When Stark returns home the next day, he's carrying a large bag in each hand, the glistening black and white plastic bulging from their contents. He holds them out to Loki, who gingerly accepts them.
"I had Jarvis order some clothes for you. Figured you could probably need some more changes than the old stuff I gave you."
"Thank you," Loki says, inclining his head. It won't do to seem ungrateful, no matter what it is that Stark has picked out for him. As comfortable as Stark's old clothes are, he feels a bit relieved at not having to wear them any longer. No matter what Stark's opinions on the matter are, he can't help but feel that it's highly inappropriate.
And a slave acting inappropriately in Vanaheim… Not that he's there any more, thank the norns, but some ingrained feelings are hard to simply ignore.
As he carries the bags back to his room to get changed – Stark probably wants him to wear the new clothes from now on, even if he didn't explicitly say so – and put the rest of the contents of the bags in his drawers, he wonders what kinds of clothing slaves typically wear in Midgard. In Vanaheim, they always wore a drab gray or beige or brown, as opposed to the bright and rich colours worn by free men. And always made from the same rough, scratchy fabric.
To his surprise, he notices, as he empties the bags over his bed, that the shirts and trousers spilling out on the cover don't seem to be particularly different from his current clothing, or even from what Stark is wearing, at least occasionally. He digs around in the pile before him, picking up a pair of socks here, a T-shirt there to examine them. There's probably some difference there that he can't spot in his unfamiliarity with the finer points of Midgardian dressing. Perhaps some difference in cut or design that would confer his status as a slave to a Midgardian, but remains indiscernible to him.
He randomly picks out some socks and underwear, and then a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with two lines of text across its front. With some effort, he can make out the words, but they mean nothing to him and the Allspeak only vaguely translates it as signifying a Midgardian institution of some sort. Perhaps the text serves as a broadcast of his slave status.
He gets another surprise when he puts the clothes on; they're as comfortable as Stark's old garments. Even more so, since the fit is better.
But he supposes that's one of the perks of being a slave belonging to a private household, especially such a rich one as Stark's. He won't be dressed in rags here; if nothing else, it would reflect badly on his master.
He looks towards the chair where he hung the clothes he wore in Vanaheim, worn and drab and scraggly. It's not a difficult decision to make, so he resolutely scoops the garments up into a cheerless bundle in his arms.
It feels good to put them into the trash can in the kitchen, pressing them down among the empty containers and soiled kitchen towels at the bottom of the can. He doesn't even deign them with one last glance as he closes the little door beneath the sink behind him.
It feels good to sever that last link to Vanaheim.
For once, Stark has actually issued him with specific orders – to clean up in the kitchen while the man is away. So he wipes the kitchen counter, its dark marble smooth like satin, a third time, wanting everything to be as clean as he can make it. Wanting Stark to be pleased with his efforts.
And that realization surprises him a little – that he actually wants to do a good job for its own sake, and not merely as a way to avoid punishment. So he makes sure to hunt out every last smudge, to remove every little speck of dust or dirt he can lay his eyes upon.
He's wiping the kitchen counter for a fifth time when Stark returns. Loki can smell the food he has brought with him before the man even enters the kitchen; his long experience with gnawing hunger in Vanaheim has made his nose highly attuned to even the slightest whiff of things edible.
Stark stops to inspect his immediate surroundings while Loki holds his breath, hoping that the man's eyes won't be sharper than his and alight upon some fleck of dirt Loki has passed over.
"Looks good in here," comes the verdict, and Loki relaxes. So he's not wholly incapable of pleasing the man, then.
Stark proceeds to head over to the kitchen counter, now shining from Loki's efforts, and puts the plastic bag down on the black marble. From its innards he pulls forth two silvery boxes with little plastic cutlery sticking to them. He hands Loki one of the boxes.
"Here you go."
So Stark wants Loki to eat with him. And what Loki wants is to tell Stark that slaves don't eat together with their masters, but he knows full well that the man will not want to be contradicted, not even on orders as strange as these.
Stark has already sat down at the table and started to remove the lid covering his meal. Any second now, he will look up from his food and give Loki that pointed look wanting to know why he is dawdling, why following such a simple order should present a problem. To pre-empt a repeat of that – it's already happened far too many times since his coming here – he hurries over to sit down on the floor next to the table. The box in his hand smells wonderful and his mouth is salivating like a dog's as he begins to fiddle with the lid.
