Author's note: Well, this is another one of those impromptu, unplanned chapters… because I realized I could still wring a few more drops of angst out of this. ;) I promise, things *will* get better, though. ^^
The replacement plants and pots for the ones that got smashed during Loki's living room wreckage spiel have finally arrived, and the order neatly placed on his living room table by two sturdy-looking delivery guys, whose star-struck looks never quite faded as they carried their goods into the tower of the legendary Iron Man himself.
He eyes the assortment of green, leafy things in front of him – perhaps he'll even bother learning the names of them someday. With two fingers, he picks up the little scrap of paper stuck into the dirt next to one of them. Crossandra Infundibuliformis. Whatever. Who the hell makes up these names anyway?
The luscious picture on the paper looks very little like the half-wilted greenery in front of him, though. Maybe the people at the flower shop got the species all mixed up and he got a Wiltedus Leavus instead. Oh well.
His gaze drifts on to the colourful piles of pots and the big bag of clay pellets next to them. Not that he's en expert gardener or anything, but after many mishaps he eventually learned (from Pepper, who else) that those little pebbles are pretty good at protecting plants against over-watering – which is quite useful since he has Dummy taking care of that part. And a robot is only as good as its programmer, after all, which in his case isn't saying much when it comes to plant-care.
But this should present the perfect opportunity for giving his house-guest another task, shouldn't it? After all, Loki was the one who smashed all those old plants into mush, so it's only fair that he gets to take care of this. Besides, he has more important things waiting for him down in his workshop, top on his list being his second attempt at a beta-electro-transformer. The gadget that Loki was also responsible for breaking into pieces, albeit unintentionally. He winces at the unpleasant memory of all that followed that incident.
Well then. Caring for plants is supposed to be good for the soul and the mind, if you believe the hippie crowd. And heavens know that Loki could need some of that Zen-stuff as opposed to going around wreaking havoc on other planets.
"Jarvis, call Loki over here, will you?"
Not long after, Loki enters, looking stiff and wary, but perhaps a note more relaxed than usual, unless Tony is imagining things. Well, perhaps it's just wishful thinking.
"Okay," he says, gesturing at the stuff on the table. "My new set of decorative vegetables just arrived and needs to get in order. So," he grabs one of the ceramic outer pots, a wreath of white leaves emblazoned on the black glaze, "this is how you do it. You pour an inch of these things at the bottom of the outer pot," he digs into the bag of clay pellets and pulls out a handful of the things, depositing them in the black pot, "which is supposed to help with drainage and stuff. And once that's done, you place the little pot with the plant into the big pot with the pebbles. And you're done. Simple as that." He gives Loki a measuring glance. "Think you can manage that?"
Loki gives an affirmative nod.
Well, it's not a difficult task by any means, one that even alien gods should be able to handle. Easier than ironing, and you'd have to be quite skilful in your own way to screw this up.
"Excellent. I'll be back to check on your progress in a little while."
And with that, he saunters off into the direction of his workshop, leaving Loki alone with the plants and the pots.
Yeah, he should be able to handle this just fine.
He eyes the plants, the pots and the bag of pebbles spread out on the table in front of him. At least it should be a simple task, not nearly as prone to failure as ironing. As long as he doesn't drop and break something, there should be no way for him to get this wrong.
Gingerly grabbing one of the pots, he reaches down into the bag with his other hand, bringing out a handful of the little pellets, examining them carefully. It looks very much like dried clay. He thinks the royal gardeners in Asgard use something similar, but he's not sure.
Tipping his hand, he pours the pebbles down into the pot, and then digs up another handful, disposing it on top of the first layer until it looks like it's about an inch thick. Having finished that part, he picks up a plant with yellow and red-striped petals, placing it down on the bed of dried clay, then inspecting the finished product.
So this is to be his life here, then, he dully surmises, performing simple household tasks at the behest of a mortal. The thought makes an odd mixture of feelings stir inside of him; mostly resentment at his position and relief that nothing worse than this will apparently befall him. He tries to ignore the part of him that hopes he can perform this task better than his previous one, so that Tony won't withdraw the relatively good graces it would seem have been bestowed upon him despite everything that's happened both before and after his coming here.
He repeats the procedure with a few more of the pots, placing the bag of pebbles to the side and out of the way. It's only then that he notices the tear from which a trickle of clay pellets are pouring out, clattering hollowly as they fall onto the table.
Damn.
He fiddles with the bag for a second, trying to shift it to put a hold to the leakage. But instead, his efforts cause the whole thing to rip, and a shower of little pieces of clay come rushing out as the bottom tears open. He fumbles, futilely trying to stop the flow of pebbles as they're spilling out, a pursuit doomed from the very beginning. The outpour is of course unstoppable, and a second later the entire contents of the bag are flowing out over the table, rolling further down onto the floor.
