Author's note: Well, looks like things are finally moving into a lighter direction… for now, at least. ;)
Tony sips on his cup of coffee, surreptitiously watching the god at the other side of the table stuffing himself with breakfast like he's a starving village in Africa. Not very different from when he first came here, after the enforced diet during his stay in the dungeons in Asgard. And seeing him like this, it is only now that he realizes how little the god has been eating lately.
The all-too familiar feeling of guilt rises in his throat again. And damn, how many times is he going to suffer that pang of bad conscience in Loki's presence? But it's too late to do anything about that now, expect admit to himself that he should have noticed, should have paid more attention. Or at least attached an appropriate amount of importance to it, rather than disregarding his observations with feeble and half-baked explanations.
Of course, in hindsight, everything is twenty-twenty and all that. But looking back, it seems so obvious; he should have noticed that something was seriously off about Loki. True, he had certainly noticed that things weren't right, but he hadn't realized the extent of it, or the cause of his erratic behaviour.
And much as he is loathe to admit it, Loki is his responsibility. There's no one else here to see to his health and general welfare. And considering how abysmally bad Loki has – understandably – been at communicating his concerns, perhaps Tony'd do well to be more attentive from now on, more on the lookout for any deterioration in health, be it physical or mental.
Loki has just finished gulfing down his third bowl of Cheerios and looks content for now, absent-mindedly playing around with the spoon in his hand for lack of better things to do. And Tony has long ago finished his sandwich, and is down to the last dredges of lukewarm coffee. Well then.
"Okay, sunshine, I have another box of papers in desperate need of sorting," he says, leaning back in his seat. "Ready to take care of it?"
A little resigned sigh escapes Loki's lips, but there are no further protests than that as the god nods.
Well, perhaps peaceful coexistence is possible, after all, even with a would-be world conqueror and enslaver of humanity.
And so, there are papers again. Lots of them. The cardboard box is bigger than last time, but just like yesterday, he gets to it with in inward grimace, combined with heady relief that it would indeed seem that Tony's intentions for him are nothing worse than what he can handle, demeaning as it still is to perform these menial, simple tasks.
He works mechanically, on auto-pilot, thinking about nothing in particular as he sorts the papers into different piles, fleetingly wondering why humans place so much importance on these flimsy things. The work is monotonous and is making him drowsy, and after a while he finds himself blinking to keep his eyelids from falling shut, his head slowly dropping towards his chest.
Soon, the letters and numbers on the documents that he's supposed to keep track off as to indicate in which pile they belong seem to be dancing across the sheets, mischievously switching places with each other, refusing to stay in place.
Yawning, he puts the pile of papers in his hands down on the floor to rub at his heavy-lidded eyes. He hasn't been sleeping very well until just recently due to the torturous strain he's been under, interrupting his sleep and keeping him awake until late in the night. Now that the strain has finally relented, though, the lack of sleep that has been building up is starting to take its toll and he feels devastatingly tired, his body numb and slow to respond.
He eyes the couch longingly. Perhaps he could take a little break, get himself a quick nap? Just for a few minutes, no more than that.
Though, he isn't quite sure how Tony would feel about him taking a break before he's finished with his work. Maybe he'll end up having to scrub floors again if Tony finds out, if Jarvis tells on him.
Well, he can live with that, he supposes. The temptation to get some much needed sleep is simply too overpowering to resist.
Abandoning the heaps of papers on the floor, he crawls up into the couch, sighing in contentment as his head hits the cushion. Not even a minute later, he's fast asleep.
He's back in the dungeons, in the dark and filthy cell he once occupied, heavy shackles around his wrists. One of the guards – a fat man whose name he can't remember, and it's not like it matters, when they only trade insults with each other anyway – has just delivered his only meal for the day, a bowl filled with some foul-smelling gruel that he throws rather than sets down on the floor.
"Meal time," he says disdainfully, eyeing Loki with ill-hidden contempt. "Though I fail to see why good food should be wasted on the likes of you."
Loki sneers, giving the guard a scornful glare. "You call this disgusting slop 'food'? Perhaps for a lowly creature like you, this would count as proper food, but-"
"Watch your mouth, traitor," the fat man hisses, taking a step towards him. Of course, Loki knows he'd be better off keeping quiet rather than baiting these primitive brutes serving as guards, but he can't stop himself. Their taunts rankle him too much for that.
As expected, the man takes a swing at him, one that Loki just barely dodges, hampered by his chains. Growling in fury at his failed attempt, the guard makes another try, this time hitting Loki in the ribs, casing him to double over in pain, gasping for air. Mere seconds later, hands grab his shoulders, pushing him up against the wall, the rough stones chafing at his skin through his tattered prison garb.
He tries to fight the hands nailing him to the cold stone wall, but to no avail. The man is much heavier than him, and also has the distinct advantage of not wearing heavy shackles around his wrists. A knee comes up to forcefully connect with Loki's already bruised ribcage, and he groans in raw agony, making a grab for the hands on his shoulders, trying to push the body away, shoving with all his might to get his assailant off him-
-and he tumbles off the couch and onto the floor, hands still clamped around those wrists, his opponent's body pinned beneath him. An instant later, when the dream has faded and the real world has returned, he finds himself straddling a surprised Tony, pinning the man's hands to either side of his head. The look meeting his is one of shocked confusion, not entirely unlike a deep sea fish someone just pulled out of the water and onto dry land.
