Author's note: As always, thank you so much for all the encouraging comments and reviews! :D
As last chapter ended on quite the evil cliff-hanger, we'll move onto the resolution without further ado! ;)
The cold steel against his skin is cold no longer, having rested against his wrist for so long that it has acquired the temperature of his own body. Still, he is loath to withdraw it, removing himself from this flimsy reassurance of security the blade offers him. At least with the knife in hand, he still has an option, as opposed to being a powerless victim, time after time again.
Yes, he has a choice, for once. One that he is free to make, should his situation call for it.
He should have heard the quick footsteps approaching, of course, but he is too deeply absorbed in the alluring glint of the steel to notice much else. At this point, there is only him and the sharp knife in his hand. Until the two of them are suddenly joined by the sound of a well-known voice somewhere behind him, anger and rage simmering below the surface.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Tony.
The knife in his hand falls to the floor, falling from suddenly drained and lifeless fingers, clattering dully against the marble tiles.
Reflexively, he spins around, finding himself face to face with the owner of that voice, who is looking at him which such vehemence that he immediately takes a step back, only to have the kitchen counter slam into his back, effectively stopping his retreat.
His hands grip the marble behind him for support as a sharp flash of fear slashes inside of him at the realization that Tony has just caught him red-handed holding a knife to his own wrist. And he knows full well that it is strictly and expressedly forbidden for slaves to make any attempts at their own lives, to make violence on their masters' property. It is considered a serious offence and is punished accordingly. Brutally.
He silently curses his own stupidity. After all his time here, how could he forget that Jarvis would notice what he was doing, and report it back to Tony? Why couldn't he have stopped to think before pulling that knife out of its holder? He shouldn't have done that if he hadn't been ready and willing to make use of it.
The feeling of his stomach falling is sickening. He knows that this tiny sliver of comfort that was his for a few precious moments will be taken away from him now, the knives and anything similarly sharp will be placed out of his reach, where he can't get to them. The only other alternative he had will be gone, and Jarvis no doubt told to be on extra alert for any similar future attempts.
Not only that, but to add insult to injury he now has another mark on the list of things that he will be punished for, either before or after Tony's had his fun with him.
And if there is one thing he didn't need, it was for that list to grow even longer.
Tony is only standing there, silent and unmoving, staring at him. Perhaps he's waiting for an explanation, or perhaps for his slave to throw himself at his feet and beg. But Loki does neither. Because neither would make any difference, he is certain.
Then, rather than dishing out any immediate punishment, Tony brusquely points to one of the kitchen chairs. "Sit. The. Fuck. Down," he growls rather than speaks.
Loki obeys without a word, glad his legs are still steady, and then watches as the man pours himself a glass of brandy and downs it in one big gulp. And then another, after which he slams the bottle down on the counter with unnecessary force.
Then he turns back to Loki, coming to a halt before him.
"Alright, princess," he says, his accusing stare fixed on Loki. "Now I want you to tell me exactly what the hell you were doing with that knife?"
Panic bubbling up inside of him, he gropes around for an answer, finding none that is even remotely satisfactory. Of course, there are no acceptable replies, there is no way he'll be able to explain this away, Silvertongue or not. What reasons are there for anyone to be standing around with a knife to one's wrist other than the obvious?
"I wasn't about to do it," he finally blurts out, and it's only half a lie. Not now, at least, he wasn't. Even he can hear how weak and feeble the excuse sounds, and it is certainly not going to do anything to placate Tony.
He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms; Tony is obviously furious at his slave for having committed yet another serious offence. Once again, Loki has just managed to make things even worse for himself, to dig his hole even deeper.
And this time he didn't even actually do anything.
The drink is still burning in the back of his throat and he itches to down the next one in one big gulp too, but he resists the temptation. Something is telling him that too much alcohol right now wouldn't be a good thing, even if a glass or two would surely only improve the situation.
He just can't believe this whole fucking mess that's unfolding in front of him. Loki was contemplating offing himself? Regardless of whether he was planning on actually going through with it or not, there was no doubt that he'd been at least considering it. Why else would that knife have been in his hand when Tony rushed in here, blade resting at the thin pale skin of his wrist?
There is no other explanation, and he doubts that even Loki will be able to offer him one.
