Author's note: Wow, I was totally floored by the response that last chapter got; thank you so much, kind people of FFN! :D Seems that a lot of you enjoyed Loki finally letting off some steam. ;)
And so, we continue with even more Loki!angst…
It is several long hours later when the lock clicks open to reveal a stern-looking Tony standing in the doorway, hand still on the handle as if poised and ready to close the door shut in case Loki should do something drastic and ill-advised again.
But he doesn't. He only remains sitting on his bed, legs drawn up and arms folded around his knees, barely looking up as Tony leans against the doorpost, contemplating who knows what as he gazes at Loki in silent assessment. Perhaps he should be glad he isn't able to read minds; he isn't sure he would have liked to know what is going through the man's head right now.
Apparently, the appraisal must be that he is harmless enough, as the door is fully pushed open and Tony takes a few steps into the room, arms crossed in front of his chest. He regards Loki for a little while like this, then uncrosses his arms and beckons him to follow with a toss of his head and a grumbled, "come on," as he turns on his heel and walks out without even bothering to check if his slave is obeying.
Slowly, reluctantly, Loki pushes himself up from the bed, his body protesting the sudden movements after so many hours of idleness. And his mind is protesting as well, yelling at him to remain in the relative safety of his room rather than following Tony to where he's taking him to face whatever's in store.
But of course, he knows better than to disobey the order. He's already in deep enough trouble as it already is and can hardly afford to make things even worse for himself. Though, a part of him doubts whether it would really make that much of a difference now after everything, or whether it would just be degrees in hell. Still, he follows, limbs heavy and a cold lump settled into the pit of his stomach.
Their destination is apparently the living room, where Tony comes to a halt in the middle of the chaotic, litter-filled scenery, dirt and shards crunching beneath the soles of his shoes.
"Alright, Rudolph, get to it. Clean this fucking mess up," the man orders impatiently, indicating the expanse of the living room with a totally unnecessary gesture of his hand.
So he gets to it. It's not like he has any other choice. Gingerly crouching down on the floor, he starts picking up the broken shards scattered all around, carefully lifting them between two fingers as to not cut his hands on the sharp edges, and placing them in the big trash bag provided for the task. The pieces of porcelain clang sadly as they're thrown in a jumble on top of each other, the forlorn sounds reminiscent of a strange, melancholic melody created for the sole reason of mocking his lamentable fate.
Tony remains where he's standing for a while, and then flops himself down on the couch, one leg nonchalantly sprawled over the armrest. Loki can feel the man watching him intently, but he tries to ignore the gaze that's feeling like it's burning smoking holes into his body. Despite his efforts to focus solely on the task at hand, picking up the broken remains and sweeping the floor clean, he is acutely aware of Tony sitting there mere yards away, following his every movement with rapt attention.
And he doesn't want to know what Tony is thinking, though it no doubt revolves around the punishment that will be waiting once the living room is back in a satisfactorily pristine condition again.
In a futile effort to delay the inevitable, he works slowly and carefully, cleaning with painstaking diligence, knowing full well what is to come once the mess has been sorted out and there is no longer any need for him to remain in a state where he's able to take care of messy floors.
After a while, as he's emptying yet another load of dirt into the black plastic bag, Tony seems to lose interest in the proceedings and instead pulls out a colourful little cube that he starts to fiddle around with. It clicks and clatters as he twists it, back and forth, making the individual little cubes switch places with each other. Some kind of puzzle, obviously, and for some reason it only serves to make him even more nervous. As if the little clacks have turned into a bizarre kind of countdown for something terrible and dreadful.
Swallowing down all the unpleasant things churning in his stomach, he sweeps another helping of dirt and blue-painted shards onto the scoop clutched in his fingers, trying once more to focus on the work at hand but failing miserably. His brain is not cooperating at all, and keeps returning to its unwelcome speculations about whatever he will be made to suffer at Tony's hands for his idiotic lapse of self-control.
