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It starts late April, when Tony mentions in casual conversation that Thor and Loki were staying in the Avengers facility upstate. With their homeworld destroyed and virtually nowhere else to go, the god of thunder suggested that they stayed on earth with the Avengers. “The Avengers are our allies,” he said, “Everything will be fine.”
Wouldn’t you know it, everything was not fine, and they did not receive the warm welcome Thor had been anticipating.
Just about every weapon in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s arsenal was trained on the god of mischief the moment his feet hit the doorstep, and were it not for Thor quickly diffusing the situation (à la a lightning strike that left a ginormous mark in the pavement which Tony’s still trying to get fixed), Loki would have been eviscerated on the spot. You couldn’t blame them though; who would want to host the guy that threatened to enslave humanity eight years ago?
An hour and a half of negotiation later (if very loud yelling and very ominous threats could be called negotiating), they reached a compromise — Loki was allowed to stay, on the condition that he stayed on facility grounds and was monitored at all times (courtesy of Dr. Strange). After that, Loki made himself scarce; kept to himself and only surfaced to get food, and even that was unsettlingly rare.
The very next day, Peter’s visit to the compound was preceded by a short lecture composed of various vague warnings from Tony, all steering him away from the east side of the second floor in one of the buildings and heavily discouraging him from seeking out the trickster.
“He's incredibly dangerous, kid. You saw what happened eight years ago, and I’m not crazy about sending you back to May perforated,” Tony says. There's a sort of haunted look in his eyes as the words leave his mouth that leaves a weight in Peter’s chest. “So you stay clear of Loki, capiche?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Stark.” he affirms.
So, Peter listened, if only to ease some of Tony’s worry (it really doesn’t, but it's the thought that counts).
And while Peter agreed that he would not seek out the trickster, that did not mean that the trickster could not seek out Peter himself.
So, imagine Peter’s surprise when he strolls through the doors of the compound one day and finds Loki casually lounging on one of the couches, sipping tea and flipping through the pages of a thick book that looked older than time itself.
Peter’s mouth moves of its own accord and spouts the most sophisticated greeting his brain could produce:
“Uh…Hi?”
Solid first impression, Parker.
The god looks up from his read and the second his eyes land on Peter, a grin that looks a little too malicious for Peter’s liking stretches across his face. The god shuts his book in one hand with a sharp snap and Peter has to fight the urge to step back.
“Ah,” Loki says simply, as he sets his book aside. “So, you’re the spider-child Stark speaks so highly of.” (“It’s Spider-man,” Peter mumbles). He swings his legs to the floor and rests his elbows on his knees. The way he stares with keen, narrowed eyes over folded hands unnerves Peter to no end and he can’t help but squirm uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
He looks anywhere else but at the god — at the floor, at the windows, at the coffee table display — and shifts his weight from foot to foot as he fidgets with his web slingers. “Nice to, uh, meet you…”
“Quite,” the god responds. “I heard the lecture Stark subjected you to shortly after my arrival. Tell me, boy,” a wolfish grin splits Loki’s face, dark and intimidating as all hell, “Do I live up to the monster he’s made me out to be?” There’s something pointed in Loki’s tone, like he’s testing Peter, and if he slips up, he’ll get torn to shreds.
Peter doesn't rise to the challenge.
“Um…I don’t know, are you trying to?”
For a brief second, the god is taken aback until he schools his face into something unreadable.
Peter gathers enough courage to take a good, hard look at the god. From where he stands, he can see the lines on Loki’s face and the dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in years (that might just be a side-effect of coming back from the dead multiple times though, who knows). Thor was right when he said his brother looked a little greasy (and a little weasley), but for the sake of not getting stabbed, he figures he probably shouldn’t say that out loud. He looks a lot different from what Peter remembers back in 2012. Minus the cape, the horns, and the armor, he’s a little leaner than Peter expected. A little less menacing. In fact, Loki just looks very tired and a little sad.
“You look a lot different than on tv a couple years ago,” Peter blurts out.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I saw you on the news with my aunt and uncle. You were flying all around on those alien jet ski-looking things and fighting everyone with your scepter and you had a huge horn helmet and kinda funky looking hair—”
Loki quirks an eyebrow at that and Peter immediately backtracks.
“W-w-wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” he stutters.
The god interjects before Peter can dig himself into a deeper hole. “May I ask you something?”
If Peter wasn’t anxious before, he certainly is now. “Um, yeah, sure, Loki—Mr. Loki, uh, sir…”
He almost misses the undignified little snrk that Loki makes at his attempt at being formal.
“Do you find me threatening?”
Talk about a loaded question.
Peter hesitates before answering. “Um…Yes?”
“Mm…” is all Loki says for a few moments. “Do trust that I’m sincere when I tell you this. I mean you no malice.”
“Uh, not gonna lie, but I kinda don’t believe that, Mr. Loki.”
Loki laughs out loud that time. “An acceptable answer. That’s rather wise of you, Spider-child.”
“Hey, man, I’m not a ‘child.’ I’m seventeen,” Peter refutes, crossing his arms. That nasty smile Loki wore softens into something more genuine.
“I’m sure that still constitutes as a child.”
“But I’m not!”
“Would you prefer ‘Spiderling’ instead?”
“How ‘bout just ‘Peter,’ Mr. Loki.”
He feels the hair on his arms stand on end moments before—
“Peter!”
Loki shimmers out of existence before his eyes as Tony strides into the room. “Where’ve you been, kid?”
Peter plays it cool, like he wasn’t just talking to the guy who nearly destroyed New York a few years back. “Uh, just out here, y’know.” Smooth, Peter. Tony surveys the room with exaggerated twists from side to side before looking back at Peter with a cocked eyebrow.
“By yourself?”
“...Yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” he drawls. Tony doesn’t look convinced in the slightest. He seems to let it slide, though. “Well, you’re here to tinker with your suit, right? So let’s get started, Boy Wonder.” He turns on his heel and Peter trails after him, more than grateful that he doesn’t pry any further.
End of May and early June bring the end of the school year, and with them, a mountain of stress and school work. Peter is knee deep in projects, upon homework, upon essays, upon exams, and it’s driving him up the damn wall. He’s been hunched over his desk under the light of his dinky little lamp for two hours now, staring down his English essay about the inherent evil nature of man (they’ve been on a unit for Lord of the Flies for a week—he’s not the biggest fan of the book). He’s a page away from freedom when the hairs on his arms stand on end.
“Your quarters could put a battlefield to shame, Spiderling. It's a mess.”
