Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone."

Beep.

"Hi, Happy! It's, uh. It's Peter. Peter Parker. Um, sorry I called so late—uh, I'm just giving my report of the day? I helped an old lady cross the street and she got me a hot dog, which was super nice of her, and I stopped a couple carjackings and helped a kid find his way home!"

Peter glanced at his wrist. The web-shooters wrapped around like a simple black cuff and could be passed off as a bracelet if anyone asked, and he definitely felt safer with them always on instead of having to just rely on Mr. Stark’s version of his suit whenever he was in trouble. The systems were awesome and Karen was always nice to talk to, but… it still wasn’t his own work. Not that he had the money or materials to make his design his own, but the cuffs were products of a systematic dumpster diving behind a few electronic stores over the span of a few weeks.

Beneath his left cuff was a battered watch.

It read 11:13 pm.

He sighed quietly, sure to hold the phone away as he did so, then brought it back to his face and mustered as much enthusiasm as he could standing in the dark alleyway. His breath curled in a thick white mist in front of his face. The sleeves of his baggy blue hoodie were pushed to his elbows and the white apron around his waist was stained all sorts of red and brown and red.

He didn't shiver.

Cigarette smoke filled his nose from the puffs of the passersby, and on the first few days on the job it was almost as unbearable as the blood.

Nowadays...

"A-Anyway, just wanted to let you know I'm up for anything, really! If you ever need me, I'm there! Um, so, have a good night! Sorry again for calling so late!"

Peter tapped the red icon on his phone before shoving it into his back pocket and tried not to be too disappointed. After Germany, after the Vulture, after Coney Island, the radio silence had only settled. He still left voicemails every time Spider-Man went out regardless if Happy actually listened to them or not, but he knew it was probably the latter. That if anything, his ramblings were stacking up in the 'unread' box until it was time to clean them all out for more storage.

He really wanted to stop leaving voicemails. But if he did, wouldn't Happy think something was up? Then he'd tell Mr. Stark and maybe they'd find out about his new job and—

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his palms.

Right. As if Mr. Stark and Happy cared enough to check up on him. They had better things to worry about than some fifteen year old vigilante, didn't they?

He looked back down at his watch. 11:18 pm.

Brown work boots clunked on the snow-melted pavement towards the back door he propped open with an empty beer bottle—seriously, he had to talk to Mr. Weasel about investing in some stoppers or something—and slipped back into the kitchen where the old woman at the stove was making some of the greasiest wings Peter had ever seen. And he saw a seagull in an oil spill once.

"I'm back from my break!"

"Oh good, take these out to the leather jackets out there, wouldya', dear?" Granny Sal gestured to some plates on her left. She'd never said how old she was but Peter was sure she had to be pushing eighty. He didn't know how she could keep up in a place like this, but the last time someone got thrown into the kitchen when a fight started up and she'd broken a ladle on the side of his head to knock him out cold, he was reassured enough that she was probably in here for a reason. "We've got a real riot tonight. A whole group came back alive and they're splittin' the betting money."

"Gotcha, Ms. Sal."

"Sweetie, please. Call me Granny."

"Sure thing, Ms. Granny."

She chuckled and swiped the back of his head. He grinned and sidestepped away.

Peter balanced six plates on his arms and used his back to push through the door that separated the kitchen from the back of the bar. The moment he stepped out onto the floor, he was dodging almost drunk mercenaries and old, mismatched chairs until he made it to the tables pushed up at the far end.

Low hanging lights illuminated the otherwise dim and dingy building and the clacks of pool balls bounced off the brick walls. It definitely wasn’t Delmar’s, but there was a certain charm to the place. If someone was charmed by the scent of sweat and spilled beer.

"ey, Ferret!"

It was Ferret here. Not Peter. No real names unless you can cover your own ass, Mr. Weasel told him before he started his first night. And, well, it was better than anything else he could come up with himself. Besides, it wasn't like he would just walk into a bar like this with the words "It's Me, The Spider-man, Nice to Meet You" on his forehead.

"Christ kid, you still workin' 'ere?"

"Heh, thought you'd get run out after Jet fell on ya' couple weeks back."

"Hey guys," Peter greeted as he set down some hot wings, jalapeno poppers, and some other things caked in oil and breading. But the nachos, though. The nachos looked good. "And of course I'm still working here. The pay's good and you guys haven't tried to kill me yet so I mean, win-win? You get Ms. Granny's bar food and Mr. Weasel gets a guy to use the ladder to change the Dead Pool 'cause he's scared to do it himself."

A round of laughter echoed as Weasel yelled from behind the bar. "The ladder's a fucking hazard!"

"Then get a new one!"

"Who the fuck am I, Bill Gates? Between paying for not-broken chairs and cleaning up after your asses every night, I'm gonna need a whole lotta moo-lah and ladders aren't in the budget!"

"So I'm guessing that's a no on getting door stoppers?"

"Fuck outta here, Ferret. Actually, get your ass over here and change this goddamn board."

Peter sighed dramatically and turned back to the leather jackets gulping down their pints at the table. "Duty calls, gentlemen. Enjoy your cheesy, bready, wingy food."

He dodged even more mercs on his way back to the kitchen and came back out with the step-ladder his boss refused to even look at and set it up by the bar stools. As he climbed up and wobbled with a rag and a broken piece of chalk, Weasel leaned over the bar and glanced up.

A curtain of dirty blonde hair fell against the thick black frames of his glasses as he regarded the teen, humming and writing in the bets of the week. The kid was too cheery, too bright-eyed to even be within a mile of this place.

"Seriously though, the guys' got a point. You've been working here what, three months now? You're young, obviously, with that ridiculous fucking baby-face you've got goin' on and I'm sure some hipster coffee shop would love to put you in uniform and make you brew some venti mocha choco coconut crunch no whip the fuck," he said as he wiped down one of his glasses. "Still don't know how you found the job opening but for real, I'll give you an out."

Chalk dust spread over Peter's calluses as he bit his lip at Weasel's offer. He knew this job wasn't for everyone; it crossed the line of legality time and time again, and more often than not he saw body bags lugged out the back or bundles of thousands get passed beneath tables. His enhanced hearing let him know that about five jobs would be worked during this shift, that Elijah who always ordered four pints got shot last week, that Dylan he first met three nights ago turned up dead with a bullet in his head and his assignment still loose on the streets.

If Spider-Man saw another fifteen year old kid in this very position, scrawling in names on a blackboard in the middle of Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls, the Hellhouse, he'd try to get that kid out of there as fast as he could.

But being a hipster barista didn't pay the bills.

Being Spider-Man didn't pay the bills.

"Thanks, Mr. Weasel, but I'm good," Peter shrugged. He practically slid down the ladder and gave his boss half a heart attack as he folded up the steel beast and hoisted it just enough above the ground to carry back. "Besides, you're the boss. I mean, uh, unless you want to fire me..."

Weasel eyed him for a long moment before he sighed and waved an unbothered hand. "You're quick on your feet and good with the crowd. Would be a pain in the ass to find a replacement the fuckers here don't wanna shoot."

Peter hid his smile as he ducked back into the kitchen and propped the ladder near the back door.

He heard the front door swing open at the end of the bar, followed by the arrival of Hellhouse's most notorious visitor.

"I'm back Wease! And I brought two day old tacos with me!"

Good ol' Wade.

"Don't wave that near me." And Ms. Domino, too. "I'd rather not have diarrhea just by association."

The rest of the night had him half on dish duty and half on serving duty and he was lucky the bar was filled with more of the usuals instead of the mercs from out of town who see him for the first time and think he's just another scrawny kid to push around. Now, he didn't want to blow his own bubble, but he may or may not have been the one who made a person-sized dent in the west wall a month back when someone got a little too in his face, but Weasel got a kick out of it and it put him in a lot of the patrons' good books, so, y'know. If it works.

And god, the tips?

Peter thumbed through the wad of cash he'd gotten for the night before he stuffed it in his jeans pocket and slung on his fraying winter jacket before he left for the night. Morning? Morning.

Mercs were probably the best tippers he'd ever met.

He wrapped his scarf tighter around his face and tugged his hood over his head as he walked the quickest route back to his apartment. Normally he'd swing back and get home without making May worry too much, but ever since he'd taken on the job he was afraid he'd fall asleep in the middle of shooting a web and take a nasty plummet into a cab or the side of a building.

So walking it was. At three in the morning. In New York. In December.

Which was absolutely fine. Totally. It wasn't like he was cold or anything—

Peter stepped on a piece of iced concrete and slipped.

"What the—!"

He jerked his wrist and shot a string of web on the nearest street light and yanked, pulling himself onto the curve above the bulb. His hands gripped the freezing metal as he stared at the spot that almost cracked his head. What the heck was that, spidey sense?! That was danger! Right there!

"Aw, man. You're not out of whack 'cause I'm tired, are you?" he groaned quietly. He let go of the metal to rub his eyes with his knuckles, but quickly pulled it back. And stared.

He jumped down from the lamp post and scurried into the light. He threw off his jacket and shoved up the sleeves of his hoodie, his breaths coming out in shallow huffs that he can see so clearly through his clouding panic.

Peter Benjamin Parker stood in the middle of a lonely New York street and could only watch as the skin of his hands and arms crept into a frosty blue.

Chapter Text

Peter shook one leg restlessly under the lunch table as he stared down at his untouched food. His eyes kept trailing to his hands on either side of the tray, now his normal skin color and he had to think, was he just really, really tired last night?

The blue creeps like a river. It isn't all at once, it doesn't swell. It starts from the tips of his fingers and tendrils up his palms past his wrists following the veins raising hard lines in a mirrored pattern across knuckles and forearms.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them. Fuzzes, re-focuses. Still there.

He looks up at the frozen metal street lamp. Just regular metal. Just iced over.

His eyes drag back to his watch.

3:13 am.

School starts in a few hours.

"Peter? You okay?"

He blinked and Ned's face materialized right in front of him, a crease between his brows and his own food half-eaten. He must've looked like a complete lunatic in the same hoodie he worked in the night before with the bags he knew were under his eyes from all the hours he hadn't slept, sitting on his bed and staring at his hands until the color receded the same way they came, slowly, flowing back down to fingertips before the last wisps of blue faded into nothing.

"I got back kinda late from my shift at the House," he said, because that's what he'll call it if anyone ever asked where he worked. Ned only knew the 'House' was less than ideal, but it was more than May who thought he'd gotten a job at some hole-in-the-wall pub that Granny was sweet enough to fake a call for. "Sorry, uh, what were you saying?"

"I asked if you wanted to play some Resident Evil after decathlon practice." Ned's concerned gaze lingered for a few moments before he picked up a tangerine to peel. "But you should catch up on sleep, dude. Get a few hours in after, you know..." He trailed off, making some weird hand motions like he's at a rave but doesn't know what to do with his arms. "Thwip thwip."

Peter snorted and kicked his shin under the table. "I don't look like that!"

"Ow! And yeah, you do! Look, I've got about a few dozen YouTube videos to prove it."

Peter was in the middle of shoving some cold pizza into his mouth as Ned scrolled through YouTube to prove his point when his own phone vibrated.

boss-man: i no u dont have a shift tonite [11:43am]

boss-man: but can u com in [11:43am]

boss-man: got new stock i need ur brain [11:43am]

boss-man: silverwear, peenuts, menus [11:44am]

boss-man: the ushe [11:44am]

Peter's thumb tapped against the side of his phone.

Silverware, peanuts, menus.

Weapons, ammunition, new merc job postings.

Within the first few days of the job, Weasel hadn't sugarcoated any part of what it meant to work in Sister Margaret's and made sure he knew exactly what it meant to be a server/dish boy for them.

An hour before the bar opens, Weasel holds up three fingers. Peter stares as the man drops one. "Arms dealing." The second finger comes down. "Information broking." The third. "Dirty job dispatches."

Then an index finger points directly at Peter's face.

"If you can't handle the fact that this is what we do, I will literally escort you back to whichever Chuck E. Cheese you wandered from and we can forget this whole thing ever happened."

Peter truly considers what that means. 1) Super illegal. 2) That info probably wasn't like, exam answers, so super illegal. 3) So Illegal that the 'I' needed to be capitalized.

All three of those were things Spider-Man would immediately take a dive for, webbing up anyone associated without asking questions and leaving a note for the NYPD. Because this was all wrong, wasn't it? Bottom line, no ifs, ands, or buts.

And if anything, this was also something completely out of Spider-Man's element. He handled robbers and muggers, the odd cat stuck in a tree, and the last time he jumped into the deep-end he'd wrestled a criminal with metal wings, crashed an aircraft, and set an entire beach on fire.

"Your job listing was a night shift with no work experience necessary. No background checks, paid in cash." Peter presses his lips together and never breaks eye contact. His palms start to sweat. "I'm not an idiot. I know what I'm getting into—I managed to find the ad for this place, didn't I?"

Which had been dredged up by a job searching program he coded to search for something, anything that was willing to hire a literal fifteen year old who only had 'extra-curricular activities' filled out in his resume and paid enough for him to help May out.

"Yeah, you did, didn't you?" Weasel frowns. He's quiet for another beat before he turns and groans, muttering something that sounded like 'I'm gonna get so much shit for this'. "Fine. FINE. You get a two week trial period and if I think you can't handle it, your Kidz Bop lookin' ass is gone."

"And if I can handle it?"

"Then you stay. Easy."

...

"God, you're like the poster child that dermatologists hate except they went overboard on the photoshop and made you look like a nine year old. Are you even old enough to drink?"

"Uh, um, technically I'm not old enough to vote?"

"Jesus fucking Christ."

boss-man: oh my god ur in clas rnt u [11:45am]

boss-man: fuck uh [11:45am]

boss-man: pay atension [11:45am]

boss-man: or sumthing [11:45am]

Me: i'm at lunch rn so [11:46am]

Me: i can come in tho [11:46am]

Me: what time do u need me in? [11:47am]

boss-man: halefuckingluyah [11:47am]

boss-man: wats ur earliest avail [11:47am]

Me: 4:30ish [11:48am]

boss-man: done [11:48am]

boss-man: ull get ovrtiem [11:48am]

Overtime pay meant as much as a three hundred in hand, same day.

"Sorry, Ned. Can't catch up on sleep tonight," he said. Ned paused the video and looked up. "Boss needs me in right after decathlon for inventory stuff. He probably won't need me for the usual shift but he'll pay me overtime so—"

"You... sure that's a good idea? You look really, really tired and your boss probably has other people he can call in, right?"

For stuff like that? Yeah, maybe he'd call in Wade or Domino or one of the higher classed mercs, but one time when the bar computer system went down for the night and Peter subbed himself in as a replacement calculator/tab keeper/bill maker that worked just as effectively, Weasel started pulling him further into Sister Margaret's business. With a pay raise. Which was nice.

Peter shrugged and dipped his too-hard pizza crust into a ranch cup and munched, trying not to feel guiltily at the unabashed worry in his friend's face. "He knows I'm good at math and sometimes he has me look over payments and stuff," he replied, and this time it wasn't a lie. Sometimes he kept track of who ordered which weapon, how much they owed, when they needed it by, and to make sure the Gold Card system kept its flow. "I'm good, man. Really."

He was pretty sure Ned didn't believe him.

::

Around 4:40 pm he made it to Sister Margaret's graffitied front door. At the same time, he got a text.

boss-man: Don't come in until I say so. [4:40pm]

Capitalization, punctuation, no misspelled words, the warning—

And his spidey sense screamed.

Peter was around the building and at the back door before he finished sliding his phone back into his pocket. He flicked both wrists and a pressure pad from each web-shooter flipped onto his palms and quickly, quietly scaled up the wall and up to the window to Weasel's apartment just above the bar.

The latch was quick to snap under his strength and he opened it just enough to slither through and got down on his hands and toes, silently letting the window fall closed with his foot as the buffer.

The conversation downstairs immediately sharpened into clarity.

"You must be new in town 'cause you're being a huge dick right now—"

"Shut the fuck up," a whole new voice snarled. Peter crawled along the kitchen ceiling and landed in the living room. Mugs and used paper plates litter the coffee table and he was careful not to step on any of the papers and books strewn across the ground as he sets his winter jacket and backpack on the couch. "I don't care if you're one of the top brokers out there, I'm not about to get cheaped out by some stoner-lookin' college dropout!"

"... Okay first of all, I have feelings. Second, I didn't drop out of—"

"Shut. UP!"

The stairs that lead down to the bar were metal and clunky, definitely not great for sneaking around. He stuck to the walls and ceiling and for once was grateful that sunlight didn't get the chance to stream into the Hellhouse. He took his scarf out of his hoodie pocket and tied it around his lower face and tugged his hood over his head and knotted the strings under his chin to keep it from falling.

The man holding a handgun to Weasel's forehead didn't notice the shadow that crept above him, hidden from the dim lighting and hovering just overhead. Neither do the other two standing near the pool tables.

"I'll give you 'til the count of three to agree to my terms or you'll get some scrap in your brain," the stranger growled. Weasel swallowed. "One." The safety was off. "Two."

"Why's it always to three?"

The stranger looked up just as the shadow dropped down. Legs hooked around his neck and threw him onto the floor, the gun sliding underneath one of the chairs. Just as the other two whipped out their own guns, webs stuck to the barrel and yanked them into Peter's waiting hands. He clicked the magazine releases, let the magazines fall, and tossed the empty guns behind him and over the bar.

"No, really, is it 'cause three's a good number? Ten's too long? Oh, maybe it's like Goldilocks and the Three Acceptable Numbers for Intimidating Countdowns."

He leaned back and grabbed Cronie #1's leg mid-kick, webbed the incoming fist to their chest, and spun to slam them through a nearby table. Cronie #2 tried to land a punch. Another. Another. But it was blocked. Duck. Dodge. And then Peter caught their face with a web followed by an elbow to the nose. #2 fell and his hands and ankles get bound.

"Personally I think five's a pretty good number. It's got that appeal of being even when it's not—"

His spidey sense spiked.

BANG.

He moved. A bullet grazed his bicep.

Fingers curled around the leg of the stool that got chucked across the room. It shattered against the man's chest and he slumped back against the wall, blood dribbling down his chin. Peter webs that gun into his hand too. Just in case.

"Um." Peter slowly turned to Weasel, who had both hands on his head and his jaw on the floor from his position half-crouched behind the bar. His wide-eyed stare didn't stray from the only person left standing in the room. "I-I'll pay for the stool."

Peter glanced at the wall.

"And. Uh. I'll clean up the blood?"

The rest of the table Cronie #1 crashed through collapsed into a heap of splintered wood, and Peter was acutely aware that his hoodie still had chalk dust on the sleeves and the scarf around his face was the one with the lopsided snowman, one that Weasel joked about every time he saw it.

So. Well.

"... Please don't fire me."

::

"I'm just—let's rewind the tape for a minute. Retrace our steps. Starting with that text I sent you that said something like, I dunno, Don't Come In Until I Say So."

Peter sat on an unbroken bar stool with his head cowed and his hands balled in his lap. His scarf was tucked back in his pockets and his hood was pulled back to expose his pink cheeks and pinched lips in all their glory as his boss paced and did some weird breathing exercises.

