He returns to his room and crawls into bed to get some sleep, like Stark ordered him to. He still feels embarrassed, if not mortified, from his most recent indiscretion, falling asleep on his master's leg like a common mutt. That Stark didn't even yell at him is incomprehensible.

But there will be time for him to ponder this latest addition to the already swelling heap of perplexity later, right now his body is aching for some sleep, something that it didn't get very much of during last night's unruly tossing and turning.

He pulls the cover up to his chin and his head has barely touched the pillow before he's asleep.

It doesn't take long for the first unpleasant dream image to arise. This time it's Ulfgrimm grinning sadistically at him as he slowly twirls the whip handle in his hand around and around. I will teach you what happens to useless slaves like you, he growls. Just you wait. A second later, the scene shifts and then he's standing face to face with the whipping post, its manacles closing around his wrists by their own volition, pulling his emaciated body taut. Ulfgrimm is behind him, panting heavily. You think you can just lounge around without being of any use? he spits disdainfully. That anyone wants a worthless slave? I will teach you a lesson. Teach you your proper place. Loki shudders as he senses rather than sees Ulfgrimm pulling his arm back to administer the first excruciating lash. He closes his eyes in expectation of the blinding pain that will soon follow and then…

… he opens them again to find himself in his room in Stark's tower, soaked with cold sweat.

Oh norns. Wiping his clammy forehead with one end of the sheet, he's not sure which feeling is the most overwhelming, the lingering terror of the dream or the relief to find himself back here.

In any case, he's not tired anymore, so he throws the cover aside and steps into the shower instead. If it's mainly to wash away the sweat or the remaining traces of the dream, he can't tell for sure, but the water feels good as it splashes over his body and face.

Once he's dry and dressed again he returns to the living room, wanting to occupy himself with something useful. It might only have been a dream, but he's painfully aware that there was plenty of truth in it to be had. Far more than he would have liked. Despite how much effort he's been putting into denying it to himself, into pushing away the insistent thought that has been trying to rear its ugly head in his mind lately, the Ulfgrimm in his dream spoke only the facts.

Yes, why would anyone want a useless slave?

And his use for Stark has only been marginal so far, and even that is putting it generously.

Stark is gone when he enters the room, and so are the papers previously spread out on the living room table. Loki frets for a while. He wants to be useful, but everything in here looks spotless already, and what else does he know how to do expect for cleaning? And he's already cleaned everything in here recently, there is no point in him doing it all again.

At first he had expected that there would be a lot of work for him to do in such a large dwelling as Stark's, especially considering the conspicuous lack of servant and slaves, but after his short time here he's come to realize that Midgardian households are run quite differently from those in Vanaheim or Asgard. And there is not much point or purpose to his presence here.

A couple of days ago he had tried to ask Stark if he wanted Loki to help him with the books he had brought back from Vanaheim. Well, perhaps it wasn't so much a question as a hint, because he didn't want Stark to think that he was trying to pick his own tasks, but regardless the man had waved his discreet inquiry away with a comment that Jarvis was taking care of it.

Distraught, he grabs a cleaning rag in the kitchen and then starts to wipe the living room table, despite there being no crumbs or spots visible to the naked eye, but at least he's doing something.

And unfortunately he's well aware how that something could be done by anyone. It's merely unskilled labour, just like what little else he's been doing here.

And with that, the fear that he's been trying to keep down, to deny, rises full force, suddenly free from its bonds. The realization of the reality of his situation, of how precarious it is, of what might very well happen any day.

What if Stark decides to do away with him, to sell him to someone else? Not that there is any risk that he will end up in Vanaheim again; the deal that Stark and the Vanir entered upon in the royal court hall is permanent and immutable. They would refuse to take him back, would even be insulted if the man as much as suggested it. But there are surely plenty of households in Midgard that would, unlike Stark's, have use for a slave such as him.

Perhaps the man has already considered it. Perhaps is considering it this very moment. His innards turn to ice at the idea. Maybe Stark has even left the tower to discuss such a deal with a prospective buyer…

He knows that he's being paranoid, that the chances of Stark currently sitting in such a meeting to decide Loki's selling price is minuscule, but he can't stop himself from imagining the worst. Because if it's not happening now, then perhaps it will in another week. Or in another month or two. Stark is a highly intelligent man; even if he's not home very much surely he cannot have failed to comprehend that his slave is not doing much of anything. Sooner or later, the idea to have Loki sold off is bound to appear to him.

And he knows that the odds of a new master treating him even a tenth as leniently as Stark are next to non-existent.

He squeezes the rag in his hand, pressing it harder against the surface of the table. He's gotten so used to his situation here, to eating well and having a nice bed and a warm shower and not being beaten for his failures. His throat is constricting at the thought of all this being taken away from him. He can't take going back to the pain and hunger, to getting whipped and kicked and labouring until everything hurts. Not now, not when Stark has treated him like this, he just can't.

But he knows that he will have no say in the matter. He belongs to Stark, and that means that the man can sell him anytime he wants to if he doesn't care to keep Loki any longer. And Loki is doing nothing here that any other slave or servant couldn't do. What if Stark doesn't want him anymore?

Of course, he knows full well what will happen then. For all intents and purposes, he will go back to his previous existence. There will be another Ulfgrimm hovering above him, waiting to beat him for his mistakes. There will be endless chores and barely chewable bread and cold, shivering nights on the hard floor.

