Spiderman Oneshots

Loophole (2)

The last thing he wanted to do after destroying his own life and leaving his former friends behind him was to remove the mask and enter the meaningless life of Peter Parker, but he had little choice. The Spider-Man suit was torn and ruined with blood, dirt and sweat. It had been electrocuted, sand-battered, singed, torn and thrown through countless walls (with him in it). What he needed was to get out of it and have a shower, tend to his injuries and mourn.

(What he needed was his friends.)

Happy's home was wreckage and rubble, swarmed with emergency vehicles and news crews. His old apartment - the one he and May had been forced to leave when the world discovered his identity - still hadn't been sold. And now, because of his actions, all attention was gone from it.

Peter broke in through his bedroom window. His home was a mess - enthusiastic paparazzi or Mysterio supporters had broken in and trashed every room. The shower still worked, though, and he found enough clean clothes to keep him going. A bag was packed with essentials that had stayed intact, and a few nostalgic pieces he couldn't bear to leave behind. He looked at the clock. It hadn't even been half an hour since Strange had cast the spell. It felt like an eternity.

He couldn't stay here, that was obvious. He didn't have enough money in his accounts to buy an apartment. He didn't have accounts anymore, anyway. He'd need to got that sorted out, then he could get a job and a new house and move on with his life. 'Life'.

What he needed was a new Spider-suit.

He just stood there, paralysed in the silence of his destroyed childhood home, suffocated by all he had lost.

"How far we both are from where we have been," a smooth voice split the air. Peter's heart slammed into his ribcage and he looked sharply up to see, of all beings, Loki stood before him. The god was gazing around the area with an unreadable expression. "Glory is the ultimate illusion; so easily imagined, so easily lost."

Peter blinked. He'd been through too much to process this properly. He should probably be concerned about Mysterio and his illusions, but he just didn't have enough energy.

"You're dead," Peter told the god, who only laughed.

"So I was. Perhaps I still am. Maybe I am one of the ghosts you mortals are fascinated by. Maybe I have become no more than illusion, a fitting end for one such as me. Or perhaps you have simply conjured me up, a figment of your imagination in trying times."

"Trying times is one way to put it," Peter slumped, tone lifeless.

Loki moved closer, a thoughtful, almost tender expression on his fine features. "A sorry state indeed for one who would not be tempted by the apples of Idunn."

Peter didn't smile, though he remembered the day Loki referenced. Loki and Thor had come to the Tower, and Thor had left a golden apple of immortality lying on the kitchen table. When Peter had found it, he had done what seemed to him the obvious thing and called for Thor. Loki had come instead as his brother was otherwise occupied, and had been impressed by Peter's honesty in protecting the apple instead of trying to taste it. Only Loki and Peter knew about that, so at least that relieved Peter's unformed concerns about Mysterio before they could take root.

"So what are you? A ghost? A hallucination? You can't be real or you wouldn't remember the apple. Wouldn't remember me."

"I find that 'real' is merely a suggestion of no real meaning. I am here, am I not? Whether any other would agree seems irrelevant."

"You are here," Peter agreed. "For me, at least. I doubt you're here for me, though."

"And why would you doubt such a thing?"