The heavy gold-and-silver doors of Asgard's great hall closed with a resonant thoom, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the tolling of a great bell, sealing away the fading echoes of laughter, the clink of goblets, and the petulant storm of Loki's retreat. The air shifted, the warmth of the feast giving way to the cooler, more solemn atmosphere of the palace's inner corridors. Peter Parker or Anansi, the Weaver of Stories, walked alongside Odin and Thor, their steps measured and purposeful, the weight of their presence filling the space. Behind them, Susan Storm and Silver Sable followed, their eyes darting across the grandeur of Asgard's architecture, their expressions a mix of awe and guarded alertness.
The corridor stretched before them, a golden maze of towering pillars carved with intricate reliefs depicting the sagas of gods and heroes, Odin's triumph over Ymir, Thor's battles with the frost giants, and older, stranger tales of realms beyond mortal ken. The vaulted ceilings soared high above, studded with gemstones that shimmered like captured starlight, catching the flickering torchlight and casting prismatic reflections across the polished marble floor. The air was warm, infused with the faint, heady scent of sacred oils, ancient stone, and the subtle hum of Asgard's latent magic, a pulse that seemed to resonate in time with Peter's heartbeat, or perhaps with the deeper rhythm of the Web of Life that coursed through him.
Their footsteps echoed softly, a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet that had settled over the group. Odin's presence was a storm held in check, his single eye gleaming with the wisdom of ages, his fur-lined cloak trailing behind him like a river of shadow and light. Thor, at his side, carried Mjolnir with casual ease, the hammer's runes still faintly glowing from its recent polishing, his broad shoulders relaxed but his gaze alert, as if expecting trouble even in the heart of Asgard. Peter walked between them, his posture deceptively casual, but there was a tension in his frame, a flicker of something ancient in his eyes that set him apart from the mortal he had once been. Susan and Sable, a few steps behind, moved with the quiet grace of warriors, their senses sharp, taking in every detail of the divine realm they had entered.
Odin's voice broke the silence, deep and resonant, carrying a warmth that was more personal than his usual regal authority. "Tell me, Brother," he said, turning his head slightly, his single eye fixing on Peter with a look that pierced through the mortal shell to the ancient spirit within. "Have you visited Phal'kon since your return?"
The name struck Peter, or Anansi, like a hammer to the chest, a blow that reverberated through his very being. His steps faltered, his boots catching on the marble floor as he stopped mid-stride. His breath hitched, a sharp intake that seemed to pull the air from the corridor itself. Slowly, his eyelids drifted shut, not in serenity but in a heavy, almost unbearable weight, as if the name had unlocked a vault of memories too vivid, too raw, to contain.
Phal'kon. His beloved phoenix.
The memory surged into him, unbidden and searing, as sharp and immediate as if no time had passed at all. He could feel her, even now, her presence as real as the stone beneath his feet. The warmth of her skin under his touch, not the burning heat of fire but the vibrant, living warmth of a being who was life itself, radiant and eternal. The taste of her lips, sweet and intoxicating, a kiss that carried the power to set stars alight, to weave new threads into the tapestry of existence. The scent of her hair, that deep, rich red like the sky at dawn, when the world was theirs and the universe still young, its boundaries undefined.
Each detail was etched into him with agonizing clarity: the curve of her smile, fierce and knowing, as if she alone understood the weight of eternity and chose to laugh in its face. The fire in her eyes, not destructive but creative, a blaze that could birth worlds or burn away lies. The sound of her voice, a melody that wove itself into the Web of Life, harmonizing with his own stories, their laughter mingling under skies that stretched across realms now lost to time. He saw her wings, vast and shimmering, not of feathers but of light and flame, beating against the endless expanse of a cosmos they had once explored together.
For a moment, the golden corridors of Asgard blurred and melted away, replaced by a vision of boundless skies, the rush of wind, and the thunderous rhythm of great wings. He felt the heartbeat of a universe, pulsing in time with hers, a connection that transcended time and space, mortal and divine. His chest tightened, a knot of longing and loss that threatened to unravel the calm he had worn like a mask.
His jaw clenched, the only outward sign of the storm within. When he opened his eyes, the golden glow that had marked Anansi's presence dimmed, giving way to something far more human, grief, raw and unguarded, softened by a resolve as hard as iron. "I remember her," he said softly, his voice low, threaded with steel. "More than I wish to. And more than I'll ever forget."
Odin studied him for a long moment, his single eye searching, not with judgment but with the quiet understanding of one who had known loss as vast as the stars. He gave a small nod, a gesture that carried the weight of shared history, of battles fought and loves lost across eons. "Some threads in the Web of Life are never truly severed," he said, his voice gentle but resonant, like a distant roll of thunder. "Even when we wish they could be."
