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In Loki’s defense, it’s an accident. Completely an accident, entirely, 100%, accidental.
Kind of.
Like, it’s not his fault he’s wandering the halls that afternoon (minding his own business, as always). He doesn’t have any particular reason to be strolling past the spider-child’s room the moment he hears the noise, that’s pure chance.
(A noise of pain, it sounds like, kind of a yelp and then a muffled curse.)
Halted in his steps, a frown creasing his features, Loki takes a sidestep over to the door. He leans his ear close.
There’s another curse, louder, and then some muttering. Loki catches “spider-sense” and “supposed to” and “but no” in between all the incomprehensible stuff.
Loki’s curious, that’s it.
He pushes the door open (it was already cracked about a span, he doesn’t have a complete disregard for privacy) and steps over the threshold, glancing around the room until he spots the kid.
Peter sits perched on the edge of a chair, left leg crossed over the right one, frozen in the act of pulling his suit off of his foot. The window is letting in a breeze behind him and it’s clear he’s just come in from patrolling as Spider-Man.
They’re both at a standstill, Peter wide-eyed like a bilgesnipe in the torchlight. Loki’s eyes drop to what is automatically drawing his attention—the boy’s leg, dripping with blood.
Loki’s eyebrows raise as he meets Peter’s eyes again, having half a mind to call Stark then and there—the man is most unquestionably this boy’s father, whether they’ve got any blood relation or not.
Peter seems to read his intentions on his face and immediately his hands shoot up, tensed, as if with the gesture he can bind Loki in place. “Don’t tell Mister Stark!”
Loki raises one eyebrow higher, tilting his head slightly. “‘Don’t tell Mister Stark’… what, exactly?”
Peter’s mouth opens, he draws in a breath, and then it closes. Opens, and closes again. Opens. “Well, you don’t have to—I mean, you just don’t need to—mention anything to him, like—he just, doesn’t need to know, you know? Cause he—freaks out, about every little thing, he’s always saying ‘don’t do this,’ ‘don’t do that,’ ‘call me if you get the slightest knock to the head,’ and it’s just—he’ll just—he’ll—freak out if he sees a bullet in my leg, and then it’s just—guaranteed that I’ll freak out, and then we’re both freaking out, and he’ll tell May, and she’ll freak out, and…” he lifts his shoulders, taking a breath. “I don’t want anyone to freak out,” he finishes weakly, shoulders dropping again.
Another pause goes by. Loki’s not having an internal debate, he’s too firm-minded for such things. He’s also not in any way being affected by those puppy-dog eyes that Stark is always complaining about. He’s simply waiting to see if the boy will provide him any more information, and after a moment, the child obliges.
“So… if you could just—not… mention anything. If you talk to him? Cuz, um. Yeah. He kinda told me not to go after these guys, and… well, of course I did anyway, and I did catch them! But one of them was a faster shot than I expected, and before I know it…” he stutters his monologue to a halt, eyes widening, as Loki abruptly advances across the room and crouches in front of the boy. “Whattt—what are you doing.”
“You said there’s a bullet in your leg,” Loki deadpans.
“Yeah, but—but I can take care of—” he cuts off his stammering in confusion before repeating his question. “... what are you doing?”
Loki’s hands are poised over the boy’s leg, which is still resting horizontally atop the other knee.
“Getting it out,” he replies in a voice and with a look at the boy that both scream ‘how dimwitted are you, really?’
“Oh.” Peter sounds a little breathless. “Are—are you sure? I can just, y’know, grab a pair of tweezers in the bathroom, and—nngh!” his hands jerk towards his leg before he abruptly twists back, gripping the edge of the desk beside him with an outstretched arm instead. His eyes are squeezed shut, face twisted away.
Slowly and meticulously, Loki levitates the projectile out of the hole. Peter gasps, gritting his teeth as it exits the wound, and then sags with relief as soon as the little pellet is out of contact with his skin.
Peter pants, and Loki plucks the bullet out of the air as the child surreptitiously wipes at the corner of an eye. Blood is streaming even more heavily out of the gash in his leg. There is silence only filled with Peter’s breathing for a moment, and then Peter speaks, facing Loki once more:
“I thought Mister Stark said no magic—”
That was not the first thing Loki had expected to come out of the boy’s mouth. “Are you ungrateful? Would you like me to put it back in, perhaps?”
“No! No, sorry, thanks for—thanks for taking it out,” Peter breathes. “Thanks. That was a lot better than getting it out myself, actually.”
Loki nods, and there is a slightly awkward silence for only a moment before he holds up the bloody bullet, pinched between thumb and forefinger. “Shall I dispose of it? Or would you like to keep it as a souvenir?”
“No, no—I’m—I'm good.” Peter shakes his head with the slightest of smiles, and Loki can’t help but notice how pale the boy’s face has become. He’s still rapidly losing blood.
