesn't make any reply to that, his brain fully focused on how much he hates how vulnerable it makes him feel having his head pulled back like that, his throat all exposed. Seems like the little shit is having a real hair-pulling fetish, the way he's been going at it lately.
"Now, Stark, I am well aware of the improbability that you, for the time being, will be willing to offer me an apology for speaking to me with such disrespect." The hand in his hair releases its grip, withdrawing. "So instead, you can tell Jarvis when you are ready to apologize."
Sheesh.
He turns around, finally facing the god. "Well, I don't believe that I will, Loki," he says, though not liking the smugness in that face at all.
Loki gives him the hint of a smile, though it's more than a wolfish baring of teeth than anything else. "Oh, I do believe you will, eventually." He gestures towards the clothes still strewn over the floor. "Now, take your garments and get dressed. In your own chambers."
Tony doesn't need any more encouragement than that. Quickly, he picks his discarded clothes up off the floor, looking around for the sock still missing and finding it snugly nestled against one of the legs of the bed. He sticks his feet into his shoes, and then makes for the elevator.
"Good morning, Mr Stark," Jarvis says, his cheerfulness sharply clashing with Tony's own dour mood.
"Morning, Jarvis," he mutters, not feeling in the slightest up for any conversation. His scalp is still aching, but it's not nearly as disturbing as the knowledge that he's spent the night with Loki, as platonic as it was, getting spooned by him like a bitch.
As the elevator doors open on his own floor with the familiar soft swoosh, he makes straight for the shower, barely even stopping to kick off his shoes and dump his clothes into the laundry basket. The fact that they've been lying on Loki's floor all night is enough to merit a thorough wash before he deems it fit to put them on again.
The time he spends in the shower probably lasts even longer than after he was taken from his dank and filthy cell in that basement, and he uses up the remainder of the shower lotion left in the bottle on the cabin shelf. He washes his hair too, feeling a little better as the foamy water rinses all the intangible dirt and uncleanliness away.
Having dried himself off and sauntered off to his closet to dig out some new clothes, he heads to the kitchen, intending to make himself some breakfast. Not that he's particularly hungry, but he might as well eat anyway. He can't help but wonder how many of his fellow countrymen – and other people, too – are currently starving because of the invasion and the destruction left in its wake. And he feels a sting of guilt at that, how he's living in luxury, while so many others have suddenly been left with nothing.
Then again, he supposes at least those people still have their freedom, for whatever it's worth nowadays, while he's living as a prisoner in his own home.
Pushing the unpleasant thoughts away, he opens the refrigerator, figuring he'll make himself a sandwich of some sort. And then, he makes a double-take.
The refrigerator is empty. There's not a single food item left, not even the sad, scrunched-up apple that he had been intending to throw into the garbage, but then forgot about.
What the fuck?
Dumb-founded, he stares at the bare shelves, pristine white and gleaming metal, but nothing else. It's all wiped clean.
Frowning, he opens the door to the fridge instead, and is greeted by a similar sight. Everything is gone. Only the ice cubes are still left, a thin layer of frosty white on the top.
He slams the door shut and goes to check the nearest cupboard, though he already suspects that it will be as empty as the fridge and the refrigerator. His misgivings are confirmed only a moment later as he finds himself staring at nothing but empty shelves. A cursory and fully unnecessary look into the remaining cupboards tells him that there's not a single piece of food left to be had, not even those disgusting salmiak crackers that he bought at some point for whatever stupid reason.
"King Loki would like me to remind you that whenever you are ready to apologize for your insolence, you can tell me so and I will relay it on to him," Jarvis suddenly says, not sounding sorry in the least.
Tony feels like kicking something. Hard.
So that's the fucker's little game, huh? Starve him into submission?
And that's the thanks he gets for having let Loki leech on him like he's some kind of battery. Well, not that Tony had any choice in the matter, but still.
Resorting to kicking the kitchen table – though not too hard, since he's not wearing any shoes – he stalks off into the living room instead, sitting down before the TV. He doesn't even bother answering Jarvis, since it wouldn't be anything even remotely nice, and, like he keeps telling himself, it's not Jarvis' fault.
It's all Loki's fucking fault.
