"Good morning, Loki. Master Stark would like to see you in the living room."
In a second, Loki is wide awake, a surge of panic instinctively rising in him before he correctly remembers the situation. No, Stark said he would not get mad even if he had to rouse Loki from his sleep in the morning. His heart rate slows down again as the realization sinks in and he expels a deep breath.
Still, he hurries as much as he can as he dresses and then proceeds to the living room; it won't do to dawdle and waste Stark's time any more than absolutely necessary.
Stark is waiting for him as Loki enters. There's a large black plastic bag spread out on the middle of the floor and positioned on top of it is a wooden stool. Loki eyes the arrangement but cannot figure out the significance of it. No doubt it's related to him somehow, but he doesn't see the 'how' just yet.
"Hey, there you are," Stark says in greeting. "I'm going out in a few minutes, but I figured I'd first take care of something that's been bothering me for quite some time."
Loki shrinks back at the suggestion that something about his person has been bothering Stark. Because surely this must be related to him somehow; why else would the man have called him here? Has he displeased Stark in some unforeseen way and must now be corrected? The thought makes him uneasy, despite Stark's unbelievable lenience when it comes to punishment.
Starks points towards the stool. "Have a seat."
Loki sits. He's a bit uncomfortable about sitting down like that since slaves aren't supposed to utilize the furniture of free men, but the simple wooden stool can hardly be something that Stark uses himself for sitting purposes, so it must be an acceptable course of action. And Stark did order it, of course.
It is only then that Loki takes notice of what Stark is holding, and the realization of what is to take place dawns just as the man speaks up again. "You need a haircut, mister, and quite badly too." He loudly snaps the scissors in his hand a couple of times to accentuate his proclamation.
And Loki feels his heart sink to the floor. He really, really doesn't want his hair to go. It was the only part of his old self that the Vanir had left him, and while most everything else might have changed since then, the attachment to his hair, the only part that would still remind him of his previous life, has remained.
He had hoped that Midgard would be the same as Vanaheim in that regard, that slaves were allowed to grow their hair long. And considering that Stark himself keeps his hair rather closely cropped, it would seem that short hair has no specific association to slaves here either, or Stark surely wouldn't have sported a look like that. Still, it might be a specific short hairstyle that sets Midgardian slaves apart from free men who also wear their hair shorn.
Or maybe Stark just prefers Loki short-haired. It would make sense, considering that Loki is staying in his home now. That way, the man will not risk having to be offended by any long, black strands conspicuously lying around on the floor or sticking to the furniture.
Yes, it makes sense. Still, he really, really doesn't want the haircut that is coming.
But it's Stark's decision, of course, so he says nothing as the man leans over with the scissors in one hand, the other reaching out to grab hold of Loki's hair.
It makes him remember how the overseers in Vanaheim would sometimes take a pair of shears and briskly cut the hair of a slave whenever they decided that it was getting long enough to get in the way and obstruct his work. His own hair, fast-growing as it has always been, was cut a few times like that too, but never much shorter than he used to wear it back when he was still free.
Right now it's perhaps an inch or two below his shoulders depending on where one were to measure, the length varying as the haircuts were always quick and sloppy, leaving him with very uneven results. But it never bothered him much, because at least his hair was still there.
And then Stark starts to cut somewhere behind him, the sound clipped and almost obscenely loud in Loki's ears.
He tries to relax, tries not to make this turn of events bother him. Instead, he endeavours to fall back on one of the meditation practices he used to do back in another life when preparing to cast a difficult spell. He hasn't engaged in such exercises in a long time, because he quickly learned in Vanaheim that long-term pain and hunger were simply too obstructive when attempting to reach the inner tranquillity necessary to attain any change in his state of mind.
But now it works better. He can feel himself retreat a little from the world around him as he turns inwardly. The distancing feels good, despite the fact that what's going on shouldn't bother him. Despite his reaction being in fact nothing short of ridiculous. After all, his current situation is miles and miles away from what it was a timeframe ago that can still be counted in days rather than weeks. Considering how much his life has improved in every single aspect he can think of that matters, the loss of his hair is a small and insignificant thing and should not bother him in the slightest. After all, wouldn't he once gladly have traded his hair for just one of the delicious meals that he enjoyed yesterday? He knows that he would have. So why is he bothered when this trade-off has given him so much more than that?