“Alright then.” Loki stands. “Stay there.” He strides out of the room before Peter can so much as open his mouth in protest.
When Loki returns, he’s got a “first aid” kit in one hand and a wad of bandages in the other.
Peter stands as he enters—for what reason, Loki has no idea, but he’s forced to rush forward as the boy then sways and clutches the desk beside him.
“Don’t stand up, you dolt!” Loki drops the supplies on the bed and shoves the boy back into his chair. “I told you to stay there.”
Peter looks up at him, eyes growing hazy from blood loss, and mumbles “Sorry.”
Loki rolls his eyes and picks up the kit. His plan had been to give the boy the supplies and let him take care of it himself, but he’s starting to doubt how the boy would fare if left to his own devices.
He hesitates at the amount of blood that’s now covering the boy’s leg, and then makes for the bathroom adjoining the room. A quick search of the cupboard underneath the sink yields a few dark-colored towels that he promptly drops on the floor underneath the boy’s leg, using one to dry most of the blood off of the limb. Peter bites his lip harshly but doesn’t complain when the pressure is applied to the wound.
When the leg is mostly clean, Loki hands Peter a few antiseptic wipes to clear the area around the bullet hole. “Please tell me it doesn’t need to be, er—sewn up, or whatever it is your Midgardian doctors do.”
“No,” Peter shakes his head, cringing. “No, it’ll be fine. I’ve got super healing. It was—a relatively small bullet, it’ll close by itself.”
“Good.” Loki picks up a roll of bandages and instructs the child to hold one end in place before he begins to wrap the roll tightly around his calf. Peter tenses, grimacing or squeezing his eyes briefly shut several times during the process, but he stays silent.
When they are finished, Loki gathers up the supplies. “I would tell you not to put any weight on that leg for a time, but I assume I am correct in guessing that you wouldn’t heed my advice?”
Peter’s mouth quirks up lopsidedly. “Prob’ly not, uh, Mister—Mister Loki.” Then he frowns slightly, cocking his head. “Prince…? Prince Loki?”
Loki holds up a hand. “Just—Loki.”
“Just Loki.” Peter nods, firm. There’s a gleam of something like awe in his eyes. “Thank—thank you. Loki.”
Loki sniffs. “Don’t mention it.”
He’s nearly halfway out the door, hands full of the towels and supplies he’d aggregated, before he turns and tacks on, “And, despite my incredible magical abilities, I cannot, in fact, be tangibly present in several places at once, so I do advise you to be more careful in your future avoidance of bullets unless a skilled magician such as myself is around.”
Peter nods again, eyes wide, still stuck in that awed puppy-dog expression, and without further ado, Loki sweeps out the door.
Time to put these away before Stark or any of the others have any chance to catch him assisting the child and accuse him of any motive akin to fondness.
Fondness for a mortal! A youngling, a child, at that!
Loki has no such capability in his heart.
It’s at dinner that evening, a few hours after the incident, that Loki truly begins to contemplate the consequences of his actions.
The Avengers are seating themselves around the table in the dining hall, dishes spread across the slab as if they’re some kind of mismatched, dysfunctional family.
Loki will simply disintegrate on the spot if someone says “pass the potatoes.”
“Where’s the kid?” Stark asks, glancing around the table as he sets a final dish upon the board. “Anyone seen him since he got off patrol?”
Only around half of the group is present tonight. It’s rare that they’re all gathered; there are usually a few off on some kind of mission. Some also prefer to eat alone in their quarters. Loki is already beginning to regret his agreement to join on account of Thor’s promise that there would be anise and coconut curry.
There is a chorus of negative responses or head shakes around the table in answer to Stark’s question.
“I forgot to ask FRI if he injured himself.” Stark says this more to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he looks back toward the hallway where the elevator is housed.
Loki sighs internally. Must he really cover for the spider-child? Before FRIDAY can tattle, he opens his mouth. “I encountered the child just as he arrived this afternoon. He mentioned he had been up late studying for an examination and planned to rest for a while. Shall I go and—”
“No need, I’m here!” Peter enters the room at that moment, with a little less energy than usual, but Stark would likely chalk it up to the kid’s supposed recent nap and not to a bullet hole in his leg. Loki is mildly impressed that there is no sign of a limp.
“Underoos! How kind of you to join us!” Stark gestures to an empty chair and the kid sinks into it gratefully.
“You didn’t mention you had a test today, Pete,” Rhodes speaks up.
“Yeah, uh, Spanish,” Peter replies with half a glance at Loki. When their eyes meet, he gives a little smile that looks like thanks, and then the boy looks away. “Food looks great, Mr. Stark!”
“Oh, you know, it was nothing,” Stark says with mock modesty. “I only have about ten world-class chefs down in the kitchen.”
Peter grins, and then his gaze returns to Loki.
“Uh—Mr. Loki, would you please pass the potatoes?”