Author's note: And so we begin the chapter with a hung-over!Loki… ^^
When he wakes up, it's with a throbbing headache and an angry buzz inside his skull. With a heroic effort, he pushes himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, grimacing slightly as he rubs his hands over his face. Yesterday evening is mostly a dim haze in his mind, but he does remember the glasses of alcohol he'd downed since Tony apparently didn't feel like drinking alone.
For a while, he just sits there, debating with himself whether he should crawl back down under the covers again, but deciding against it. He's feeling too restless for that, and lying there wide awake staring up into the ceiling, unable to stop his gaze from once more trailing along the faint cracks up there, despite the spider web-thin pattern being so firmly imprinted in his mind by now that he could draw a flawless copy of it.
So despite the queasiness and his aching head, he decides to leave the bed and promptly showers and dresses, following the same repetitive procedure as every morning.
Tony had mentioned yesterday during dinner that he would be out of the house today until evening, having to take care of some business or the other. Until then, Loki is all alone.
Again.
Opting to get himself some breakfast, he ambles out of the door and down the corridor, silently counting the steps out of habit despite already knowing exactly how many there are from his room to the kitchen. Tony has long ago made it clear that Loki is allowed to help himself to food whenever he's away, so at least he doesn't have to go hungry until the man returns home.
The sight that greets him as he enters the kitchen is the same as always – black marble, dark wood, and glistening chrome. He walks up to one of the cupboards, steeling himself for the customary high-pitched squeak he knows it's going to give off as he opens it. He's stopped wincing at it long ago, though, having heard it a multitude of times already.
At least he knows his way around the kitchen well enough by now to find everything he needs on his own. It's not like anything substantial ever changes in here, or anywhere else in the tower.
A minute later, he's sitting with his usual bowl and spoon and milk and box of Cheerios, all things that have grown so strangely familiar by now. The bowl has a little chip in it, and he still notices it despite all the times it's been there on the table in front of him. The spoon has a darker spot at the end where the metal has discoloured slightly, and in spite of his numerous attempts at removing this offence to his sensibilities, it refuses to go away. But he can't stop the reflexive act, as futile as it is, so again his thumb rubs against the spoon, his efforts still leaving no visible effects.
Then he sits there at the kitchen table, staring into the same spot of the wall as always, listlessly lifting spoonful after spoonful of the milk and Cheerios to his mouth, mechanically chewing without really tasting. Swallowing without really enjoying any of it.
Once the bowl is empty, he remains in his chair for a while, not quite sure what to do with himself. He knows there is more paperwork awaiting him, but that's not going to take all day. Perhaps he could read a book, like he so often does.
Midgardian books, barely making half sense to him with their unfamiliar words and settings and people and ways of acting.
Unbidden, the thought of his books back in Asgard arises, those well-worn but alluring things. The rustling parchment bound between graceful and elegant leather covers, the long nights spent reading by the soft glow of burning candles, the heady excitement at all the knowledge awaiting at his fingertips – it's still so painfully vivid in his mind.
But of course, they're not his books anymore. Slaves don't own property, and whatever things used to be his back in Asgard are bound to have been either disposed of or are now in the possession of someone else.
The thought cuts like a knife inside of him, razor-sharp and cruel. Now he doesn't own anything anymore; not even the clothes on his body are his own, they belong to Tony.
Tony. One of the wealthiest, most affluent men this realm has to offer, that much he's understood. And one of their greatest heroes too boot. He's not really familiar with Midgardian titles and honours, but he supposes if Tony had been Aesir, he would have been considered a lord. If he hadn't been born one, he would have been made one, the title being granted to him at a boring but grandiose ceremony. And in accordance with his station, he'd have had an entire entourage of servants and workers and slaves to run his household and to wait on him. And despite that, there's only Loki here.
Well, him and the robot servants. But they don't really count.
He watches dully as one of them cleans the floor of he kitchen, making quiet noises as it rolls along, leaving a moist trail in its wake. From the looks of it, even these artificial servants can do pretty much any of the chores that Loki is able to, and that just makes him feel even more useless. He supposes he should be glad that Tony is so wealthy, which means that feeding and supporting a slave who only contributes marginally to the household isn't going to have any noticeable economical effects, at least.
In fact, it would seem that his usefulness is so little that one of the best things that Tony can find for him to do is to serve as company during drinking.
He massages his temples, hoping his efforts will ease the pounding in his skull, but his efforts are to no avail. So instead, he slowly cleans up after his meal, and then continues on to the living room.
Sitting down on his usual spot on the floor, he opens the cardboard box waiting for him, pushing the flaps aside. It doesn't take long until he's surrounded by the familiar piles of paper. Unenthusiastically, he keeps reaching down into the box, picking up stack after stack of documents that are all starting to look the same to him by now. It's all just one long repeat of the days before, as if he's stuck in a time-loop where everything is being endlessly replayed all over again.
He's about halfway through when his stomach gives a complaining growl. The sound takes him somewhat by surprise, but since time has blurred into a haze during the monotonous work, any estimation of how many hours have passed since breakfast is impossible.