Peter whips himself around and bangs his knee against his desk in the process with a pained yelp.
“Ooh, that's painful,” Loki comments.
“Peter?” May calls from outside, “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah, I’m fine, May!” Peter yells back as he rubs the sore spot. He looks up at Loki, who’s sitting at his windowsill with a cheeky grin. “ Dude ,” he hisses, “What are you doing here? How do you know where I live? ”
Loki answers with a casual shrug and leans against the window frame with crossed arms.
Peter lets out an exasperated sigh. “Do you ever give straight answers?”
“It is not in my nature to be so straightforward with such things,” Loki says flippantly as he cocks his head to the side with a smug grin, “What would be the fun in that?”
Peter stares incredulously at the god and he’s not sure whether he should laugh or scream.
“You're something else, dude,” he finally replies, shaking his head as he turns his chair back to his desk.
Relative silence settles between them as Peter finishes what remains of his essay. Loki waits at his windowsill, even summons a book to read in the meantime. The clacking of his keyboard keys, his study playlist running softly in the background, and the squeak of his chair as his leg bounces fill the absence of conversation. It's when he completes his last citation that Loki speaks up.
“You said previously that you were seventeen, correct?”
“Uh, yeah,” Peter replies, “Why?”
“That's rather young for a mortal.”
Peter snorts, muttering, “If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that,” He swings himself around in his chair to face the god, “I’m gonna be a legal adult next year. Not gonna be ‘rather young’ then, am I?”
Loki makes what Peter thinks is a laugh. “Still rather young for you to be involved with this ‘Avengers’ business, is it not?” He crosses one leg over another and sets his book, worn and aged and written in a language Peter doesn’t know, aside. “Just how did you get wrapped up in it all?”
Peter shrugs and fiddles with the eraser tip of one of his pencils. “Got bit by a radioactive spider, got spider powers, impressed Mr. Stark enough that I got recruited, got a new suit, and now I'm the friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.”
“Impressing Stark is no easy feat. You must be very bright for your age.”
“Okay, well how old are you ?” Peter tosses back.
There's a twinkle to Loki’s eyes as a grin that's all teeth tugs at his lips. “Perhaps I'll tell you another time.”
“So like, really old, huh.”
That earns him an amused chuckle.
Later on in the night, when May and Peter had exchanged their goodnights and May had gone to bed, Loki magicked them up to the roof of Peter’s apartment building. Teleportation, as it turns out, is incredibly harsh on Peter’s heightened senses. The jarring sensation sends him reeling the moment his feet hit the ground. He almost brings up the pad thai he had for dinner.
“Oh, careful, teleportation can sometimes be quite disorienting for first-timers,” Loki explains belatedly when Peter sways on his feet. “If your stomach decides to revolt, please let it do so away from my person, Spiderling.”
After Peter gets his bearings and doesn't almost blow chunks by Loki’s shoes, they sit on the ledge, looking out over the bright, bustling Queens nightlife.
It's Peter who breaks the silence.
“Hey, Mr. Loki, can people see us up here?”
“Of course not,” Loki assured. “I wouldn't be so short sighted as to forget that we are in public.”
“Then how will people not see us up here?”
“I’ve used magic , of course,” Loki says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“What! That's so cool!” Peter marvels with all the awe and wonder of a child witnessing a magic act. And that's when he gets an idea. “Mr. Loki, you ever heard of a game called ‘what are the odds?’”
“Afraid not. Why?”
If Loki is the god of mischief, then mischief they will cause.
Peter launches into a quickfire explanation—Pick a dare, ask what are the odds your friend will do the dare, they pick a range of numbers, you both call out a number from the range at the same time, and if you say the same numbers, your friend does the dare. Simple, fun, and full of possibilities.
The playful glint returns to the god’s eyes. “Alright, Spiderling,” he says, “Let’s play.”
They start out simple. What are the odds Loki would shapeshift into an animal? What are the odds Peter would web his neighbor's window? What are the odds Loki would multiply Peter? What are the odds Peter would swing to Delmar’s and grab them a bite to eat as Spider-man?
“So, Mr. Loki,” Peter starts around his food (Loki looks rather unimpressed by his attempt at speaking with his mouth full), “what are the odds you’d shapeshift into one of the Avengers and give your best impression of them?”
Loki answers as he picks the pickles out of his sandwich, “From 1 to 15.”
Peter counts them down. “1…2…3…”
“7,” they say in unison.
“Aw, hell yeah!” Peter cheers. The trickster sighs in mock exasperation, grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘I should have just said 2,’ and rises to his feet. With a flourish of his hands and a sparkling green shimmer, Loki stands as Captain America in all his tacky, patriotic glory—shield included.
“Good evening, young citizen,” he greets with a heavy handed, old-timey tv star-style American accent that leaves Peter in stitches, “I'm Captain America.” ‘Rogers’ sidles up to Peter, hands gripping his belt, with his overexaggerated ‘no-nonsense, battle-ready’ swagger and Peter is heaving for breath from laughter.
“Holy shit, that's hilarious!” Peter wheezes.
“Would you like to have a rousing discussion about honor and patriotism, son?” ‘Rogers’ continues, hands balled into fists and rested on his hips and head held high with that great American pride, “God bless America!” Had a bald eagle flown overhead with the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ playing in the background as the American flag waving in the wind faded into view behind him in that moment, it would have made that perfect.
‘The Cap’ takes a dramatic bow and as he rises, Rogers dissipates in a wave of green light and Loki takes another bow as himself. Through tears and fits of laughter, Peter applauds the Trickster’s performance.
“That was awesome, dude!” Peter gushes through giggles as he wipes away his tears.
“Thank you, thank you,” Loki says, “I must say, the Captain is the most fun to imitate, if only to radically exaggerate his character.”
“I don’t know, sounded pretty in character to me,” Peter snickers as he balls up his sandwich wrapper and stands up from the ledge. “Alright, I think I should head back. It's like three A.M. on a school night.”
There’s a brief pause before Loki replies and Peter isn't sure if he imagines the way the god’s face falls ever so slightly.
“Of course,” Loki says, folding his hands behind his back, “Strange has most likely been alerted by my absence from the Avengers facility. It's best that I return before ‘Earth’s mightiest heroes’ storm your apartment in search of me.”
“Yeah,” Peter laughs weakly, “Good night, Mr. Loki.”
The god gives Peter a curt nod. “Good night, Spiderling,” he says simply before magicking himself away.
