Author's note: In response to Lokyrie: nope, it won't be. ;)
It takes a long time for him to fall asleep that night. Despite his both mental and physical exhaustion, he remains lying wide awake on his spot on the carpet, huddled beneath the blanket, listening to the regular sound of Stark's light snoring.
Occasionally, he dozes. At those times, his dreams are filled with blood and terror and vile monsters with foam dripping from their mouths.
When he wakes up, he's bathed in cold sweat. One time, after a particularly vivid nightmare, he's terrified that he has screamed out loud and awoken Stark, but the soft sounds coming from beneath the covers of the majestic bed remain unchanged. Maybe it was only in his dream that he was screaming.
It's ironic, despite having the most comfortable sleeping arrangements since his sentence – a thick carpet beneath him and a soft blanket to wrap around himself, as opposed to the hard ground and nothing but the nearby bodies of the other slaves for warmth – he hasn't slept this bad in a very long time.
Pulling the blanket tighter around him, he prays for obliterating sleep to claim him and save him from his own nightmarish thoughts until morning comes.
He's awoken by a smart, three-rap knock on the door. For a moment he's confused, nothing making sense. What is he doing sleeping somewhere where people knock before they enter? Why is there something soft beneath him?
Then the pieces rearrange themselves at the sound of Stark's voice.
"Come in!"
And in steps Ulfgrimm. He stops respectfully in the hallway and makes a sweeping bow.
"My sincere apologies for waking you, Lord Stark. It was not my intention to disturb you needlessly. However, Loki has not reported for his duties this morning, so I thought I'd… check up that everything is in order."
He's overslept, and probably a lot too, if Ulfgrimm is here. His stomach sinks; another thing he will be punished for, then, even if he could hardly have walked out of here before Stark was done with him.
"It's just peachy, thanks for asking," Stark responds as he sits up, hand rubbing his temple in a way that clearly belie his words. All that wine from yesterday is bound to still be making its effects known.
Ulfgrimm eyes Loki but makes no comment on his still prime condition. "Well, when you're… finished with the slave, perhaps you would be so kind as to send him back to the barracks so he can care for his duties of the day?"
"Yeah, about that." Stark sits up a little straighter, more alert, now. "I figured it would be great to have a… hmm, now, what is the correct term?" He rotates his wrist in a horizontal circle as if the movement will cause the word he's looking for to materialize out of thin air. The he snaps his fingers in a show of sudden insight. "Ah, should we call it a personal attendant, for the rest of my stay here? You know, someone to fetch my stuff and polish my boots and that sort of thing."
Ulfgrimm looks a little taken aback by the request, but he quickly collects himself. "But of course! Our apologies for not thinking of this ourselves. I will immediately have one of our finest servants sent to personally attend you."
"I really appreciate you guys being so accommodating and all, but I already had someone particular in mind for this position." His gaze drifts towards where Loki is huddling beneath his blanket and he raises his eyebrows in indication of his choice. "I figured that after everything, with his whole trying to invade my home world and making my people kneel and all, it would only be fair."
"It is fair indeed, and it shall be as you wish," Ulfgrim agrees, the hint of a sadistic smile playing on his face that he tries his best to hide by bowing again.
And with that, the overseer wishes Stark a good day with the most flowery words a man of his limited intellect can think of, and then excuses himself.
And Loki is alone with Stark. A very much awake Stark who seems to have no intention of going back to sleep again now that he's been woken up.
Again, though, Loki is made to wait for his fate, as Stark first busies himself in the bathroom, taking his time. There's water running and Loki thinks he can feel the fragrance of at least three different Midgardian hygiene products drifting out from beneath the bathroom door.
He frets where he's kneeling, his fears of what is about to happen having risen full force, and when Stark finally steps out fully dressed, a cloud of hot, misty damp accompanying him, his heart makes a double beat. This time, Stark doesn't just walk past him but stops at an arm's length away. Loki holds his breath as Stark reaches out to pick up Ulfgrimm's whip still lying on the nearby table. So this is it, then.
He watches as Stark inspects the implement, weighing the handle in his hand and touching the leather. Then he looks directly at Loki.