"That guy over there? Kairo Green. New blood on the Gold Card, came in from out west, and probably from what you've seen total douche-nozzle. Scary as fuck too. I literally almost shit myself when he took out his gun and started goin' off about 'product quality' when it's his fault he made the order. But—But I'm getting off track. The second I saw Green walk up in here like he owned the damn building I think, 'I should text Ferret not to come in so he doesn't get his face blown off', 'cause I'm nice like that." Weasel breathed out. Breathed in. Screamed with his mouth closed.

"Then you fucking dropped from the ceiling like a fucking horror movie monster and then proceeded to kick the collective asses of everyone in this room. As Spider-Man."

"M-Mr. Weasel—"

"As SPIDER-MAN."

Peter's mouth clamped shut and he hunched his shoulders to his ears. It wasn't like he was happy about his secret identity getting exposed either because, well, secret, but no one's life was worth the anonymity. Especially not Weasel, who always treated him well and never saw him as just one more stupid kid.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasel," he murmured. "I didn't think you'd get this mad about it."

"Mad?" Weasel repeated. He groaned and rubbed his hands all over his face. "I'm not—Kid, you scared the shit out of me. Almost literally. Do you know how close I was to actually laying a fat one in my pants? So close. That Conjuring shit made me age twenty years and had my balls shrivel up like prunes." He drew in another deep breath, ignoring the disgusted scrunch of Peter's face. "All I'm saying is give a guy a warning next time, okay? Shit."

The teen straightened up. "So you're not... mad?"

"Why the hell would I be mad? You saved my life, thanks by the way, and promised to pay for all the shit you broke."

"Uh, normally the Spider-Man thing doesn't really fly with people the first time they find out. Since I'm only fifteen and all," Peter admitted. Weasel's face fell back into his hands, a strangled 'fifteen? Oh my god,' falling from his lips. "Um. Last time someone found out, they ranted for like thirty minutes about how dangerous this shit was and that I wasn't allowed to go out on patrol anymore." Then, May had almost stormed Stark Industries as a one-woman army to lay into Tony Stark himself for taking him all the way out to Germany to fight the Rogue Avengers at fourteen. "So I kinda expected... more yelling? A lecture on how I'm too young? That this is a huge responsibility that I'm not experienced enough to understand? That I'm supposed to be better?"

By the last hypothetical he tasted his own bitterness on his tongue and quickly dipped his lips again, cheeks flaming red and eyes falling towards the un-mopped floor.

Okay fine, so what if he was still upset about the speeches he'd gotten from Mr. Stark and May, and yeah, he knew they meant well and he knew he had so much more to learn, but what else was he supposed to do with these powers? This opportunity? Let those robbers rob that cashier blind when he was passing just to get a gallon of milk? Let some muggers get away with a tourist's backpack when they thought no one was looking? Let a bunch of bullies beat up a kid in a parking lot just in the security cameras' blind spots? Let a gang run a shoot out with innocents in the streets and no one to stop them? Let some unarmed kid get shot by the police because he was the wrong race at the wrong time?

Peter just wanted to be good. Do good. For others who needed it.

Was that so wrong?

Weasel sighed and rubbed his face one more time before he clapped his hands on the teen's shoulders. "Look. Spider-Kid. Ferret. I'll be straight with you and say that it's kinda sorta fucked up that a fifteen year old is swinging around Queens," he started. Peter deflated. "But you know what else is sorta fucked up? Running a merc dispatch from an old Catholic boarding school and keeping the same name. Costs money to change shit like that." He took a step back and pushed up his glasses. "What I'm saying is—Jesus, I shouldn't be allowed to give talks like this, uh, your whole superhero vigilante thing? Pretty fucking cool. Just—Just fucking let a guy know when you're gonna rain down from the skies, fuck."

He walked back behind the bar to start picking up the shattered pieces of glass from when Green slammed the duffel bag full of firearms down when he wasn't happy with what he'd seen, leaving the pep-talk at that. It took a few seconds for Peter to digest that no, he wasn't in trouble, then scrambled up to help pick up the glass pieces too, careful not to cut his fingers on the edges.

He cleared his throat.

"Uh, Mr. Weasel, whenever I-I go out in the suit I try not to interfere with any of the Gold Card jobs," he piped up. The man's expression went dumbfounded and might very well be his second whiplash of the day—and it wasn't even Happy Hour. "Or the ones I know about, at least. I know everyone here's got a job to do and, well, I just look out for the little guy." All the glass Peter collected was tossed into the trash under the bar. "And, uh. I'm not a superhero," he shrugged. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

::

Weasel was used to the prime grime of society. The low-lifes, the morally questionable, Wade—anything the New York sewage system could spit out and dump into his bar. Some he welcomed and some he didn't because he could have standards sometimes, but for the most part? He didn't deal with good people and he was fine with that. He'd never had a crisis about it, he never really gave a shit. It was what it was.

But the first time he ever asked himself if what he was doing was too much was when some doe-eyed, Disney child star wannabe wandered into his bar asking about the job that had only been posted and hidden just enough so that normal job hunters wouldn't find it. He knew his way around computers and codes well enough to make sure it stayed that way, and the fact that this preschooler dug it up himself? Completely fucking ridiculous. Either the kid was insanely lucky or was desperate enough to hook himself up with the proper network to find it.

But Weasel took him on anyways for two reasons: pity, and the fact that he was sure the Gerber Baby lookalike wasn't going to make it a week. Two weeks, if he wanted to be optimistic.

Then after two weeks, Ferret was still there. Three Weeks. Four Weeks. Two months. Three. Ferret was a constant, joking with Granny Sal in the back, cracking jokes with some of the mercs on the floor, throwing assholes into walls, listening to Wade's stupid stories, always making sure Domino's chicken wings came out slightly charred just the way she liked them.

Weasel didn't want to like him. Didn't want to get attached. Didn't want to bring him down into the underbelly of knives and bullets and blood money.

Because—Because Ferret was such a good kid, you know? So bright and cheery even after learning that he served killers their bar snacks or helped inventory weapons of every and all variety. He was this smart brat that smiled and laughed even as he climbed the demon ladder to change the dead pool.

So he decided to give in, be selfish, keep the kid around. He liked him. He got attached. He brought him into the underbelly of knives and bullets and blood money anyway, and sometimes it was hard to see how quickly the kid picked things up and how good he was getting at being in this business.

And if the kid ended up getting shot or killed working the job? He'd take the blame and live with the crippling guilt the rest of his miserable life, no sweat.

Then, Ferret turned out to be fucking Spider-Man.

Then, Spider-Man turned out to be fucking fifteen years old.

"Uh, Mr. Weasel, whenever I-I go out as Spider-man I try not to interfere with any of the Gold Card jobs," Ferret piped up, and Weasel just about lost his goddamn mind. "Or the ones I know about, at least. I know everyone here's got a job to do here and, well, I just look out for the little guy." This kid was honest-to-god so genuine it made his teeth rot. "And, uh. I'm not a superhero. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

Gold Cards: practically more equivalent to actual gold than the spray-painted metal they were made from. Client comes in, pays for one of the "Gold Cards", said Gold Card gets handed to the merc best-suited for the business, Gold Card gets turned back in once all loose ends are tied up.

Spider-Man should've stopped all those transactions, but Ferret chose not to.

Weasel wanted to stab himself. Repeatedly. With a spoon.

"Am... Am I fired?"

God.

"No, Ferret." A long, long suffering sigh. "You're not fired."

If anything, this might deserve a pay raise.

After they finished cleaning up the rest of the glass and the duffel was safely stored beneath the floorboards under the trash can, they turned towards the bodies still strewn about the room.

"I didn't kill any of them," Ferret said, because of course he didn't. He walked up to one body and hoisted them over his shoulder and picked up another to tuck under his arm, which would've been a combined weight of at least three hundred pounds. Carried. Like. NOTHING. "So where do you want...?"

Weasel shook his disbelief from his head. "I'm banning them from the Hellhouse. Once word gets out about it, they'll probably get blacklisted from a shit ton of other brokers. I'll call a few people to get them outta our hands. For now though, you think you can, like, super tie them up with your webs and toss them in the back?"

"Oh, yeah! No biggie, Mr. Weasel!"

Ferret's head suddenly whipped towards the door so fast that Weasel swore his neck was in danger of snapping.

"Um. Wade's here."

"What? What do you mean Wade's—"

"You cocksucking dickwad!" Wade shouted as he kicked the front door open with the bottom of his heavy military boots. "The job you gave me was a damn bust! See, I get to the place, right? Cute little set-up where couples probably Lady and the Tramp some spaghetti you don't regretti before sucking face like a fucking Dyson..."

His tromping slowed to a stop beside Kairo Green's body. Wade, dressed in black jeans, a gray zip up, a beaten brown leather jacket, and his ever-present Deadpool mask, takes in the scene before his gaze lands on Weasel. Then Ferret. Then Weasel again. Then Ferret for the last time.

He gasped.

"Sweetheart! Darling!" he exclaimed. He rushed Ferret so fast that the two bodies thumped back onto the floor as he smushed the teen's face into his chest. "Wease! What the fuck did I say about exposing our sweet summer child to extensive violence? I knew I should've turned parental controls on."

"W-Wade—"

"Hush, young one. Mommy and Daddy are fighting as our impending divorce slowly rises on the horizon and we'll try to hide it from you as long as we can until we force your underdeveloped, impressionable mind to choose who you like the best so the favorite can have the upper-hand when vying for primary custody."

"It wasn't my fault," Weasel sputtered. "I was supposed to have an easy transaction lined up before Ferret came in to help with inventory—how was I supposed to know the fucker was gonna be a grade A dick?"

"We're mercs," Wade stressed. "We're all grade A dicks."

"Not all dicks try to kill me!"

"Only on good days."

"Gooch-face."

"Moose-knuckle."

"Guys!" Ferret squirmed out of his friend's hold and waved his hands to the bodies he just dropped and the other body still bleeding out against the wall. "Come on, we gotta bring them in the back because I don't know when they'll wake up and they still have to get tied up and stuff and—"

Wade blinked as he spotted black circles on Ferret's palms that lead from the black bracelets he always wore.

He took one of the kid's wrists mid-ramble, pushed down—

"Wade, no!"

—and webbed himself in the face.

Chapter Text

Peter sighed as he dragged himself into the apartment at a quarter past eight. Weasel finding out about his other "part-time job" was already a lot, and adding Wade into the equation...

No one says a thing for a long while.

Which is troubling, because that meant Wade hasn't said a thing for a long while. He's just standing there with a web on his face, Peter's wrist in a loose grip, and the silence in Sister Margaret's slowly growing thicker and thicker.

Then.

"I thought the webs came out your butt."

All the tension flees out Peter's body as he pulls his arm back and braces himself on his knees.

"... Yeah, I also thought the webs were butt-made," Weasel agrees apologetically.

"Can—Can we just take care of these guys first? Please?" Peter pleads. He picks the two bodies back up as Wade struggles to scrape the synthetic web from his mask eyes. "I'll tie them up and put them in the back and, Mr. Weasel, can you make the call? Wade, don't pull so hard you're really going to hurt yourself—"

Wade took it really well. He pulled a Ned and asked if he laid eggs or ate bugs for breakfast or if he secretly had six other arms that he was hiding and it'd be the wildest thing if he did, and Peter had been so relieved that Wade was someone he could trust that he readily agreed to the man's request to dangle him from the ceiling before the bar opened for the night.

Peter closed the front door behind and tossed his backpack on the couch as he made a beeline towards the kitchen. Wade might not have known how old he really was, but he couldn't hide how young he looked and yet, there was no judgment. Just like Weasel.

That alone warmed his chest like nothing else.

He dug around the fridge. It would just be a sandwich or six for dinner tonight, not that he was complaining, and after he made the first one he balanced his butter knife on the open mayonnaise jar and wandered back into the living room with one hand full of bread and the other slung in his hoodie pocket.

May wouldn't be back for another hour, maybe? And it was Tuesday so she'd get dinner with some of her co-workers, so she wouldn't be hungry when she got back. Not that he knew how to cook all that well, but Granny Sal sometimes wrangled him into being her sous chef when the bar was at its busiest, and he knew a thing or two about how to keep tortilla chips from getting too soggy.

He plopped down on the couch with a sigh and took a bite of his sandwich. The black of the TV screen stared back at him, as do all the pictures that line up on the shelves. Him, May, Ben, Dad, Mom... Their stares were heavy, frozen in moments that he'd half almost forgotten and half he tried to remember on the days his broken bones hurt a little more.

His gaze drifted back to his perfectly normal hands.

"What the heck did I do that night?" he mumbled.

He didn't imagine the blue. He didn't. He'd been dead-tired and it was three in the morning but he knew what he saw and he knew what he felt.

And in that moment, his hands didn't feel the winter cold.

Whatever happened to him wasn't an effect of the spider bite. Spiders were cold-blooded creatures that lessened their activity to dormancy when temperatures dropped. And for a while, that was true for him too. Since the bite he'd taken to wearing layers upon layers in the colder months, making sure to never stay outside for too long unless he passed out and went into hibernation in the middle of the street.

Peter narrowed his eyes.

Maybe it was... sometime after the Vulture incident that things started to change? From the instance atop the ferris wheel in his old jumpsuit covered in cuts and scars and burns, the cold hadn't bothered him as much. Did it? The three layers he usually wore in the apartment in the freezing, heater-less months started to get too warm for him and the five layers he squeezed himself into whenever he went into the snow were scaled down to two, or three if he counted the short sleeves under his hoodies.

He bit his lip and stood, cramming the last bit of crusts into his mouth before he tucked his fingers under his arms and began to pace alongside the coffee table.

Why didn't he think anything was weird back then? Was he really that caught up in Spider-Man and school and his job that he didn't notice that something had gone so wrong that he wasn't even feeling cold anymore. And that was the trigger of whatever this was, wasn't it? The cold. Not air conditioning cold or even New York December cold, but extreme cold? That he needed physical contact with?

No, that didn't make any sense. If extreme cold affected him now, why wouldn't it have affected him before? Was there some chemical he inhaled during his fight on Coney Island? If it was airborne it would've spread to the city and if it was something else in the sand or the flames, it would've spread to Happy and the other personnel that swarmed the crash site.

Peter's gaze cut back to the frames. He walked up to one; a photo of a smiling Richard and Mary in their lab coats as they carried a baby him in their arms.

Was there an external influence that affected him because he was enhanced? Maybe. But there was a chance that something else within the same time frame affected him.

He wiped some dust off the frame glass.

... Could it be genetic? Triggered by stressors? Wade once told him that people with the mutant gene could be forced to express it through extreme mental and physical experiences, but—

"Peter? Baby? You're back early."

His head jerked up. May shrugged off her coat by the doorway, her kind eyes concerned as she took in his slouched shoulders and mussed hair. Peter quickly snatched his hand back and brushed his crumb-covered fingers on his jeans.

"Hey, May. My boss texted me earlier and said he needed me to come to help with some inventory stuff before they opened. And he made sure to pay me overtime, so."

The three hundred dollar wad in his pants weighed heavy. He'd have to find a way to sneak it into his aunt's savings later.

"Your boss, Mr. Westley, right?"

"Yup."

Nope.

"Oh, it's nice that you decided to go in. Look at you, being all responsible and stuff," she joked. She stepped into the kitchen to make herself some of her nightly black tea. "I thought you'd be out late, you know." She spun around and did the same arm wiggles Ned did earlier. "Thwip thwip."

"Ugh, you too?"

"What? I did a perfect imitation," she smiled. It tapered off when Peter turned towards the counter to make another sandwich. His movements were quick and smooth, not that he'd ever been a clumsy child, but, "Sweetie?" She dunked her tea bag in her purple mug before running a hand through his hair. "Is something up?"

He smeared a line of mayo on his bread. "No, but, uh. Just kinda scatterbrained."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"It's... I was just thinking about some genetics stuff before you got back. I read a paper a couple days ago about comparing differences in kids who are raised by biological parents and adoptive parents," he said. He hated how the lies flow easier on his tongue nowadays. How he has to keep lying to May even after he promised her no more secrets. "It was a pretty interesting study."

Her hand paused as she reached for the honey before she cleared her throat and grabbed the bottle. "Yeah? What kind of study did they do?"

"For the first one they looked into two different groups: children raised by their biological parents and children raised by their adoptive ones," Peter fibbed. Come on, Parker. If you can bullshit your English papers, you can bullshit this study. "They checked factors like income, history of mental illness, environment, things like that to keep the subjects as neutral to each other as possible. Then they followed the families throughout their lives and documented milestones in emotional development like death in the family and physical developments like diseases. Just stuff like that." You're losing it. Think of something out of the box. Something interesting! "Um, if they e-ever do another study, I was thinking of other ways they could change it up. W-What if they look more into how adoptive parents deal with genetic disorders or predisposed conditions from their biological families?" Dial it back! Getting too real! "Maybe look at how well different families in different situations react to stuff like that. Would you think that'd be a cool experiment, May?"

He glanced up, expecting another question about the paper or another question about if that's really what he was thinking about, but his aunt had this unfocused expression about her; that she looked at him like he was so, so far away.

His stomach sunk. "... May?"

She blinked rapidly and set her hand on his cheek. "Sorry, you reminded me of something and I..." A heavy sigh fell out of her chest and she took a step back. "Wait for me on the couch, Peter. I have to get something real quick."

When she disappeared from view, he stared down at his half-made sandwich and the sad looking slice of ham he didn't even get to put down.

Whatever this was better not be as bad as the turning blue thing. He didn't know how much more he could take.

But he forced himself to sit back on the couch and waited until May came back still dressed in her maroon scrubs. A round box of old wood was clutched in her hands, delicately carved and intricately designed. Serpents weaved around the sides amongst patterned flowers and wolves and horses, and when she placed one leg against a couch cushion and took a seat, he saw the single, branching tree designed on the top.

"What... What do you remember about your parents?" May ventured.

"I know they were scientists. Dad was a geneticist, Mom was a molecular biologist. Um, and all those things you and Ben used to tell me," he answered. Was it bad that he didn't know more? "But like what I actually remember from when I was younger? Not a lot, s-sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry. It's not your fault," she said, and her grip tightened around the box. "Before we get into this, I want you to know that Richard and Mary loved you with all they had."

"Oh, yeah. I know." He never once doubted his parents' love for him, and for all he could remember, it was all warm hugs and forehead kisses and holding hands while crossing the street. "Did something go wrong? I mean, before you guys took me in?"

"I wouldn't say it was wrong, but... you get to decide this one, kiddo." May tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and exhaled through her nose. "You weren't Mary's. She loved you like you were her own, but Richard met someone at one of those big science conventions before they started dating. He only found out about you when you were almost eight months old, I think, and by then him and Mary were already married."

Peter's teeth clacked together at the force of his jaw tensing; his fists were clenched in his lap and his eyes blew wide. He could hear people chatting on the sidewalk floors below, cars idling in the lots, and his own heartbeat in his ears.

May plowed forward, ripping off the rest of the bandage.

"I don't know anything about your biological mother. I don't think anyone does. But when she came forward to introduce you to Richard and Mary, they fell in love with you and eventually came to some sort of visitation agreement. Your mother had you most of the time, but every now and again she would disappear without a word and then come back acting like she hadn't gone away in the first place. It drove Richard crazy." She sighed. "Lora. We never did find out a surname, either. She was so secretive and tight-lipped, it was like all she ever said was a riddle."