He's itching to head down to his workshop and fiddle with his suits or other projects, but he knows that's not possible. And it's incredibly frustrating, being forced into idleness like this, not being able to do anything worthwhile, not even using the computer. And Loki hasn't told him to get started on that arc reactor yet, so he doesn't even have that to occupy him. So instead, he amuses himself with graphically imagining all possible sorts of results from an arc reactor with some extra features added to it – hidden explosives tacked on beneath the rim, folded sharp metal pikes suddenly unsnapping, poison, acid, all sorts of things. Most of which would be wholly impossible to pull off, but he'll think of something once he gets started with it.
He watches the news. There's a long segment about the rebuilding of San Diego, a cheerful reporter eagerly rambling on about how well it's coming along and how everyone is making their part to help. There is some footage of people sawing and painting. A man wearing a red cap and sweating profusely talks for a while about community spirit and the importance of persevering, while a group of teenage boys in the background huddle over a pile of boards, poking and prodding. Not a word is said about the cause of all the destruction in the first place.
He wonders how much control over the media that Loki's exerting. If he's ordered them not to report anything that reflects badly on their new leader. Or hinted what might happen to those who are stupid enough to besmear him. Or if everyone has enough of a sense of self-preservation to know what's good for them without having to be told in the first place, if they're just falling into line in the new world order.
Disgusted, he switches channels, watching some monkeys go at it on the National Geographic Channel.
When his thoughts unbidden start to wander to Pepper, he changes channels again, instead settling for some stupid game-show featuring people getting wet and falling on their asses.
Then, he watches a couple of movies instead.
It's not until the sky outside has gone dark that he gets up from the couch, tired and hungry and thoroughly annoyed, and lumbers back into the kitchen. The tussle with Loki from yesterday has left his limbs sore and his body stiff, apart from the bruises and scrapes. Nothing serious, but irritating nevertheless.
The refrigerator is still empty. He doesn't bother checking the fridge or the cupboards.
So instead, he brushes his teeth and goes to bed, trying to take comfort in the fact that at least there is no evil demi-god nuzzling up next to him this time.
When he wakes up the next day, his stomach feels like a hollow pit, aching dourly. He ignores it. It's just hunger.
"Good morning, Mr Stark," Jarvis says as Tony walks out of the bedroom. "If you have changed your mind yet, please let me know."
He's very close to tell Jarvis to go to hell, but he doesn't. The AI can't help it, after all.
He spends the day watching some more movies, then wondering how edible toothpaste really is. Finally, he contemplates the many ways in which he would like to kill Loki, and how he could make them as painful as possible.
Much later, when his brain seems to have exhausted all possibilities and variations thereof, he falls asleep on the couch, not bothering undressing and going to bed.
He thinks about Afghanistan. Back then, his captors had fed him gruel and stale bread and food out of tin cans. Nothing had tasted even remotely good, but at least he hadn't been forced to go hungry. They needed him functional and able to use his full mental faculties, after all, not half-delirious from hunger.
As his stomach cramps again, he rolls over onto his side, hoping to ease the painful contractions a little. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't. This is one of those later times.
Jarvis has gotten more insistent, no longer just asking him in the mornings whether he's changed his mind. Loki, however, hasn't shown his face around him since he kicked Tony out of bed. Small graces and all.
He remembers reading in the newspaper years ago about a man who got trapped in a cave-in and survived by eating his own shirt. He wonders if that story was true or not.
Eventually, he gives up. It's not that he's letting Loki win; he's merely picking his battles. Being strategic. He won't accomplish anything by letting himself starve to death.
He'd kill for a cheeseburger.
"Jarvis?" he says, swallowing down the taste of defeat. Because it's not defeat, it's being strategic.
"Yes, Mr Stark?"
"Tell Loki that… that I…"
"Tell him what, sir?"
He grits his teeth. "Tell him I'll fucking apologize, alright?"
"Very well. I am glad you have come to the only sensible decision." A short pause. "I will inform King Loki of your change of mind when he returns tomorrow."
Tomorrow?
Fuck fucking goddamn King Loki, is all Tony can think as he wraps his arms around the stomach that's suddenly cramping wildly.
Poor Tony.
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