When he wakes up the next morning, the dull throbbing in his hand is as good as gone. Yawning, he pushes the cover aside and sits up cross-legged on the bed to unwrap the bandage so he can inspect whatever damage might still be left.

As he suspected, the cut is mostly healed, only a thin reddish line across his palm hinting at yesterday's mishap. It makes him feel a little bit better to see the proof that his healing abilities have kicked back into gear again after having been so forcibly suppressed in Vanaheim. He had healed fairly quickly in the dungeons, even without his magic, at least at first, but the process had become slower and slower as the harshness of his treatment had chipped away at his bodily resilience one tiny splinter a day, never giving it a chance to recover.

Stark handed him what remained of the roll of linen yesterday once he was done with his ministrations, telling Loki to use it to rewrap his hand in the morning, but he clearly doesn't need it. So he goes about his usual business of showering, dressing, and making the bed, before heading out to the kitchen to eat some breakfast. Some delicious breakfast.

He encounters Stark on the way, going in the opposite direction and no doubt heading out for the day. The man comes to a halt, his eyes immediately tracing a line down to Loki's hand.

"Okay, care to tell me why you didn't wrap your hand like I told you to yesterday?" comes the question, the sharpness of the man's voice well matching the annoyed frown on his face. "Because if you get an infection, I have a problem."

He feels a stab at unease at that; he doesn't want Stark to think that he wantonly chose to disregard the man's orders for no good reason, so he quickly holds up his hand, palm up, to show Stark the mostly healed state of yesterday's cut. "I… figured it wouldn't really be necessary. I heal quickly, more so than mortals." He knows that he's walking on thin ice, in essence hinting that Stark's orders were redundant and that Loki knows better, so he hastens to add another good reason for his actions. "So I thought I should not needlessly waste your supply of bandage when it could be used for more urgent needs."

"Yeah, because those rolls of gauze are so murderously expensive," Stark says with an eye roll, before tilting his head to give Loki a rather piercing gaze.

"And I realize it's kind of late to ask this now, but since we're on the subject, how's your back doing?"

At first Loki isn't sure what Stark is talking about – it was only his hand that got hurt yesterday – but a second later the relevant memory resurfaces. Of course, the man saw him with his shirt off that unusually warm spring day when Loki was working replacing the broken stone paving of one of the castle roads. With so much happening since then he had almost forgotten about that incident.

And to be honest, it's not one he particularly cares to be reminded of.

"It's almost healed," he says simply but truthfully, not meeting with Stark's gaze.

"Uh-huh," Stark says. "I believe it when I see it, so take your shirt off and prove it. I don't want any nasty fevery or putrefactory surprises coming up."

He doesn't really want to but if Stark wants to inspect his property, Loki can't deny him. So he pulls the grey t-shirt with its incomprehensible text message over his head and turns around so that Stark can see his back.

The man gives a slight whistle. "I'll be damned, you really do have super-enhanced healing abilities. This looks a whole freaking lot better than last time."

At that comment, Loki can't help but wonder what Stark had really thought back there, standing on the overhang walkway watching Loki work below with his shredded back. Back then, he had been so sure what kind of thoughts had been going through the man's head, but now he finds it much harder to make an educated guess. But it's not like he's going to ask Stark about it, of course.

"What did you do to get punished like that?" comes the question from behind him, and Loki takes that as a sign that the inspection is over, so he puts his shirt back on and turns around.

"I dropped a case of some valuable goods, and they broke," he says, wincing inwardly at the memory, of both the paralyzing horror he had felt as the crate flew out of his hands to crash into the ground and what had happened afterwards.

"Huh. It must have been some really valuable shit if it was worth it to mess someone up like that."

He has no reply to offer to that assessment; it's simply how slaves in Vanaheim – and Asgard too for that matter – are punished for their mistakes. And surely here in Midgard as well. But there is a clear hint of disapproval in Stark's voice, so perhaps it's not such a big mystery after all what he had thought up there on the walkway in Vanaheim.

"You don't scar, do you?" comes the next question.

"Not usually, Master. Though I might if the wound is very deep." He has a few such remaining reminders on his body, both from his stay in Vanaheim and from a couple of adventurous mishaps when he was younger and less cautious.

And if it had been anyone else, the enquiry would have worried him with its possible implications that the questioner might want to test and experiment with his healing abilities in rather unsavoury ways, but he finds that he's certain that Stark won't do that, as interesting as he might find Loki's alien physiology.

"Huh," is Stark's comment to that. "Well, I'm going out to pick some stuff up. I'll be back in a minute."

Loki has only just barely finished his breakfast and done the dishes when Stark returns, holding a thick wad of paper in his hands. The man plops down on the couch with a heavy sigh, legs almost indecently sprawled, and proceeds to leaf through the bundle until he finds what he's looking for and begins to read.

"Hey, why don't you go make me a cup of coffee." The man looks up from his clearly not-so-light reading to look at Loki. "Jarvis will tell you how to do it if you haven't done it before."

So Loki hurries into the kitchen to fulfil Stark's order. He knows of Midgardian coffee and has even tasted it though he finds the concoction unpleasant, almost to the point of undrinkable. Why the bitter beverage enjoys such popularity in this realm eludes him, but he does like the smell which is very different from the taste.

Jarvis instructs him on how to prepare the coffee-making machine and then Loki watches the drink slowly percolate, spreading a pleasant, almost cosy smell in the kitchen. He inhales deeply, enjoying the unusual but agreeable aroma.

The cup is full almost to the brim as he picks it up, so he has to walk carefully as to not spill any of the brown liquid. Stark has spread his reading material all over the living room table, white pristine sheets covering the entire surface. It strikes him how blindingly white Midgardian paper is; Asgardian paper always has a yellowish or brownish tinge to it and it's not nearly as thin and flimsy as its Midgardian equivalent that looks like it would immediately tear if one were to handle it a tad bit carelessly. And the text printed upon it is always so incredibly tiny, almost to the point of being annoying.