He might as well take a break, though, so he slouches back to the kitchen again, heading for the refrigerator; Tony always leaves behind a couple of those little boxes with food in them whenever he's away. So he takes one out, throwing an absent-minded glance at the innards of the refrigerator before closing it. It's mostly empty; not that he expected it to look any different from its usual state. As always, there are some bottles lining the shelves – some almost full, others with only dredges left at the bottom, enough for no more than a mouthful or two. Again, nothing that has changed since last time.
Closing the refrigerator door shut, he then sits down on his usual spot at the table. Tony once showed him how to use the microwave oven, as the device was called, in order to heat food. But he doesn't bother with it; it hardly makes a difference anyway. Instead, he just eats the cold meal directly from the box, dully noticing the name on the lid. Bartelli's Kitchen again; though the names vary, this is probably the most common one. Its flourish font looks out of place, even vaguely ridiculous, adorning something that contains something as simple as food.
He doesn't have much of an appetite, and it doesn't take very long before the fork in his hand goes from shovelling food into his mouth to poking at the remaining pieces, shuffling them around from one side of the box to the other, one of his elbows at the tabletop, cheek resting in his hand. When he finally decides to bring his meal to an end, more than half of the food is left uneaten.
And so he returns to sorting the rest of the papers, fleetingly wondering how many of these boxes are left. He has no idea how much paper is generated by a large business such as the one that Tony is heading, but he's not sure he wants to know.
Once the task is complete, he remains sitting on the floor with legs crossed, hands in his lap, staring at the sorted folders for lack of better things to do. Blue on black, a combination he has gotten so used to seeing by now. A part of him wishes the folders would at least come in different colours so he'd have at least this tiny little bit of variety in the otherwise unchanging monotony.
Reading a book doesn't hold any appeal to him for the moment, and he really doesn't know what else to do. So in the end, he crawls up into the couch, despite it not even being dark outside yet, opting for some sleep.
He isn't quite sure why he prefers the couch to his own bed, but maybe it's because it has less associated memories of fearfully twisting and turning in anxiety over Tony's plans for him, or maybe the living room, being larger, feels less suffocating, less of a reminder that he's stuck in these confinements. So he lies there, staring at the all-too familiar surroundings for a while, wondering how many years he will be trapped in here before finally being taken somewhere else.
But of course, there's no point in thinking about that now. There is nothing he can do about it; everything in his life, his entire existence, is at someone else's discretion, and will continue to be so until the end of his days.
So instead, he closes his eyes, trying to shut out the bitter reminder of his inescapable situation along with his surroundings. His mind is less cooperative, though, and still keeps on churning endlessly until he much, much later finally falls asleep.
He awakes with a startle, having to blink the sleep out of his eyes before once more getting his bearings – Tony's couch.
Slowly, he removes the blanket lying on top of him that he doesn't even remember covering himself with before dozing off, and slowly sits up.
"Good evening, sunshine; rise and shine," a voice says to his right and he looks up to see Tony sitting in a chair a short distance away, tapping away at his laptop.
He takes in the scene for a little while, as he tries to make sense out of the illogical situation. It would seem that Tony has resorted to seating himself on one of the less comfortable chairs in the living room, as opposed to his usual spot on the couch.
And that makes no sense, why Tony didn't just shake him awake and tell him to move out of the way.
Along with the confusion, he can't help but feel a bit stupid as well; slaves aren't supposed to be sleeping like that in the presence of their masters, even if they don't have any outstanding orders to carry out. Sure, Tony might not have taken offence at his last sleeping stint on the couch, but he still winces inwardly at knowing he's been caught at it again. Coming off as lazy and slacking to Tony will hardly do anything to improve his situation.
Again, he's hit by the frustration how nothing makes sense here. He's just so lost how to deal with everything – he doesn't understand Tony, he doesn't understand this realm, and he doesn't understand his place here. Not that he would have preferred the treatment he could have expected in Asgard – no, never – but that would at least have been something he would have been able to relate to, amidst all the uncertainty that comes with being thrown into an alien world, at the feet of one of the mortals with the most reasons to hate him.
Now it feels like he's just drifting, without even the tiny semblance of control that a clear understanding of the situation would have given him – because slaves, enemies, criminals don't get treated like this. And he's already so totally without control that even a hint of steady ground beneath his feet would have been comforting.
But instead, he's so stuck in this overwhelming confusion, stuck in this tower, stuck in this position… just plain stuck.
He looks out the window, but its dark outside and perhaps that's just as well. Seeing the world outside – strange and alien as it is to him – would just be a further reminder of the reality of his situation.
He almost startles as Tony smacks the laptop shut. "Okay, it's dinner time," the man announces, and Loki has no choice but to follow the well-known sight of Tony's retreating back into the kitchen, despite not being hungry in the slightest.
Some readers wanted Tony to put a blanket over a sleeping Loki, and here we are. It's rather subtle, though, so subtle that Loki didn't even realize it, but it's still there. ;)
Please review. :)