He sits as still as a statue, hoping to at least avoid any accidents involving the scissors and his ears. Somehow he doesn't think Stark is very used to giving other people haircuts. He lets his mind float, the sound of the scissors' irregular snapping growing distant until it's only a vague intermittent noise in the background, unrelated to him.
An undefined amount of time goes by, and then Stark's voice pulls him back to the present.
"Aaaand, we're done!" He makes the scissors give a final snap in the air to punctuate his words, before stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Loki takes a deep breath, wondering what his new, shorter haircut looks like. At least it doesn't feel so differently. Automatically, his hand reaches up to touch what remains, to evaluate the damage done.
He blinks in surprise as his fingers comb through strands that end just below his shoulders, almost their previous length. The major difference from before is the unaccustomed… evenness.
"To tell you the truth, it really looked like shit, so I just had to fix the problem," Stark explains as he places the scissors on the living room table. "At least now you look presentable again."
Loki only stares, uncertain of what to say.
But it seems like Stark isn't expecting much in the way of a reply, as he, task all finished, picks up the cell phone and wallet lying on the table, stuffing them into his pockets in preparation for his departure. "Well, gotta go, have places to be and stuff to do. Clean this mess up in the meantime, will you?" he says, indicating the plastic bag and the shorn tufts covering it.
And then he's gone, leaving Loki sitting on the stool, a hand still trailing through his hair in amazement.
He can't help it, but instead of immediately following Stark's order to clean up after the morning's proceedings like he should have, he heads for the bathroom instead. Of course he will clean up, but after.
The face that greets him in the mirror above the sink looks surprisingly like…
… like…
… like himself.
Back in Vanaheim, he never sought out mirrors because he would see enough of his sorry reflection in their surfaces whenever he was ordered to polish them. But now he stares at the face staring back at him, its sunken cheeks, its thinness, its hollow eyes that he remembers all gone. So are the bruises, leaving his skin a surprisingly even colour, unmarred by ugly blotches of red and purple.
And his hair looks almost absurdly… normal. He had gotten so used to the unevenness framing his face, visibly longer on one side than the other, that he hardly took notice of it any longer. But now the straight line of hair showing in the mirror stands out in stark relief against the jaggedness he recalls from memory.
If it hadn't been for the clearly Midgardian nature of the shirt he's wearing, the neckline of which is visible in the mirror, he would have noticed no difference between the reflection and his old self.
Well, maybe that's not quite correct. The face in the mirror seems… softer, somehow. He can recall a certain hardness that used to be there around the eyes that now seems to be gone. And surely that is for the better.
His hand goes up to touch the hair on the left side of his head as he turns his neck to the right to have a better look at the… evenness.
Yes, for the first time since emerging from the Vanir dungeons, he truly looks like himself.
And he looks eerily like something else too.
Like a… free man, but that's one thought of which he would never breathe one word out loud.
He studiously mops the floor in the living room, wanting to make sure that no pesky straying hairs are left. Then he makes himself a mouth-watering breakfast and savours every bite of it.
Having cleaned up in the kitchen, he stands around irresolutely for a few seconds, debating with himself what to tackle next. Once more, Stark didn't see fit to provide him with any specific orders before he left, obviously expecting Loki to figure out for himself what needs to be done.
Then he remembers that there is someone to turn to who knows the master of the house better than he does.
"Jarvis?" he asks.
"Yes, Loki?" the voice speaks up an instant later.
"Are there any specific tasks that should be carried out while Master Stark is away?"
A few seconds of silence follows. Then, "In my humble opinion, Master Stark occasionally shows an unfortunate neglect when it comes having his shoes polished. Hence I would recommend that you make that the first order of priority for today. You will find the necessary cleaning supplies on the lower-most shelf in the closet in the hallway."
Once again he's surprised by Jarvis' audacity, aiming a criticism like that at his own master, but he makes no comment on it, merely thanking the servant for his help.
The hallway is littered with Stark's shoes, in all shapes and colours, though most brown or black. Loki has never seen so much footwear belonging to one single person, not even the noblest of ladies in Asgard own such an excess. He wonders if Stark really uses them all, or if it's perhaps a typical Midgardian way of displaying one's wealth, to keep as many shoes as possible.