And Loki's stomach sinks like a brick of lead. No doubt he'll end up scrubbing floors for this until his knees are bleeding – if he's lucky, that is.
Lightening-quick, he scrambles off Tony and scoots away to a safe distance while the man quirks an eyebrow at him, slowly pulling himself together from the unexpected assault to stand up, brushing himself off.
"Are all you gods in Asgard this paranoid, expecting assassination attempts in your sleep?" he asks, surprisingly level for someone who just got thrown to the floor by his own slave.
"I… was dreaming," Loki replies, warily, certain that this explanation won't count as a satisfactory excuse. Even if Tony did promise not to resort to physical violence, he doubts the consequences are going to be pleasant regardless. Slaves do not attack their masters unpunished, of course, regardless of how unintentionally.
"Must have been quite some dream, then." Tony shrugs. "But as I came here to tell you before I found myself right in the middle of a WWF wrestling match, it's time for dinner. At least I assume you're hungry." Puzzlingly, the man doesn't seem angry, neither because of the unauthorized break he's been helping himself to nor his subsequent hurling Tony to the floor. If anything, he seems… amused?
Then, a hand reaches down to where Loki is still sitting on the ground, grabbing hold of his arm. "Get up, will you. You've done enough huddling on the floor as it is," Tony says resolutely as he pulls him to his feet.
As if being able to tell what Loki is thinking, he shrugs. "No hard feelings, Reindeer Games. Shit happens." A crocked grin comes over his face. "Though, next time I will make sure to have Jarvis wake you up instead."
Once again, he's sitting at his usual spot at the table, this time eating food from a box adorned with the words Bartelli's Kitchen. And he's still not sure why Tony is letting him eat the same food as him, as this would surely not have happened in Asgard. He'd be given scraps, leftovers, whatever the free members of the household wouldn't see fit to eat.
Well, perhaps there aren't many scraps and leftovers to be had in a household consisting only of Tony, especially not since most of the food he eats seems to come out of these pre-packaged, one-portion boxes. So the easiest solution is probably to get his slave the same thing, he supposes.
He struggles a little with the long, whitish strands in his box. Noodles, Tony had called them. Just like Cheerios, food that is unidentifiable and has no equivalent on Asgard, but still doesn't taste bad.
The strands slip off his fork, stubbornly refusing to wrap themselves around the metal in the same effortless way they are doing for Tony. He goes at it again, feeling vaguely stupid at his unsuccessful attempts, but not particularly caring. There's no one but Tony here to see him anyway.
"I take it you don't have noodles in Asgard, do you?" He hears Tony's voice to his right, just as the forkful of thin strands slide back into the box yet again.
"We don't," he answers, trying to picture the royal court sitting at the High Table attempting to wrap these flimsy things around their eating utensils. The image is oddly… discrepant.
"So what do you guys usually eat up in Magic Fairyland, then?" Tony asks, slurping loudly at his noodles.
"Meat, usually. Pork or venison would be the most common," he answers, the question unwittingly making him think back on the innumerable meals he's eaten in Asgard. It all seems like a very long time ago now. "Bread and cheese. Porridge, though that's mostly for the lower classes. Fruit, whenever it's in season. Some vegetables, but not in great quantities."
"Uh-huh," Tony says, reclining in his chair. "So no pizza then? Or cheeseburgers? Or schwarma? You know, any fun food?"
"We don't have anything like that in Asgard, no. Ingredients are not… mixed together as often as in Midgard."
"What a shame. You know, while I sure don't mind a nice steak every now and then, it would get pretty boring eating that kind of plain stuff after a while." He elegantly twirls another helping of noodles onto his fork. "So tell me, what was your favourite Asgardian food, then?"
Loki blinks at the odd question. He can understand the interest in a foreign culture and its customs, especially for an inquisitive man like Tony, but there is no reason why he would be asking personal questions like that about Loki's own preferences. Nobody in Asgard would ask a slave such things. Slaves' opinions don't matter, if they at all have one.
"Deer, I guess. And boar," he says simply, not knowing where all this is supposed to lead.
"Ah, the wildlife kind of guy. You into hunting?"
Of course, it's not like he can refuse to reply, but it's strange and weird that Tony is asking him these things, and he isn't quite sure how to react.
"Not really. I was more interested in practicing magic and reading books."
Tony snorts, pointing his fork at him. "So, the nerdy type, huh? Yeah, I kinda figured that one out myself. You aren't really cut out to be a jock." He chuckles to himself, though the humour is lost on Loki. "So what kind of books did you read? Sappy romance? Horror? Agatha Christie?" He digs into his food again, chewing loudly.
No, masters aren't supposed to be having normal conversations with their slaves, not beyond what is necessary to make sure that orders and commands are carried out correctly. Well, they might talk at them, but not to them or with them, and they certainly don't expect answers in return.
Though, for some strange reason, Tony does.
So Loki can do nothing but answer dutifully, while his mind silently wonders if he will ever come to understand Tony at all.
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