Of course, the standard punishment for slaves in Asgard for most kind of offences would be a whipping. What would the severity have been for something like this? One hundred lashes? He doesn't know, though he wonders if he would even remain conscious towards the end of such a punishment. Perhaps it would be just as well if he didn't. And even if Tony might not have any whips lying around, it doesn't mean he won't be able to find a substitute. Perhaps the man is going to get… creative.
There is no point thinking about that, but it makes no difference. He does anyway, wincing inwardly for each time he tips another scoop of dirt and shards into the bag, bringing the room one step closer to its previous condition.
The Rubik's cube in his hands always serves as a good distraction, something for him to focus his mind on. He makes another few twists, then stopping for a while, trying to figure out if there's a way to solve the configuration in front of him in less than twenty moves.
At least it's a better pastime than watching someone clean his floor. And damn, did the god really go ballistic back there. But he supposes he shouldn't be surprised that the bag of cats finally flipped and threw a little hissy fit; it's not like he was ever a schoolbook example of mental stability. He winces a bit at the memory; even though he has certainly imagined straddling the god several times before, the preceding circumstances in his fantasies were rather different, to say the least. Perhaps this serves him right for the idiotically inappropriate thoughts he's been harbouring. Be careful what you wish for, and all that other moralistic stuff that comes back to bite you in the ass.
Though, right now the god seems surprisingly… docile. He'd half expected Loki to throw another little fit once he opened the door to his room a few hours later, after first having checked with Jarvis that Loki wasn't busy in there ripping the bed sheets apart or smashing the furniture to pieces.
Still, he keeps an eye on the figure huddled on the floor, sweeping up shards of broken glass and porcelain, though there seems to be little need of any supervision. Whatever rage was let out before, it has apparently burnt itself out by now.
Just to play it safe, he decided to put on his bracelets before facing off with the god again, in case he should need to suit up quickly. Though, Loki doesn't seem like he's harbouring any plans of flipping anytime soon. He just works quietly, the only sounds being the clanks of broken shards and hisses of dirt being emptied into the garbage bag.
In the silence, the clicks from his cube are reminiscent of gun-shots.
He twists the cube a few times more, knowing he won't finish it in less than ten moves, but hoping it won't be more than fifteen.
He's still a bit grumpy about the whole incident, although the look on Loki's face as he'd finally calmed down had made Tony's initial anger abate somewhat; the change in demeanour in the god was almost instantaneous, then, as if the bag of cats had suddenly transformed into a bag of puppies instead, like the god was shocked by his own blatant loss of composure and self-control. As if improper behaviour would actually be a big deal to someone who tried taking over an entire planet not very long ago.
Still, Tony has to admit that Loki is remarkably good at cleaning. Contrary to expectations, he's not doing a half-assed job at all, but works diligently and carefully removes every stain and shard and smudge of dirt. Not bad for a spoiled prince who has probably not had to do a single menial task in his entire life before, to say nothing of sweeping floors. He might not be working very quickly, but at least the areas he's taken care of are spotless, almost like new.
"Well, aren't you good at cleaning, Bambi," he hears himself saying, probably more as an attempt to fill the pressing silence with words than anything else. "I'm impressed. Makes me wonder what other hidden talents you have that could be put to good use." Perhaps making sandwiches or omelettes. That would be cool; if the god had a knack for that. Then again, he doubts he'd want to eat something that Loki has cooked in the first place. Self-preservation instinct and all that.
The shocked affront his comment prompts is blatantly obvious on Loki's face from the way the god tenses and stares at Tony, having apparently forgotten about the floor sweeping he was so absorbed in only moments ago.
Sheesh, is the god prideful and easily prickled. Tony rolls his eyes as a snort escapes him. "Come on, don't give me that look. The least you can do is to earn your keep around here and actually be useful," he shoots back, unable to stop a sting of irritation. The guy did wreck his living room and hardly has any right to act all haughty and snooty.