But it's not his papers to read, his task is merely to serve Stark his coffee. The deviously curled edge of the black-and-blue carpet that's spread out beneath the living room table could not have been more insidiously placed, so he makes sure to step carefully as he crosses it. It takes his eyes a few seconds to alight upon a paper-free spot large enough to admit the cup in his hand, but luckily there is one within Stark's reach so he sets the cup down there.

"Awesome," Stark comments, his nearest hand immediately going out for the drink with the speed of a man reaching for a glass of water after having languished for days in the desert. Loki winces inwardly as Stark proceeds to take a swig of what must be the scalding hot liquid inside, but the man seems fully unperturbed by the blistering heat as he swallows with a contented expression. "That's the stuff."

With that, he puts the cup down again and returns his focus to his papers.

Loki frets for a few seconds about what to do next. Stark hasn't issued him with further orders as expected, and now that the man's focus is on his no doubt important work, Loki doesn't want to disturb him by asking. So the best course of action is surely then to remain in the close vicinity in case Stark thinks of something else he wants Loki to fetch or do. Most likely that something will be to refill his cup of coffee, considering the number of empty cups with brown stains in them that Loki has already encountered during his short time here. Mostly they were littering the kitchen or living room, but one he found in the guest bathroom, and he was very quick to take care of that one.

Satisfied with his choice of action, he kneels down next to where Stark is sitting, close enough to be readily at hand but not so close as to disturb or hinder. Again, he's grateful for the plush, soft carpet that's covering the floor. Perhaps Stark will tell him to go clean or something rather than sit here idle and unproductive, but if not, at least he won't be uncomfortable for quite some time.

With his eyes level only with Stark's chest he rather senses than sees how the man suddenly stops his reading and turns his head to look at him where he's kneeling. For a few fleeting seconds it seems like Stark is about to say something – most likely, issue another order – but then he apparently thinks better of it as he returns to his papers, ignoring Loki for now.

And so they both sit there, the only sound breaking the silence the soft rustling of papers and the occasional slurping as Stark takes another swig from his coffee. It's quite peaceful, and Loki feels his body as well as his mind start to relax. Such a difference this is from his miserable existence in Vanaheim. He still can't quite believe how lucky he is, how his fortune has changed so much for the better. Not having to deal with constant fear or pain or gnawing hunger any longer. He's even free to sit here and just… do nothing at all, as opposed to labouring until his body aches. With nothing better to do, his thoughts start to drift to this and that and then to nothing in particular, and for a short moment he closes his eyes, feeling a certain drowsiness descend upon him. He thinks of Vanaheim, and then of Asgard, and then of Vanaheim again, scattered, kaleidoscopic images swirling in his brain as Stark's living room slowly floats away. Then there's suddenly a vivid memory of a particularly excruciating session in the Vanir dungeons rising up from the intertwined dreamlike images, and he startles at the unexpected force of it, his body jerking.

Immediately, his eyes fly wide open and he has to blink several times before his mind is properly collected again. Did he actually fall asleep for a short moment there? Anxious, he looks up at Stark to see if he has noticed, but the man is fully engrossed in his papers and Loki feels himself relax again, relived that this serious lapse of his went unobserved. A slave falling asleep at his master's feet instead of remaining properly alert and ready to obey whatever orders might be issued – what a disaster. He can only imagine what Ulfgrimm would have done had he caught Loki dozing off like that. And while Stark isn't Ulfgrimm, not even he would of course find such disrespectful and slovenly behaviour tolerable.

He straightens himself up, resolving to stay awake. True, he did not sleep well at all last night, but that is no excuse to fall asleep here and now.

He tries to occupy himself with counting the circles and rectangles of the abstract geometric pattern covering Stark's carpet, and then discreetly pinches his arms to stop himself from drifting away. But his eyelids have suddenly grown so heavy and surely it can't hurt if he just closes them for a short moment, as long as he still stays awake…

The jumbled images in his mind return, memories drifting in and out of his consciousness, some pleasant, others not so much. His body feels light, as if it's floating, and for a second he has the strange impression of tipping forwards, but surely he's just imagining it. An instant later there's something soft and warm pressing against his forehead. It feels… nice. The unidentified something moves a little, as if startled and trying to draw away, but then stills.

The unpleasant image from before once more rises its ugly head in his mind, and he hears a soft, pathetic whine coming from his own throat as he recalls the unbearable pain associated with that memory. And then, a few seconds later, follows an odd physical sensation that he can't quite identify but feels like something between a pat on his head and a ruffling of his hair. That feels… nice too, and the memory subsides again. Then he suddenly realizes what that unidentified something is that his forehead is resting against.

An instant later he's wide awake, and he sits up with a sharp jerk, his eyes going up to find themselves staring into Stark's.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Oh no.

"I… I… " he stumblingly begins, but there is no way for him to explain away this inexcusable lapse. So he quietens and simply lowers his head, waiting for Stark's verdict.

"If you're that tired, just go to bed and sleep for a bit." Stark gestures towards the hallway leading to Loki's room. "Beats sitting here and drooling on the leg of my pants, don't you think?"

Loki can only stare dumbly, but he stands up to follow the order, confused that Stark seems so wholly unperturbed by such a serious transgression.

"Oh, and Loki?"

Of course, now Stark will inform him of the consequences forthcoming for this. He turns around to face the man, holding his breath in anticipation.

"Get me another cup of coffee before you leave, will you? You make some really good stuff."

End note: So… how many of you guys thought that Loki would be spilling Tony's coffee back there? :D Yeah, so I might reuse some things, but I'm not *that* bad!