Author's note: As always, thank you for your supportive comments and reviews! :D I really do love them. ;)
His slightly better mood from a few days ago is definitely gone, now, as frustration is eating away at him. And it's disturbing, really, to what degree his pathetic situation has almost reached a sense of normalcy.
He looks out the window, and then down at the sheets in his hands again. Most of all, he would have liked to crumple them between his fingers and throw the box of papers out the window. The weight of the magic-blocking chains around his wrists is suddenly very tangible, despite his thinking he should have grown accustomed to them by now.
Chains, like those an animal would be wearing. Animals, and slaves.
He wonders what Tony will have in store for him once this task is finished, knowing that the boxes won't last forever. But the man will probably find some other kind of work that will be simple enough for someone like him, laughably unfamiliar with the ways and workings of this mortal realm that has changed so much since the days he last walked among the humans.
Perhaps he should feel relieved that Tony has found him a task he's able to do at all so that he can at least be somewhat useful, which should serve to put him in a better position and improve Tony's disposition towards him, but right now he can't muster up much of anything. Neither can he decide what's worse – being in such mockingly close proximity to the window with its full view of the alluring freedom outside that won't ever be his again, or the humiliation of sitting here performing simple chores for a mortal.
For a moment, he imagines turning the box of papers over, spilling its contents all over the floor and then walking out the room, leaving Tony to take care of the mess. But the fantasy is pointless, of course. Whatever short-lived satisfaction this rebellion would bring him would hardly be worth whatever consequences would follow. Even if Tony isn't going to physically hurt him, there's plenty of other ways for the man to lay down the law – withholding food, forbidding him access to the books in the tower, assigning him some degrading and unpleasant task to fulfil, or finding some more creative way of enforcing his obedience.
Listlessly, he fiddles with the papers, flipping them through with his thumb. Insignificant documents that mean nothing to him. Unable to stop himself, he looks out the window again, not sure which sight bothers him the most – the clear blue sky, reminding him of what he can't have, or the papers in his hands, reminding him of what his life has been turned into. Being at somebody else's beck and call, without his having a say in anything.
He decides the papers are less disturbing to look at, for the moment at least, and turns his gaze back to the finely-printed sheets.
His thoughts are drifting, back to Asgard, to his trial, to his attempt at conquering Midgard, to everything that's happened and not happened since his coming here. It's all such a jumble in his head, disjointed images of failure and disgrace and humiliation, weaving an unappealing tapestry in his head, painting a pattern that he doesn't particularly want to look at.
Only half-unconsciously, his hands tighten around the papers in his grip.
"Reindeer Games?" he suddenly hears the man lounging in the couch saying. Startled, he snaps out of his little reverie and turns his gaze up to look at Tony, who's eyeing him intently.
And suddenly, he's acutely aware that he's still holding onto the same wad of papers that's been in his hands for probably the last five minutes. He isn't quite sure how to interpret the searching way Tony is looking at him, but it's not a long shot that the man has noticed his slave's slacking off and isn't pleased with it.
"Yes?" he answers plainly, relaxing the death grip around the papers.
Tony makes a beckoning motion with his hand. "Come over here," he says, then pointing towards the other end of the couch. "Sit down."
He doesn't sound angry, at least, but Loki still steels himself for the bucket of displeasure about to be emptied over his head. The man might have let his unauthorized break slip without comment a while ago, but it's doubtful whether he will be so tolerant of further displays of laziness from his slave.
He watches dully as Tony sets the technical device he's been occupied with to the side, positioning himself into a half-slouching pose against the armrest.
"Is anything the problem?"
The question takes him by surprise; it is not what he had expected to hear from Tony, so he's silent for a few moments while pondering his answer. Is anything the problem? Sure, he could make a list – a long one – of all the things that are wrong in his life: being as a slave, having to perform lowly chores, being at the beck and call of a mortal, being locked up in here, and a whole bunch of other things as well. None of which he is about to tell Tony, of course.
"There is no problem," he says, not looking at the man opposite him.