He drops the rag in his hand and sinks to the floor, hugging his knees, as he's overcome with sudden despair. He's gotten far too used, far too quickly, to his current situation, never really acknowledging the fact that it could of course change any day, if Stark should no longer find him useful enough.

But he can't bear the thought of everything being taken away from him. Drawing a shuddering breath, he leans his head against his knees, letting his forehead rest against them. Then he just sits there until a tear forms in his left eye and traces its pathetic way down his cheek. Another one wells up in his other eye, and it also rolls disgracefully along his downturned face. He hugs his knees harder, hating how he weak and pitiful he's acting, but at least there is no one here to see.

"Loki?"

He startles at the sound of Jarvis' voice. Of course he had forgotten all about the servant, invisible and incorporeal as he is. He quickly wipes his face before looking up, hoping he's been able to remove all evidence of his shameful behaviour.

"Yes?" he manages. Jarvis only rarely gives him orders, but now he must have thought of a task that needs to be done. Which should be a good thing, because that way Loki might actually be somewhat useful, even if it's only temporarily.

"Is everything alright? My sensors indicate that you seem… distressed?"

Loki gapes dumbly. He has no idea what to respond to that. No one ever asked him any such questions in Vanaheim, not even the other slaves. There would have been no point.

But Jarvis is of higher rank than him, of course, so he can't refuse to answer the question.

"I… " he begins, not sure how to form his thoughts into acceptable words. Words that will not make it sound as if what he wants is of any matter if Stark wants differently.

"I'm… concerned that Master Stark might not find me useful enough to keep," he hears his own voice say. Then he holds his breath. Did that sound too presumptuous? Like he had a right to expect that Stark would want to keep him around? While Jarvis himself occasionally uses a surprisingly flippant tone when speaking either to or about Stark, it does not mean that Loki can presume to speak inappropriately for his station around Jarvis.

"Ah, I see." There is silence for a little while and Loki is starting to think that that is that, Jarvis has no further interest in hearing more about this, when the voice suddenly speaks up again.

"Let me tell you a little secret, then." Another silence, this time shorter, follows, one that Loki would have thought of as conspiratorial if he hadn't known any better. "Master Stark will most definitely have plenty of use for you in his lab once he's worked through the books he brought back from Vanaheim."

Loki's head snaps up. "He told you that?" The previous despair is all of a sudden driven to the side by a surge of hope. If Stark wants him for that, then yes, he will be useful to the man all of a sudden, and in a way that no other slave or servant or even free man in Midgard could ever be.

"No, he didn't, but since I was the one who translated the books for him, I can tell that Master Stark will need you later to make full use of them." Jarvis' voice is oddly playful, almost peevish. "He just doesn't know it yet."

And somehow, that almost-peevish voice makes Loki feel a little bit better.

When Stark returns later in the evening, it is with a paper cup in hand, the smell identifying the contents as coffee, even at a distance.

"Hey," he says as he spots Loki, who's busying himself with wiping the skirting boards clean. "Jarvis told me something today."

Loki freezes in mortification. Of course, there is only one thing that has happened during Stark's absence that is even remotely interesting enough for Jarvis to tell the man about. He lowers his head, wondering what Stark has to say about their conversation.

"So, let me show you something." His eyes go to the ceiling, as it often does when he's addressing his servant. "Jarvis, would you send Dum-E up here?"

"Right away, sir."

Loki has no idea where all this is leading or why Stark is summoning his robot here, so he merely watches apprehensively as Stark finishes the rest of his coffee as they wait.

Then the elevator chimes and the strange little robot servant comes rolling out. Stark puts his empty paper cup on the table, turning towards the robot.

"Dum-E, get me some more coffee."

The robot immediately rolls forward towards the table, its gripping appendage reaching out. The cup falls to the ground as soon as the claw at the end makes contact with it. Giving a brief chirp, Dum-E tips downwards to pick the cup up, but fails repeatedly as the claw is unable to form a proper grip around the flimsy, budging paper.

"Alright, thank you, Dum-E. You can go back to the lab now."

The robot chirps again and rolls towards the elevator, seemingly unperturbed by its abject failure.

Stark bends to pick the cup up from the floor, and Loki curses himself for not being quicker, but it's too late now.

"You know, I built that guy over, what, twenty-five years ago? Half the things I tell him to do end with utter screw-ups. Still keep him around, though. Just saying." Stark studies the cup in his hand, giving it a squeeze so that its sides buckle slightly, then shrugs. "And unlike Dum-E, at least you know how to get me coffee."

Then he turns his attention from the cup to Loki, an eyebrow going up. "Well, unless you want another… arrangement. No idea what that would entail, but maybe something could be worked out, somehow."

"No!" Loki quickly blurts out. Whatever arrangement Stark is thinking of – selling him, hiring out his services, lending him out to friends – Loki wants none of it.

Then he bites his tongue, hoping it didn't sound like he was trying to steer Stark's decision, or worse, trying to give the man an order. As if Loki's opinion on this would be of any matter or consequence.

"Alright, I suppose the question's settled," Stark shrugs and holds out the slightly misshapen paper cup to Loki. "How about you get me another cup of coffee, then?"