Peter shambles his way to bed shortly after. Loki isn’t too bad of a guy, he thinks as he flops down on his mattress, at times a bit flippant and brimming with hubris, but not awful overall. There is, however, a lingering voice that sounds suspiciously like Tony’s that nags at the back of his mind. It reminds him he tried to destroy New York and enslave humanity . He could be tricking you. He's the god of lies.
You can't trust him.
Yeah, maybe he can’t, he thinks. But maybe—just maybe—Loki deserves redemption too.
Mid-June—three weeks into summer vacation—Peter spends most of his time indoors, away from the sweltering New York heat. When he's not pulling all-nighters tinkering with his suit at the compound with Tony or up playing Fortnite in the early hours of the morning in an energy drink-induced haze with Ned, he dons his suit and swings through the streets, patrolling the city. Some days, there’s someone to be stopped, someone to be saved, and patrol goes well—crooks get sent to jail and people continue on with their lives. Other days, things don't go as smoothly.
Much like this night.
Peter is quick to dodge a shiv to the chest and catch his assailant’s arm, dropping his pink box of pastries in the process.
“Hey man, those things are sharp! Y’gotta be careful, someone could get hurt,” he quips, twisting the knife out of the aggressor’s grip. Peter kicks it behind him and webs the man to the wall, swiftly dropping to his knees as another attacker comes at him, reeling back for a punch. The man goes for a wide swing and Peter lands a hard kick to his back before webbing the assailant while he’s down.
“Son of a bitch!” he spits from the ground.
“You kiss your mom with that mouth?”
More footsteps resound and it isn’t long until Peter finds himself cornered.
“Woah, c’mon guys,” he says with hands raised slightly as more hooded men slowly advance toward him, “Five-to-one seems pretty unfair.”
One comes barreling towards Peter with a bar that he webs mid-strike. Wrenching the weapon from the attacker’s hands, Peter swings and takes out two men with a dull thwunk! before he reels it back and tosses it aside. He fires his web slingers at the next closest assailant and yanks . As the man stumbles forward, Peter launches himself feet first at the poor bastard’s face. His heels make contact with the man’s nose—the sick crunch of broken bone follows as he topples backward.
Peter’s pulling himself up when he catches a glimpse of a man charging at him fast with a guttural cry and a knife in his grip. He takes hold of the man’s wrist and readies the web slinger on his other hand when a blinding flash of gold-green comes between Peter and his attacker. Peter shields his eyes from the light and turns away.
When he looks back, the men are gone—even the first two webbed to the wall and the ground—and someone familiar stands before him with his back turned.
“Mr. Loki?”
The god turns to face him with a crooked smile. Picks up Peter’s abandoned box of pastries (somehow unscathed from the fight) and pushes it into Peter’s hands.
“You ought to be more careful, Spiderling,” Loki admonishes. “Who knows what could have happened to you had my arrival not been so timely.”
Peter brushes dirt off the top of the box and checks the contents—can’t have any squished goods, that’ll be sad. “I totally had that, Mr. Loki,” Peter finally replies. It earns him a rather unimpressed look from the god who eyes him with a cocked eyebrow.
“Did you now?”
“Yeah, ‘course,” he chirps with an awkward shrug. It gets a light laugh out of the god.
Peter grabs them boba after as a thanks—strawberry rice milk for himself, jasmine milk tea for Loki. (“It’s passable,” Loki notes after a small sip. They don’t speak about how the tapioca pearls catch the god off-guard in the next sip. And they don’t speak about how it nearly causes him to spit them out. And Peter certainly didn’t catch the whole thing on Snapchat.) They take it up to a roof and Loki watches Peter with mild surprise when he reaches into the pink box and holds out a pastry for him.
“Chocolate tart,” Peter says with a mouthful of cream puff, his mask rolled halfway up his face. “Try it, it’s real good. This bakery’s got the best stuff.”
Loki takes the treat gingerly, as if it’s something precious, and examines it with genuine interest.
“Chocolate,” Loki says after a moment. “You said it was chocolate, yes?” he asks.
“Yeah, what, they don’t have chocolate in space?” Peter jokes with a light laugh as he sinks his teeth into his cream puff.
“They do not.”
Oh.
Peter’s mouth is quick to work out an apology, “I-I’m sorry Mr. Loki, I didn’t know–”
“Don’t worry yourself over it, Spiderling,” Loki cuts, not unkindly, “I wouldn’t have expected you to know that, so I won’t fault you for it. It isn’t unusual for one to take for granted something so commonplace.”
Peter bites his inner cheek. “Sorry,” he says again.
Loki waves it off easily. “Like I said, don’t worry yourself over it. I take no offense.” The god looks at the tart in his hand for another moment before taking a tentative first bite. He chews it slowly and Peter watches as Loki formulates his opinion.
“How’s it taste?”
Loki examines the tart again before he answers.
“Not bad,” he hums. “Granted I’ve never had this kind of pastry, so I have no basis with which to compare it to.”
“Okay, but do you like it ?”
“It is acceptable.”
“Aw, c’mon.”
Loki quirks a smile at Peter’s chagrin. He continues eating the tart anyway. In fact he’s half way through it when Peter speaks up again.
“If they don’t have chocolate in space, how do you know about it, Mr. Loki?” Peter asks, trying to work up more conversations. Silence with company leaves him restless, even more so with a literal god sat beside him.
“Just because chocolate was not available to us on Asgard does not mean we were not capable of acquiring it elsewhere,” Loki explains after another bite of the pastry. “Cacao is only found here on Midgard, and it was imported to Asgard every now and again. It’s rarity meant it was only served to nobility, and even then we would not have it very often.”
“Damn, that’s rough,” is all Peter says, unsure of how else to respond. “Maybe next time I swing by the facility, I can sneak you a couple chocolate bars.”
“How very kind of you,” Loki returns, only half sarcastic.
The god stands eventually, muttering about ‘that blasted second-rate magician keeping a tight leash on him.’
“Have a good night, Spiderling,” he bids. “Do try not to run headlong into more trouble.”
“Will do, Mr. Loki. Good night.”
Loki takes his boba with him on his way out. Even snags a pastry when Peter offers again.
(“Only ‘acceptable,’ huh?”
“Hush, Spiderling.”)
Peter stays for a little while longer, watching the bustling city nightlife shuffle on. He boxes up the rest of the desserts and swings home not long after.