Peter finally managed to unhook his jaw, and a familiar bitterness wormed through his chest. Thick, suffocating. "But she didn't want me, huh?"

"No, baby, look at me. Look at me, please?" He raised his head reluctantly. "Lora loved you. She loved you so much that it almost hurt seeing how carefully she held you, how close she'd keep you. And whenever she looked at you, Peter? It was like you were her stars." She sniffed and wiped a stray tear. "I'd only met her a handful of times, but that was enough to know you were her whole world."

"Then why am I just finding out about her now?!"

"Because..."

"Full custody?" Richard repeats. Peter, a mere week away from his first birthday, blows spit bubbles while transfixed by the utensils on the table. His stubby little fingers reach for one, and Ben quickly pushes them away. He bounces the boy on his knee to keep him from crying, eyes darting back and forth between his brother and the woman standing at the window. "I—You don't want him anymore?!"

Lora casts her eyes over her shoulder, and one look from that piercing green gaze is enough to shoot a bolt of uneasiness through the other four adults in the room. Peter babbles on, oblivious. "Do not accuse me of such," she hisses. Her hair spills just past her shoulders like a brush stroke of ink. "That child is the breath of my lungs, and should he ever perish, I shall follow."

May gulps. Damn, why was this woman always so intense? Dressing in black suits, strutting in those stiletto heels that could cut a man, wearing a face that's never friendly unless she was planting black lipstick kisses all over Peter's soft tufted hair.

"W-We would love to have him full-time," Mary intervenes. "We were thinking about children and were considering where that put Peter, but it's... if you love him so much, why give him up? The joint custody agreement had been going along so well, unless—"

"Had I any other option, I would stay," Lora informs stiffly. But one look at Peter and that infallible mask of hers chips away. "My... father has been wondering about my bouts of absences. He can never know of Peter."

Richard frowns. "Why not?"

Lora strides over to Ben to brush a finger along her son's chubby pink cheeks. The baby squeals, giggling and batting it away. May can see the other woman's face clearly here, and there's something about the way she looks at Peter that's so careful. So protective. So miserable.

"Because he—my father—would kill him."

"You'd think she was exaggerating, but she said it with such certainty that it started to scare Ben." May shook her head. "Lora disappeared after turning over all your documents and never came back. She left no number, no way of contact, no nothing. It's as if she wiped herself off the face of the earth." She held out the box, and her heart clenched at how Peter's hands shook as he took it. "But she did leave you this. And she said only for you to open it if you ever decide you want to see her again."

Faint horror shone in Peter's eyes as he traced one of the branches on the carved tree.

"Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry. I—I was waiting until you were old enough to understand. Whatever you decide about Lora is your decision and whatever you want to do, I'll support you. God, I should've told you sooner—"

"No, it's..." Peter cleared his throat and wiped his face with his sleeve as he stumbled to a stand. He knocked his knee against the coffee table, but his hands stayed clamped firmly around the box. "It's fine."

He thought of blue hands, mercenaries, masked menaces, a mother he never knew, a grandfather who wanted him dead.

No one said a thing for a long while.

"C-Can I think about this in my room?" His voice cracked. "Please."

"Of course, baby."

After he'd gone to his room, after she'd heard his door shut with a soft click, after she pretended to think he hadn't snuck out his window to climb up to the roof to sort out his confusion and grief, she went back to the kitchen for her cold mug of tea, sat down at the dinner table, and tried not to cry.

::

Hundreds of thousands of light years away, a pair of gold eyes flickered.

Chapter Text

It was five o'clock on a chilly winter afternoon, three hours before Sister Margaret's opened, when Peter planted his hands on the table and asked,

"Okay, so hypothetically, if you found out your dead mom wasn't really your mom and your actual mom is out there but no one's seen her in like fourteen years, but you have the chance to meet her would you take it? Hypothetically."

Beer dribbled from Wade's unmasked lips and back into the pint and Weasel took one long look at him before raising his hands over his head and walking over to the other side of the empty bar.

"Aren't you a little young to be having a family crisis that could potentially alter your development into a healthy, functioning adult?"

"Uh." Peter sipped at the Arnold Palmer drink that started to pop up in the mini-fridge in the 'break room', which was nothing more than a desktop set-up, a broken coffee machine, and a couch that looked like it was bought off a retirement home. "Yes?"

"Fuck. Alright, let Mama Wade impart his unbiased nuggets of wisdom—"

Weasel groaned from his spot tweezing bullets out of one of the pool tables. "Your last nugget of 'wisdom' was explaining how burritos were just squishy tacos—"

"You walked away from this conversation, you keep your nose out of my asshole!" Wade shouted. He flashed a grin back at Peter, the scarred skin on the exposed half of his face stretching in a way that looked like it hurt. "Okay, picture it. Sicily, 1922."

"These goddamn Golden Girls references in my goddamn bar—"

"BEA ARTHUR IS A GEM AND ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE HAS AN AGENDA. As I was saying, this is what you do, right?"

"Hypothetically," Peter reminded him.

"Yeah. Sure. Hypothetically. Drink your drink, Super-Boy. Hydration is important." Wade clapped his gloved hands together. "So you tell your actual mom to meet you at a cafe that serves cheesecake and crepes. The cheesecakes are a must, but the crepes? Croissants are a good substitute, but if you can't find any, store bought is fine. Then you talk about your feelings and once you tell her she wasn't there on your sweet sixteenth, she'll be burdened with the knowledge she missed such a milestone in your young, young life that she'll feel so bad that she'll go on a whole monologue on why she left, if she's staying, and fill you with empty promises." He looked at Peter's hands. "Why aren't you writing any of this down? Do you need a pen?"

Peter popped a nacho chip in his mouth from the plate they shared. He's not as good of a cook as Granny, but dang did this fake cheese taste like heaven. "I think I can remember the important parts, but can we swap the sweet sixteenth out for something else? Like, I don't know, my first day of school?"

"Not as big of an impact. Why? Was your sixteenth birthday a tragedy? Did you end up at the hospital? Oh! Oh! Oh! You drank until you blacked out and somehow ended up on the roof of your ex's house in nothing but a gatorade yellow speedo and ended up cuddling the keg stand you stole from that bastard Gavin?!"

"No, it's just—I won't have my sixteenth birthday until August."

And the beer kinda... waterfalled out of Wade's mouth. Again. All over the table and his pants, and Peter dragged the nachos to safety because he worked really hard on those and he wasn't going to waste it by making it into mouth beer nacho soup.

"You hired—" The pint slammed down so hard a spider crack shot up to the lip of the glass and Wade reached for the gun at his waist mid-lunge at Weasel— "A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD TO WORK AT SISTER FUCKING MARGARET'S?!"

He took two gaping strides at the man crouched behind a pool table when Peter jumped on his back and tackled him onto the grimy floor.

"Wait, d-don't kill Mr. Weasel!"

"I'm gonna kill him so fucking hard!"

Peter hooked his arm around Wade's neck to keep him pinned face down on the unpolished wood, but a gloved hand snapped around the scrunch of his hood and tossed him to the side as the latter jumped back onto his feet. Undeterred, the teen aimed the web shooters at each of Wade's hands and pulled to jerk him back onto the floor.

Or, that would have been the plan had he remembered Wade was still Deadpool, and Deadpool was also enhanced.

Wade wrenched his arms forward and Peter sputtered as he surged towards the back of that brown leather jacket. The pinprick that jolts up his spine to fizzle at the base of his head was the only warning he had to duck the elbow aimed for his forehead and used the limb as leverage to flip and kick the side of his head with the soles of his sneakers.

The man stumbled into a cluster of chairs and once Peter landed, six different apologies were already garbled in his mouth.

"Oh my god Wade I'm so so so sorry I just reacted holy cannoli are you okay—WHOA!"

A blur of dark and red turned into a flurry of precise kicks and swift punches, all of which Peter dodged with twists and jumps and ducks and when he tried to look through the blank white eyes of the Deadpool mask, he saw nothing. Wade caught his foot with the aim of slamming him against one of the tables but Peter, with every intent not to get another deduction for damages from his paycheck, webbed the ceiling, flung himself up, and used Wade's added weight on his leg to swing it up and down as hard as he could, loosening the grip and sending the body crashing onto the floor.

The wood floor shattered around him.

"I'm sorry, Wade! I'm sorry, Mr. Weasel!" Peter cried. He flipped back down and braced himself in a fighting stance as Wade grunted and picked himself back up. Weasel peeked up from the end of the pool table Peter landed on, glasses askew.

Wade didn't attack again. Instead, he hummed and tilted his head as he took in the scene of a teenager standing on a table and was inexplicably reminded of instances where tiny dogs stood on tall counter-tops.

"Stagger your feet when you're ready to fight. None of that wide-apart in a line bullshit unless you wanna get pushed over and your lunch money taken," he said. His mask eyes grew comically wide. "Oh. My. Gee. You're young enough to have your head dunked in a toilet. Do you have a bully that takes your lunch money?!"

Peter threw his hands up. "What the frick?! You can't just attack me then act like it didn't happen!"

"I'm not acting like it didn't happen. You were there, Weasel was being a bitch, I got thrown into the ceiling." He sighed fondly. "I remember it like it was yesterday." He pointed at Peter's feet. "Stagger."

"I—"

"STAGGER."

"OKAY."

It continued in this vein until Converse footprints were all over the green of the pool table, but Peter's legs were staggered with his left leading, both feet were angled slightly to the side, knees were slightly bent. And once he was all shuffled about to Wade's satisfaction, the man went back to his beer.

"And that is how you should align your bottom half when in a fight. Keep yourself moving and never stand flat-footed unless you wanna trip over yourself or give the other guy a chance to stuff his knife in your tummy." He munched on a chip. "Actually, you know what? Fork over your phone."

"Wh—You tried to punch me! Like ten times!" Peter exclaimed. He jumped off the table, "uh, Mr. Weasel I'll clean that up I swear. And I'll fix your door, double swear," and stomped back over to his stool. "What the heck, man? I thought we were cool!"

"We are! We're taco buddies!"

"Then why'd you try to kill me for trying to stop you from killing Mr. Weasel?!"

"Okay, one, I would've never actually hit you. Give me some credit. Two, Wease was supposed to have the job listing under some code mumbo-wumbo where fifteen year olds can't find it even on the far reaches of the second Google search page."

"What kind of dumbass do you think I am?" Weasel scoffed as he walked back behind the bar, dutifully staying just out of Wade's reach. "Of course I coded the job. It's only supposed to pop up for assholes like us." He pointed accusingly right between Peter's eyes. "He's who you should be yelling at. I don't know what the fuck he did but he was the first one to answer the listing and managed to find the damn door only knowing what street we're on."

Two heads swiveled towards the teen and he shrunk slightly at the scrutiny. "I-I really needed a job, so I made a program that gave me daily updates on employers who had as little requirements as possible. Where else could I find a job that paid this good for a high schooler?"

"A program you made on your own?" Weasel prodded. Peter managed one nod before his boss was leaning over the table, eyes wide behind their frames. "Ferret, are you a baby genius? What code did you use? How did you set it up? How did you make it so you could bypass my security—"

Wade pushed his face away. "Save that nerd shit for later, Spock. What I wanna know is how you got in here and how the lurkers out front even let you in."

"When I was out in the suit I heard someone complain about the Hellhouse having 'stupid f-ing graffiti' on the door. The next day, I just walked around looking for graffitied doors," he answered. Weasel dropped his head. "Then I found one with some shady people hanging around—Brielle and Camden, by the way, the ones who eat the bones in their wings—and I didn't want any trouble, so I broke into your back door and made it look like I came through the front."

"You broke my back door?!"

"I fixed it before I left!" Peter defended. "You only had a few dead bolts and I can lift, like, at least ten tons so it wasn't hard to break. Plus, Granny Sal showed me where the tool box was!"

"You can lift ten tons?!"

"Are we just gonna ignore the fact that Brielle and Camden eat the bones in their chicken wings?" Wade questioned. "Because while I'm thoroughly disturbed, I'm now thoroughly intrigued and feel the need to inform you I'm only censoring myself because we're in the presence of my taco buddy." He threw his head back and downed the rest of his beer before making grabby hands in Peter's direction. "Hey. Phone. Phone. Phone. Phone. Ph—"

An old android smacked into his palm already unlocked. Wade only cooed at the background picture of Spider-Man posing for a selfie before he typed away to the sound of Peter trying to explain his apparently many transgressions to a Weasel that grew more incredulous by the second.

"—changed your keypad to tase anyone that gets it wrong more than three times."

"Is that why I found Kaia passed out in the alleyway when I took out the trash last week? Goddammit. I thought his liver finally threw in the chips. Turns out it was the dish boy all along."

"Aaaaaaaaand done," Wade chirped. He tossed back the phone that Peter caught without even looking. "Now your contacts have been updated to the highest quality and includes names that are one hundred percent not incriminating!"

Peter looked down at his screen.

New Contact:  trunk body

New Contact: Not A Superpower

New Contact:  PoolDead

Wade leaned in and whispered. "That last contact's me." He stuffed a handful of now-cold nachos into his mouth. "Text me what days you're not saving the world or studying for a test so we can figure out how to make your form not trash."

"W-What do you mean?"

The red mask couldn't hide the raised eyebrow he knows the mercenary was giving him. "Ferret, lemme be real for a sec. Your fighting stance was ass, your defensive is like swiss cheese, your offensive doesn't even exist, that stagger thing is still giving me a headache—"

"Okay, I got it. I don't know how to fight, brag about it," Peter snapped, cheeks red in embarrassment. "Are you going to keep making fun of me or can I start to clean up all this mess?"

"Yeah, you don't know how to fight for shit," Wade said, and that burn of shame sunk deeper and clung. "That's why I'm gonna teach you."

Peter paused.

A year ago Tony Stark came to his apartment, lied to his Aunt, and brought him to Germany all within the span of three days to fight a group of superheroes that severely outclassed him. He'd been explained to, briefly, vaguely, about the Accords that blew up on his twitter feed that bore hashtags like #TeamCap and #TeamIronMan. He fought for Tony Stark because Tony Stark was his hero that could do no wrong, that he could trust because he could always count on him to make the right call after sending that nuke into space after the Chitauri Invasion, who only had the best intentions with Ultron, who tried to fight for what he thought was right.

Tony Stark saw him on YouTube, pulled his identity out of thin air, and brought a fourteen year old him into a fight that sent him back to New York knowing maybe less than what he went in with. He never got a real explanation.

He knew that if it wasn't for that spider bite or those webs, he could've been ended by The Winter Soldier or The Falcon or Captain America. Without his enhancements, he had no other skills to defend himself.

Mr. Stark would have known that too. Maybe he thought a multi-million dollar suit could make up for that.

Then the radio silence. Then the Vulture. Then getting the suit taken away. Then the building. Then Coney Island. Then getting the suit back. Then the radio silence.

"You... want to teach me?"

Peter tried not to sound too hopeful. Not when he realized his heroes didn't have time for the little guy.

"You're my taco buddy," Wade said like it answered the question. In some odd way... it might've. "I don't care if you're fifteen or Spider-Man, no buddy of mine is gonna get his ass kicked that easy!"

Peter doesn't know why he felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but he covered it with a laugh and reached for the rest of his drink. "Didn't I beat you, though?"

"Irrelevant." Wade waved his empty pint at Weasel. "Heard that? Ferret's under my metaphorical pigeon wing now. A Florida pigeon wing. A crusty Florida pigeon wing."

Nobody had helped him since he became Spider-Man. May would always be a pillar of support and Ned would always be his Guy in the Chair, but they didn't get what it meant to be thrown into the Hudson or to fall out of a burning plane or having a building collapse on them with no—

"Peter," he announced before his throat had the chance to clog up. The adults slowly turned to him, Weasel in horror and Wade in ever-growing anticipation. "My name's Peter. Peter Parker."

His boss' knees almost gave out. "You did not just tell me your real name. Please for the love of God tell me you did not."

But Wade flashed the widest grin and stuck his hand out, knocking aside the nachos. "Wade Winston Wilson, at your service!" he beamed. "Nice to meet you, Peter Parker!"

"Don't fucking repeat it! God, fucking—Pete—Ferret! Ferret, goddammit! The pool table isn't gonna clean itself and at least put a damn board over the hole in the floor—"

::

Me: i'm sorry to bother u but my friend put ur # in my phone [6:01pm]

Me: do you kno Wade? [6:01pm]

trunk body: Mr. Pool! Yes, I am a taxi driver that drives Mr. Pool anywhere in New York should he need a ride. You name it, I can take you there! Any friend of Mr. Pool is a friend of mine! Your friend, Dopinder. [6:09pm]

Me: oh cool! [6:10pm]

Contact Name Change: trunk body to taxi guy

Me: they call me Ferret where i work [6:11pm]

taxi guy: A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr./Ms. Ferret! Your friend, Dopinder. [6:15pm]

Me: Mr. Ferret's fine??? i guess??? but u can just call me Ferret [6:17pm]

Me: weird question but why did Wade name u "trunk body" [6:19pm]

taxi guy: That was because he heard my cousin Bandhu yelling when I had tied him up and locked him in the trunk of my taxi. It had surprised Mr. Pool, but he said he was proud of my choice of direction! Your friend, Dopinder. [6:20pm]

Me: congrats? [6:24pm]

taxi guy: Thank you very much, Mr. Ferret! Please feel free to contact me whenever you need a ride! :) Your friend, Dopinder. [6:29pm]

Contact Name Change: taxi guy to trunk body

::

Me: i'm so sorry if i'm bothering u but Wade put ur # in my phone? [6:45pm]

Not A Superpower: Im not a prostitute, Im not looking for a hook up, Im not interested [7:00pm]

Not A Superpower: tell wade hes a dick and if you dont block my number right now I will personally come find you and slit your throat and leave your body in the gutters and Im not responsible to who gets to have their fun with your corpse [7:01pm]

Me: um [7:03pm]

Me: my name is Ferret? [7:03pm]

Me: i'll delete ur # if u want me to i swear [7:03pm]

Me: pls don't kill me [7:03pm]

Not A Superpower: wait from weasels bar? [7:06pm]

Me: yea! [7:06pm]

Not A Superpower: no youre fine. shouldve started with your name [7:07pm]

Not A Superpower: its domino [7:07pm]

Contact Name Change: Not A Superpower to Ms. Domino

Me: hi Ms. Domino! [7:09pm]

Ms. Domino: hi ferret [7:13pm]

Ms. Domino: what did that chode put as my name [7:13pm]

Me: Not A Superpower [7:14pm]

Ms. Domino: tell him ill admit its not a superpower the day I dont get a 21 in blackjack [7:16pm]

Me: sure! [7:17pm]

Me: u get that lucky? [7:17pm]

Ms. Domino: its a superpower [7:18pm]

Ms. Domino: seriously though if he gave you my number not as a joke then its probably just as an emergency contact. if you dont make friends at the hellhouse you dont get too far in the job. youre a good kid ferret. hit me up if youre in any trouble [7:21pm]

Me: thank u so much Ms. Domino!!!!!!!!!!!! [7:22pm]

Ms. Domino: see you at the bar later [7:25pm]

Me: i'll make sure ur wings come out xtra charred!!! [7:26pm]

Ms. Domino: :') [7:31pm]

::

"Your boss found out that you're Spider-Man?!" Ned whisper yelled. Peter's eyes don't stray from the TV as his fingers flew over his best friend's Switch joycons with every intent to finally beat that Super Mario Maker course they'd been stuck on for two hours. At least it was Saturday and they had all day to do it. "That's insane! What did he do? Was he mad? Was he surprised? Ohmigod he didn't fire you, did he?!"