"Something tells me that you're rather familiar with this."
It's not quite a question. Loki looks away.
Stark continues to fiddle with the handle, twirling it in his hands.
"Guess this hurts quite a bit, doesn't it?"
Loki shudders involuntarily, hating his own display of weakness.
Stark twirls the handle again. Then he places the whip back on the table and reaches down to grab hold of Loki's shirt with both hands, yanking him up so that he's standing on his knees, Stark's face staring down into his.
"And tell you what. I'm not going to be using that thing on you 'cause I'm not a fucking barbarian. But that doesn't mean I will stand for any bullshit coming from your general direction. Honest mistakes I might be gracious enough to overlook, but not any intentional disobedience or shit-making." He gives Loki a shake, but it's not all that rough. "Are we clear?"
Is Stark serious? Hesitantly, he nods his understanding, if not quite his belief.
"As for your punishment for yesterday's screw-up," Stark continues, as he lets go of Loki and picks up the wine-spattered jacket from the chair it's currently occupying. Its golden lustre is oddly dull in the dimmed light of the room, nothing like the brilliant sheen he remembers from yesterday. He throws the garment at Loki's feet, where it lands with a dull thud. "It's to clean this thing up. You spilled on it, so you wash it."
Is Stark joking with him? That is supposed to be his punishment?
But Stark is already heading towards the door, apparently having said what he intends to on this matter. "Alright, I have important stuff to attend to. Meetings and shit." He snorts, muttering to himself, now. "And here I thought you space-aliens did things differently, but you're just as creative as humans when it comes to inventing meetings with the sole purpose of wasting as many people's time as possible."
Stark's hand is on the door handle before he turns around to address Loki again.
"Oh, and take a bath and wash your hair while I'm gone. It stinks."
Like he suspected, the gold is artificial, that much is obvious when he scrubs and rinses the fabric, struggling to get the reddish stains out. No wonder it wasn't such a big deal to Stark.
Still, the man didn't take the chance, despite how perfectly it had been presented to him, to have Loki beaten. He's still not quite sure why, considering how angry Stark had been at him during their first encounter. But perhaps he simply finds the sight of his old enemy cowed and forced to humbly serve on him more rewarding and pleasing than simple acts of violence. Not even all of the Vanir who so enjoyed tormenting him did physically assault him, after all, some took their pleasure merely in gloating and revelling in his humiliation. Perhaps Stark is the same. It would certainly explain why he asked to have Loki personally attend to him. And if so, Loki can deal with that. What pride does he have left anyway?
Critically, he examines the result of his scrubbing, holding the jacket up to the light. He thinks the stains are finally gone, or at least as good as. Perhaps he can detect a very slight difference in shading if he squints, but for someone not knowing where to look, it's as good as invisible. And as good as he can make it, unless he wants to put a hole into Stark's jacket with his insistent scrubbing.
Satisfied, he hangs the garment on a nearby hook to dry. That takes care of the first problem, but there is now the next one to consider – Stark's order to tell him to bathe and wash his hair.
There is a large bathtub in splendid green marble standing on golden clawed feet right next to him, but of course he can't utilize that. A slave making use of a bathtub like a free man would be unheard of. And very, very much not allowed. Slaves are directed to the water barrels in the courtyard for their washing needs, no one would for a second entertain the thought of having a slave splashing around in a bathtub.
Except that now Stark has ordered him to, and that's a problem. Loki doesn't dare to think about the consequences of his sitting in Stark's bathtub if one of the overseers comes in to inspect on things. Even if Loki were to make it quick, thereby reducing the risk of direct discovery, his wet hair would still give his illicit activities away for hours afterwards. He has no way to explain that it was on Stark's order, and it will do him little good to have the man vouch for him once his punishment has already been meted out.
He could have snuck out to use the water barrels in the courtyard, hoping the resulting semi-cleanliness would be sufficient to please Stark, if it hadn't been for two reasons, the first being that by this time of day the barrels have long since been emptied. And the second being that he doesn't dare to leave the room. Stark specifically said he wanted for Loki to serve on him personally, and what if the man returns here to find Loki gone? Unacceptable. He would surely regret his previous lenience.