He will clearly have his work cut out for him for some time ahead. So he sits down on the floor and starts on the first shoe, a rather heavy black boot, the light sprinkle of dust covering it an indication that it hasn't been used for some time.
The work is not unpleasant, even if the smell of the polishing cream is slightly obnoxious. But it's a minor inconvenience. He works through pair after pair, placing each polished shoe or boot neatly together with its partner, until his eyes alight upon a shoe that seems oddly familiar. Frowning, he picks it up to study it more closely before realization dawns. He's already polished this one. Only then it was back in Vanaheim, and Stark was still wearing it.
He remembers that incident well, even now. The trepidation he had felt. The fear of what might happen next. The worry that-
The elevator suddenly pings, interrupting his little reverie, and a second later Stark walks out. He doesn't notice Loki as he passes the hallway on the way to the living room. Then follows a sharp buzz, indicating that someone is making a call to his cell phone.
A moment later, Stark's voice speaks out. "Why, hello there, Fury, so nice of you to call me again! Yeah, yeah, I'll have those updated security protocols ready for you in a day or two, so quit nagging me about them, okay? Sometimes things get a little delayed, alright?" Despite the distance between the hallway and the living room, Loki's sharp hearing can still make out every word that Stark is saying.
He looks down at the shoe again, the unpleasantness of the memory that has been aroused still stirring within him. Only now it's competing with the distress brought by the realization who Stark is currently speaking to. The head of SHIELD, an organisation that would surely love to get their hands on him if Stark would let them… if Stark were to tell them… He bites his lip, his hands clenching around the shoe he's still holding.
"Come on, don't tell me you're still pissed that I went AWOL and didn't return your calls for a few days?"
Of course, Loki knows full well what Stark was doing during those days Fury is referring to, where he was staying. And if Fury knew what the man brought back with him… Loki's throat constricts. He wants to stay here.But that surely won't be an option if Stark were to mention…
"It's called taking a vacation, ever heard of that? No, how silly of me, of course you haven't, Mister I'm-on-call-twenty-five-hours-a-day-including-Christmas. But I'd be happy to show you my vacation pics displaying me at my finest in bathing trunks and sipping on pink umbrella drinks, just to show you how we normal people sometimes like to spend our time."
Stark is lying through his teeth, but still manages to sound perfectly believable. There is no mention of Loki as Stark proceeds to give an entirely fictive and rather outrageous account of how he's spent the not-accounted-for days in question. Then he halts his exposition mid-sentence, obviously interrupted by the man at the other end.
"What, I haven't even gotten to the strippers yet!" Stark protests. "But I got some awesome pictures if you'd like to see-"
Loki looks down at the shoe lying on his lap, the one that he once polished in what now feels like an eternity ago. Back then he had been afraid. Afraid of Stark, and what he might do.
But that fear has been pushed to the side by something else, he realizes as Stark launches into a detailed description of a woman with apparently impressive attributes but questionable virtue, still with no mention of Loki whatsoever. It's a strange, unaccustomed feeling and it takes him a long time to recognize it, because he hasn't felt it in a very long time.
But he realizes that for the first time in forever, he feels…
… safe.
End note: Okay, so I know I did the whole hair-cutting thing in Poetic Justice too, but I hope with the difference in situations and dynamics and all, this still wasn't too similar!
And another tiny nod to Poetic Justice in this chapter, bonus points to anyone who spots it. ;)
Since we don't get Tony's perspective in this, I offer this possible alternative interpretation of the last scene for those to whom it may appeal: Tony is faking the phone call, there is no one at the other end. And he's doing it in light of Loki's comment in the previous chapter. When Loki tells Jarvis he's worried Tony won't keep him, Loki is of course thinking of Tony selling him, whereas Tony is thinking Loki is talking about getting handed over to SHIELD (where else would he be sent off?). So Tony decides to reinforce his assurances with a pretend phone call from Fury that Loki "accidentally" overhears (which might of course fairly well imitate an original phone call that did take place earlier).
Or maybe it really was Fury at the other end, you can choose which interpretation you like since the story won't tell. ;)