For a while, he just stands there and stares uncomprehendingly at the disaster, empty bag still clutched in his hands. He's so tired and confused, his mind unable to think properly, his emotions still a wreck. All that exists in that moment are the little pebbles spilling forth on the floor, taking off in all possible directions – beneath the couch, into each of the four corners of the room, all over the rug. He never knew one bag like that could contain so many of them.
And it's like he's watching his own life, slipping between his fingers as uncontrollably as those tiny little clay balls rolling off in all and every direction while he is wholly unable and powerless to stop them, doomed to watch as the chaos and disorder unfold beyond his control.
And yet again, the unpleasant feeling washes over him that he can't do anything right here, not even the simplest of tasks; even this he managed to screw up. His brain is locked onto this single thought as he scrambles down to his knees, trying to pick up the pebbles and put them back into the torn remnants of the bag. But there's so many of them, all spread out, and he's so tired.
Futilely, he picks at the pebbles in closest proximity to him, attempting to scoop them up while his mind and thoughts are starting to race again. So Tony did say he wasn't going to beat him or hurt him, but what if he decides he's had it with his constantly failing slave and can't stand having him around anymore? Perhaps this was the last straw, maybe he's screwed up one time too many for Tony to want to keep him around. Maybe the man wants a… break. And what if he decides to lend him to one of his Avenger friends for a while, perhaps even Barton? He certainly wouldn't have any compunction about taking a more hands-on approach to revenge after everything.
The thought is like a bucket of ice water poured over him, and he can feel a cold sweat of panic breaking out on his forehead. He hasn't put much consideration into that possibility for quite a long time now, having had enough with worrying about Tony's plans for him. But now that it would seem like that threat is gone, this prospect suddenly rears its ugly head once more.
A couple of days ago, the thought wouldn't have pulled the rug out from under his feet like this, because it would just have been another drop in the raging sea of terror he was already swimming in. But now that his mind has been lulled into alluring complacence after the promise of safety, being dragged out of his little bubble of imagined security makes the prospect even worse.
A note of panic is spreading inside of him as he makes another attempt at collecting some of the pellets, his shaking hands fumbling so badly that he drops half of them an instant later. His frayed nerves and mind just can't deal with this emotional rollercoaster. Because maybe he's not safe after all, despite Tony's reassurances and promises, maybe Barton or someone else will instead do what Tony can't be bothered to.
Why did he ever believe he was safe; he should have known better than clinging to such childish hopes. He stares at the wide-spread ocean of clay pebbles, himself kneeling in the middle of it all, futilely trying to clean the mess up while everything stubbornly keeps slipping out of his hands. There are so many of them and his hands are shaking so badly and…
… and suddenly there's a crunching sound to his right, far too reminiscent of a shoe stepping on dried clay for comfort. He tenses and freezes, clenching his jaws tightly. He's not going to break down in front of Tony again, he isn't.
So he merely sits there waiting for Tony to voice his displeasure and annoyance, for him to finish it all off with a crisp statement that this is the last straw; one of his friends can take custody of him for a while and…
"Bambi?"" comes the voice somewhere above him to his right, sounding both surprised and questioning. "What's going on?"
"Th-the bag… ripped," he manages, voice half-choked by repressed panic. It sounds like a terribly weak excuse in his ears, a desperate attempt of placing the blame elsewhere.
"Yeah, I can see that. It's not what I asked," Tony says, crouching down next to him. "You look like you've just seen a ghost or something. Seriously, you're paler and sweatier than a survivor from a Friday the 13th movie, and that can't be healthy."
At this, his mouth springs into action faster than his brain. "Are you going to hand me over to Barton?" he blurts out, wincing at how the question sounds. So pathetic, so desperate, so… scared.
Tony looks at him with forehead creased in incomprehension, like Loki's just said he's going to marry a bilgesnipe. And why are his hands shaking like that, they shouldn't be…
"I'm not handing you over to anyone, buddy," comes the resolute reply after a stretch of silence. "What the hell made you think I would do that?"
Loki's reflexive glance at the pebbles surrounding them is apparently answer enough, as Tony gives an exasperated sigh. "Sheesh, Rudolph. Shit happens. Dummy used to mess up worse on a daily basis after I first built him, and I still keep him around. Haven't sold him for scrap value yet." He rubs two fingers against his forehead, massaging a spot just over his eyebrows. "What I'm saying is that there's not going to be any handing over of anything. You're staying here in my tower, and that's all there is to it. Got that?"
And he wants to believe that, he really does. But it's not the words that convince him in the end, but the hand on his shoulder, the same one that was there when he was losing it on the floor in Tony's workshop. A part of him wants to shrug its pitying presence off, but in the end it's the other part of him that wins out.
So he merely nods, afraid his voice might not quite obey him.
"Alright then, let's get this mess sorted out," Tony says as he moves to stand up, raising an eyebrow in Loki's direction. "Ever used a vacuum cleaner?"
I don't know why, but writing Loki screwing things up is just too much fun …
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