"That was the first thing I asked and he said I was fine as long as I didn't scare him next time." Mario got decked in the face with a green shell and he flopped back against the couch to hand over the controllers. "I think he's okay with it? Once he put all the heaviest things he could find at the bar and told me to carry it and I did."

"And then?"

"And then he made me a quesadilla and called me mini-Hulk for the rest of the night."

"Dude," Ned gaped. "Your boss is awesome."

"I think he's really cool," Peter grinned. Weasel nearly had an aneurysm the other night after learning his real name, but he still didn't treat him any differently. Weasel was Weasel, same lame jokes and nicknames and being his boss. "I guess he's also really good with tech and grilled me on how I found the job."

"Right, at the House." Ned's excitement faltered. He turned, a soft frown on his face. "Hey, are you sure it's okay for you to be working there? I know your boss could be pretty nice and all, but... it's still the House. The place you won't even tell me the real name of 'cause you're scared I'll get stabbed or something."

"I-I'm not scared you'll get stabbed!"

"Come on, dude, you know what I mean. I'm just worried. You already have a lot on your plate with school, with Spider-Man, with your mom... If this place really isn't good for you..."

"It's fine, I promise," Peter insisted. He nudged Ned in the side when that didn't get a smile out of him. "If anything happens you'll be one of the first ones to know."

He held out his hand. After a beat, Ned took it and they did their handshake.

"Fine," he sighed. He looked back at the TV. "But keep me updated, okay?"

"Yeah, man. Don't worry."

Ned eyed him one last time before he restarted the level and Peter pulled out his phone.

Me: it's peter [5:04pm]

Me: i can meet up tomorrow if that's cool [5:04pm]

PoolDead: yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasaaaaaah [5:11pm]

PoolDead: TACO BUDDIES 4 LYFE!!!!! [5:12pm]

Contact Name Change: PoolDead to taco buddy

Chapter Text

Heimdall obeyed the orders of the Realms. Heimdall obeyed the orders of Odin. It had always been those two in that succession, and no other had he deigned to extend his services. Of course there had been the occasional talks with the Queen Mother, the allowances he'd made when Thor had been brash, and the times Loki's craft and cunning had been convincing one way or the other. Yet at the end of the day, he was The Protector. The Gatekeeper.

The Watcher of Worlds.

Golden eyes smoothed over to Earth's surface—a realm which had been garnering more and more of his interest in these long stretches of moments. Thor's banishment. Loki's attack. The birthplace of the Avengers.

"I know I am in no place to ask this of you."

Humans were interesting beings. They always seemed to make the most of their time despite having some of the shortest lifespans in the galaxies and reached towards the stars even when their fragile bodies had never been made for it. Jane Foster was a truly impressive one to meet and since then, he passed the turns of the universe by watching that blue green planet and the ones that made it so alive.

He tilted his head.

Well. He supposed that wasn't quite the truth.

"You know Odin. You know... that I cannot take this risk. I will not bet his life on a whim."

He honed in on the sight of a boy with brown hair as he meandered out of that human tavern—a bar, he recalled—where the child spent the nights laboring for those less inclined to principled standing. That bar was no place for a boy, especially not this boy in particular.

But, he seemed to enjoy it there and suffered no ill-treatment. The employer treated him with respect and the patrons, though they were rowdy and loud and had blood forever stained on their hands, never trained a weapon towards him. So perhaps there was room for a babe of fifteen winters there after all.

"Will you watch over him where I cannot, Heimdall? Will you make sure he grows up to be every bit of his father?" A quiet pause. "And every bit of Mary, as well?"

"Not you, my prince?"

Heimdall obeyed the orders of the Realms. Heimdall obeyed the orders of Odin. It had always been those two in that succession, and no other had he deigned to extend his services.

Loki turns and laughs, and Heimdall doesn't need to see his face to know that there isn't a smile on his lips or a spark in his eyes.

But once, he'd been asked a favor.

"He would be happy if he grew up to be nothing like me."

And despite everything, it was this one favor he'd always kept.

::

Peter's back slammed against the blue cushion mats and he wheezed.

"Need a break?" Wade skipped over with a third of a foil-wrapped burrito in one hand. He'd donned his full red tactical suit and his mask was scrunched all the way up to his nose as he ate. "We've been going like, three hours? Not a lot for our mega-stamina, but you look like you cannon-balled into a kiddie pool except there's no kiddie pool."

"Just say I'm sweaty," Peter coughed as he rolled onto his side.

"You're sweaty."

"Thanks."

There was an old gym a few blocks down from Sister Margaret's. Old punk belted out from the busted speakers overhead and the peeling white brick walls were slathered in ancient boxing paraphernalia. Wood floors, punching bags, a boxing ring, and lots of open space—"The Gym By the Alley" absolutely had to be a cover shop for the mafia or something.

Peter said exactly that. Wade laughed but didn't confirm nor deny.

They'd walked in looking like the oddest pair: a high schooler with a stupid science pun on his shirt and a shifty looking dude with a hood over his head and a black duffel over his shoulder. They did get a few looks on their way over from their meeting place at the bar, but the second they stepped past the creaky metal door the couple people that were already in the building hadn't cast a single look in their direction.

And honestly, the gym looked pretty cool on the inside. Old-school, for the most part. Peter didn't even know what exactly they'd be doing until Wade changed into his suit and started dragging those blue gymnastics mats into the boxing ring and told him to change into his work out clothes, stand in the center, and fight.

And Peter had been ignorant enough to think that this would be easy.

Because it turned out that one Wade Winston Wilson had been part of the military and Special Forces before taking up a Gold Card residency and had absolutely been holding back when they fought at the bar. Top of his unit, expert in hand to hand combat, a soldier dishonorably discharged because he wouldn't complete the mission that would have killed a little girl he once passed on the street.

Peter exhaled and pulled himself back to his feet. He swayed and leaned against the ropes for support, blindly reaching for his water bottle and slightly denting the metal when he tipped it into his mouth and nothing came out.

"Whyyyyyy," he whined and slumped back down onto the mats. Wade snorted and tossed him an opened gatorade bottle from across the ring. Peter snatched it lazily out of the air and downed it in one gulp.

"Goddamn, I have more," Wade said as he gestured at the duffel. Unzipped, at least ten orange caps peeked out for them to see. "Is this another Super-Boy thing? Like, increased metabolism and all that jazz?"

"Yeah, actually." The teen peered out the ring to see pretty much everyone else had cleared out for the night. "I have to eat over triple the normal caloric intake of a normal adult male. You don't?"

"Nah, I just like food."

"Mood."

Peter splayed face down near the edge of the raised platform and grabbed his phone.

8:46 pm

[4 Unread Messages]

May: Let me know when you're on your way home or if you'll be swinging around. ;) My shift tonight that won't end until 5 am. I'll have Wednesday and Thursday off this week! [6:32pm]

Guy in the Chair: dude loook at tihs vid [7:14pm]

Guy in the Chair: ur a meme!!!!!!! [7:14pm]

Mj: hey loser, we're adding more practices starting next sem. We need to get ready for finals, will update in the group chat when everythings finalized [7:50pm]

He threw his phone onto his bag and kept his face planted on the mat.

It smelled like a McDonald's Play Place.

"My angst-dar is bleeping from all the way over here," Wade said as he topped off his burrito and balled up the foil. "Kobe!" Missed the trash can. "Okay, more like Derek Fisher. But I digress." He dug through the duffel bag and brought out a whole six pack of gatorades and another burrito, all of which he took with him when he plopped down next to the kid's prone form. "Hey, drink all of this and eat some din din. We're going until you can land consistent punches and you can't do that if you're passed out. I mean, I can, but you aren't there yet."

"Dude, are you seriously mom-ing me right now?" Peter's muffled voice questioned incredulously.

"Mama Wade takes his job very seriously," the man nodded solemnly.

"Are you even old enough to be my mom?"

"I'm in my early thirty-nines."

"Dang."

"I birthed you when I was twenty-four."

"I get it—"

"Which means nine months before that I got jiggy with—"

"WADE!"

Peter punched his side and sat up to drink the light blue gatorades Wade gave him. "Um, thanks for this. Really. I could've just gotten water from the fountain outside," he smiled. "I'll get us tacos next time we meet."

"Petey, you're only allowed to buy us food once you have a stable job that isn't Wease's shithole. 'Til then, I'm grub control."

"But—"

"Ah-ba-ba!"

"W—"

"Nope!" Wade clapped his hands over his ears. "Lalalalalalalalalalalala—"

Peter rolled his eyes and drained the bottle before reaching for the slightly warm burrito.

When he first met Wade, it'd been at the bar. Where else could it have been?

It was his second week on the job and he was in the middle of washing some dishes when the door slams open and a voice he'd never heard before yelled, "Back again, fuckers!"

"Weren't you in China?"

"Look at this K-pop star going international."

"You still come here, hotshot? Thought you would've run for president after you whole 'this-is-the-story-about-how-I-got-justice'—"

"Fuck off, Frank! You're gonna make him tell it again!"

Peter washes the rest of the dishes and dries them off before setting them next to Granny Sal and picking up the plates stacked with steaming snacks.

When he steps out onto the floor, he sees a superhero in red at the bar. Well, probably not a superhero if he's at Sister Margaret's, but maybe a vigilante? Nah, even vigilantes steer clear of this place. But what type of merc dressed up in a legit suit like that?

He delivers the food with a grin and a nod before slinking all the way back to the bar where Mr. Weasel's filling a shot glass with whipped cream.

"Please stop making me make blowjobs."

"I will never stop making you make blowjobs," the Red Suit says. He turns his head at Peter's approach, and the latter can clearly see the black material around the white eyes of the mask. "Holy shit, you hiring out of daycares now?"

"Kindergartens, actually," Peter remarks dryly. Red Suit snorts and looks at his boss. "Need me to send that out to someone?"

"Nah, I'll get one of the girls to do it," Weasel waves off, jerking his chin at one of the two women on the floor tonight. The waitresses never stayed long and usually had stints at the bar that lasted a few weeks at most, or the ones that came back stayed a month before disappearing to who knows where. Sometimes they'd have three of them out all at once, but most times Weasel made sure to schedule them to come in the days Peter didn't have a shift. "The blonde one. She's been looking to shank someone for days and this dipshit's blowjob is gonna start the first fight of the night."

"Oh, uh." Peter blinks. "Sounds festive." Weasel drags the shot across the bar and he glances back at the Red Suit. He's pushing his pint back and forth and humming some off tune, but makes no motion to push up his mask to take a drink. Weird. 

Regardless, he sticks his hand out. Better to make nice with everyone instead of getting them to aim their guns at his head. "I'm Ferret, by the way. Mr. Weasel's new dish boy."

Red Suit sputters out a laugh. "'Mr. Weasel'? I bet the fucker gets off on that." But the stranger takes his hand anyway, and Peter notes the worn leather of the combat gloves that meet his fingers. "Deadpool's my stage name. Once I got called Douchepool, sometimes I'll get called The Jabbering Butt-Plug, but honestly I think Captain Delicious Pants is the way to go." Okay? "But you can call me Wade!"

He’d found out Wade was an enhanced after that—turned into what he was from some “crazy British shitstick” named after dish soap, or at least that was what Mr. Weasel told him, and was one of the best mercs out there despite “never shutting the hell up and giving his clients brain ulcers”.

But most importantly, he found out that Wade was a regular and Mr. Weasel’s best friend, even if his boss wouldn’t admit it.

"Alright, what's eating those big brains of yours?"

Peter took a bite of his burrito. Chicken, bell pepper, onion, tomato, cheese, beans leaking out the side, amazing. This was super greasy and definitely not something he should be eating all the time, but damn did Wade know the best restaurants in the city. "What do you mean?"

Wade only stared at him at this point. It was a little unnerving to stare through those mask eyes that weren't supposed to express as much emotion as they actually did, but Peter knew he didn't have to give an answer if he didn't want to. Wade wasn't May who constantly worries and made sure to hug him whenever he was there and when she left; Wade wasn't Ned who thought Spider-Man was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him and didn't understand why sometimes getting stabbed on patrol was better than sitting on buildings, staring at nothing, doing nothing.

Wade wasn't Tony Stark, who hadn't talked to him since offering him a place on the Avengers.

Wade was Deadpool, and they both were mercenaries who killed for money. Peter knew they shouldn't be taco buddies who see each other at one of the seediest bars in the state, but here they were at some mafia-controlled gym in a boxing ring that probably hadn't been repaired in over ten years. 

But...

"... I-Is it cool for me to unload a bunch of stuff right now?"

"Hold on, lemme put on my listening ears." The man actually made a motion of digging into one of his pockets, pulling out something non-existent, and stuffing it onto both sides of his head. He then scooched forward and held his knees against his chest like a kid at story time. "I'm ready!"

"It's just... I think I've been a little stressed lately? I don't know, man. I don't think it's a Spider-Man thing because I've been doing it for over a year at this point, and the upgraded suit is really awesome, but sometimes I think about how it's StarkTech and none of it's really me. Like, come on, I'm supposed to be taking care of a multi-million dollar suit when I begged Mr. Weasel for this job because I want to help pay rent? It feels kinda wrong to have it and I know it can be taken away at anytime. But I'm really thankful for it. AIs and heaters are a lot better than the sweatshirt and pants I got by with before, I just wish..." He shrugged. "But that's fine. I'm pretty sure it's my mom I keep thinking about. I've always been Richard and Mary's kid and all of a sudden I'm not? My aunt says my mom loved me and she had to leave or else my grandfather would've killed me. And, like, I want to meet her but it's been fourteen years. What if she doesn't want to see me? I don't want to bother her if she's been doing okay, and if she already has another family by now, doesn't that make me 'the other kid'? I don't want to disappoint her like that." He sighed and took another bite of his burrito. "I'm s-sorry. This is all kinda stupid, huh?"

Peter looked up. Wade's half-masked face had gone decidedly blank and the silence could be called unsettling.

"We," Wade started, "are going to get so much ice cream. After you finish eating your burbur and drinking your gatorades, we are walking all the way to the nearest bodega to get some cookies n' cream, rocky road, peanut butter cup—you know what? We're gonna get ape shit. We're getting some mint chocolate chip, hit that toothpaste tang."

"O-Okay?"

"Okay!" Wade kicked his feet out and laid back against the sunken blue mats. "Keep talking if you feel like it, Super-Boy. Mama Wade's here to listen."

The smile that pulled at his lips came first came as a laugh at Wade’s ridiculousness. Seriously, what’s with this guy? He could be anywhere else instead of hanging out with some punk fifteen year old who couldn’t get his life together for shizz.

Burrito beans dripped onto his hand. It only made him smile wider.

He got home around eleven that night. Half the fridge got filled with the tubs of ice cream he couldn't finish and he dumped his sweat-soaked clothes into the washing machine.

Me to Guy in the Chair: it’s a curse [11:14pm]

Me to Mj: aye aye captain!!!!! [11:14pm]

Me to May: just got home, boss had extra ice cream and made me take a bunch back [11:14pm]

::

taco buddy: it’s not stupid, petey [12:27am]

::

May: That’s dangerous. How will I ever stop myself? [1:03am]

May: Is that why you got back so late? [1:04am]

Me: nah [1:06am]

Me: i was out with a friend [1:06am]

::

Peter tapped his pencil against his chemistry homework. It wasn't anything near as complicated as the web formulas that he was constantly developing, so really he should've been done with this packet already. They'd gotten it today and it wasn't due until the end of the week, but the quicker he finished longer assignments like that the easier it would be to manage his time between his job at Sister Margaret's and hanging out with Ned and being Spider-Man and training with Wade and spending time with May when she wanted to get dinner together and studying for decathlon—

He stopped tapping. When did I get so busy?

He sighed and threw his arms behind his head as he leaned back, a sudden fatigue winding around his muscles and filling his veins with lead. Sleep came in bouts at night and he was lucky to get four or five hours before his eyes snapped open and he rolled onto his stomach, awake. Anxious. But what did he have to be anxious about? 

His Spider-Man suit was hung in the back of his closet, the mask tucked away in the space above the clothes rack. Maybe even heavier than his veins was the guilt crystallizing in his chest. He’d been going out less and less in the suit, too.

A frown tugged the corners of his mouth. Not his suit—the StarkTech suit.

Peter sighed even louder and opened one of his desk drawers to root around for some of the snacks he kept stashed away. Dried fruit, saltine crackers, trail mix, granola bars. But his fingers skim against carved wood and he only barely restrained himself from snatching his hand back out.

Right. That.

He bit the inside of his cheek and pulled the box out. A perfect circle just a bit bigger than his palm with engravings he'd been able to memorize with how much he stared at it ever since it was handed over to him.

A simple gold latch at the bottom of the tree kept the box shut. He didn't know how May had been able to keep it around this whole time without giving in to the urge to open it to get maybe some sort of clue as to where Lora had disappeared off to all those years ago.

Was he really going to do this? Fifteen years he’d lived just fine without her, right? After Richard died, after Mary died, after Ben died… he didn’t know what else there was he could do. May had already gone through so much and now there was someone named Lora he had to think about?

But, he knew loving them probably wasn’t the issue. 

It was the chance of losing someone else that was eating him from the inside.

But then again… what would he be losing if he didn’t take this opportunity to try?

Peter pressed a thumb against the latch.

Something cold flashed against his skin. Brief, something he would've missed if he wasn't so laser-focused on the task. But then the gold brightens a touch before it dimmed back to its normal color and the latch flipped open without him moving his finger.

What the heck was that. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. What the flippity hecking heck was that.

His spidey sense was quiet. It was enough for him to push open the cover.

A raw green stone cut into the size of a nickel with thin gold wire wound around the center. Attached to the top was a simple gold chain and was set against some black satin cushion.

A small folded note lay underneath it.

If you wish to meet me, wear the necklace and I will find you.

If you do not, I understand. The world deserves you more than I ever will.

Forever Yours,

L. O.

Chapter Text

He finished his Pre-Calc homework cross-legged on the ceiling, a block eraser between his teeth and a pencil flying through equations on the paper held up by his forearm. A half-eaten sandwich was squished in his free hand and beside him were three capri-suns dangling from webs just within arms reach. There was no AcaDec practice today, meaning Karen had just finished reading the entirety of The Great Gatsby on double speed while he took notes for AP World History. Finish this week's notes, show all this section's work for the math packet, write that essay for the American Dream unit in English all before they were let out for winter break...

"Oh, shoot," Peter groaned. "I forgot to leave Happy a voicemail after patrol yesterday!"

He webbed his phone from his bed and dialed Happy's number—it was kind of embarrassing he had it memorized but, you know—and put it on speaker.

He let the rings pass. They always did.

"The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone."

Beep.