Peter's gaze drifted to the floor, his fingers flexing as if reaching for a thread only he could see. He took a slow breath, then spoke, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant, as if the words were being pulled from a place he rarely touched. "I've... seen her vessel, you know. On Midgard, several times over the years. Jean Grey, they call her now." His eyes flickered with a mix of pain and wonder, the golden glow returning briefly, like a spark in the dark. "She was fire and fury, just like Phal'kon. The same red hair, the same light in her eyes, like she could burn the world or rebuild it with a thought. I felt her, Odin, the Phoenix, stirring in her, but... she didn't know me. Or at least, I don't think she did."
Odin's expression softened, a rare glimpse of empathy in the All-Father's stern visage. "The Phoenix is a force of creation and destruction, Brother. Its vessels carry its essence, but not always its memories. Yet the Web of Life binds all things, perhaps her soul recognized you, even if her mind did not."
Peter's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but a flicker of something hopeful, or perhaps resigned. "Maybe. But it's a thread I'm not ready to pull. Not yet."
Thor glanced between them, his brows furrowed, his usually boisterous demeanor subdued. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, sensing the gravity of the moment. His hand tightened briefly on Mjolnir's handle, a reflex born of unease, but he remained silent, his blue eyes flickering with curiosity and concern.
Susan and Sable, trailing behind, exchanged a glance, not of jealousy or judgment, but of quiet realization. They had seen Peter as Spider-Man, as the burdened hero; now they saw him as the vessel of a god, but this was something new. A glimpse of a wound so deep it seemed to predate the stars themselves. Susan's fingers twitched around her goblet, long since set aside, her expression softening with empathy. Sable's sharp gaze softened too, though her posture remained alert, as if she sensed that even in Asgard's halls, such memories could stir forces best left undisturbed.
The group resumed their walk, the silence now heavier, the air thick with the unspoken. The corridor opened into a wider hall, its walls lined with tapestries that seemed to shift in the torchlight, their woven threads telling stories of creation and destruction, of love and loss. Peter's eyes lingered on one, a depiction of a phoenix, its wings spread wide, flames curling around a figure that could have been a man or a god, their hands entwined. He looked away quickly, his expression unreadable, but the golden glow in his eyes flickered briefly, like a spark refusing to die.
Odin's voice came again, softer now, almost a whisper. "Phal'kon's fire still burns in the realms beyond," he said, his tone carrying a hint of hope, or perhaps a challenge. "And the Web of Life is vast, Brother. Who knows what threads you may yet weave?"
Peter didn't respond, but the faintest smile touched his lips, a mix of pain and possibility
---
As the night deepened, Odin, in his characteristic grandeur, had escorted Peter along with Susan and Sable to a guest chamber that was nothing short of a monument to Asgardian opulence. The sprawling suite was a marvel of divine craftsmanship: walls draped with rich tapestries depicting cosmic battles and celestial feasts, their vibrant colors, crimsons, golds, and deep blues gleaming even in the dim light of the chamber's hearth. The floors were blanketed with furs softer than silk, harvested from mythical creatures of realms unknown to mortals, their pelts shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. At the center of the room stood a bed so vast it could have housed an entire war band with room to spare, its frame carved with runes that glowed faintly, pulsing with the same ancient magic that thrummed through Asgard's stones. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of cedar, sacred oils, and the ever-present hum of the palace's latent power, a subtle vibration that seemed to resonate with the Web of Life pulsing within Peter.
After a day laden with godly politics, the weight of ancient reunions, and the sharp edge of Loki's smug provocations, the trio had gratefully accepted Odin's offer to retire for the night. The heavy oaken doors of the chamber closed behind them with a soft thud, sealing out the world and muffling the distant hum of the palace. The silence within was broken only by the crackle of a small hearth in the corner, its flames casting flickering shadows across the walls, painting the tapestries with fleeting images of gods and monsters locked in eternal struggle.
Peter, exhausted yet restless, tugged off his cloak, letting it fall to the fur-covered floor with a muted thump as the symbiote receded from his body. He sank onto the edge of the massive bed, the furs yielding softly beneath him, and let out a long, satisfied sigh, the kind of sound a man makes when he's finally off his feet after carrying the weight of worlds. His other boot followed, and he leaned back against the carved headboard, its intricate runes cool against his back, their faint glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The weight of the day, of Asgard, of Anansi, of Phal'kon's memory, settled over him like a heavy cloak, but the warmth of the chamber offered a fleeting reprieve.
Susan and Sable stood near a low table of polished ebony, its surface adorned with a decanter of Asgardian wine, its deep amber hue catching the firelight, and a set of crystal goblets etched with delicate runes. The two women exchanged a look, a wordless, conspiratorial glance that Peter knew all too well. It was the kind of look that promised questions he might not be ready to answer, the kind that pierced through his defenses with the precision of a well-aimed arrow. His senses prickled, his spider-sense dormant but his human instincts sharp, honed by years of dodging both punches and probing questions.
