Author's note: Well, we left Loki in a pretty tight spot last time… let's see if that spot will tighten further or not…
Loki waits along the wall next to one of the now empty food tables, kneeling. This has been one of the longest evenings he can remember. Every second drags like an eon, every minute like an infinity.
Normally he never has to wait for punishment, it's meted out immediately. To make things worse, unlike with Ulfgrimm and the other overseers, he has no idea what Stark considers appropriate consequences for an offence like this. Even if the suit isn't real gold and worth next to nothing for a man of Stark's immense wealth, Loki has embarrassed him in front of his Vanir peers, made him lose face, and that is surely a worse transgression than some ruined clothes.
Still, Stark doesn't seem overly concerned about his wine-soaked garments as he indulges in the drinks poured for him by better servers than Loki, talking and laughing with the other guests at the table as if nothing untoward has happened.
He looks down at the hands lying in his lap. They're shaking. And to think that only a few hours ago he had thought that the worst inconvenience of today would be some blisters from all that vegetable peeling. What he wouldn't give to be back there in that scullery, peeling until his hands bled dry, if that could help to avert the fate awaiting him.
He watches as the empty plates are collected and carried away, the last dish – cooked apricots with lemon cream – having now been served. His orders, however, are to wait here until Stark decides to retire for the evening. It won't do to have Loki down in the kitchen or running in the stairs when that happens, hence this enforced idleness despite the other slaves and servants scuttling around to tidy everything up and put away the leftovers after the marathon meal.
Drinks are still being poured, though, and the evening won't be over for quite some time. Especially not for a man like Stark who seems to take to alcohol like a fish to water.
Ulfgrimm is hovering nearby, waiting for the first sign that Stark is about to retire so he can immediately be at his side to escort the recalcitrant slave to the guest chambers. Probably hoping to salvage whatever might have been lost through Loki's unforgivable lapse with a sycophantic show of readiness and eagerness to cater to Stark's convenience.
Loki doubts that the trade has in any way been jeopardized, though. Stark will be far too eager to get his hands on what the Vanir are willing to offer him. The ways their knowledge of magic could complete and enhance his Midgardian technology would be a far too precious chance to waste. He can't help but wonder if Stark has made a similar deal with Asgard as the one he plans to make here, but he knows that the magic that flows from the Asgardian branch of Yggdrasil is more rigid, more incompatible with Stark's science. Vanaheim's more fluid brand of magic, for what limited familiarity Loki has with it, would be more suited to Stark's endeavours.
Besides, Asgard's martial prowess is greater than that of Vanaheim; they have less need for Stark's inventions. And the Aesir are a prouder race, unlikely to acknowledge that they would have any use for foreign technology in the defence of their realm.
He looks towards the main table again. Stark is regaling the other guests with some sort of story, his hands gesturing expressively as the Vanir are hanging onto his every word, mesmerized. If Loki concentrates, he can hear parts of the conversation and with nothing else to do, he listens.
"… and then Thor says – you have to hear this – 'wow, that's a huge drinking bowl,' and I say to him, 'dude, that's a Midgardian toilet'…"
Roars of laughter. Of course, the story is made up – Thor is neither stupid nor so ignorant, nor are Midgardian toilets so visually different from their Aesir counterparts – and the Vanir know it too, but they delight in it nevertheless. As a smaller realm on the outskirts of Yggdrasil, they're used to living in Asgard's shadow and hence sensitive about their own comparatively minor importance. Stories that illustrate the supposed lesser intelligence of the Aesir are popular here. Stark has done his homework well. Probably he got that particular piece of information from Thor, who is intimately familiar with the nature of the relations between the two realms, though Loki doubts that his brother suggested that specific story to tell.
He keeps watching Stark from afar as the man fluently switches to another tale, this one with a smudge more truth in it. Stark is skilful and has his audience eating out of his hand, lapping up his every word. Loki wonders if the man is equally talented around the negotiating table and surmises that he is. Even if he's putting on a light-hearted show now, he is here for a reason and intends to leave with what he came for. When it comes to business, Stark is sure to be ruthless to the core.
And perhaps in other situations too.
He shudders.
He recalls the short time he spent in Stark's penthouse and his initial confusion as he entered the high-rise dwelling. He had expected a big commotion to greet him, that all the slaves and servants that such a wealthy man was sure to be surrounding himself with would be running in panic and fear as he appeared, but there had been no one at all. At first he had thought it was a trap, that the building had been vacated in expectance of his arrival, but as he walked through the rooms he could see no sign of any live-in staff whatsoever. There were only a couple of mindless robotic workers that seemed to take his presence with good grace, and that strange disembodied voice in the ceiling that did not take quite so well to his being there.
Stark must harbour a very strong dislike for servants and slaves if he refuses to keep any himself.
Another circumstance most decidedly not in Loki's favour.
He swallows a couple of times to get rid of the unpleasant taste in his mouth. Stark has now launched into a detailed exposé describing his suits, and not the golden ones, impressive as the Vanir might find them, but the ones made out of steel and deadly weapons, the ones they are so greatly coveting.