However, Loki says nothing in response, his gaze returning to the floor once more, though it takes him a few moments before he starts sweeping again. When he does, Tony can swear that his movements are remarkably slower than before. Perhaps it's a silent rebellion kind of thing, trying to make a statement by being obstinate and pig-headed. Whatever, it's Loki's loss if he wants to drag this out. Tony's not the one who will be spending the entire evening cleaning a messy living room.
It takes quite a while, but finally, after Tony has lost track of the number of times he's solved the Rubik's cube and has long since resorted to flipping through a stack of magazines, the god is finished. The room is spotless, shining like it's been polished with butter.
About time.
Throwing his reading material on the table top, he gets up from the couch and walks up to Loki, coming to a halt at a distance that is a bit closer than what would constitute normal conversation distance.
"Okay, Reindeer Games," he says, drawing himself up as he pokes a finger into the god's chest, unsubtly but effectively emphasizing his words. "Time for a little talk."
Loki clenches his jaws, but otherwise gives no sign of having registered the words. Obstinate, as usual.
"Now, here are some basic rules you'd do well to remember from now on." He pauses, giving the god a narrowed glance before continuing, voice several notes harder. "So. Don't fucking ever do anything like this again. I mean it. Don't wreck my stuff, don't throw things around, don't break anything that belongs to me. And that includes my head." He pokes his finger a little harder into the Megadeth logo in front of him, half expecting the god to slap the offending appendage away, but Loki doesn't move at all. He just stands there, probably hoping that Tony is about to self-combust or something
He sighs, half in annoyance and half in exasperation. "You know what? Here on planet Earth, if you're going to give a pet to someone, it's common courtesy to make sure it has been properly housetrained first. Doesn't seem like the same thing holds true back in Asgard, does it?"
He doesn't wait for Loki to respond to that. He doesn't even want a response, just the opportunity to spit out a demeaning insult to compensate for the potted plant that missed his head with only inches to spare.
And he probably should deal out some sort of punishment at this point to discourage any repeat performances, but he can't really think of anything appropriate, so he settles for making base threats instead. Probably, that's just as effective.
"So, don't fucking do this again. Ever. And if you're ever overcome by the temptation to, you'd do well to remember that I still have my Iron Man suit that I can call on any time I want." Yeah, when he's wearing his bracelets, but Loki doesn't need to know that. "And the thing I said about fitting you with a shock collar is still valid if you should even think about a repeat of this crap. So don't fucking tempt me. Have I made myself clear?"
He's half expecting Loki to roll his eyes or offer a disdainful sneer, but the god doesn't.
"Yes," is all he says, simple as that, though it's probably the most sullen, sulking 'yes' Tony's ever heard.
Oh well, it will have to do.
"Good," he says, taking a step back. "Now, I have some real work waiting for me that doesn't involve watching you clean shit up. So go back to your room and stay there where you can't do any more damage."
With that, he dismisses the god, glad to finally be able to focus on something else than this crap.
He's back on his bed again, tired and drained, though not physically from cleaning up the mess in Tony's living room. That was the easy part. No, the tiredness that's dragging him down is something that has nestled deeper inside of him than mere bodily exhaustion could ever do, something that has seeped into his very mind.
One of Tony's household robots brought him some food a while ago, though he can barely eat it despite the hunger clawing at his innards. He's feeling sick again, and his stomach is in turmoil, as is his head, throbbing with swirling thoughts.
If there was ever any doubt to what's in store for him, that tiny little piece of uncertainty has been obliterated now. It was sickingly obvious what 'hidden talents' Tony was referring to back there, as was his intentions to make good use of them.
The brutal punishment he'd expected hadn't come, though, and as much as it had confused him at first, he soon realized that it makes perfect sense.
Of course, that's what's staving his punishment off for the time being – Tony wants him to be in a state where he's still able to put those talents to use. No fun amusing himself with a slave that has been beaten senseless. That is something the man can take care of later, once Loki's entertainment value has lost its charms.
It would seem that once again, both of these things have been postponed for a later time, looming like dark and terrible shadows on the horizon.
And again, he can do nothing but resign himself to another dreadful wait.
Poor Loki. He really is his own worst enemy…
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