After that night, Peter catches Loki in glimpses. The god watches him while he’s out on patrol—not quite outright, but Peter knows he’s there. Lurking in the background of the city. Out of the corner of Peter’s eye while he walks a girl home at 2 AM. A reflection in the window pane of a storefront after apprehending bank robbers. A figure in the midst of a crowd as he swings from building to building. Sometimes, Loki will keep him company in the quieter moments of the night. He’ll regal epic tales of his and Thor’s great childhood adventures, distracting Peter from pain in the aftermath of a fight while his skin knits itself back together and his bruises fade to more muted colors. He helps Peter get home on those nights when Peter is too weary to swing himself home, when his body is close to giving out, and he’ll tell him, “Just this once.” They both know it’s a lie.
Peter thinks about the Battle of New York—several years that feel like a lifetime ago. Remembers his little nine-year-old self nestled between Ben and May, watching this mean, green clad, horn-helmeted bad guy fight the Avengers on tv. The Loki that sits at his window sill, thoroughly confused as he watches Peter play Apex Legends at one in the morning isn’t that same Loki. He’s gone soft, Peter thinks, probably for the best.
Sunday nights are reserved for pjs, piles of junk food, big mugs of hot cocoa and tea, and 90s sitcoms with May. It’s their time to bond, connect, touch base, whatever you wanna call it. It’s a tradition that started after May found out he was Spider-Man, born from her worry more than anything else. (Worry that one day the news will be reporting Spider-Man’s death instead of a daring rescue.) He doesn’t blame her.
The TV’s volume is turned low, just enough for them to hear the chatter of Full House as they talk about their days. Mays tells him about her hard-ass of a boss and her less than patient patrons between sips of tea, and Peter?
Peter tells May about Loki.
There’s a moment where May blinks and lets out an uncertain laugh, like he’s told some terrible joke.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Peter makes no reply and May’s face falls in concern.
“Peter...” she starts.
“He hasn’t done anything to me, I promise.”
May sighs tiredly, eyes closed, brows creased—she looks exhausted. It breaks Peter’s heart realizing how much more stress he’s suddenly put on her. God, he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. S he would’ve found out one way or another, his mind reminds him, she always does . The withering look May gives him, full of emotion (worry, unease, distress, fear ), drives the nail deeper into his chest.
“You already know what I’m gonna say, right?” she says wearily. He can’t even bring himself to look her in the face. Not like this. Not when he knows the kind of hurt he’s putting her through.
Peter swallows a lump in his throat and nods.
“Yeah…”
May lays a gentle hand on his head, letting it slide to his shoulder before giving it a soft squeeze.
“Just…” She takes a short pause. “Be smart about this, okay? At the end of the day, all I ask is that you come back home in one piece.” Peter can hear the plea that goes unsaid.
Just don’t turn up dead .
Peter clenches his jaw tight. Finally gathers enough courage to look her in the eye.
“Okay,” he agrees hoarsely. He clears his throat and says again, “Okay,” the small waver in his voice betraying him. May brings him close and embraces him, running a hand through his hair as Peter wraps his arms around her waist.
They're sat together on the apartment rooftop once again, a few bags of Lifesavers gummies between them.
“Hey, Mr. Loki, are you into any kind of music?”
Peter had been up there first, just to think and enjoy the evening summer breeze when Loki popped in to join him. Peter almost didn't recognize him. The god’s hair is pulled into a loose bun, and he’s wearing black sweats and a gray zip-up hoodie (After Peter’s initial shock, Loki made him swear on his life to never breathe a word about this to anyone. He has a reputation to maintain, after all). They sit beside each other, feet dangling freely from the edge, and they talk—about Peter’s school, about magic, about their powers, about the other Avengers. Peter brings up music.
Loki dwells for a moment, digging into the bag and pulling out a green apple ring before answering, “I suppose you could say that I’m ‘into’ some music, however it’s quite different from what you have here on Midgard. I’ve heard some, courtesy of Stark. You have quite a wide variety of sounds.” He tosses the ring into his mouth. Peter knows Tony’s taste in music all too well—Metallica, AC/DC, Queen; hard-rock blasting so loud from the labs you could hear Highway to Hell from the other side of the compound.
“You like any sound in particular, though?”
“None thus far.”
Peter pulls his phone out and opens Spotify. “You mind if I play something, then?”
“Be my guest, Spiderling.”
Peter hits play and they continue to sit on the rooftop under the expanse of orange setting skies with a bag of sweets between them. For a while, no words are exchanged besides the music playing from Peter’s phone.
“Hey, Mr. Loki? Can I ask you something?” Peter starts after a while. Now empty bags of sweets are discarded in favor of cans of soda.
“You may,” Loki replies between sips of Sprite.
“Will you answer?”
“That is up for debate.”
Peter lets out a soft huff somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Figured.” He rolls his soda can between his hands and looks out at the blooming city lights. “I just wanted to know why you helped me out. With those guys a while ago, I mean.”
Loki pauses for a moment. He eyes Peter carefully before turning away, taking in a deep breath. “I suppose I thought that assisting the city’s beloved young vigilante may have been a good start to...to recompense.”
Peter looks up at the god, “‘Recompense?’”
“It means—”
“No, no, I know what it means,” Peter cuts, “I just...Wow, Mr. Loki. Really turning over a new leaf, huh?”
“Hm,” Loki replies, “Yes, I suppose you can say that.”
There’s another pregnant silence as the blushing magenta skies give way to darkening hues of purple and blues. Brendon Urie croons soulfully to the accompaniment of a piano.
This is gospel for the vagabonds,
Ne’er-do-wells, and insuff’rable bastards
Confessing their apostasies,
Lead away by imperfect imposters.
Oh-oh woah-oh oh-oh
“How fitting.”
Peter lets out a humorless snort into the lip of his can. “For you? Yeah. You are kind of a dick sometimes,” he comments before he takes a swig.
“Guilty,” is all Loki says in reply, a smug little grin on his face. At least he’s aware of it. Peter sets his soda beside him.
“Hey, can I ask why you keep hanging out with me?”
“May I ask you why you continue to associate yourself with me despite Stark’s specific instructions to do the exact opposite?” The god shoots back.
Peter shrugs at that. “Alright, fair.”
Loki stretches his back and Peter tries not to wince at the pop-pop-popping sounds as he does (“That’s a yikes, man,” Peter mumbles under his breath). “Many of the Avengers,” the god says the name in a blasé tone, “Are rather austere towards my presence here on earth, if not outright incensed. Could you believe it?”
