Author's note: Wow, I'm amazed at all the positive response the last chapter got! :) I thought there would be readers not approving of the idea of Tony making Loki scrub the floors with a toothbrush, but if anyone didn't like it, well, they didn't review. ;)
Tony is having a blast. One of the media reporters interviewing him is a beautiful and voluptuous redhead who has a wedding ring adorning her finger but doesn't seem to take her marriage vows all that seriously, judging by the way she is flirting with Tony – a couple of fingers resting innocently but still seductively on his arm, a tongue discreetly licking an upper lip, and feet brushing against his under the table.
"Well, Mr Stark, I'm sure all our female readers would just love to hear about how such a desirable bachelor spends his evenings," she smiles at him, all freckles and curves and blue eyes. "Please do tell us." Eye lashes flitter as a microphone is stuffed into his face.
Playing around with my new slave, a god famous for trying to take over the planet and bringing an alien army to New York. His name is Loki, by the way – you might have heard of him.
Okay, so he doesn't actually say that, even though he's kind of tempted. Instead, he gives one of those brainless-but-expected responses that don't really offer anything of substance, but enough to keep the female admirers interested. When the interview is over, he discretely sneaks away before the redhead can ask for his number or stuff her own into his pocket – pretty face and gorgeous body, but not worth being chased by a jealous husband over.
What has kept him in such a good mood all day isn't mainly the flirtatious redhead, though. No, it's the discreet glances he's been throwing at his phone at regular intervals, screen showing a soppy Loki on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floors in the Stark Tower with a toothbrush.
Was there ever a more satisfying image than that, he wonders. Well, probably not.
He can't help but feel ridiculously pleased with himself for this brilliant idea. The arrogant god is in serious need of some lessons in humility, and Tony is more than happy to provide.
Half an hour later he's back in his car, driving home with AC/DC on top volume. Tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, he whistles along to the blaring music, even though his rudimentary musical efforts are drenched in the over-the-top guitars and drums and shouts of TNT – I'm dynamite. All in all, it's been a great day. Just one thing missing for it to reach perfection.
Taking a turn to the right, he parks outside a Chinese takeaway. Even the great genius Tony Stark needs to eat, after all.
His knees are aching from crawling around on the floor all day, and his fingers are cramping badly. The brush has switched hands numerous times already, but it doesn't seem to do him much good trying to alternate. Right now he can't really feel much of anything in his fingers, which is perhaps just as well. He'd really like to take a break, but Tony's implied threat that he'd better not slack off and is expected to be finished once the man gets back home – whenever that will be – is enough to dissuade him.
Not that he will ever finish this monstrous task before that, though. It didn't take him long to realize that, and no doubt that was Tony's plan all along – find Loki an impossible task to do and then have fun punishing his slave for failing to do as he was ordered.
Great. Just great.
He dips the end of the brush into the murky water again. The bristles are broken and dirty by now, but he hasn't been provided with any other cleaning equipment, so he places the sorry thing against the floor tiles again and starts scrubbing away.
Perhaps Tony thinks this is such a marvellous idea that he will make Loki clean the floors of the entire tower. He sure hopes that's not the case, because he doubts whether his knees can take much more of this abuse. His pants are soggy, too, from sliding across the wet floor, but that's the least of his problems.
Annoyed, he scrubs harder, ignoring the numbing pain in his finger joints. It's so pointless. There's no way he'll be even close to finished before Tony gets back here, and…
As if someone above has been listening in on his thoughts, there's the sudden whoosh of an elevator door opening and closing, followed by footsteps that he recognizes all too well. He freezes, but doesn't turn around, just remains there on his knees on the wet floor, waiting.
How pathetic he must look, is the only thought in his head. He considers standing up, but decides against it. After all, he's taller than Tony, and that might only serve to provoke the man's ire even more, which is something he doesn't need right now.
"Still at it?" Tony says reproachingly somewhere behind him and then smacks his lips in displeasure. Loki doesn't look up or turn. It's clear for any idiot to see that he's not done. And it isn't as if Tony expected him to be, no matter how surprised he's pretending to sound.
A pair of well-polished shoes walk into his field of vision and then come to a halt two steps away from him. Loki tenses, expecting one of them to connect with his ribs, possibly with enough force to crack at least a couple of bones.
As he waits for the blinding pain to explode in his midsection, a more rational, detached part of him wonders how humans make do in these fragile bodies, how they can at all live with them. Such a simple thing like tripping and falling from a few meters height is enough to cause crippling or even life-threatening injuries, as are a myriad of other things.
When he still had his godly powers, he healed quickly, just like all Asgardians. Pain was always something temporary and brief – unpleasant, yes, but only a fleeting thing soon forgotten once his body had mended itself.
Not so anymore. Injuries that for a god would disappear in a matter of minutes, or hours at the most, take weeks or even months for a human body to mend. Time during which the pain is constant, never relenting.
He knows, because the guards in the dungeons found Loki's new and powerless status intriguing. Intriguing, as in fun to throw him a few punches or slam him into the wall and then come back the next morning and see the bruises still on his body and face. Like he was some kind of freak (well, even more so than before his powers were locked away), look at the misshapen thing that remains broken and hurt even a day later, who can no longer heal himself like a normal Asgardian.
How do humans live with being so vulnerable and hurting so easily? He wonders, but there is no answer forthcoming.
And they don't even have to deal with being the slave of someone who'll enjoy turning them into a broken and bloody heap as payback for past transgressions. He bites the inside of his chin, tasting blood. Broken ribs will take weeks if not months to mend, and if they don't grow together like they should, he will still be in pain even after they've healed. He sincerely doubts that Tony is going to take him to one of those human healers to set any broken bones straight for him.
Again, he feels the sharp pang of fear that has grown all-too familiar in these last few days. The terrible feeling of powerlessness and vulnerability, feelings that he isn't used to at all, but now has no choice but come to terms with.
Tony's silence is making him even more nervous. Has the man been looking forward to dishing out Loki's first beating so much that he is standing there trying to savour this moment for as long as possible? Is that why he's taking his sweet time getting started?
Or is he perhaps hoping to see his hated enemy break down and beg? Is that what he's waiting for? In that case, he's not going to give Tony the satisfaction. At least not yet, though he supposes he might come to change his mind about that later, a treacherous, more pragmatic part of his brain points out.
Then, suddenly, the shoes move out of view.
"I brought some Chinese takeaway. Supposed you might be hungry," he hears Tony's voice say, well out of kicking distance. The words are followed by a dull thud as something is put down on the kitchen counter.
Chinese takeaway?
Loki looks up in just time to see Tony take a few silver-tinted boxes out from a white plastic bag and put them down on the table.
"Straight from Fat Lee's kitchen, best Chinese in town," the man continues. "Let me tell you, their Chow mein is to die for. Bet you don't have stuff like that back in your magic castle in the sky, do you?"
He's not quite sure what Tony is talking about is, but it does smell like food.
And all Loki's brain seems to be capable of doing in that moment is wondering whether all human food comes in strange little boxes.
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