"Hey, Happy! It's Peter." How many questions were left? Fifteen? Ugh, why was Mr. Dallas such a hard-butt? "Sorry I didn't call after patrol yesterday! I was caught up with a few things after and ah—" He'd stopped by the bar for a bit before he went home, something about Mr. Weasel needing him to get measured because some dumb merc needed a disguise for a job and couldn't get a real three piece suit to save his life and Peter was close enough to his size anyway— "yeah. I stopped a robbery at a shop next to May's favorite bakery, stopped a car from falling off an overpass, and stopped a bus from running over a bunch of pedestrians when its brakes gave out. Lots of stops, huh?"

He didn't mention how he'd seen Genevieve-from-the-bar staking out from a cafe across her target's workplace. She came down every now and again, always asking for extra cheese on her nachos and never cleaning off the blood from the toes of her boots.

An executive assistant died that day. Murdered. And all his money laundering and labor racketeering came to light in the papers the very next morning.

"Anyway I'll, uh, stop taking up so much of your time. Patrol wasn't that busy yesterday, so." He tapped his phone screen and a bright 6:18 pm stared back at him. "I'm gonna be late! Bye Happy, have a nice rest of your day!"

He flipped onto the floor. It was a bit early to be heading out to Sister Margaret's, but it was a big shipment day and Mr. Weasel definitely couldn't haul all those firearms into the break room all by himself. There were also a couple swords coming in too, apparently? Not that it was really his business, but inventory-ing swords sounded awesome.

He sucked down all three capri-suns and tossed them in the trash, stuffed his homework in his backpack and threw it all onto his bed, snagged his wallet and keys, shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth as he tugged on a beanie and slipped on his thicker jacket.

Peter picked up his black Vans and laced them up on his chair in record time and just before he left, he caught sight of that round wooden box sitting innocently on his desk. And he stopped.

He hadn't touched the necklace. Hadn't even opened the box again since reading the note and suffering a minor freak out that had him slamming the top shut and pushing it to the far side of his desk where it was too easy to pretend to forget about for a few days.

'And what about the obviously not normal way the box just straight up glowed and opened?! What about that, Parker?!'

So maybe that was part of why he didn't want to get anywhere near that thing again.

If you wish to meet me, wear the necklace and I will find you.

Like that didn't sound vaguely threatening, but okay.

"This is going to end so badly," he mumbled as he reached for the box. "Please don't end up being some weird magic spell thingy that's going to summon some vengeful wizard to kill me."

The latch glowed and opened for him, revealing that same stone necklace and folded up note. 

The gold chain almost shimmered when he held it up and there was no clamp on the smooth, shining metal. Luckily it was long enough to slip over his head, and when it didn't shock him or strangle him or try to melt into his skin, he tucked the stone in the inside of his shirt and rushed out the front door.

Hopefully "Death By Jewelry" doesn't get etched into his gravestone.

::

When May set all the groceries on the table, she knew Peter must have gone to work since he wasn't bounding down the hallway like an excited puppy asking if there was anything left in the car and if there was, don't worry I can go get them!

She sighed fondly. Peter was just such a good kid, save for the times she thought he dropped out of all his extracurriculars because he was up on some new drug habit or alcohol binge as impossible as that sounded, but finding all of that attributed to the 'Stark Internship' where he was actually beating up criminals in Queens and the outskirts of Manhattan seemed a whole lot worse than teenage rebellion.

Sometimes she wished the problem had just been drugs or alcohol because nowhere in a book store could she find a How-To about caring for your suddenly superhero nephew.

She stored away an entire bag of chicken breasts in the freezer, pushing aside the tubs of ice cream to barely make space for the meat. Maybe it wasn't all that good for her to swallow down all her worries and concerns and let Peter do his thing with no curfew and the one condition that he update her every few hours, but what else was she supposed to do? His new job let him out in the very early morning and it'd just be plain unfair if Spider-Man wasn't allowed the same freedom, not that the vigilante ever really stayed out past one.

She put away the gallon of milk and all the fresh vegetables Peter insisted she invest in with his newfound chef-ing skill he said he learned from the cook at the pub, and she admitted that the meal-prepped tupperware of simple pastas and rice he made for her to bring to work only made her tear up a little bit.

After all the groceries were stocked away, she let herself into Peter's room to start any laundry he might've forgotten about with how busy he'd been lately.

In his closet his hamper was full and behind it his Spider-Man suit hung like a perfect decoration. The mask was nowhere in sight, and idly she wondered why he didn't take it to work with him. He always had it during school and whenever he went to Ned's, but lately...

May shook her head and picked up the hamper. Just as she was about to head out of his room, her eyes caught on the box that had haunted the back of her mind for years. It lay wide open on her nephew's desk atop scratch paper and sticky notes, and whatever had been inside it was long gone.

A dull pain hummed in her chest as she stepped into the hallway.

Whatever Peter wanted to do, she would support him one hundred percent.

::

Sixteen years ago he'd been Lora Olstad: businesswoman, Stanford University graduate, and had a primary interest in the histories and ancient Nordic culture. Granted, all of those things about her had been fabricated under documents and a few well-placed illusions, but it was enough to escape the stone eye of the Allfather when all he ever wanted was to step away from life on Asgard and breathe.

These past few months since settling on Earth and the adjustment—he liked to think—was going as well as it could as a returning inhabitant initially belonging to another realm. His brother believed him to have died nearly four years ago on the wastelands of Svartalfheim and he knew his mother had made a full recovery from the impalement the Dark Elves inflicted upon her; a hair's width away from her heart did that blade run, and perhaps had it hit he truly would have done something he regretted.

But he did not return to Asgard. Nor did he hold any desire to.

He flipped through the book in his hand, green eyes shaded brown behind the spelled glass of his spectacles. The long black hair he'd cut and with a touch of his seiðr he'd colored it to match his eyes, and for all those who had come across him not a single flicker of familiarity had awoken in their gaze.

To them, they did not see Loki Odinson, Fallen Prince of Asgard.

They saw Loren Fjeld, conservator and historian at the New-York Historical Society Museum and Library minutes from Queens.

Loki smoothed out the page he'd been searching for and set a bookmark in the crease before laying it atop the stack accumulating on his desk.

Perhaps settling in New York and Queens in general was far too great of a risk to take. Even if his invasion was old news and even if the city had been rebuilt anew, it was not a place he'd want to get caught by any of those Avengers, least of all Stark— The Iron Man. And truly, would he try to mask his real reason? There was only one other thing that could pull him back to these tall metal structures once the Tesseract cleared itself from his mind and all chains of servitude had finally unshackled from his wrists. One other person.

Midgard had a novelty he entertained himself with long before, and it sat inside a wallet most of these humans insisted on carrying around with them day to day. A small slip of glossed paper it was, a frozen moment of a baby boy with pinkened cheeks and a gummy grin. It was the one thing Loki ever cherished, and there was every chance it could be the one thing he would ever see of him again.

Now fourteen years later, he had taken one of those ‘apartments’ in Queens with the stifled hope that they would pass each other by on the street and she would get to see if he still smiled the same way he did as a babe.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was pathetic. What made him think his boy would ever want to see him again, after everything? He abandoned his child before he grew to have a chance to remember his own mother. That warranted nothing but anger and resentment and fury and—

“I only wanted to protect you from the truth.”

“Why?” he cries. “Because I-I am the monster that parents tell their children about at night?”

"Loren!" someone behind him called. "You're still in? It's ten past six!"

Loki turned in his seat to see one of the older curators making their way to his desk. She was a wizened old woman with a wide smile and a never-ending stream of tattoos she'd gotten from the traditional artists of her home on the Polynesian Islands. She'd been the one to hire him and, consequently, had been the one to fall for all the lies that spewed from his mouth. Not that he hadn't the skills for the job.

"Mrs. Iolani," he greeted. "My apologies, I have merely gotten caught up in this work. The volumes you have at hand in this library are quite interesting, and I'm making headway in a handful of the artifact cases you've left for me."

"Well it's nice to see someone so invested in their work, but that doesn't mean it should hole you up in the building two whole hours after you should've been home." She sighed and shook her head, but the smile never dropped from her lips. "Nowhere to be on a Thursday evening, young man?"

Loki almost snorted as he picked up another book. A young man, was he? "Not at all. But if it soothes your nerves, I will only be an hour at most before I head back for the night."

Iolani laughed and smacked his back, the force strong enough to send the book sprawling out his hands. He grimaced.

"I'm bringing in some of my coconut pie tomorrow. If you want some, I suggest you get in bright and early and snatch yourself a piece before they're all gone!" 

His face pinched slightly. “Yes, I will be sure to be in to try some of your… charming pie.”

She patted Loki's shoulder. "Don't push yourself too hard, Loren. You do good work here."

And with one last pat on the shoulder, she was out of the offices and he was left with stacks of books and case folders and artifacts in need of restoration.

The work reminded him of the artists in the palace and the metalsmiths in the forge. As a child he'd watch from afar, marvel at the hands that could create something from nothing before being ushered away to his tutors.

He huffed a short laugh. Here he was avoiding Asgard, yet there he still was. Chasing its memories.

How pitiful he'd become as a villain thought dead—

The necklace pressed against his chest underneath his button-up suddenly flared with a deep heat that burned through skin and muscle and bone and marrow; the necklace he'd never taken off in fourteen years and had desperately hidden using the last vestiges of his seidr when he'd been cast into the palace dungeons. 

The necklace he clung onto like a frail thread of hope. It burned hotter than the fires of Muspelheim, stronger than anything he'd ever felt in over his thousand years of living.

He stood, knocking the books off his desk and staggering backwards into his chair.

"I am on my way," he whispered, his voice hoarse to his own ears. "Wait for me, just wait— please."

::

Heels clicked on the icy sidewalks alongside the dark street. This part of the city was not the most... respectable of places, and it made Loki apprehensive as to why the necklace led her down this way. She'd waited about an hour or two before she pursued the path the necklace drew her on to be sure it wasn't a fault in the enchantment—as if she could make a mistake on something so simple, but it was a thought—then she followed. Shady figures lurked in the corners of her eyes and she knew they weren't foolish enough to try anything once they caught sight of the warding sneer poised on her black-painted lips.

Not many tried their luck when she assumed herself as Lora. Her seiðr made a seamless shift into the feminine form as the brown melted off the true blackness of her hair and her eyes resumed that deep, unsettling green. Her dark double-breasted coat brushed against her knees with each step and the more she walked, the more her worry flourished. 

He was here? In one of these decrepit buildings?

The necklace thrummed and Loki stopped at the door with the visage of a snarling dog. A few people loitered around the front, smoking cigarettes and eyeing her up and down the closer she approached. To the right, a golden plaque bore the title Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls.

"Sorry, sweetheart, this isn't a brunch spot where you can sip mimosas," one of them said once she was a few steps away from the door. Loki stopped and met his gaze. "I'd turn around now unless you'd want to get into an accident that gets that pretty face full of glass."

"I appreciate the sentiment—" Her hand shot towards him and a dagger materialized from inside her sleeve, the blade pushing up against his neck just light enough to send a trickle of blood down the silver— "though I would appreciate it even more should you mind your own business and allow me to attend to mind."

"Fuck, chill out—"

She forced him onto his knees, the blade digging deeper into his skin as she towered over his form. "Move."

"Yeah, yeah! I got it, shit!"

The rest of them scurried out her way as she grasped the handle and pulled it open. The hallway she stepped into engulfed her in some sort of red light she found rather unpleasant, but just past it was a dimly lit establishment filled with the scent of something not unlike mead mixed with Volstagg when he lost himself in a feast.

The patrons of this—tavern?—seemed to be plucked of a similar vine. Weapons she recognized as guns were on everyone's waists and on tables and attached to hands that waved and gestured. It was certainly a busy place synonymous with leather and roars and clinks, and Loki walked herself to the strip of table that ran from the door to the side of the tavern and seated herself on a stool.

"Here to paint a name?" the barman asked. The frames of his spectacles are thick black and brown-blond hair fell around his face. Loki quirked a brow.

"Paint a name?"

"Okay, so that's a no," he nodded. He turned to face the bottles that lined the shelves. "Pick your poison. Margarita? Straight whiskey? Don't know any of that classy shit so don't start naming Apple-Fapple whatevers."

She thought back to when she first met Richard and the alcohols they'd consumed at that convention. It had been the only time she'd been anywhere near that sort of thing. "An Old Fashioned will do. You have my thanks," she said. The barman threw a thumbs up over his shoulder and as he started on her drink, her gaze drifted back to the clientage. Most everyone here was older and violent and even the maidens that served drinks on trays had a wildness around the eyes as they smacked wandering hands and threatened bodily harm with any empty glasses they picked up.

How... quaint.

The longer she looked, the more she found no sign of him . Yet the necklace on her chest only burned warmer.

The barman slid a glass of amber liquid over to her, topped with a swirled rind of an orange. "An Old Fashioned," he presented. "But before you keep hanging around let me cut to the chase here, lady. I haven't seen you around here, so you probably don't know the rules. Unspoken, you know, for safety and shit."

Loki rapped her nails against the table and considered the man before her. "Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing in your building that may even begin to harm me, but please, carry on."

“Jesus, you’re one of those types,” he mumbled under his breath before he cleared his throat. "So, one, don't go telling any of your Breakfast at Tiffany's friends about this place. See all these fuckheads out on the floor? We're not great, but seeing that you got in, you're probably not too great either." Her lips quirked and she lifted the glass to take a sip. "We mind our own business here and we don't rat out to the Feds. You hear something you don't like, you keep your mouth shut, but that's negotiable for pedophiles or those types of fucks. If any of those undesirables pop up, let me or one of the girls know and we'll get it taken care of. That type of nasty shit I don't tolerate and neither will a lot of the other guys. 'Specially Wade, and the last thing I need is an aggro Wade fucking up my bar."

"Wade?"

"You'll see him when you see him. Red suit, loud fucker, annoying as hell." The barman flapped a hand. "Anyway. Name's Weasel and—"

"Say that to my fucking face, Booth!" someone snarled behind them. Both he and Loki peered out and spotted a burly man with a long gray beard pulling someone up by the shirt to spit in their face.

"—that's the first fight of the night. God, we should really have a grace period or something. We opened a fucking hour ago." Weasel sighed and dealt Loki an exasperated look. "Call if you need anything, but like after I take care of whatever this is." He walked around the long table and raised both hands above his head. "Hey! Booth! What the hell did we say about breathing exercises?!"

Loki chuckled under her breath and turned back to her drink. Humans really were peculiar sometimes, and it seemed even the worst of them had some humorous value to them. But that amusement was quick to crumble to concern when she doesn't spy a fluff of brown hair anywhere in or near the growing brawl. 

She dragged her finger along the rim of the glass. Had she truly been wrong?

"Ferret!" one of the men from outside called over the din of shouts and thrown fists. He poked his head in from the red hallway. "Got someone checkin’ in!"

"Coming!" a young, young voice shouted back from beyond the white swinging doors on the other side of a metal staircase. "Send them to the end of the bar, please!"

The man soon disappeared from the hallway, replaced by a not-quite middle-aged woman with a bruise on her cheek and her arms wrapped around herself. She shuffled into the tavern and took a careful seat just a few stools away from Loki's own perch. Only a few seconds after, a boy came through the swinging doors with a stained white cloth around his waist and short-sleeved shirt with some sort of... mathematics symbol on them? Perhaps as some Midgardian whimsy?

But it was dark and his face was rather shadowed, and the sight of him sent her necklace into a frenzy.

Oh.

"Hi," the boy greeted the woman. His voice was far too off to be akin to a man's, but it was comforting in that childish, innocent kind of way. The woman peeked up through her curtain of red hair and blanched. "Manuel said you were in for a Gold Card?"

Gold Card?

"You're... you're a kid..." the woman murmured.

"My genes give me kind of a baby-face, I guess," the boy laughed, and Loki instantly saw the avoidance for what it was. He pulled out a yellowed notebook from somewhere under the table and flipped to the newest page while clicking a pen. "You can call me Ferret, and I'll be leading you through the process while Mr. Weasel's busy." A glass shattered, and the boy beamed. "May I please see your ID?"

The woman was a thirty-two year old fitness instructor named Kristy Watson-Price and she never stopped casting apprehensive glances over her shoulder. She flinched at every loud thud or sharp crash, and Loki was sure to avert her eyes at the right moments and took sips of her drink to show that she wasn't focusing on the conversation beside her.

'Ferret' scribbled a line of notes on the paper before sliding back the ID. "Who's this Card for, Ms. Watson-Price?"

Her bottom lip wobbled. "My husband, Henrik, he... he was so much nicer before we got married. He was alright with not having children and we even got a dog but—but he just gets angry and starts hitting the dog when she tries to stop him from hitting me and he's got so many friends on the force that I-I just can't go to any precinct to tell them that he's been-been..."

Ferret set a reassuring hand on her wrist and offered her a small smile. Loki saw the anger brewing in the tense muscle just beneath his skin. "It'll be taken care of, I promise," he said. "So I'm guessing this is a full hit?"

Watson-Price bowed her head, her next words barely making it past her lips. "Yes." Shakily, she reached into her jacket and brought out a thick envelope. "How much?"

"For your situation? Five thousand."

She blinked. "That's... That's a lot less than I..."

"Yeah, we get that a lot," Ferret said. He pushed a few buttons on the machine next to him. "Are there any upcoming events that can get you out of town any time soon? Or is there like a vacation you can take, a convention, a road trip...?"

"Um, I'm going to my cousin's wedding in a few weeks and Henrik won't be going with me."

"Cool! What dates will you be gone? Also I'll need your husband's full name, age, occupation, photo." Once her husband's name was out her mouth, Ferret typed something into the machine and it hissed and spat out a metallic gold card. He picked it up and pocketed it, but not before Loki spied the name Henrik Price printed on in silver.

It wasn't until the end of the transaction that Loki finally realized just what had been done. Watson-Price had paid five thousand dollars to have her abusive husband killed. Assassins were a known practice on Asgard but were not utilized by much of the common folk, yet Midgard had an entire system operated on the very idea. Fascinating.

Though what had captured the majority of her attention had been how kind the boy appeared when he spoke to this woman, how at ease he'd put her and how polite he'd been. It swelled Loki's spirits to see he'd been raised so well. But, that didn't explain the fact on how he'd become a merchant for this business in the first place. Did Richard and Mary know? And if they did, how could they allow this to happen?

Loki turned her head as the guilt in her stomach wound around her organs and squeezed like a vice. Then again, she hadn't set foot on Earth until working alongside the Chitauri in a haze of blue and blinding pain. She hadn't once asked Heimdall for updates and never snuck onto Earth herself to inquire of his well-being.

She had no excuse. No place to talk. If she'd been any ounce of a mother Frigga had been to her, maybe...

"—and that should be about it? If you have any questions, though, you'd have to ask Mr. Weasel." Ferret leaned to the side. "Looks like the fight's wrapping up so he'll be back in a sec." He held up the new Gold Card and smiled, but there was no trace of joy in his face. "I'll send your hit info to the best merc for the job."

But then his posture relaxed and when one of the low lights cast a ray along his cheekbone, it was so glaringly obvious he was just a child, an infant in Asgardian time who would still need another several hundred years before he would even be allowed to hold a sword.

Loki shut her eyes and breathed. At least now she knew one of the things he'd inherited from Richard.