"You know," comes Stark's voice from above him and Loki looks up. "I've kind of been trying to take one step at a time here, but now I think it's time to take things to the next level. And I mean that both literally and figuratively."
With that, Stark pushes out the chair opposite from him with his foot.
"Loki, sit down."
He can only gape. Surely he is misunderstanding things. This can't be what it looks like. Slaves don't sit on furniture, and they most definitely don't do so at mealtimes right opposite their masters. Despite Stark's astonishing laxness, not even he can actually mean this.
"I'm getting kind of tired of seeing you on the floor all the time. One of these days I'm going to stumble over you and break my leg or something." His foot goes up to demonstratively tap at the seat of the chair. "So, use the furniture. It's not going to break, not from your skinny frame."
So Loki sits, hesitantly, on the edge of the chair, not quite sure what to do with himself as he fiddles nervously with his cutlery. If Ulfgrimm had been seeing him like this…
But it's not Ulfgrimm sitting opposite from him, but Stark. And norns, if he isn't grateful for that, despite Stark's utterly confusing incomprehensibility and unpredictability.
"Oh, and another thing, while we're on the subject." Stark pierces a large piece of meat on his fork and proceeds to shove it into his mouth. "Enough with the whole kneeling thing."
"What?" it insolently slips out of him.
"You heard me. We don't do that here in Earthgard. The only time I have people kneeling before me is when-" He stops himself and reaches out for his napkin, clearing his throat. "Okay, just forget about that last part. But the other stuff I just said still stands."
Loki is silent, doesn't at all acknowledge Stark's words. He can't bring himself to say that he understands, because he truly doesn't.
"Okay Houston, I'm sensing that we have another problem here. Care to elaborate?"
"I… don't understand," he says stupidly, sounding like a dim-wit in his own ears.
"Okay. Let me repeat myself, then." He takes a large swig from his glass. "I want you to stop kneeling when I'm around."
"But… why?" He curses himself as soon as the words have left his mouth. Who is he to question his master's wishes, however little he comprehends of them, and even sit here demanding explanations?
"Because I don't like it," comes the curt reply.
He's on the verge of automatically repeating his previous question, but luckily manages to stop himself this time. "A small 'but-' still slips out, though.
Unfortunately, Stark picks up on the word. "But what?"
But a million things that would have been obvious to anyone in both Vanaheim and Asgard. But not to Stark.
"It's… it's the common way to show deference…" he begins, not sure how to explain something so obvious.
"Yeah well, then you can show me some deference by assisting me down in my lab." He elegantly wraps some noodles around his fork. "I'm building… something. With the help of those books I got back in Wonderland. And I could use you for some testing."
Once more, his current orders are to clean. Or rather, to keep the place clean in general. Despite having done enough cleaning in Vanaheim to last him a lifetime, he's glad that it's something he knows how to do. And Midgardian cleaning products are remarkably effective compared to their Vanir counterparts. His knees and wrists are distinctly grateful for the significant decrease in the amount of frenetic scrubbing that is necessary to accomplish his tasks here.
The living room is almost done; the only thing left now is the long row of bookshelves. He doesn't dare to touch the books, no less open them, but he still peers curiously at the titles as he dusts them, trying to decipher them while being unobtrusive about it.
When he's finished and is about to put the supplies away, Jarvis speaks up.
"You may read the books if you wish. Master Stark will not mind you doing so."
He startles, at first concerned that his presumptuous desires had been so obvious despite his attempts to be discreet, but then considers what the voice had actually said. Of course, Stark had told him to obey Jarvis – a servant obviously being of higher rank than a slave – but this wasn't an order detailing what he must or mustn't do, but what he may do.
And Loki is not used to such instructions. In Vanaheim, it was either do or don't.
He hesitates. No, he doesn't think that Jarvis is trying to get him into trouble with Stark by luring him into doing something he's not supposed to, but it still feels… inappropriate. Like the books aren't meant for his touch, like reaching out for them will make him break an invisible barrier that isn't supposed to be broken.
He stands there looking at the books longingly for several minutes.
When Stark comes back, the chime of the elevator heralding his return, Loki is sitting in the living room, reading, ever so slowly as the writing system is coming back to him. He holds his breath as the man approaches, wondering if Stark is going to be mad at him. Not only is he reading a book but he even sat down in an armchair, as opposed to on the floor, remembering Stark's previous orders.
Stark stops and studies Loki for a minute or two.
"Atlas Shrugged, huh? Well, if you finish that, you will be the first person I know to make it all the way to the end."