“Nah, not at all,” Peter comments sarcastically. Loki quirks a smile at that. Peter’s heard about what Loki did to Clint before what happened in Manhattan in passing, and he can’t imagine the archer was very happy when Loki came strolling out the ship alive the day it crashed on the Avenger’s front lawn. But Peter also heard how the god helped save the Asgardians when things were going to hell and how he even helped Thor in the battle against their older sister (apparently a very long story) from Bruce. The doctor, while not overly fond of the trickster, isn’t exactly in bad terms with him either. The sky’s darkened to an inky blue, speckled with little white lights, and Peter almost wishes they weren’t in the city, so he could look out at an expanse of brilliant, twinkling stars. The god sat beside him stares at the same night sky, but his gaze is much farther away.
“Despite my considerable lifespan, it’s safe to say these last few years have been the longest ones I have lived through, if you could even call it ‘living.’”
Unsure of what to say, Peter stays quiet and listens. Loki keeps talking.
“I’ve so long acted as my brother’s adversary. The villain’s role seemed fitting—if he was to be the hero, then I would be his enemy.” Peter gives him a sidelong glance.
“But, why?” There’s a minuscule shift in Loki’s jaw. Peter can see the tension build in his shoulders.
“Odin...” Loki takes a pause, “Our…father…once told us when we were boys that only one of us could ascend to the throne, but that both of us were born to be kings...”
Oh.
Peter thinks of the two gods—polar opposites, like day and night. Thor: god of thunder, universe-renowned and physically imposing. The king of Asgard’s people. Then, Loki: god of mischief, chaos, cunning and reliant on tricks. A prince hidden in his older brother’s shadow. The tension, the competition, the loathing it must have created…
“Oh.”
Loki moves the conversation along, as if to skirt the topic under the rug. He eyes his forgotten Sprite and takes it in his hands.
“Upon our arrival on earth, Thor suggested that I make reparations and make myself acquainted with our immediate company in the facility.” He takes a small sip from the can.
“You could’ve just said you wanted a friend,” Peter says before taking knocking back the rest of his soda. “Would’ve saved you that long explanation.”
Loki huffs a laugh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Y’know, I don’t think you’re evil, Mr. Loki, or a villain.” The god turns at that, looking at Peter with an expression he can’t quite place. “Just a guy that’s been through some stuff and made some bad decisions.”
A wry smile tugs at the corners of Loki’s mouth. “You’ve pulled from that essay you’d written some months ago, haven’t you? On—what was it—the ‘inherent evils of man?’”
“Wait, yeah, how’d you know?”
“I’d read the physical copy you’d made of your work,” Loki replies. “The vocabulary used in your writing is extensive, it’s a shame you do not use it regularly.”
“Dude, literally no one talks like that in their daily lives except you. You’re like a walking Shakespeare play.”
Another laugh escapes Loki, one much more full and sincere.
It’s near midnight when Loki rises to his feet. “I’d best be off,” he says softly, “Before my leash is tugged too harshly.”
Peter looks up at the god and pushes himself up. “Yeah, I should probably go to bed. Good night, Mr. Loki.”
“Good night, Spiderling.” A gold-green light shimmers off the god. He turns one last time to face Peter. “By the way...that song—the one that played before. ‘This is Gospel?’ I quite like it.” The light envelopes Loki, and Peter is left alone with the sounds of nightlife.
Just a normal midsummer evening, right?
Tony stops Peter at the facility one afternoon, arms crossed and looking a little less than pleased.
“Hey, Pete.”
Oh, he’s got that tone. The one he uses when Peter does exactly what Tony told him not to do and he’s about to scold him.
“Uh...Hey, Mr. Stark…”
“Have you seen Loki around lately?”
“No,” he answers a little too quickly. His voice might have cracked a little too, but that's not important.
Tony nods and looks to the floor before shoving his hands in his pockets and bringing his head back up to look at Peter. “Oh, really? That's interesting, because I got word from Dumbledore that he’s been lurking around in places he shouldn’t be. Particularly your apartment.”
Yikes.
He tries to lighten the mood.
“That's—uh—real weird, ha ha…” Peter tries with a nervous laugh. Tony’s expression makes him immediately shut his mouth. So much for that.
“Y’know he’s dangerous, right?”
Peter sighs and looks down at his shoes, suddenly finding them much more interesting.
“Yeah…”
“Then why are you suddenly all buddy-buddy with a guy that tried to take over the world some eight odd years ago?”
“He’s a good guy, Mr. Stark—”
“ Good guy ?” He parrots pointedly, “Did you not hear what I just said?”
“Okay, fine, he's an alright guy.”
“Peter, he’s a walking disaster.”
“I dunno, it’s been four months and he hasn’t done anything.”
Pause.
“I’m sorry, four months? ” Tony repeats, his voice growing louder and Peter has to force himself not to step back.
“Wait, Mr. Stark I can explain—”
“Has it ever occurred to you how dangerous he is? That he, oh, I don’t know, nearly decimated Manhattan and killed over eighty people in two days ? You remember that? Because I definitely remember it. Very clearly. Loki is a murder just waiting to happen.”
“Mr. Stark, if Loki wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have done it when he first had the chance?”
Tony sets jaw before taking a deep breath, dragging a hand over his face with a resigned sigh. In that moment, he looks alarmingly old—a tired face lined with age and stress, and hair starting to gray at the temples (he didn’t look this old when they first met, did he?)
“Alright, y’know what? Fine,” he says wearily. “I know you’re not gonna listen to me if I tell you to call it quits, and God knows I've tried it a billion times, so, I’m just gonna say this. Be careful...okay? I don’t want to have to explain how you got stabbed trying to make friends with a megalomaniac to May. We clear?”
Peter nods solemnly. “We’re clear, Mr. Stark.” With that, Tony claps a hand his shoulder (Peter definitely doesn't notice how it lingers there).
“Cool. Good talk,” he says with a certain finality. Peter doesn't comment on the slight hitch in his voice. Tony turns on his heel and walks away.
Peter crawls along the ceiling of the derelict warehouse. He watches—takes a mental inventory of the happenings below him. Several men: all in black, all with masks, all armed . Some guard the south entrance while another few guard the east; bad . Two talk in gruff tones to the side, discussing what they’ll do with the money they’ll get (it leaves a sinking feeling in Peter’s gut); bad . Another group is bent over something—a cart, a desk, he’s not sure—and they fiddle with packs that Peter soon realizes are explosives; bad. One guards two small bodies huddled together in the corner, covered in grime, in scrapes, in blue and purple bruises. The two children—a girl and a boy, no older than five and eight—shake and whimper in fear as the man threatens them with the rifle in his hands and Peter feels his heart clench at the sight; bad, bad, very bad.