"Will you be okay for the next few days?"

Watson-Price nodded. "As long as I stay out of his way, h-he shouldn't try anything..." With tougher resolve, she clenched her fists in her lap. "I can make it until the wedding."

"You're really brave," Ferret told her sincerely. "I'm... sorry about Henrik. I know you probably don't want to hear it, but nobody deserves what you're going through."

The woman smiled, just as unsteady as the rest of her. "Thank you."

As Weasel walked back up to Ferret's side and drew him into a brief conversation, Loki glanced down to observe the plastic sheet under her glass. Now would be an opportune moment to approach him, would it not? If he normally relegated himself out of sight, perhaps there was another entrance to the tavern and she could approach him from there. Or she could call him over? No, that would only alert the Weasel and cause more problems that she hadn’t the energy to deal with at the moment.

"Oh, uh, hi, miss! I haven't seen you around before! Do you want to order anything?"

Loki's gaze snapped up.

In the same instant, her breath caught.

One look into that face and the whole realm fell away. That face belonged to a babe swaddled in soft green blankets, a babe that only calmed his cries when pressed close to her chest, a babe transfixed when she sent wisps of her seidr to mold horses and wolves and serpents in the air like a moving mural.

One look into that face and she saw her heart.

"Peter," she murmured as quiet as the stillness of an Asgardian night. But he still heard her, and his entire face drained into a startled pallor. "Do you remember me?"

Chapter Text

Of course his Parker Luck would strike when it came to this. Yeah, he'd put on the necklace knowing what he was getting into, but—but he didn't expect her to show up literally three whole hours after he left the apartment.

When Peter first went out to help Mrs. Watson-Price, he'd noticed the black haired customer down the bar. She was a pretty older woman who looked like a CEO who ruled her company with an iron fist. She sat alone as she sipped her drink and observed the rest of the bar with this sort of high class that everyone else definitely didn't have. He thought it was weird she was here, but his spidey sense never went off so he let her be and helped Mrs. Watson-Price with everything that needed to be done for in-person requests for Gold Cards.

He'd felt her gaze on him a couple times and he chalked it up to her own curiosity. The age thing threw a lot of new patrons in for a loop, but once they got past it they usually ignored him or got used to him being Ferret: Dish Boy Extraordinaire.

And the least he could do while working there was to get to know the regulars at Sister Margaret's and make the newcomers feel comfortable, so after he handed over Mrs. Watson-Price's case over to Mr. Weasel, he walked down the bar to ask the lady if she needed anything. Because why would anything go wrong because of that.

"Peter."

His name wasn't uttered loud enough for anyone else to pick up, but hearing it felt like a lightning bolt striking through him and his mouth went dry. The woman's eyes were sharp and green and sad, and he held onto the edge of the island table to keep himself steady.

"Do you remember me?"

His eyes darted around the bar. Mr. Weasel and Mrs. Watson-Price were talking, the mercs were settling down after the brawl, half of everyone here was either buzzed or well on their way to it. No one was paying attention to him. Them.

"N-No." Quieter, he added. "I'm sorry."

She waved a hand, fingernails deep green and pointed. "Never apologize, Pe—"

"Ferret," he interrupted. His cheeks heated at how rude he must've sounded and offered a small smile when she appeared more amused than offended. "I mean, um, I'm called Ferret here. Kind of like an alias? Like, half the people here don't use their real names, so..."

"I see. Ferret, then," she accepted. The way she sat reminded Peter of a princess or a queen, and just being near her made him want to stand up a little straighter. "As I was saying, there is no need for your apology. The only one here at fault is myself and, well... I suppose this is far from the ideal place for us to have this conversation." She swirled the glass in her hand, her face crumpling ever so slightly. Her eyes were only partially on him and avoided his gaze before slowly meeting it again. "Will you allow me a moment of your time? I know I am the least deserving of it, but would you be willing to listen?"

Sometimes Peter thought his heightened senses were the worst part about the bite. The heartbeat in front of him was just as loud as the whispers at the back of the bar and the clinking of glasses ground against the sides of his head with every scrape against wood tables or with the slam after every shot. Vaguely, he noticed Mrs. Watson-Price walked towards the door with her measured breaths and the scritch-scratch of fingernails against the metal buttons of her jacket.

He also heard the safety click off Mr. Weasel's pistol.

"I really want to," he admitted. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. "But I work until closing and that's not until two a.m. Um, I can't stop and chat that much during my shift and I don't think my break is long enough for us to talk about everything—"

"Very well. I will wait until your shift is over."

"H-Huh? You don't have to! It's only like nine thirty and I don't want to waste your time—"

"I do not have to, but I will," she said. He blinked and suddenly there was a book in her hands with some nondescript brown cover and a bookmarked tucked somewhere in the beginning pages. Faintly, he thought of the old box and its glowing latch. "Go on, Ferret. I will occupy myself here until the last lantern light is blown out."

Peter's smile turned nervous. "Oh, th-thanks? I'm really sorry you have to wait so long." He turned to head back to the kitchens, but pivoted on his heel when something else came to mind. "Um, what should I call you?"

Fingers paused to rest on the edge of the book cover as the woman glanced back up. The intensity in her eyes dimmed, but the corners of her lips still quirked up. "Whatever you are most at ease with."

"Then, uh, is Ms. Lora okay?"

(That name from his lips tugs along that dulling resignation, but she can never blame him. Of course it would be a long time before he would call her Mother, if he would call her such at all. But his courtesy and respect is more than she can ever ask for, after everything she hadn't done for him.)

She tipped her head. "Ms. Lora is just fine."

Peter nodded and paced back toward the swinging doors where Weasel hung by as he stared down Lora with unreadable eyes and a blank face. He didn't move even when the teen stopped beside him.

"The fuck did Catwoman want with you?" he questioned lowly.

"Uh. Um. Okay, so. Funny story?" Peter cleared his throat. "Do you remember that day with all my hypotheticals? Wade and I only sort of trashed your bar, I found out footprints are kind of hard to scrub off billiard cloth, and someone tripped over the hole in the floor that's a little bit Wade-shaped?"

Weasel slowly twisted his head to face him as soon as his memory pieced itself together. "Are you fucking serious."

"Well..."

"You're gonna stand there and fucking tell me Katie McGrath over there's your fucking mo—"

Peter flailed his hands. "Mr. Weasel!" he shushed. The man rolled his eyes as he mimed the motion of zipping his lips. "She wants to talk after my shift. Is it okay if she hangs out at the bar until then?"

Weasel sighed. "She's a grown ass woman. She paid for a drink, she can stay as long as she wants."

"Cool! And uh, I heard you take the safety off your gun. You should put it back on before you forget about it."

"Please, I've been handling guns for years. If I ever accidentally shoot off my foot, I'll eat one of Wade's socks." A pause. "Wait, you heard that from over there? With all this noise?"

"Yeah."

"... Huh." Weasel snorted. "Get your ass to the back, Boy-Wonder. You had a date with those dishes and you're running late."

Peter grinned and hurried towards the kitchen. One last look over his shoulder and Lora was right where he left her, eyes turned down and black hair impeccably straight.

He couldn’t figure out the feeling of seeing her so close, just an arm’s reach away. He’d never dreamed of having a mother because the only one he knew had been dead for a long time, and while Ben and May had never been the parenting types, they did their best. And he couldn’t ask for more.

But his nerves were bubbling. His mind was blank. He didn’t know what to do.

But it was only 9:54 pm, and Sister Margaret’s still needed her dish boy.

The green stone under his shirt brushed lightly against him as he stepped through the swinging doors where Granny Sal was piling a few pans into the sink.

::

Peter washed the blood off his fingers.

The water ran pink as it swirled around the metal basin and he scrubbed the grooves between skin and nail. Granny ambled around behind him to sweep up thick porcelain shards before she took the mop to wipe up red splashes on the brown kitchen tile.

If Wade had been here tonight, Peter would've had to wrestle the former's phone away before he posted the video of the drunken brawl on his Instagram, but he was out on a job in Belarus and said he'd bring back souvenirs by Christmas Eve.

"If those boys could stop draggin' their little arguments back into my kitchen, I'd very much appreciate it," she tsked. "Thinkin' they can come up in here and use my knives..." She shook her head and patted the teen's shoulder. "You've got some good moves, Ferret. Saves an old woman from bustin' out the ladle."

"You've been talking about some shoulder pains lately, so I didn't want you to make it worse," Peter said. He shook the water off his hands and dried it on one of the towels near the sink. No scrapes on his knuckles, no scratches on his hands. Huh. Maybe Wade's lessons were really paying off. "They were just a bunch of drunk idiots anyway. If they didn't start smashing plates on each other, I wouldn't have had to knock them out." He glanced down and sighed. "And I got their blood on my jeans, too."

He whined when Granny reached over and pinched his cheek.

"Oh, aren't you just adorable?" she cooed. "Seltzer water and lemon for blood, honey."

"Thanks, Ms. Granny. I'll keep that in mind."

Weasel popped through the doors. "Who the fuck starts a fight at closing? So inconsiderate," he grumbled, then raised his voice as he looked around in annoyance. "Alright, where did those assholes go? I'm making them pay for damages."

Peter jerked his head towards the back entrance where two bodies were slumped together, bandages plastered over their heads and what could be seen of their arms as they snored in alcohol-stained shirts. Weasel threw his head back and groaned.

"Dumbass dipshits."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know," Granny huffed as she squeezed the blood out of the mop on the free side of the double sink.

"They'll probably be unconscious for the rest of the night. And all of tomorrow," Peter said. He glanced over at the drunks. "Want me to leave them out in an alley a couple blocks over?"

"You're good, kid. It's fifteen minutes after your shift ended and I'm pretty sure you've got class later. Go home." Weasel waved him towards the bar. "Everyone cleared out, but Mia Wallace is still waiting for you at the bar."

"Mia Wallace?" The teen repeated. "Like, from that old movie Pulp Fiction?"

"Old?" the man sputtered. "That movie came out in the nineties!" His hand landed on the back of Peter's head and lightheartedly pushed him towards the swinging doors. "Get the hell outta here, Ferret. It's way past your curfew."

"I literally knocked some guys out and you're bugging me about curfew?" Peter laughed. "Bye, Ms. Granny, Mr. Weasel! See you on Saturday!"

"Bye, sweetpea!"

"Later, kid. I'll text you if something comes up."

Peter hung his apron on a nearby hook and grabbed the jacket next to it as he peeked into the bar. All the chairs were stacked on the tables and the stools were flipped in a line, all except one where Lora sat with three empty glasses and the same brown book from earlier. She looked up when he stopped close by, shutting the book and tucking it into her coat as she stood.

"All set?"

"Yeah, we can go now," he nodded. Her eyes flickered to his scuffed blue jeans, narrowing at the stains. "Oh, i-it's not mine! It's from those guys who stumbled into the back a bit ago and, uh, it's all taken care of."

"... I see," she responded simply. He shrugged on his jacket and led her out the bar through the front, the sound of her heels following close behind.

The night was just as cold as the last with day old snow lined on sidewalk edges and ice hiding in concrete cracks. Silence pervaded for the whole of a few minutes, neither of the two saying a thing as they passed under streetlight after streetlight.

Peter stared down at his beat up shoes with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, uncomfortably conscious of the woman by his side. Should he say something? Was there something to say? It was only a week ago that his brain started getting crammed with questions—how did May keep the secret for so long? Why was the best suit he had the StarkTech suit? Why would his grandfather want him dead? Why did he keep leaving Happy voicemails when he knew they weren't being listened to? Why was he turning blue? Why did—

"How are Richard and Mary?" Lora questioned softly. Peter's head snapped to the side, his jaw hanging slightly.

"R-Richard and..." He swallowed. "Uh, I guess there's not a good way to say this, um, Richard and Mary Parker died in a plane crash when I was four."

::

What?

Stunned, Loki met her boy's gaze. Anger, deep and burning, swirled in the depths of her gut. Three Midgardian years—only three Midgardian years since she entrusted her child to the only ones who could possibly raise him and they'd been felled. Of course she would have this luck. Of course this would happen to her baby. Of course she had brought this misfortune on his shoulders when he only deserved the world and so much more.

"My... My condolences," she said. What more was there to say? What else could be said about the parents he probably could barely remember? "Who has been taking care of you thus far? Ben and May?"

He turned his head and she knew she said something wrong.

"Just-Just May," he mumbled. "Ben died a year and a half ago."

'By the Norns,' Loki thought as she shut her eyes for the briefest of moments. She remembered Ben: a big man with a big heart who loved his wife and his brother and his sister-in-law and his nephew—not many people he did not have a space in his heart for, but that heart had bled out a year and a half ago and Peter had dwindled down from four adult figures to two to one in the years Loki had left.

"I am sorry. Truly."

"You don't have to be," Peter told her honestly, a small smile on his lips. It was too melancholy for a face as young as his. "It's not your fault, you didn't do anything."

And that was the problem, was it not? Loki didn't do anything because she wasn't there. Not for the first celebration of his birth, not when Richard and Mary perished, not when Ben passed, not for any of it.

She swallowed down her shame as they passed under another street light. "You must have much to ask," she said to guide the tides of their conversation. "I know this may not be the most preferred time to answer all of your questions, but I should be able to answer your most pressing ones now."

Peter's hair was a dark brown in the low lighting on these city streets. Wavy strands bounce slightly with each step he took and a small curl slipped over one side of his forehead. His nose, eyes, hair... that was all Richard. But she could see some of herself in his jawline and the rise of his cheekbones, and hopefully that was all he had taken after her.

He glanced up at her, eyes bright and budding.

Such kind eyes they were.

"Can you tell me about yourself?" he asked. Loki blinked, and his cheeks reddened. "Just a few things to like, tell me who you are? If you don't want to I totally get it and I can ask something else—"

"No need to panic, child," she said, and on the inside her own consciousness started to spiral. All of that time waiting in the tavern she had been preparing herself to answer those inevitable things, things like why did you leave me, why did you come back, did you even love me in the first place. She prepared herself for mistrustful stares and doubtful words, and it floored her to be on the receiving end of neither. "It was merely something I did not think you would consider crucial."

Peter shrugged a shoulder. "I just thought it'd be nice to get to know you a bit? I never really got to know Dad and M—uh, Richard and Mary, so when I figured I should at least get to know you better." While I still have the chance.

Loki glanced up at the tall buildings, blocky and dull compared to Asgard's grand architecture. The way this was going was nothing like how she played it in her head over and over and over again. Her own selfish being wanted him angry and bitter because at least she knew how to deal with that.

This boy had dried blood on his clothes and an earnest look in his eyes.

This boy, she did not know how to deal with.

She did not know which aspect worried her the most, but they only aggravated the fear in the center of her chest.

Fear was the moment she held the Casket of Ancient Winters in her hands only to watch her skin creep into blue shades of outcasts and monsters. Fear was feeling the crumbling of her own soul when the realization of living over a thousand years of lies clawed her down the scant days she spent upon the Allfather's throne while her brother was flung powerless into a world he never knew. Fear was losing every corner of her mind to an infinity stone the humans should have never unearthed and losing every thread of her body to a madman who wanted to balance the universe's scale with dust.

Fear was looking into the eyes of her baby and knowing she had to give up on being free.

Fear was the thought that if that baby ever gave her another chance, she would repeat Odin's every mistake.

"Your parents knew me as Lora Olstad," she started softly. "They believed me to be a business woman, a Stanford University graduate, and understood I had a primary interest in the histories and ancient Nordic culture."

"They knew you as Ms. Lora?" Peter repeated. He slowed to a stop and so did she. Reluctantly. "A-Are you saying Lora Olstad's not even your real name?!"

"Lora Olstad is one of the faces I wear. The name may not be real, but she is me all the same," she admitted. Honesty from the God of Lies? That was practically unspeakable even for her own standards.

But.

But she would never lie to Peter. Not even if she thought it for the best, not even if she thought it would spare him all the hurt that came with it.

She lifted her eyes up to the building they'd stopped by. "This is still a Parker residence, is it not?"

Peter whipped around and stared at the apartment like it offended him. "What the—" He turned back to frown at her. "Aw man, I was going to walk you home," he sighed, and her heart clenched. "I still can! It's only a little after three and—"

"There is no need for that. I can make it back to my residence quite fine on my own," Loki interrupted. The teen pouts. "It is quite late. You have studies to attend to later on, do you not?"

He almost sagged at the mere mention of 'studies'. "Yeah, my first period starts at seven thirty and my seventh period doesn't end until two thirty, but I should be free after that." He paused. "Wait, tomorrow's Friday? I mean, today? Oh shoot, that means I've got acadec until four thirty and MJ'll flip if I don't show up or if I come up with another excuse—"

Loki did not stop the quirk of her lips as Peter started to babble, patiently listening to the nonsensical way he talks about Neds and MJs and Mr. Harringtons all in one breath.

She had never been much of a talkative child, resorting to subtle mischief to act up under the ever calming tutelage of the Queen Mother. She learned to hide in plain sight on the battlefield when her magic had always been deemed the lessor sword and forged excuses to skip practices when all Odin ever did was favor Thor.

No, there was no room for her to be the loud one. But she was glad to see those types of wars were not ones Peter had to fight.

"—meet up tomorrow?" he asked. "I mean, if you're busy that's cool and we can pick another day if you want."

Loki pulled herself out of her musings and re-focuses on the shy, hopeful stare she was given.

She wondered if he would look at her the same way when he found out just how much blood stained her hands.

"Your availability opens up after your 'acadec' after four thirty, you said?"

"Yeah! Is that okay?"

She nodded once. "Of course. Tell me, is it possible for you to meet me inside the New-York Historical Society at your earliest convenience?"

::

Peter hooked his thumbs around the straps of his backpack as he stared at one of the sculptures on display. The Indian: The Dying Chief Contemplating the Progress of Civilization, the label read. He didn't know much about art or paintings or anything like that, but they still looked pretty cool even if he and Ned preferred to geek out over robots or new lab tech, but he could already hear MJ telling him that he should be more well-rounded in this stuff but, well. It was kind of hard to learn more about the things he wasn't good at when he was trying to keep up his science grades for those scholarships while trying to Spider-Man and knock out rowdy bar-goers all at the same time.

"Thomas Crawford."

Peter blinked and looked over his shoulder. "Huh?"

A well-kempt man slowed his stride to stop by the sculpture. He wore a simple white button up tucked neatly into dark gray slacks that cuffed smartly along his polished brown oxfords. "The sculptor of this piece." The man gestured to the white marble. "Quite the tragedy, I must say. At the peak of his career he had developed a case of diplopia and sought expertise for a cure. Certain that Crawford had been afflicted with a tumor, his physicians' experimental methods of treatment lead to the destruction of the eye and his death at the young age of forty-four years. You might have seen his work before. Have you ever visited the territory of Washington D.C.?"

Either Peter was experiencing an extreme case of deja vu or his mind was playing tricks on him, because he swore there was something so familiar about this stranger but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He didn't recognize the brown hair or the brown eyes or the brown glasses.

His spidey sense was silent. He kept his fingers close to his web shooters just in case.

"Ye-Yeah, I went on a field trip there once. Cool stuff. I saw the... capitol?"