Sable broke the silence first, her voice cool and precise, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Peter," she said, her silver hair catching the firelight as she leaned against the table, her posture deceptively casual, one hand resting lightly on the edge. "Have you ever been with Jean Grey?"
Peter froze, one hand still clutching his shoe, the worn leather creaking faintly under his grip. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, then to Susan's, who stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mix of curiosity and expectation, her blue eyes steady and unyielding. Slowly, he set the shoe down beside its twin on the fur-strewn floor, the deliberate movement buying him a moment to gather his thoughts. "...Define 'been with,'" he said, his voice cautious, a hint of his old New York sarcasm creeping in, though it was tempered by the weight of the question.
Susan's lips quirked, a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We mean exactly what you think we mean, Peter," she said, her tone firm but not unkind, her arms still crossed as she stepped closer to the bed.
He exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of years, his shoulders slumping slightly as he leaned back against the headboard. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if bracing for a blow, or perhaps shielding himself from the memories that stirred at the mention of Jean's name, memories tangled with both his mortal life and the ancient echo of Phal'kon. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant, the words heavy with truth. "Once. Well... more than once, technically."
Their expressions didn't shift, but the air in the room grew heavier, charged with unspoken questions that hung like storm clouds. Peter opened his eyes, meeting their gazes, and continued, his words careful but honest, each one pulled from a place he rarely visited. "It started years ago, the first time Scott Summers decided to cheat on her, with her clone, of all people. Jean was... devastated. Hurting in a way I recognized, like looking in a mirror. I'd just been dumped by MJ, left to pick up the pieces of my own heart after she walked away. We ended up in the same dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, drowning our sorrows in cheap whiskey and bad jukebox music. Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was that we saw our pain reflected in each other, but... one thing led to another. We slept together."
He paused, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the bed, the furs soft and warm under his touch, grounding him in the moment. "In the morning, she panicked. Tried to erase my memory of it, thought she could slip into my head and wipe it clean, like it was just a bad dream." He gave a wry chuckle, shaking his head, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. "Turns out, you can't sneak around in my brain without tripping over the Spider-Man thing, or maybe it was Anansi's powers already tangled up in there, even back then. Either way, it didn't work. She got as far as a vague headache before I called her out on it. After some awkward 'uh-oh' moments, we agreed to pretend it never happened. Stay friends. Keep it buried, like it was just a mistake we could both forget."
Susan blinked, her arms loosening slightly as she processed his words, her brow furrowing with a mix of disbelief and concern. "She tried to erase your memory?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice tinged with incredulity. "That's... extreme, even for Jean."
"Yeah, well, Jean's not exactly known for half-measures," Peter said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it carried a bittersweet edge. "She's the Phoenix, or at least its vessel. When she's scared, she doesn't mess around. But it wasn't just that one time. Years later, after Scott pulled the same stunt with Emma Frost, cheating on her again, because apparently he's got a fetish, and MJ and I split again, Jean and I crossed paths. It was during one of those world-ending crises that the X-Men and I always seem to get tangled in. We were both raw, both looking for something to hold onto, even if it was just for a night. So we... comforted each other. A few times, over the years. It was never planned, never a relationship, just moments when the world felt too heavy, and we were all each other had."
Sable, her expression calm but her eyes sharp as ever, tilted her head slightly, her silver hair catching the firelight like a blade's edge. Her voice was measured, precise, as if she were dissecting his words for hidden truths. "And this all happened before either of us came into the picture?"
Peter nodded, his gaze flicking between them, his expression open but guarded. "Yeah. You and I weren't together yet, Sable. And Susan..." He glanced at her, his voice softening, a flicker of shared history in his eyes. "You were still trying to convince yourself Reed was Father of the Year, holding onto that dream of a perfect family with the Fantastic Four, even when it was falling apart."
Susan's lips twitched, a flicker of acknowledgment passing over her face, her eyes softening with the weight of her own past. She didn't argue, but her curiosity wasn't sated. She stepped closer to the bed, her arms still crossed, her head tilting as she studied him with that piercing gaze that could unravel secrets as easily as her invisible force fields. "So, Peter... are you the father of Jean's children?"
"No," he said, the word coming out sharp and quick, like a reflex, cutting through the air like a blade.
Too quick.
Sable's eyes narrowed, her years as a mercenary and hunter of men honing her ability to read the subtlest tells. Peter's posture had stiffened, his jaw tightening just a fraction, his fingers pausing in their restless drumming on the furs. "You're not lying," she said slowly, her voice low and deliberate, each word chosen with care, "but that's not the truth either. You answered too fast, like it's what you want to be true, not what you know to be true."
