Spiderson Oneshots

Suicidal--Loki and Peter

Warnings: Attempted suicide and self-harm

Peter's P.O.V.

Why do I have to be so useless? Why can't I be powerful like everyone else? All I can do is shoot webs while Mr. Rodgers is super strong, Mr. Banner can turn into an alien, Mr. Thor's a god, Mr. Strange can do magic, Ms. Nat is super athletic, and Mr. Barton is a dead eye. And then there's stupid me, who can't do anything but shoot webs. It's probably good that they keep me hidden, it's not like I can do anything, Peter Parker thought.

The boy had been left alone at Stark Tower, left to his own thoughts, which was a mistake. If only they knew his thoughts, they wouldn't have left him. They would have been scared. They would have known that the words he spoke in a joking tone, laughing about his death, weren't jokes. With others' laughter, it only cemented the ideas in his mind.

If anyone had taken the time to care, they would have noticed the circles under his eyes. They would have noticed the creases on his brow that showed a weight that a child shouldn't have to bear. But, most importantly, they would have noticed the cuts that he hid on his calves, the razors in his room, and the use of their band-aid supplies. They would have noticed the warning signs.

The night was not one that would draw attention to it. It was cloudy, and the air was humid. It was drizzling--a cold drizzle that made you feel depressed. Everyone but Peter Parker was busy--be it with missions or simply somewhere else. He had the whole tower to himself, which would've been any teenager's dream. It was the home of Tony Stark, the billionaire, and filled with highly advanced technology. However, for Peter, all he wanted was for someone--anyone--to be there. To hold him back from what he was going to do.

My family is gone, I have no one left, and they won't miss me, he justified. But Peter was scared. He was scared of death, scared of the pain. But the hate he felt for himself was even more so than his fear of death.

Peter sat in the dark of his bedroom, looking out at the rain that slid down his window panes, contorting the city below. His room was dark but for a single lamp on his desk. The light glinted on the blade at his side and was refracted by the glass of water--lifegiving yet in this case, the bringer of death. The bottle of pills was unopened and the boy stared at it, terror in his eyes. He looked at the clock on his wall; another minute ticked by. He took the blade in his hand and drew it across his wrist, barely feeling the sharp razor tear into his skin. He had given up on hiding them on his calves; he wouldn't live past the night anyway.

Blood oozed from the cut, like a tear. His skin--his body--was crying, begging him to stop. Yet in the fog of terror and self-hate, he could not see how senseless his actions were. He was in a haze, seeing only the fear and the minutes that kept ticking by.

In a moment of bravery--if you could even call it that--, he took the water and opened the bottle of pills. He ignored the tear of blood running down his arm and shook a pill into his hand. A pain reliever, he thought, how fitting. He put it in his mouth, swallowing it with the aid of the water. One down, a couple more to go.

The pills clinked as he shook another into his hand, swallowing it. Then another. His hands were shaking, and doubt was starting to creep in. The fog only expanded, and he took another.

He looked down at the note he'd written, drops of his blood on it like tears. Tears trickled down his face, mixing with the blood. Yet he swallowed another.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing ragged like he had run miles without stopping. His eyes rose to look at his city again, his vision obscured by tears and rain.

"Why?" he yelled to himself--to no one. "Why couldn't they see it? Why am I not good enough? Why did it have to be me?" He didn't hear the door creak nor the sharp intake of breath. He heard nothing but his own screams in his head. "Why doesn't anyone love me?"

"Peter..." was the barely audible whisper. The boy didn't hear him. His hands shook as he put down the glass and the bottle, grabbing the razor. He made another cut. He went to strike again, but a cold hand enveloped his. The pale hand led the razor down, opening the boy's fingers and letting the bloody blade fall to the desk with a clatter.

The boy didn't turn around, letting out a sob. The man turned the chair, pulling the boy's hands away from his face and looking at his wrist, where the older cut was starting to dry.

"We do love you. Every one of us," the man whispered. "You are so important, Peter." Brown eyes met green, one clouded with tears, the other's understanding and sympathetic. "I know what it's like to not be the best. By Odin, of course I know. It's all anyone ever talks about. I know I'm not the best, but you don't have to be like me. You can be a good person, you can save so many people. But you have to believe it," Loki said. Peter didn't say anything.

Loki took the boy's hands in his own, letting green power trail from his fingers to the boy. He destroyed the pills with his power and healed the boy. The cuts knit themselves together, forming scars that looked years old. Loki took the boy in his arms and carried him to the bed, letting the boy cry on his shoulder. Neither said anything--nothing could be said.

Eventually, sobs gave way to soft breathing, his chest rising and falling evenly in time with the man's. Loki continued to rub circles on the boy's back, soothing him even in sleep. He wasn't one who enjoyed physical touch, yet this boy had needed him. And for Loki, it felt so good to be needed.

Hours passed, and rain gave way to clear skies. The moon shone brightly, doing battle with the lights of the city. Loki remained alert, rubbing circles on Peter's back, murmuring soft words of comfort, sometimes without music, sometimes a lullaby that only he could understand. And Peter slept on.

Footsteps were heard, along with loud laughter, which Loki silenced with his magic, soundproofing the room so the boy could sleep. The door creaked open, and his brother peered in, surprise filling his eyes. The man's eyes saw the desk, the blood, the note, the pills, and the nearly-empty glass. "You saved him." It was a statement, not a question. Loki nodded. The brothers exchanged a few more words, and Thor left.

The next person to enter was quiet, like a parent checking on a child. Yet, Steve's eyes widened as Thor's had as he took in the scene. He met Loki's eyes and saw the sleeping boy, peaceful and healthy. "Thank you," Steve said, and Loki nodded.

Natasha's footsteps were quiet after years of training, yet the god of mischief sensed her presence. Her reaction was similar to Steve's as was her thanks.

And so the trend continued...until Tony arrived. The man's eyes filled with terror at the sight, knowing immediately. "I...I missed it. I wasn't there when he needed it." The man buried his head in his hands. "But you were," he said to Loki. "I cannot thank you enough...for saving my son."

"He's all of our son now," Loki said. "He needs us all. Even me." Tony nodded and retreated, letting the soft lullabies continue. He wove the distress into his song, languages intertwined. The words fell from his mouth like their own accord, unable to be stopped. Yet, the singer swore the boy nuzzled closer as he sang the Asgardian words that every parent told their child every night, what the boy had missed his whole life.

"I love you."

This is really bad, but thanks for reading anyway. I thought I published this last week, but I guess there'll be two today. Have a good day!