"Hmm," comes the reply. "You looked quite… distracted there for a moment. A pretty long moment, I would say. Anything on your mind I should know about?"
Perhaps Tony has sensed his little rebellious fantasy, or his general distaste for his situation. Maybe he thinks that his slave is planning something undue that needs to be nipped in the bud. Whatever the case, it would not benefit him to admit to any resentful feelings, of course. No slave would ever give voice to any displeasure regarding his social status or situation before his master. Or before anyone else, for that matter. Complaining or showing dissatisfaction never lead to anything good for anyone in his position. Even though the man has been perplexingly tolerant, to an extent that would have been unheard of in Asgard, he has no doubt that even Tony has his limits.
"No. There is no problem," he repeats, shaking his head for emphasis.
"Uh-huh. Then how come the last bunch of papers you were sorting – or weren't sorting, I should say – has been turned into a crumpled heap?" Tony says lightly.
The man is observant, Loki has to give him that. Frankly, he'd preferred it if he hadn't been.
"I am used to handling Asgardian parchment. It's much sturdier than Midgardian paper," he says, the lie sounding unconvincing and half-baked in his own ears.
Tony shifts from his position in the couch, one leg coming up to rest against the cushions. "If you say so. However, if there's anything that is a problem, or if you have any concerns, go ahead and let me know. I know I've said it before, but don't just let it fester if there's something that's eating at you. I'd rather not have to deal with the consequences of a problem later that could have been resolved earlier."
And Loki thinks he can hear a warning in there, which would make perfect sense; of course Tony doesn't want any further trouble than what he has already endured on behalf of his slave. But this isn't a discussion he can bring up with Tony; frankly, it's ridiculous that he's even asking. Surely the man doesn't expect him to spill his honest mind about his situation.
"There is nothing of the sort," he says as neutrally as he can manage, hoping Tony will be satisfied with that so he can go back to his paper-sorting.
Tony sighs, not sounding like that was the answer he had been hoping for. "You know, this situation is new to me as well, so anything you can tell me that would help me out here would be appreciated. Seriously, I don't know what slaves in Asgard are even supposed to do all day."
"They do what their masters tell them to," he says mechanically, a part of him thinking he has said these words to Tony before.
Tony confirms his suspicions a moment later. "Yeah, you already mention that. Isn't terribly helpful, though."
He makes no reply to that and as Tony doesn't say anything further, he slips back down to the floor again, returning to his papers.
He left Loki alone with the box of papers a few hours ago, the god working away at a somewhat quicker pace than before and not seeming very inclined to do much talking.
And Tony is back in his workshop, making the final adjustments to the beta-electro-transformer that is just a few steps away from being finished.
But instead of feeling accomplishment at his soon-to-be completed creation, his thoughts keep returning to the god living under his roof. Of course, it would be silly to expect Loki to be happy about his situation, but it did seem like there was something a bit more off than usual, as if things were getting to him more than previously.
Though, for someone destined to spend the rest of his life – however long that will be – in slavery, Loki's handling it relatively well. On the outside, at least.
And he can't help but feel a pang of sympathy. What would it feel like, knowing you're going to be a slave until the day you die, without any hope of a change of the situation? Despite all the crimes that Loki has committed, Tony is pretty certain they don't merit this kind of punishment. To have all human rights stripped away and be turned into what is technically property.
He sighs, hoping they will both – for sanity's sake – learn to come to terms with the situation, disagreeable as it may be. Because heavens know that he hasn't yet.
And a part of him can't help but wonder for how long Loki is going to remain as well-behaved without the imagined threat of physical abuse hanging over his head. But he supposes he'll have no choice but to wait and see in that regard. Good thing he has Jarvis to watch out for him, at least.
His thoughts are interrupted by a sharp buzz from the doorbell, the unexpected sound making him startle enough for his hands to snap the little gadget in two.
A groan escaping his lips, he looks down at the broken thing in consternation.
Damn. Not again.
Is it the mailman? Jehovah's witnesses? The IRS? Stay tuned for the answer! ^^
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