Susan's gaze sharpened, her arms tightening across her chest as she leaned forward, her voice firm but not unkind, carrying the weight of someone who'd learned to demand answers in the face of cosmic chaos. "The truth, Peter. Now."
Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face, his fingers lingering over the faint stubble on his jaw, the gesture one of exasperation and surrender. "Look," he said, his voice rising with a mix of frustration and resignation, "yeah, we messed around. A few times, over the years. But that doesn't mean I'm the father of her kids. I'd rather think I'm not, I have to think I'm not."
"Why?" Sable pressed, her tone unrelenting, her eyes locked on his like a predator tracking the slightest movement, her mercenary instincts catching every flicker of doubt in his expression.
His voice rose further, the edge of his frustration bleeding through as he leaned forward, his hands gesturing animatedly, ticking off points on his fingers like he was arguing with the universe itself. "Because if I accept that Jean's kids are mine, it means accepting a whole mess of insanity I'm not ready for. First, I'd have to deal with the fact that I've got a son named Nathan, who calls himself Cable, who, thanks to time-travel nonsense, is twice my age and looks like he could bench press me without breaking a sweat. The guy's got more cybernetic parts than a Stark Industries prototype, and he's out there fighting wars I can barely wrap my head around. Second, because Cable adopted Hope, I'd have to wrap my head around being a grandfather when I'm not even thirty yet. I'd like to at least be wrinkled and grey before that hits, thank you very much, give me a few decades to ease into it. And third, I'd have to acknowledge a daughter named Rachel, who's got such a chip on her shoulder about mutants versus humans that she'd probably try to kill me just for being a non-mutant. She'd reject me faster than Scarlet Witch's brother can run, and I'm not exactly eager to dodge psychic blasts from my own kid."
His words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, the weight of them settling like a stone in the room, the firelight casting long shadows that seemed to dance with the ghosts of his past. He forced a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he reined in the edge in his voice, his hands falling to his lap. "And besides," he added, quieter now, almost defeated, his voice barely above a whisper, "they've spent their whole lives thinking they're Scott Summers' kids. Cable, Rachel, they've got his name, his legacy, the whole X-Men family drama. Who am I to rip that away from them? To show up and say, 'Hey, surprise, I'm your dad because of some bad decisions in a bar'? I'd be upending their lives, Jean's life, for what? So I can feel like I've got a stake in something I never claimed? So no, I hope they're not mine. For their sake, for Jean's sake, for my sake."
The silence that followed was thick, the only sound the soft crackle of the hearth and the distant hum of Asgard's magic, a golden stillness that seemed to cradle the room. Susan and Sable didn't argue, but they didn't let it drop either, their eyes remaining on him, searching, weighing his words with the care of those who knew the cost of secrets. Susan's expression softened, her arms uncrossing as she stepped closer, her voice gentle when she spoke, carrying a quiet empathy that cut through the tension. "Maybe," she said, her tone warm but firm, "but you should still talk to Jean. Soon. It's obvious you care about her, Peter. And not all of that is Anansi's influence. There's something real there, something human, and you owe it to yourself, and her, to face it."
Peter closed his eyes, his head tilting back against the headboard, reluctance etched into every line of his face. The mention of Jean, of Phal'kon, stirred that ancient ache within him, the memory of a love that burned across eons, now tangled with the messy reality of his mortal life. He saw her face in his mind, Jean's, not Phal'kon's, though the two blurred together, the red hair, the fierce light in her eyes, the way she'd looked at him in that bar, broken but unbowed, a mirror to his own pain. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, a short nod accompanying the words, as if conceding to a truth he wasn't ready to face. "I'll... talk to her."
The room fell quiet again, the weight of the conversation settling like dust motes in the firelight. Peter opened his eyes, meeting Susan's gaze first, then Sable's, his expression softening with a vulnerability he rarely showed. He leaned forward, kissing Susan softly on the forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as he murmured, "I love you," his voice low and sincere, a promise that grounded him in the present. He turned to Sable, kissing her with the same quiet intensity, repeating the words, "I love you," the gesture carrying a weight that cut through the lingering tension, a vow that whatever ghosts haunted him, he was here, with them, now.
The three slid beneath the massive furs of the Asgardian bed, the weight of the pelts enveloping them in a cocoon of warmth, their softness a stark contrast to the hard truths they'd just shared. The chamber was silent, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint hum of the palace's magic, a golden stillness that seemed to cradle them in its embrace. But Peter's mind, weighed down by old flames and unanswered questions, refused to rest as easily. As he lay there, staring up at the gem-studded ceiling, the threads of the Web of Life seemed to shimmer in his thoughts, whispering of Jean, of Phal'kon, and of a future where the past might yet demand its due. The firelight flickered, casting shadows that danced like memories, and somewhere, in the vast tapestry of existence, a phoenix's flame burned, waiting to be rekindled.
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