He hates hostage situations.
Don’t screw this up, Parker.
His body is practically humming with anxiety, thoughts racing a mile a minute with the millions of things that could go wrong. He swallows his fear and steels himself.
Breathe in. One.
Breathe out. Two.
Three.
He fires a stun web at the lone guard.
Thwip!
—and everything goes to hell.
“It’s the fuckin’ Spider Freak!”
SHIT.
Someone opens fire and Peter drops to the ground. A spray of bullets whiz past him and he hears the children shriek in fear. His instincts kick into fight or flight mode, making a mad dash to shield the two.
“It’s gonna be okay!” he assures over the gunfire and the echoing bellows in the warehouse, “I’ve got you guys!” He feels his skin prickle as the girl cries out to him.
“Look out, Spider-man!”
Peter spins on his heel, quick to catch the heavy hand bringing down a knife that’s way too close to his face.
A familiar flash of gold-green light appears and his assailant sinks to the ground, an ornate dagger lodged between his shoulder blades.
“Mr. Loki?”
“In over our head yet again, are we, Spiderling?” Loki asks, punctuating the question by a knife flung with terrifying accuracy—the blade lands between a gunman’s eyes and the man drops like a sack of bricks. Peter webs the gun, bringing it out of reach of the others.
The god takes a battle-ready stance, clad in leather and armor and golden horns while his face is pulled into hard lines with eyes narrowed and jaw set—he looks menacing . He crosses his arms over his chest, and in one fluid motion, they’re thrown to his sides, daggers now glinting in tight-gripped hands. Loki barks a single order before setting to work.
“ GO! ”
Peter wastes no time and gathers the youngest of the two into his arms as the eldest clambers onto his back.
“Hang on tight, alright?”
He fires a web at the rafters and they take off like a bat out of hell . The two cling to him with a vice grip as he swings them from beam to beam, faster and faster and faster with every web fired—
His spidey-senses flare moments before a deafening explosion shakes the building and they fall;
Down, down, down with the debris of the now crumbling warehouse. Time slows to a crawl and suddenly he can’t hear anything but the incessant ringing in his ears. The grasp on his neck and shoulders begins to slip as he watches the children’s faces morph into expressions of terror. Peter can feel the panic rising in his own chest.
Back in motion.
Peter’s web wings deploy and he scoops the two back into his arms as they fall closer and closer to the ground.
“Brace yourselves!”
It’s less of a landing and more of a tuck and roll as he holds the two tight to his chest and they tumble to a stop. They clamber to their feet and Peter can feel the heat from the blasts as he ushers them to the exit. The windows shatter and the beams let out a hideous whine as the building starts falling to pieces. He’s got a foot out the door when he hears a grunt and he remembers—Loki.
Shit , he’s still in there.
Peter fires a splitter web in hopes of catching the raining debris and calls out to the trickster, “Dude, come on!”
Loki’s hand glows with an emerald green flame that he fires off at one of the men still standing as he swipes his arm across his bloodied mouth. “I’ll follow you shortly, just go!” A grunt escapes him as another one of the ugly bastards grabs him from behind, trying to drag him down.
“Are you crazy? I can't just leave you—!”
He’s too distracted, too scatterbrained for his spidey-sense to warn him. There’s a flash of green light hurtling towards him, and the next thing he knows he’s airborne.
The first impact knocks the wind out of him and spins him midair. The second is a jarring hit that makes Peter see stars and sends the kids running for him in worry when he finally skids to a stop. He rolls to his side on wobbly arms and reassures the two that he’s okay, taking shuddering breaths as his lungs remember how to take in oxygen. When his vision clears, he’s left watching in silent horror as the building comes crashing down.
Right on top of the captors and the god.
“Loki!” Peter cries out, coughing as the dust that flies around him stings his lungs.
He drags himself up to his feet, telling the children to stay where they are, and stumbles towards the wreck and plume of dust. It’s hard to ignore the way his vision doubles and the way his head, back, shoulders ache in protest with every step he takes.
“ Loki! ” he calls out again, frantically digging through the rubble and tearing at chunks of crumbled cement.
Bright warning signs light up his HUD.
“I’ve detected a moderate concussion and multiple lacerations. You need medical attention, Peter,” a female voice states, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s Karen. “Should I contact Tony Stark?”
“No,” Peter says a bit too harshly. He tries again, tone more gentle, “No, no. Not yet. I-I gotta get Loki outta this.” He heaves up a metal beam and a hunk of concrete, and the tangy copper scent of blood hits him even before he sees crumpled body after crumpled body. Peter nearly retches at the sight. “Oh, Jesus,” he wheezes out. There were more of them than Peter first thought.
“Peter, your heart rate has elevated and you are experiencing severe nausea,” Karen says, “You should sit down.”
“I can do this, Karen, don’t worry,” he replies weakly, fighting back the wave of dizziness and tunnel vision that threaten to overtake him. He isn’t giving up ‘cause god damn it, he’s gonna pull Loki out of this mess alive.
Peter cautiously scans the area as he sets out on unsteady legs through the ruins. The steps he take are followed by a crunch of rubble and broken glass and a horrid squelch that he can’t help but shudder at. His shaky breath is too loud to his own ears.
As he moves closer to where the center of the warehouse had been, something to his left catches his eye. Something golden, different from the gray of the concrete and metal beams.
“Mr. Loki!”
Peter treads the ruins and bores through the layers of cement, and metal rods, and broken glass Loki lays beneath. And it takes everything within him not to scream when he finally unearths the god from the detritus.
“Oh fuck …”
The bloody, battered mess Peter finds at the bottom sends him reeling. Every bruise, every spattering of blood pops in stark contrast against his alarmingly pale skin. Both eyes sport deep purple bruises, the left one swollen and the brow above it coated in a dark red that borders black. His lip is busted and if the crookedness of his nose and the way it’s pouring blood is anything to go by, Peter’s pretty sure it’s broken.
His abdomen and chest are by far the worst part.
Two gnarled metal rods jut out of Loki’s body, piercing him like some fucked up skewer.
Bile burns Peter’s throat, and not from his own concussion.
“Oh shit, oh shit ,” Peter croaks, voice trembling, “Karen...Karen, what do I do? He’s bleeding everywhere, and there’s rods coming out of him and he looks like death, Karen, what if he dies, I don't know—”
“Slow down, Peter, you're starting to panic,” the A.I. says, “You need to remain calm in order to help Loki.”