The man chuckled. "Then perhaps you glimpsed the Statue of Freedom atop the Capitol Dome. One of Crawford's most popular works, but alas, he had not lived long enough to see what had become of his works."

Peter dragged his gaze back to the sculpture. The gears in his brain churned—the way the man spoke was just off enough to be odd and seriously, he sounded exactly like Ms. Lora. But could they be the same person? The stranger was definitely taller than Ms. Lora had been even with her heels on and his shoulders were wider.

"I had a primary interest in the histories and ancient Nordic culture."

Maybe her brother? Or cousin? Or something?

Or...

Peter's eyes flickered over to his own hands. He was bitten by a spider and gained superpowers. His hands turned blue under extremely cold temperatures. He didn't shiver in the winter anymore.

His life had turned weird and stayed weird for a long time. With his luck, maybe this was just another one of them.

He slowly raised his head. "Are you, um, Ms. Lora...?" he ventured cautiously.

The man said nothing for a moment.

Then, an impressed smile pulled up his lips. "Very good, Peter." He plucked off his glasses, and brown irises instantly melted away into a bright, iridescent green. Peter's fingers twitched against his shooters. "As I am, I am known as Loren Fjeld, but." He slipped his glasses back on and the brown resumed like it never left. "Perhaps it would be in our best interest to carry on our conversation elsewhere, hm?"

::

A/N: Hey guys! I know the first chapters of this story had been getting updated once a week, but I'm sorry to say that updates are going to get slower from now on. Classes and lab are taking up most of my time all seven days a week, and that means primarily this fic and Eight get slow update schedules.

Thank you for your patience! I'll try to have the new chapters of Frostbite and Eight up as quick as I can!

Chapter Text

Peter was a brilliant child.

Loki wasn't blind to the boy's nerves, to his caution, to the way his fingers wandered to those odd black bands encircling his wrists. He never thought the boy would equate Lora and Loren so quickly when there truly was nothing to equate, but the brain that ran behind wary doe eyes had puzzled out similarities and inconsistencies and—

He led his son out of the building and onto the sidewalk, his pride a swelling thing in his chest. "Are you hungry?"

Peter startled and glanced up. "Oh, uh, I could eat?"

"Come, then. There is a stall nearby that procures these exquisite 'rice bowls' that may curry your favor." Loki eyed the lingering doubt in that young face and sighed. "After then, I will tell you all you wish to know. But for now, will you lend your trust to me once more?"

Peter fiddled with his jacket sleeve as he glanced at the people that passed them by. There was something churning in that head, thinking, thinking—how much genius was hidden in that thinking, he wondered—before they locked eyes. "You'll tell me the truth? All of it?"

"So I shall swear."

"...Okay. Um, but can I pick where we talk?"

"Of course." It surprised Loki to no end that it was all the boy demanded, though the lack of anger and confusion had surprised him even more. "Wherever you so choose."

It was after they had acquired a brown paper bag of rice bowls did Peter pull out his cellular device. "There's this place in Manhattan that'll be good for us to talk and I don't think there's going to be anyone there to bother us." He tapped his screen a few times, presumably sending one of those 'texts' to someone in his contacts. "And—cool! Our ride'll be here in ten minutes." He shifted his arm around the bag, insistent of being the one to carry it if he wasn't allowed to pay for it, and glanced up nervously. "Um... Mr. Loren? Or should I call you Ms. Lora? Or, uh..."

Loki allowed him to flounder a bit longer before taking pity on the embarrassed flush on the boy's cheeks. "You may call me by the name of whom you perceive," he said, a slight quirk to his lips. "Though there is another name I go by that may be easier for you to use, but you may not choose to due to its... connotations."

"If you don't like the other name I won't use it."

"It is not that I dislike the name, it is that others simply would not react well to it. Though I could not care less of their reactions, it is easier to not deal with it at all."

Peter frowned. "That's kind of dumb. If it's your name and you like it, it doesn't matter what other people think, right?"

Loki couldn't stop the small smile that grew on his face. "Your words are kind, child. I am truly unfit for it."

Peter didn't know what to say to that. So, he returned that small smile with a shaky one of his own and glanced down at his device. The little screen lit up and a picture of him and another chubbier boy with a wide grin took up the space. 

A translucent white box popped up.

trunk body: Here!! Your friend, Dopinder. [5:12 pm]

trunk body: I am the taxi parked in front of the Blue Honda. Your friend, Dopinder. [5:12 pm]

Trunk body? What an odd sense of humor.

He followed Peter to the bright yellow taxi a few steps away just as a cheery man leaned out the driver's window. The man was young, much older than Peter though perhaps around the same age as the barman at that run-down tavern.

"Hello! I am here to pick up a ‘Mr. Ferret’?"

"That's me! Nice to finally meet you, Dopinder."

"The pleasure is all mine, my friend!" the man reached a hand out and Peter shook it enthusiastically. Loki eyed the interaction with more of a clinical interest than anything; this was one of Peter's friends, then. A transporter. It's a very handy sort of friend to make, he thought as he opened the back door and allowed his son to slide in first before he followed after. With a slight wrinkle of his nose, he noted the interior smelled of leather and ash. "Where will I be taking you and your friend this fine day, Mr. Ferret?"

"Wade's apartment, please."

"Right away!" Dopinder reached for a long black cord with a metal end and held it back to them. "AUX cord?"

"Aw man, nice!"

As the cord was handed off, the driver turned to the second passenger in his vehicle and gave a welcoming smile. “And what should I address you as, kind sir?”

Loki didn’t so much shift a single line in his face as he sat straight-backed in his seat, one knee crossed over the other and his hands folded in his lap. His eyes, searing in their cool detachment, immediately dismissed the common mortal. “‘Sir,’ will suffice.”

Dopinder bobbed his head and faced back forwards, unknowing of the silent judgment passed over his own head. “Sir it is, then!”

Peter attached the cord to his cellular device and started playing some song Loki was sure doesn't translate to any other style in the galaxies. The tune was much like what he'd heard others his age would listen to at the museum and the female vocalist was pleasant to listen to, he supposed—and as the vehicle smoothly merged back onto the street, he looked at the boy who looked so small as he clutched the paper bag to his chest and stared out of the window.

"Wade?" he prompted. Peter jumped slightly and turned his head.

"Oh yeah, he's a friend. He's out on a business trip right now but he told me that I can use his apartment if he's not there." He shrugged. "I figured it was one of the best places to talk."

"... I see."

Was this Wade the same Wade that barman had mentioned the night before? Red suit, loud, annoying...

Loki narrowed his eyes. Truly, he questioned the sort Peter was surrounding himself with.

"Did Mr. Pool say when he would get back?" Dopinder asked. He flipped a turn single for a moment and guided the wheel into a left turn, and Loki took in the people they passed and the building they'd wrapped. Mr. Pool? Wade? Wade Pool?

"Uhhh, sometime next week, I think? He was really excited for this job, but he said he wanted to be back in New York by Christmas Eve."

"You would think he would try to enjoy the holidays in Belarus."

"Right? I asked him to bring me back the weirdest souvenir he could find."

Loki spent most of the ride as a silent observer, watching the interaction between Peter and Dopinder and noting the snippets of information of this ‘Wade’ or ‘Mr. Pool’ or whoever this individual was. They talked about the newest movies and 'air pods' and something called a 'switch,' whatever the contraption may be. And all through the while, he was quiet, memorizing the way Peter's eyes lit up when he talked and the way he gestured wildly with his hands when he explained things.

So expressive. So young. So full of life.

"He would be happy if he grew up to be nothing like me."

The taxi pulled up to an older housing unit in the midst of Manhattan and Loki reached for his wallet to pay for the ride, but Dopinder quickly waved him off.

"No need for that, sir! Mr. Pool has declared that whatever fare is made from any of Mr. Ferret's trips will be paid in full through his account."

"What?!" Peter exclaimed. "Wade didn't tell me that!"

"He made it very clear; this is the text he sent me about it." Dopinder scrolled through his phone as Peter slid to the edge of his seat and pressed himself close to the back of the driver's seat. "Ahem. Quote: 'If you charge the baby-face anything for any of your rides I'll actually shove my arm up your ass and make you my personal Kermit the Frog.' End quote."

"Baby-face? Uggggh, Waaaade," Peter groaned. "I'll talk to him when he gets back. Thanks for the ride, Dopinder, and I'm super sorry about him."

"Not at all! It was nice meeting you, Mr. Ferret and Sir!"

"Nice to meet you too!" the boy chirped.

Loki did not acknowledge the driver, taking in their new surroundings as the taxi peeled away from the curb. Peter led him to one of the buildings, a rather dilapidated one with red brick exterior and a series of stairs that connected walkways under windows. They squeezed into an alleyway and pushed through a slightly rusted door.

"Sorry, we have to take the stairs," Peter apologized, trotting up the staircase opposite of their entrance. "Elevator's busted."

"Your friend certainly has a taste for domiciles," Loki noted as they passed a few knives embedded in the wall. It certainly held the appearance of a training arena Thor, Sif, and Volstagg had ruined many a time.

"Oh man, if you think this is bad you should see the actual apartment."

The door they stop at would have been normal if it hadn't been graced with three separate locks and looped with a chain. Loki opened his mouth to comment, perhaps even a snide one as he was feeling so gracious, but his attention was sidetracked by the sheer fact that Peter had all the keys to all the locks and never made an odd face as he looped the chain around his arm, pushed open the door, and set the chain into a bowl shaped like an aubergine.

Inside the apartment was simply that of belonging to a barbarian.

There was one large room that contained the kitchen and the area of living, a door to a bathroom cracked wide open to reveal a shower curtain that depicted a man yelling on a mountain, and a last door shut with another set of locks behind the couch. There were piles of magazines stacked next to bullet boxes stacked next to an enormous stuffed caricature of a... rainbow sea turtle? Three window panes took up the majority of one wall and had thick glass installed from where he could see.

Fortified. How peculiar. And all the other walls bore those poster things and were layered on so thickly that Loki couldn't see what color the wall was.

There were piles of everything, everywhere , and he could only thank the single star left shining for him that at least the mess wasn't garbage.

Peter set his backpack onto the couch—which was an abomination that held the appearance of draugr skin covered in mold—next to a set of sharpened swords. "We can, uh, eat at the table if you want," he offered shyly, gesturing to that garish red table with different chairs of different colors scattered all around its border. Truly, the interior design of this hovel was something left to be desired, but Loki wasn't here to offer the criticisms that this place so obviously deserved.

He nodded and took a delicate perch on the chair with lemon yellow cushions and fur lining the arm rests, taking care not to make contact with said arm rests. The boy, on the other hand, took his own seat on the wooden chair shaped like a hand and opened up the paper bag to take out the rice bowls and utensils and handed them out.

"So, um..." Peter fiddled with a plastic fork. "I don't... I don't really know where to start?"

Loki exhaled quietly through his nose and glanced to the side where a pin board was set up in the kitchen. Brown and tacky, it was littered with pictures connected with red thread. "I do not know where to begin either," he admitted. He watched Peter stuff a bite of rice and chicken into his mouth, those brown eyes wide and open and curious. Guilt clouded the inside of his chest, all-encompassing and choking. "Perhaps I should first reveal my true identity, then you may decide whether or not you would like to learn more. Or even if you would ever desire to see me again."

Peter blinked a few times, digesting those words. He unconsciously drew his fingers across one of the black bands upon his wrists.

"It's okay," he said sincerely. "Whatever you have to say, I'll listen."

A dull ache rattled Loki's heart. Why did this child have to be so good ?

But no matter. He was due to accept the consequences of his actions.

Loki raised his chin, all of the image of the royal son he was supposed to be, and allowed a soft golden light to engulf his body. As quick as that light beamed it was gone, and he had returned to his most common form. 

Black hair was slicked back, curled around the ears and still cut just as short as his male illusory self's, and his face was glasses-free, allowing his green eyes to glimmer under the pig-shaped paper lantern chandelier. The white-button up had morphed into a black leather tunic with a curved strip of gold plating on the chest; the coat draped over it was of the same material, lined with green as gold vambraces secured themselves over the material on his forearms. Designs were etched into the metal, as all vambraces in the royal family were, with runes and protections like Vegvisir and Ægishjálmr .

"Sometimes I am known as Lora Olstad, and sometimes I am known as Loren Fjeld," he said. "But all of the time I am Loki Friggason, a former Prince of Asgard."

Peter dropped his fork.

"I—" Loki grimaced, searching for a foothold in his explanation that cast him so far out of his comfort— "I used to come to Earth to take eases from Odin, my... father . It just so happened that one time when I had come as Lora, I had met Richard. He had not known of you and I wanted nothing more than to spirit you away, either here on Earth or to another world to raise you all on my own, but..." He sighed. Peter's hands were balled in his lap and his gaze was trained right in the center of his rice bowl. "I understand that saying this may not mean much to you, especially when I have not been in your life for most of it, but I cannot convey how sorry I am that I had left you. I beg for your forgiveness, though I accept if it is not something I may one day obtain."

Peter didn't say anything, and an overwhelming anguish that stemmed from the pit of his stomach clawed up to jar his ribs and dig its sharpened nails into his heart. He had prepared himself for this rejection. A possible wave of disgust and revulsion. He had been prepared for it ever since he was thrown into the cells of his once-home, realization dawning that under the stone's influence he could have very nearly murdered his own son.

But just because he had foreseen this didn't mean he had been fully prepared for the hurt that would inevitably tide with it.

And just as he readied himself for the onslaught of verbal abuse that he knew he deserved, the boy lifted his head.

"... Is it true that, uh, that O-Odin would have killed me if he ever found out about me?"

Loki thought about the Allfather—when he had stripped Thor of his power and cast him wayside into a world that could have killed him; when he had looked upon his youngest adopted son in chains and set him to the prisons to rot.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "I believe he would."

Peter pressed his lips together. "If I never put on this necklace, or if Aunt May never gave me that box you left, would you still have come to see me?"

Loki opened his mouth to give what should have been the most obvious answer, a yes or an of course or a why would I not . But then he remembered that everyone thought him dead, and for four whole years he had every opportunity to find his child again, to re-insert himself into his dear heart's life because there was nothing holding him back. But he didn't. He wasted those years absconding to different places before finally forcing himself to settle in Queens hoping that the proximity was enough.

(It wasn't.)

The Great Loki: A Coward. Afraid of his own son.

"I don't know," he said, because the truth was part of the everything that Peter deserved. "I left when you were young enough to not remember me that it would have been a presumption on my behalf if I had come back unannounced, so I had left that decision up to you with the box."

Peter visibly considered that, toying with his fingers as his eyes darted to different spots on the table. "What about when you attacked New York?" His voice hardened, eyes raising. "Why did you do it?"

Loki's face grew into that discomfort. The Chitauri and Tha —he pressed his fingers to his forehead, staving away the name and the memories that came with it. Drowning in that control still haunted him many nights when things were too serene and when things were going too smoothly, and still there were moments when he would think he saw a shadow in the crowd that would come to kill him, or worse—

"It was not my full intention to lay an invasion on Earth. Yes, I held my rage at happenings on Asgard and yes, I had made decisions that were of extremely poor taste, but not all of the blame falls onto myself."

One hand raised in a slight wave as he brought forth an illusion of the Mind Stone, floating with its smooth yellow cut and ethereal glow. Peter's face lit up in awe.

"When I had fallen off the Bifröst, a bridge between worlds, I thought it would have been my end. I am unsure how long I had floated in that darkness, but it was sometime then I was taken by a mad titan." He averted his gaze, unwilling to allow Peter to spy the fear he could not suppress. "There are many wrongs I have done in my life, but I would not have invaded had I not been under the Mind Stone's influence, and by that extension, the mad titan."

Flashes of blue sparked behind his eyes. He remembered the control, the pain, the surge of power and the burns it left.

"I was not of my right mind," he murmured. "I will admit I held no remorse for what I had done in the moment I had done it, but when the Mind Stone becomes the blood in your veins, there is no such thing as thinking for yourself, as yourself." He tilted his head. "I suppose you could make the argument that it was me, though it was not the me I chose to be."

He looked back at Peter, stunned to find him—horrified?

"Are—Are you okay?" he asked worriedly. "Are you still influenced? Is it—Can you still feel it?"

Loki surveyed him oddly. "No. No, I had been granted release from its control when the scepter and the tesseract had been removed from my possession." Peter slumped in relief, and his confusion mounted. "I must admit, I had not expected your concern."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" he repeated. "Do you not hate me?"

It was Peter's turn to look confused. "Why would I hate you?"

A disbelieving laugh escaped Loki's throat before he could stop himself. "After everything I've done?"

"I..."

Peter rubbed the back of his head.

(He thought of Wade and his hits, Mr. Weasel and Sister Margaret's, everyone that sat at those tables clinking glasses and dropping bullet casings. Loki might have killed eighty people before the invasion even began, but not everyone with a name on a Gold Card was like Ms. Watson-Price's husband. Wade killed, Mr. Weasel killed, Ms. Domino probably killed, and he was pretty sure Dopinder killed that guy that was in his trunk. 

None of them were gods, yet weren't they just as bad as Loki, just in different ways?)

"I know you're not a good person for doing all those things. I know you weren't in full control when you brought the Chitauri and I know you were still responsible for all those things, and there's probably a lot of stuff I don't know you've done or if it's good or bad or if you even regretted what you did..." he trailed off. "But would you do it again if you had the chance?"

Well.

"I do regret my actions, if that is what you are asking, and I would not follow through with another attack of that magnitude in the future," Loki replied, choosing his words carefully. "I would never be the one to bring harm into your life. My absence from it was more than enough."

Peter's face went pink. "So you're really just here for...?"

"You, of course," the god answered simply. "You are my priority, and if I were here to wreak havoc on this Earth, I would have done it many moons ago."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Peter raised his hands in front of himself. "I-I mean, about the Earth thing and the, uh... havoc... thing?"

As The God of Mischief and Lies, Loki never held speaking the truth to the forefront of his mind. From a very young age he learned to weave his speech into pretty sentences and charming prose so that others were so enamored with his words that they wouldn't notice the underneath , the deception. It was his perfected craft to get what he wanted and to get others to play along in his little games—magic and mischief and lies and deceit; he would never be known for fighting prowess or swordsmanship or anything else Asgard deemed were more important, so why not embellish all the things he could already do so well?

Then he had come to find out that he was one of the monsters his— Odin had so fervently disparaged, that Asgard so blatantly saw as the enemy. He was a child when he learned the stories of the monstrous Jotunn, the beasts and savages held back by a flimsy slip of a treaty; he was a child when it was instilled in him to hate everything those Frost Giants had to offer. Over a thousand years of anger. Over a thousand years of disgust.

Over a thousand years to learn he was the very thing he himself grew to hate.

He held out both his hands over the table, Peter marveling at the sight of the golden threads that laced his palms and the spaces between his fingers.

"I, Loki Friggason, formerly of Asgard, will bring no purposeful harm to the home of Peter Benjamin Parker Lokison, and will offer my own life and seidr should I not mark my words true. It is to this promise that I shall swear this oath."

The threads sunk into his skin, the light whipping from his wrists to his arms and finally through his eyes before he re-adjusted himself on the gaudy yellow chair.

"I hope that has satisfied your concern."

Over a thousand years he lived the lies his father told him.

He would not follow in those footsteps.

