[ It's the night of Loki's theatre opening. A fancy gala party. Most of their kind, the ones who crash-landed into this world through the Confluence, will likely be there, but Peter Parker? Well.

Peter Parker is still at his desk at Wellness, a number of colourful sketches of varying shapes, sizes, and forms of ... toys sprawled out over the surface. He still can't believe he's doing this. He still can't believe this is his life. ]

You sure you don't want to drop in for a second? I can finish up here, or ... close it, or whatever it is you do when you're the last one at a sex toy company.

[ He ... definitely could have phrased that better.

Whatever, as long as he works here, there's always gonna be some kind of weird double entendre.

He stretches in his seat, hears the satisfying pop of his joints before he gets to his feet and crosses over to Tony's office. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, he eyes his 'boss' past the opened doors. (This, too, is something he can't believe; despite his better judgment, despite their complicated history and whatever else he feels about the guy, he's working with Tony Stark again.) ]

You must have some kind of tux hidden in here somewhere.