Yes, such a weapon that won't put the defender into any danger is sure to fit the martially inferior Vanir perfectly.
He quenches the thought as quickly as it has surfaced in his head, lest it somehow be seen on his face. These kinds of disrespectful and unslave-like thoughts seem to appear more often nowadays. He hugs his knees tighter. No wonder he's in this situation. If only he had been more attentive, acted more like a slave was supposed to…
The evening drags on as Loki waits in his terror, the smallest movement of Stark's enough to send his stomach roiling in fear. Is this it? Is Stark now intending to stand up and retire for the night?
But the man continues to drink and talk, laugh and drink.
And then, as Loki is starting to believe that the night will never end, Stark makes a show out of stretching his limbs and then pushes his chair back.
"Well, fair ladies, brave gentlemen," he nods at each of his companions in turn, "I have greatly enjoyed myself in your gracious company, but the hour draws late and I believe it is unfortunately time for me to retire for the night."
There are some disappointed ohs and awws at that.
"So, I wish you all a good night." He bends down to kiss the hand of the nearest lady, a youngish woman with a décolletage that is daring even by Vanir standards. She inclines her head and titters stupidly.
Then Stark raises his glass, some red still sloshing around inside. "To Vanaheim!" he toasts. "The realm with the best wine by far! Not like the weak stuff you get in Asg… I mean, in some other places."
He winks and they laugh again, pleased, and lift their own glasses in turn, bestowing their guest with all sorts of fawning well-wishes for his health and wealth.
Ulfgrimm is immediately at Stark's side to pull the chair out for him, throwing Loki a harsh look that brokers no argument. Loki has no choice but to stand up and follow meekly, the overseer's grip on his arm hard enough to leave bruises.
Another eternity passes by as they make their way to the guest room area. It's not very far from the dining hall, the placement designed to be convenient for visitors, but tonight the distance stretches for miles and their footfalls echo between the walls like the drum beats accompanying a doomed man to his public execution.
And then they're standing in front of that accursed oaken door. Stark enters first, followed by Ulfgrimm half-shoving, half-pushing Loki inside.
Heart pounding like a steam hammer, Loki watches as Ulfgrimm unhooks the whip from his belt and demonstratively places it on the nearest table. "At your discretion, My Lord," the overseer says and gives another deep, toadying bow in Stark's direction before making his leave, scowling viciously at Loki as he walks by.
And then it's only the two of them. Loki holds his breath for what is coming, the pooling dread in his stomach making his entire body tremble pathetically.
"Sheesh, I need a drink," Stark comments, rubbing his face into his hands. For all he's been drinking tonight, he seems remarkably sober. And with that, he disappears into the bathroom, turning on the tap, leaving the water running for a long time.
Anxiously, Loki kneels on the plush carpet to await Stark's return, listening to the muted sloshing and splashing in the bathroom. He tries not to look at the whip lying on the table a mere arm's length away. Probably he will be made to scrub his own spattered blood off the walls and floor once Stark is done with him.
The sound of water suddenly stops, and a minute later Stark steps out of the bathroom. He walks past Loki where he's kneeling, taking off his soiled jacket as he goes and throwing it across the back of the nearest chair.
And then Loki watches in confusion as Stark continues to remove the rest of his clothes, even his undershirt, all the way down to his underwear.
Ice fills his veins as he realizes the implications of this – what Stark has in store for him will be so bad that the man first wants to undress as to not ruin his clothes with Loki's blood.
Was his misdeed really so dire?
But it's not about a spilled drink, he understands now. No, this is about the pain and suffering he brought to Stark's realm, for very nearly taking the life of the man before him. Stark has not forgotten and he intends to make Loki pay.
And to think that Loki was naïve enough to believe that Stark found his displays of humility and cowedness sufficient. No, he has surely waited for this, for Vanaheim's official permission to punish their property as he sees fit, to make Loki suffer by Stark's own hand.
Oh norns, how is he ever supposed to make it through this?
He looks down at his trembling hands, knowing there is no rescue to be had.
Then something hits him over the head and the world goes dark.
He blinks a few times in confusion and then pulls the blanket off his head that Stark has thrown at him. And watches as Stark pulls the opulently decorated bed cover aside and crawls beneath the expensive silks.
"I'm not going to deal with this shit at this time of night," he mutters. "Go to sleep, Loki." His hand reaches out for the light switch and the room is flooded in darkness. "You could probably need it."
Sleep.
So Stark is saving it for tomorrow, then.
He shudders, the butterflies that have occupied his innards swirling around in elaborate dances. But it makes sense. The man must be tired after a long evening of drinking and conversing and being on his best behaviour. He will want to save his revenge for a time when he can properly savour it.
And Loki has to wait the whole night for it.
Sleep, Stark had said.
As if.
End note: Ops, still no resolution as to Loki's punishment… *ducks bricks from angry readers*