And he can't understand why, because he sure can't remember treating Loki that badly. He's provided him with proper food, clothing, a bed to sleep in, even let the god read his books to pass the time. Not that Tony has ever made a field-trip to the dungeons in Asgard, but he's certain that the living arrangements offered here are infinitely better than what the god had in his cell back home. And heck, it's certainly a lot better than the conditions that normal convicts in this country are living in as well, so the god is hardly in a position to complain, prince or not.
No… it can't be that. There must be something else that has driven the god to contemplate such an act of desperation. He gets a sneaking suspicion that he's missing an important part of the puzzle somewhere, a lost piece that he's struggling to find, but it keeps evading him. Because from where he is standing, things just aren't making any sense. This is not like Loki, not like him at all. The god was always so smug and self-satisfied, like he believed himself the greatest thing since sliced boar, like the ground was unworthy of bearing his weight, always looking down on everyone else. Sure he's been taken down a few hundred notches since his defeat in New York, but he is still Loki. Arrogant. Conceited. Superior. Not someone who would end his own life over… whatever it is that has been festering inside of his mind.
And despite his shocked confusion at this turn of events, he's angry. Angry that someone should even consider such a thing here in his very tower. That anyone would stoop to such a pointless, senseless, utterly irrevocable act, even if that someone is Loki. There mere thought is revolting and appalling in its meaninglessness.
'I wasn't about to do it,' the god had said.
Yet another lie? There is no way for him to tell. Maybe it's the truth, maybe it's not.
And there's only one thing he can do right now, as much as he doesn't want to go there. But he has to get to the bottom of this, find out what prompted this shit. He might not like it, but he has a responsibility, despite never wanting it in the first place, and it's up to him to deal with the fall-out.
One thing is certain though. No one is going to kill themselves on his watch, demented super-villainous god or not.
"Really," he says, not even bothering trying to hide the stark disbelief in his voice. "Then what was that knife doing in your hand? Were you perhaps about to make a salad? Or practice Chinese paper cutting? Huh?"
Loki swallows. And instead of answering, he just sits there, brooding, like the weight of the world has been deposited on his shoulders, staring at a spot on the floor. So very un-haughtily. Un-cockily. Un-arrogantly. Un-Loki-ly.
Tony slams his fist on the table, making the god jump in surprise. "I said, what the fuck were you doing with that knife back there?"
Loki is still quiet. He twists uncomfortably as his mouth tightens.
Tony refuses to relent, "Speak up," he pushes, refusing to accept Loki's stubborn silence. "What led you to even consider this?"
Loki looks like he's on the verge of saying something, but his half-open lips then snap shut before even a single word has left his mouth.
This clearly isn't leading anywhere. Perhaps he should try another angle.
And he isn't a therapist, not even close to it. In fact, he is utterly abysmal at most forms of interpersonal communication not involving sarcastic banter or technological information exchange. But he can't back off, as much as he might want to. For a moment, he wishes Bruce were here; that guy would have known how to deal with a fucked-up situation like this, despite his shy and quiet demeanour. But he's not, so Tony has to handle this on his own.
So he turns to the only comfort he can find, the glass in his hand, taking another sip, and then leans back against the kitchen counter as he fixes Loki with an unwavering glare. "You know, it hasn't exactly slipped my notice how you seem to have taken a deep dive head first into the land of eternal doom and gloom lately without bringing a return ticket. Mind telling me what prompted that?"
There is only silence. An oh-so-long silence.
No, he isn't a therapist. Of course his efforts will only be met with stubborn silence. And what the hell is he going to do if Loki won't deign him with an answer? He can't leave things as they are, not if he doesn't want to risk tripping over a lifeless body next time he steps over a doorsill.
His mind is swirling. Usually, you admit suicidal people to special facilities or at least have them see some kind of mental health consultant, or whatever fancy name shrinks go by today, but he can't do that with Loki.
Yeah, I have a suicidal demented alien god who tried to take over the planet a while ago and he needs some help. That'd go over swell. SHIELD would swoop down in a matter of minutes, and make Loki regret not having cut his wrists when he still had the chance. And Tony would get a visit from Erik and his little team of sword-wielding berserkers, demanding to know why Loki is no longer in his care, as decreed by Allfather Almighty.
Come on, give me an answer, any answer, just something to work with, he silently urges the clammed-up god.
Then, as if on command, Loki looks up to face him, green eyes boring into his.
"When do you intend to claim your rights to bed me?"
The glass in Tony's hand falls to the floor and breaks into a thousand pieces.
And so we exchange last chapter's cliff-hanger for another one…
Please review. :)