Perhaps Stark gave him this order as a more subtle form of torment, to have Loki fret and worry while he's gone? Surely he knows full well that slaves aren't permitted to use the bathtub; things are most definitely not any different in Midgard. Or maybe it is a test, to see whose authority Loki will defer to, Vanaheim's rules or Stark's contradicting orders?
Of course, the overseers may not come in here at all today. And if he decides to disregard Stark's order, he will only needlessly draw Stark's certain wrath with his disobedience. Either way, his choices consist of either risking a possible punishment from an overseer, who will most likely be Ulfgrimm, if he obeys Stark, or submitting to the guaranteed punishment from Stark if he follows the rules.
The first option would seem like the better one. At least that way there is a chance of avoiding punishment altogether. But Stark said he wouldn't take the whip to Loki, which an overseer would be guaranteed to do.
There's not even a contest. He shuts the bathroom door behind him and returns to the main room. If someone comes in, he can't be found here lounging around in idleness, so he brings out the cleaning supplies from the closet again and gets to work. He will have to worry about Stark's return later.
The chambers are large, but not large enough to occupy him for a full day of cleaning. Still, it won't do to be caught doing nothing, so he wiles away the hours wiping at invisible dust, polishing already shining surfaces. His stomach growls occasionally, having not had anything to fill it since yesterday. Probably the slaves' evening meal is being served now, or if not now then soon, but he doesn't dare to go collect his ration, in case Stark should return while he is gone. His absence would be bad enough if the man wants immediate service, but now that Loki has also deliberately disobeyed a direct order it would spell disaster.
As he puts down a heavy ten-candle candelabra, non-existent dirt meticulously cleaned away, the door handle makes a soft click and a second later Stark enters the hallway. He's whistling softly, and Loki relaxes a tiny notch. At least the man is in a good mood.
Stark throws first Loki a look and then the table where he has just put the candelabra. "You missed a spot there," he comments, pointing.
Fretting, Loki looks to where Stark has pointed, but can see neither dust nor dirt.
"Just kidding," Stark says and then halts in his tracks.
"Didn't I give you an order before I left?" There's a steely edge in his voice, now, a sharp contrast to his previous joviality.
Loki has already fallen to his knees at the first sign of Stark's wrath, hoping his show of submission might serve to deflect some of it. He nods miserably from his lowly position on the floor.
"Then how come your hair is still as greasy as before? Forgotten how to wash?"
Tentatively, Loki points at himself, then in the direction of the bathroom, and shakes his head. If only he had his voice…
"You mean to say you're not allowed to?"
A wave of relief washes over him that Stark seems to comprehend the source of his predicament so quickly. He nods eagerly in response.
"Huh." Stark considers this for a few moments. Then, "alright, how about if I'm still in here?"
The image of such a scene unfolding is nothing short of ridiculous, Loki sitting in the bathtub like a free man while Stark is explaining to a gaping Ulfgrimm that indeed, it's all on his orders. But no one would question their guest to his face; the overseers would merely whisper later in the evening among themselves about the odd, impenetrable ways of Midgard that no sane person can be expected to understand.
He nods gingerly.
"Well, then," Stark says with a shrug and then points toward the bathroom. "Go wash."
The feeling is difficult to describe. It's somewhere between awkwardness and wrongness. But also with an underlying tinge of pleasure.
The water laps softly all around his body, like he's a rock in the middle of the ocean and it's trying to lull him to sleep. It feels good against his bare skin. Undemanding, somehow.
But he knows that the bath isn't meant for his enjoyment; he's in here because Stark finds his current hygienic state offensive and wants to remedy the problem. So he grabs the bottle of washing cream from the little hollow at the far end of the tub – it's still full; Stark hasn't used any of it, clearly preferring his own cleaning products – and rubs a generous helping of the contents into his hair. The lather is amazingly rich and smooth between his fingers, like liquid silk. A small, soft sound escapes his lips.
Leaning forward, he ducks his head beneath the warm water to rinse. He then repeats the whole process, to make sure to get all the grease out.
And then once more, just to be sure it's all gone.