Right , Peter tells himself. Pull it together, Spider-man.
Peter takes a deep breath, “Y-yeah, yeah you're right…” he concedes, “So, what do I do, Karen?”
“I’ve detected severe hemorrhaging, bruising, and blood loss as well as a few fractures. Your best course of action would be to contact a medical professional,” she supplies. “Would you like me to notify Doctor Banner or Doctor Strange about the situation?”
Strange. Peter recalls Loki’s detest for the Sorcerer Supreme, but looking at the unconscious body steadily bleeding out beside him, the god has no room for protest. “Could you contact Dr. Strange?” he asks in a withering voice.
“Of course, Peter. Contacting Doctor Stephen Strange,” Karen says. “From here, you can monitor his pulse and breathing.”
“Okay,” he replies wearily. Gently, he places two fingers on Loki’s neck just under his jaw and feels a pulse—it’s faint, but it’s there, and right now that’s good enough for Peter. He moves his hand below Loki’s nose and feels a shallow breath. “He’s alive, he’s breathing. That’s good. Now what?”
“You can wake him up by rubbing your knuckles on his sternum. Make sure to put a lot of pressure, but not enough to injure him further.”
Peter makes a fist and rubs hard on Loki’s sternum. The god’s eyes fly open, batting Peter’s hand away from his chest and surging forward from the rubble with a snarl.
“Woah, Loki, hey!” Peter yelps, only just catching Loki’s hand coming at him with a summoned dagger.
“It’s okay, it’s me!” He cries, yanking off his mask with his free hand, “It’s Peter!”
For a moment, Loki stares him down hard with labored breaths before the recognition dawns on his face. “Peter,” he parrots. “Spiderling. Oh.”
The dagger slips from Loki’s hand and disappears in shimmering gold as he collapses bonelessly back onto the rubble.
“What’re you doing?” Loki slurs, clearly fatigued. The strength he’d found just then seems to have left him.
“I-I was just trying to wake you up…” Peter explains. “You're in—uh—pretty rough shape, Mr. Loki...” He eyes Peter through heavy lids that threaten to slip closed. A soft pat to the cheek brings him back around. “Stay with me, Mr. Loki,” Peter almost pleads.
Loki coughs, spattering his chin and Peter’s face with blood—Peter tries to quell the terror bubbling in his chest. The god grimaces, grunting, “Don't worry yourself over me, Spiderling…I’m fine.”
“Dude, no offense, but you look like a pincushion.”
Loki laughs, or rather wheezes before sucking in a pained breath through his teeth. “I can assure you, I have been through much worse,” he rasps.
“That’s not comforting,” Peter says pointedly, “Like, at all .”
The god strains to prop himself up, but only gets as far as pulling up his head from the ground before collapsing in a fit of wet coughs that spray more bloodied spit from his mouth. “Spiderling,” he starts feebly. Loki’s eyes start to lose focus and he reaches out, grabbing Peter’s forearms weakly as if it were a tether to cognizance. “I need you to—to take out the rods.”
Peter stares incredulously at the god. “You want me to what? ”
“Keeping them in does me no favors,” Loki replies, words slurring together as red stained saliva dribbles from the corners of his mouth. He swallows thickly before he continues. “Magic will keep me alive, but won’t mend the—the holes...if there’s something in the way…” The god tugs Peter’s arms to the protrusions in his stomach.
“I swear, you better not fucking die when I do this,” Peter chides, hands hovering nervously over the rods.
“It’ll take more than this to kill me…”
“Right,” Peter mutters as his trembling hands take hold of the two bars. Loki clenches his jaw and screws his eyes shut in anticipation. God, this is such a bad idea. “Ready? One…Two—” With a solid yank , he wrenches the rods free.
A raw, pained wail escapes Loki’s throat.
“I’m sorry!” Peter cries “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m so sorry !” The god tries to tamper his suffering howls, reducing them instead to bloodied hacking. A sheen of sweat appears on his forehead as his brows knit together. Tossing the rods aside, Peter presses his hands right on the new gaping holes to help staunch the bleeding. He cringes as fresh blood seeps into the palms of his suit. Loki’s open eyes roll listlessly before they close again, and his head lolls to the side. “Mr. Loki!” Peter calls. He rubs his knuckles against the god’s sternum again. Nothing.
“Shit,” Peter’s voice cracks. “ Shit.” He’s inches away from screaming when a glowing ring of orange sparks starts to open up.
“Kid, you alright?”
Tony’s the first out of the portal and he’s at Peter’s side in seconds assessing his injuries—he’s wearing the Iron Man suit sans the helmet. Bruce follows, not far behind, along with Stephen, who closes the portal and rushes to Loki’s aid. Tony looks him in the eyes, both hands firmly grasping his shoulders, and he’s talking. What’s he saying? His mouth is moving and words are coming out, but none of the words are making sense. Time moves oddly for Peter; he feels like he’s in some sort of a daze. The two doctors are bent over Loki, spouting medical jargon that he doesn’t understand. He hears sirens in the distance. The authorities are coming, probably for the kids.
The kids. Oh god, are they okay?
“Pete, hey, you with me?”
Peter snaps back to himself.
“Huh?”
“I said we gotta get you back to the compound, we’ll get you checked out there.”
“What about the kids—”
“The kids are gonna be fine, the cops are with them,” Tony assures as he pulls Peter up to his feet and slings Peter’s arm around his shoulders. “Now, let’s get that concussion looked at.”
“But Loki—”
“Is in good hands. The docs got Rock of Ages all settled.” Tony gives him a pat on his shoulder. “You did good today, Spider-man.”
The compliment settles in Peter’s chest, but it doesn’t stop the guilt and worry that weighs it down.
Avenging is rough . No one really talks about the ugly parts of being a superhero. The slip of blood and stinging burns and scars and the exhaustion you can feel all the way down in your bones. No one talks about the fear of failure. The shakes and cold sweat and echoes of horrified screams and nightmares that keep you up for hours on end. Then there’s the guilt . The horrible, nauseating sensation of knowing the damage you caused, the people you could have saved, all the terrible things that could have been prevented if you were just fast enough, smart enough, strong enough.
Tony tells Peter that Loki’s gonna be alright while he’s assessing Peter’s injuries.
“Guy’s like a cockroach,” Tony reassures, “He could survive the apocalypse, perforated or not.” Peter wrinkles his nose at that.
“I don’t think ‘cockroach’ is the right thing to call him,” he says, partly out of Loki’s defense. “Thor says he’s died like twice.”
Tony looks at him for a moment before going back to checking Peter’s vitals. “Thor’s a different story.”
“He sounded pretty convincing when he said it, though.”
“Right,” is all Tony says on the matter. “Now, stop squirming or this’ll take longer.”
Tony lets him go home later that evening. The examination didn’t take more than an hour—nothing’s broken, and he hasn’t sustained anything that’ll warrant a surgery. A grade one or two concussion, a few contusions, minor nicks and scrapes; it’ll all be gone in a few days, he’s got his enhanced healing factor to thank for that.
Happy drives him home. He glances at Peter from the rear view mirror every once in a while.
“Awfully quiet back there, Parker,” he comments. Peter gives him a half-smile.
“You want me to talk your ear off?”
“Talking at least lets me know you’re alive and kicking.”
Peter thanks Happy for the ride and half-stumbles up to the apartment. May’s sat at the table waiting for him with some slightly over-salted mac-and-cheese. He’s grateful for it nonetheless. He tells her about the warehouse as he picks absentmindedly at the pasta, about the mobsters and the kids and Loki. May’s shoulders tense slightly at Loki’s name. He spares her the gory details and pretends he can’t still smell the coppery tang of blood or feel the warm, slick substance soaking through the fingers of the suit.
It’s just short of a week since the warehouse incident when Peter gets back on his feet and makes his way back to the Avenger’s compound upstate. It’s Thor that greets him first, and Peter has to pretend he isn’t still absolutely star struck at the sight of the god. He pulls nervously at the strings of his nap sack.
“Good morning, Spider-man,” Thor greets brightly, giving Peter a sound pat on the back that kind of knocks the wind out of him. “I trust you’ve been well? I heard you had sustained some injuries from your heroic gesture from the week before.”
“Y-Yeah, yeah I’m good,” Peter replies, coughing to clear his voice and stifle the excitement welling in his chest. “How’s Mr. Loki though, is–is he okay?”
“Ah, my brother has fully recovered from the event as well, do not worry yourself too much,” Thor assures and suddenly Peter’s chest feels a thousand times lighter than it has in days.
“Good,” Peter says almost breathlessly, “That’s—That’s good. I was real worried about him.”
The god before him hums in response. He looks on at Peter, something akin to fondness in his one good eye, and lays a large, heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“Young Spider, I must thank you,” Thor confides softly, so different from the naturally echoing boom of his normal tone. “Both for saving my brother, and for making such an effort to befriend him. Loki has taken quite a liking to you, and I understand why. I know that many here are…not overly fond of my brother, and I understand that; I myself had been disappointed by his actions and the path he’d chosen. However, hearing that he may have someone in his corner aside from myself leads me to believe that perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”
Peter blinks at that.
“I–uh–Thanks,” Peter says dumbly. He swallows and starts again. “Thank you, Thor.”
“Of course, Spider-man.”
It’s hours later when Peter finds Loki loitering alone in one of the common rooms, nose all but buried in that same old book with the yellowing pages and the worn, leather cover.
Something about this seems familiar Peter thinks to himself.
The god takes notice of him before he can even say anything, eyes peering above his book at him.
“Good evening, Spiderling,” Loki greets as he closes his book, keeping a finger sandwiched between two pages to save his place. “I trust that you have been well following the recent events?”
“For the most part, yeah. The concussion’s gone and so’s all the cuts and stuff—the advanced healing factor helps,” Peter replies maybe a little too flippantly. “How’s your—uh—everything, Mr. Loki?”
“I’ve healed considerably well for having been crushed by a building and pinned like a specimen to a cork board.” Peter grimaces at the unpleasant imagery. “The magic factor helps,” Loki parrots.
“Cool, cool,” Peter says, awkwardly bobbing his head in a nod because he’s not sure what else to say.
He coughs and changes the subject instead. “Well, um, I brought you something.” That has the god raising an eyebrow at him in apprehension. Peter shrugs off his knapsack and unceremoniously pours its contents out on the coffee table.
Various bars and packets of chocolate he grabbed blindly from the candy aisle at the nearest Walgreens spill from the bag, and the look on Loki’s face is almost priceless .
“Told you I’d sneak you a couple of chocolate bars. Kind of a ‘thanks-for-saving-me’ and ‘sorry you got flattened by a warehouse’ present, I guess.” Loki slowly plucks a Hershey bar from the table, almost like a cautious child waiting to be reprimanded for taking something they shouldn’t.
“It won’t kill you, I promise,” Peter jokes as the god turns the chocolate over and over in his hands. He grabs a Milkyway for himself, tearing it open and taking a bite before taking a seat beside the god. Loki scoots over for him and opens his own.
They sit there in each other’s company, conversing while they slowly chip away at the mound of chocolate. Peter tells Loki about his early days of being Spiderman, maybe embellishing the story a little more than necessary. It’s fine, though. He’s pretty sure the wild stories Loki shares with him are just as exaggerated. There’s a point when Peter gets the god to try his hand at social media—he picks it up rather quickly.
(“You made a Twitter literally, like, two minutes ago and you’re already creating discourse.”
“Perhaps it is a good time I remind you that I am the god of mischief .”
“I…Alright, that’s fair.”)
It’s Peter who finds the article scrolling through Twitter, something short and concise, that covers the warehouse incident. He reads the header aloud, setting his candy bar aside.
“Hey, listen to this,” he says, nudging the god’s arm. “ ‘Queens’ crime-fighting spider puts an end to gang activity and saves two hostages with assistance from trickster god, Loki.’ How cool is that? You got mentioned!”
Skeptic that he is, Loki peeks over Peter’s shoulder and reads aloud for himself.
“ ‘Sources believe they spotted the mastermind behind the Battle of New York with the vigilante that evening, aiding the Avenger in the fight as the warehouse collapsed.’ ”
The god stares at the phone in Peter’s hands, eyes skimming and re-skimming the words.
“I think this is as good a start as any to the ‘recompense’ you wanted,” Peter chimes, picking up his chocolate bar to take another bite.
“So it seems,” Loki replies quietly. “So it seems.”
Peter holds out his half eaten Crunch bar. “Cheers,” he says through the chocolate in his mouth—Loki eyes him, less than impressed by the lack of manners, “To not being an asshole.”
Loki huffs a laugh at that. “To not being an asshole,” the god reprises, tapping his chocolate bar against Peter’s.