"I—did you—" Peter's face scrunched. "You would put your life on the line? For me ?"

"You are my son," Loki replied, the easiest truth in his world. "I would do anything for you."

Peter stared for a few long moments before his eyes grew damp and he swiped at them with the sleeve of his jacket.

(Only Aunt May had ever said things like that, especially when his parents died and she'd wrap him in blankets as she held him, murmuring how everything would be okay and that she would make him all his favorite mac and cheeses until the end of time. It made him a bit queasy how simply Loki had told him  those words like they didn't weigh a million pounds. Swearing his life with his magic? Maybe he didn't know all the ins and outs of that kind of stuff, but it sounded serious.

With great power comes great responsibility, Ben had said over and over and over. 

But what did that mean when someone else would hold that for his sake?)

His eyes flickered back down to the table. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. I know you do not trust me, but one day I hope to be worthy of it." Loki crossed his legs under the table, yearning to reach out and brush away his child’s tears but held back by the valley between them. "If you want nothing to do with me, I understand completely."

Peter's head shot up. "Huh? N-No! Don't go! I just..." He bit his lip. "I don't want you to leave."

The god dared not raise his expectation, but he couldn't push away the inkling of hope nudging through his chest. "No?"

"I want to get to know you," the boy said with a determined look upon his brow. "You're my, er, mom, and if you're not going to bring another Chitauri Invasion or anything like it, I think you deserve another chance."

You deserve another chance .

Loki blinked.

One sentence, four words, so simple even a child still learning to properly walk could understand. Yet, those words were so foreign to his ears.

You deserve another chance.

And how could he deserve anything but the worst?

"I mean, if you're not hurting anyone anymore I really, really want to know more about you and your cool magic and—" He cut himself off abruptly. "Wait, are you the reason why I can turn blue?"

And just like that, any warmth Loki was basking in vanished.

His gaze sharpened, already out of his seat as he approached Peter's chair. "Explain."

"Oh, uh, I was walking back home after a shift when I touched a frozen pole by accident and my skin started turning blue? It was super weird because that's never happened to me before and I've been feeling less cold in winter, which is also super weird since I don't have to wear as many layers in the snow anymore—"

"Give me your hand."

Peter startled at the unsettled tone, but carefully held out his left hand. Loki reigned back his anxiety and fear just long enough to grip the smaller hand with the same care he used when sharpening his prized blades. At the very tip of one finger he allowed some of his true nature to flow, enough so that it would only cause a pinprick of pain if the boy wasn't receptive and enough to activate the blood if the boy truly carried that part of him.

The moment it touched Peter's skin, it didn't burn. Didn't leave him with the blackish bite of ice that even the most revered of healers couldn't reverse. Instead, his son's skin turned the exact shade of blue and traveled, traveled, traveled up his neck and to his face and though Peter was too enraptured with his own transformation to draw his gaze away, Loki knew his brown eyes had bled into a harrowing crimson.

He approaches the Casket of Ancient Winters, sweat on his brow and hands clasped behind his back so he does not see them quiver. It’s stored in the vaults, locked and guarded away with the rest of the spoils of war Odin had championed in the years of his reign. Yet, it’s the Casket that undulates and glows and beckons him forward as it whispers things he does not understand and spikes a cool streak of ice in his chest that he feels belongs there.

Loki grasps its carved silver handles and lifts.

“Stop!”

He stops, but he doesn’t turn. He stops, and he’s frozen; it’s become so hard for him to breathe.

“Am I cursed?” he asks.

“... No.”

A lie.

“Then what am I?”

Odin’s voice fills the chamber with a calming baritone: important, grounding, everything a King should and ought to be. “You are my son.”

Another lie.

Loki turns, the blue receding from his skin as the rush of cold siphons out of him, leaving behind a scorching anger that boils his blood red. “What more than that?”

Loki drew in a shaky breath and let go.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done this to you, I..."

Peter's skin faded back to its usual hue at the break of contact. With that, his attention snapped back to his mother, both excited and confused. "It's okay! It's actually pretty cool, but, um, what was that?"

"That is..." Monstrous. Beastly. Savage. "... a story for another time, I believe. If that is alright with you."

"Yeah, no biggie. This must be a lot for you, so I don't mind." Peter picked up his rice bowl and smiled sheepishly, the heaviest brunt of the conversation past them. "We should eat, though. I think our food's gone cold. Do you want me to heat your's up too?"

Loki smiled slightly. "No thank you. Go ahead and heat up your meal."

As the boy wandered into the kitchen area, Loki allowed his mind to drift. Truthfully, if they had not shared the same Jotunn skin he might have shed his doubts on their relation because... well, because how could he, Fallen Prince, Traitor of the Peace Between the Realms, Dead God Walking, have been blessed with a bairn whose self shone brighter than the stars studded in the blanket of Yggdrasil?

He glanced out the window and down into the rush of the Manhattan night. Orange lights danced on the streets and people milled on the sidewalks like a colony of ants. He promised his son that he would not destroy his world and who was he if he would not keep his sworn promises? 

No, whatever Peter asked of him he would do, because there was nothing that would ever matter more than to keep him safe and sound.

I would do anything for you, Peter.

Whether it be to die,

Loki looked up as Peter slid back into his seat with his steaming bowl, and smiled.

whether it be to kill.

"Tell me more about yourself," he said, taking the seat closest to the boy and folding his arms over the table. "I have already missed so much."

Chapter Text

"So spiders are ectotherms, right? They need to get their body heat from external sources or else they run the risk of dying when water freezes in their cells, and the resulting ice crystals can damage things like the cell membrane and other structures. But did you know that some spiders have adapted different ways of actually surviving the cold?"

Peter turned his sticker-covered laptop around, granting Ned a full view of the screen and the various spiders that popped up on the google images search for 'arctic spiders.'

"So there's two strategies where they can do this: freeze-tolerance and freeze-avoidance. Different species can use both, switch between them, can only use one or the other—point is, any combination is possible. Freeze-tolerance is where ice crystals can form outside the cell and lower the freezing point of cellular fluids. This happens in invertebrates, mostly, especially in a lot of marine species and bugs and some of them can survive as low as -70°C! Um, which is like... somewhere around -90°F? About?"

Ned nodded, laser-focused on the pictures in front of him. "Uhuh."

"But in freeze-avoidance," Peter continued as he waved excitedly towards the screen, "which happens way more in vertebrates and spiders, is where water can be supercooled to -40°C, also weirdly -40°F, without forming any ice at all! And some arctic insects can even have 25% of their body weight be made up of anti-freeze compounds that have quick switching between active and inactive states, reduces water loss, and can be helped by freeze-tolerance. But the supercooling to -40°F is pretty much theory with a few rare exceptions as far as I could find, and the range for the most tolerable temperatures the body can handle is about from freezing to -4°F. And that makes a lot of sense because if intracellular freezing actually happens, it just plain results in the death of the organism."

"Right."

"Right. So." Peter leaned over the laptop to type 'wolf spiders' into the search bar and pressed enter. "The Pardosa species are wolf spiders that jump on their prey, and there was this study on the Pardosa groenlandica—found in places like North America, Russia, Greenland—where they tested how cold-hardy they were. Their supercooling point was about 14°F and they could still move just a little below freezing which is amazing considering they can't, you know, thermoregulate."

His friend nodded emphatically. "Spiders are awesome."

"Spoken like a true genius. But! Keeping all this in mind—you remember how we were so sure that the spider that gave me my powers was some sort of jumping spider, probably from the Salticidae jumping spiders family because of the proportionate strength thing and the general sticking-to-walls-because-setules thing?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I actually want to tweak our hypothesis. A bit." Peter started to pace the room as Ned eagerly watched from his spot at the desk. "I think Oscorp found a way to cross-breed a Salticidae spider and a Pardosa spider, or at least cross-engineered some genes, then ran a bunch of weird experiments and induced way too many mutations on the offspring, and one of the probably few offspring that survived those trials was the one that bit me."

Ned crossed his arms. "You lost me." A finger pointed to the laptop screen. "While the cold-surviving stuff was cool, what kind of basis do you have to make you think it could be part of the spider that got to you? I mean, it's not like any of that applies to you, right?" When his best friend said nothing, he gasped. "Oh. My. God. Do you have new powers? Does Spidey have new powers?!"

"Uh... I don't think it's Spidey that has the new powers. It's—I was trying to figure out the spider thing because I don't think the mutation could've survived in my body if the spider wasn't able to survive super cold temperatures."

Peter glanced at the open door, knowing May was out for a co-worker's birthday and wouldn't be back until sometime after he left for his shift that night. It was just him and Ned in the apartment this chilly Saturday, but he couldn't help but feel a little jumpy, no pun intended.

Loki had actually been... really nice yesterday? He asked Peter about his school, his interests, his friends, and whenever Peter asked questions of his own, Loki would either give straight answers or admit that he couldn't answer some of them right now. He liked that about his mom, that she said she didn't want to talk about certain things instead of coming up with a bold-faced lie which he didn't really expect from, well, the God of Lies.

"Okay, what I'm going to tell you right now doesn't leave this room because I don't know when or how I'm telling May or anyone else."

Ned leaned forward, almost toppling out of his seat. "I will take it to my grave," he whispered fiercely.

Peter cast one last look into the hallway before he ducked down. "Thursday I met my mom for the first time. She found me at my job and walked me home after. Yesterday after AcaDec I met up with her and we had this whole conversation and long story short, she's an alien from off-earth and she's the reason why my skin turns blue when I touch something way below freezing and why I don't feel as cold as I used to—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on—"

"—so I think she has these ice or cold based powers? Talking about it made her uncomfortable so I didn't get a lot of info, but she said she would tell me about it later on and honestly, the spider mutation had to have been able to deal with subzero temperatures and not stay dormant if I still have all Spidey's powers right besides being blue, right?"

Ned full on gaped at him, and he was kind enough to let his friend take a moment to be like a sponge and soak. He wanted to ease into this whole My-Mom-Was-The-God-That-Destroyed-New-York thing real slow because anything more might make his best friend's head explode, and he wasn't sure how many people Loki was comfortable with knowing the truth, and that was sort of one of the questions he'd asked last night.

"Wait, if everyone thinks you're dead, does that mean Thor also...?"

"Thor?" Loki's face holds an odd twist—regretangerresignation—before it smooths out, and he scoffs. "It will be for the best if my oaf of a brother continues to believe I am no longer among the living."

Peter doesn't understand the decision at all but it isn't his call to make, so he nods and finishes the rest of his rice bowl.

"Let me just... Clarify this for me." Ned held up his index finger. "Your mom is an alien. From space."

"Yeah."

A middle finger comes up to join the first. "Extremely low temperatures make your skin turn blue, and that's from your mom's side because she has some sort of ice power."

"Definitely on my mom's side, iffy about the power being ice-based."

The ring finger followed. "My best friend's an alien."

"Half-alien," Peter corrected, and in the next second he realized how crazy he sounded. "As far as I know, Richard Parker was completely human and he's definitely my dad."

"I think I'm gonna pass out," Ned commented faintly. He blew out a deep breath. "Spider-Man's half-alien."

"If you keep repeating that you're going to make me freak out." Peter flipped onto the ceiling and kept pacing as he ran his hands through his hair. "Oh my god, I'm half-alien."

Was god a weird saying now?

"Wait, wait, how long has this cold thing been going on?" Ned asked. He spun his chair back towards the laptop, narrowing his eyes at all the spiders that littered the screen. "You definitely still felt the weather last winter and your alien half could be latent because of Earth's atmosphere, making your human side dominant in this environment?" He sighed. "Oh man, this is insane and we're so not qualified for this," he mumbled under his breath. "But when did you start noticing that you were changing?"

"Uh..." Peter rubbed the back of his head. "Since... Since I destroyed Coney Island?"

"Dude."

"I didn't know anything was wrong! The blue thing happened what, less than a week ago? Everything went everywhere way too fast and I don't know what I'm going to do about it." He hopped back down to the floor and flopped onto his bed with a groan. "Mom's probably going to help with all of it after she tells me the whole story."

"Text me immediately when you find out and I'll make a google doc about your life, I swear." Ned hummed. "So what are you going to tell Mr. Stark?"

"Mr. Stark?" Peter shot back up into a sitting position. "Who said I was going to tell Mr. Stark any of this?"

"You're not going to tell him?" Ned's voice climbed a pitch higher. "Are you crazy?!"

"He doesn't need to know," Peter countered. Especially if Mr. Stark decided to poke around or even decide to meet his mom, which wasn't likely but he wasn't going to start taking any chances. All the Avengers must have had a pretty good idea about what Loki looked and acted like, and both Lora and Loren might be similar enough to be suspicious. He was more than willing to give his mom a chance, but he couldn't say the same about everybody else. "Besides, he's way too busy to have to worry about some high school kid who turned out to be a little less human than usual."

Ned's brow creased. "Peter..." The old android on the desk let out two short buzzes and he picked it up, reading the pop-up as he handed Peter his phone. "You are so lucky you have a text right now."

Ms. Domino: meet me in front of the bar tomorrow at noon. we're going to the range [3:13pm]

"But who's Ms. Domino?"

"She's one of the regulars at the House." Peter tapped out a reply, one short 'range?' because he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "Uh, you remember Wilson? That one guy I told you I've been going to the gym with?"

"The ex-military guy who wanted to teach you self-defense?"

"Yeah. She's one of his friends and I got her number for emergencies."

(Peter didn't think about how it had been easier to keep the whole truth. From Ned. From May.)

His phone buzzed again.

Ms. Domino: fucking wade [3:14pm]

Ms. Domino: I shouldnt be surprised he didnt tell you [3:14pm]

Both him and Ned jumped when the phone let out a series of long buzzes, and when the contact photo of chicken wings took up the screen along with a green answer button and a red decline button, he tapped the green button and held it up to his ear.

"H-Hello?"

"Ferret, hey." Ms. Domino's voice rang in his ear along with the sound of distant traffic. He leaned back when Ned leapt up and tried to listen in. "Got a second to chat?"

"Uh, sure! What's up?"

'What's she saying?' Ned mouthed. Peter flapped his hand.

"Wade mentioned once or twice that he's been teaching you how to fight. Which is good, by the way. You should be learning how to fight anyway if you're sticking with your job at the Hellhouse." A horn beeped in the background. "I know he's out on a job right now, so I thought I'd lend a hand and bring you by. He was happy about it; I can talk more about it tomorrow. You free?"

"I have something at eleven, but I should be done around then?"

"Had a feeling you would. See you then?"

"Yeah, no problem! Bye, Ms. Domino!"

"Later, Ferret."

Peter hung up and turned around to see Ned with his hands over his head and an incredulous look on his face. "What?"

"What do you mean what? Are you, are we seriously not going to have any conversation about how you're friends with a real sketch ex-military dude and his probably equally as sketch friend?!" Ned sputtered. "What—What did she say?"

"She wanted to help me train? I think?" Peter shook his head. "I still don't really know what she meant but uh, I'm meeting her tomorrow."

Ned sighed. "Young man, we should talk about the types of friends you're making."

"Oh shut up. Hello? Alien things? More pressing matters of the third kind?"

::

On Sunday, Peter booked it to Sister Margaret's.

Two cars nearly ran him over and he almost tripped over his shoelaces four separate times before he skidded to a stop right in front of the wall Domino was leaning against, one hand in her black jean jacket and the other scrolling through something on her phone.

"Am I-I, la...?" He sucked in a few gulps of air. This is what he got for deciding to run the entire ten-ish miles it took to get to the bar. On the upside, he learned that he could run ten miles in twenty minutes if he still wanted to be going at kinda-human speeds. On the downside, there were literally so many people in New York that most of his energy was spent dodging bodies and lining up his timing with crosswalks and streetlights. Dang, why didn't he just swing over? "Am I late?"

"You're actually right on time," she smiled. Wait, was he really right on time? Not a minute late? Man, his life must be starting to fall apart.

"Super weird, but I'll take it," he sighed. Peter drew in another deep breath before falling into step to her right. Her curly updo was styled into a mohawk and her black timbs looked pretty warm, and it was already different than walking alongside Wade. Wade was always loud and expressive—he found a way to make his mask project more feeling than a silent movie actor and appeared just the right amount of crazy for most of everyone to give him nothing more than a passing glance and a step or two of extra space on the sidewalk. With Ms. Domino, not a single person they passed gave them the time of day, and it made him wonder how many of them knew just how many mercenaries they brushed shoulders with on a day to day basis. "Also, hi. Hope you had a good day so far."

"Not the worst, can't complain. You ready for an exciting day?"

Peter laughed nervously and tugged his jacket sleeves over his hands. "I... still don't know what to expect, honestly. You're going to teach me how to fight too?"

"Nah, like I said, I'm taking you down to the range. It's on the same block as the gym Wade probably takes you to and lots of regulars at the Hellhouse swing by, so don't be surprised if you get recognized," Domino said, pointing down the street. "I think we'll stay for a couple hours, or at least until you can shoot close to the X's I draw on the target—"

His face scrunched up as he caught his breath and mentally ran through her explanation. Ranges, targets, shooting...?

When realization hit, it felt like the time he was slammed into the side of a school bus. But with this one word came to mind—one name—and for a moment, the world around him fizzled out.

Ben.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no," Peter stammered, swinging around so that he stood in Domino's way. They stopped at the far edge of the sidewalk, near one of the alleys and out of commuters' ways. "I don't do guns, sorry. Like, yeah, I'll help Mr. Weasel stock and inventory with all the shipments and stuff, but I draw the line at using them. No thank you, no sirree, but sorry. I can't. Won't."

Well, Domino did feel a little bad hearing his refusal. Ferret was no older than twenty and even if no one else at the Hellhouse knew his real name or age, he never tried to hide his looks or change the way he talked. Baby-faced. Awkward. Thought Beetlejuice was an old movie. He would've been the best kind of fresh meat the Hellhouse would have run out if he wasn't so damn friendly to everyone he met. And not to mention that Wade deigned him the title of 'taco buddy' and that Weasel practically wrote 'off-limits' on the kid's forehead.

And, yeah, Domino liked him too, she wasn't going to lie. Ferret was respectful, never forgot her order, kept a good sense of humor, and took to Sister Margaret's as easily as the rest of them.

(Sometimes that last fact never made much sense to her, but there had to be a reason he'd been able to hold the job for months without cutting his losses.)

"I get it." She stuffed both hands in her outer jacket. "Guns aren't for anyone, but someone in your position doesn't get a say in that."

"My position?" he parroted. "Wh—What do you mean? You know I'm just a dish boy! And sometimes waiter. And Dead Pool board changer. And the guy who knows how to use all the tools in the tool box."

"And also someone who works around mercs on the daily and just happens to be the only other person that has full access to records, receipts, and the Gold Card machine," Domino countered. Peter winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're not the dish boy, you're Weasel's assistant, and that means you get both the good shit and bad shit that comes with it."

He blinked rapidly. "Good stuff like getting fr-free food on my breaks?"

"Good shit like having a certain level of immunity in the East Coast," she noted dryly, watching the teen's face go pale. "Suppliers, brokers, dispatchers—people like that are neutral grounds with loyal regulars that'll kill anyone who puts hits out on their heads." She sighed, planting her hands on her hips. Of course. "I can't believe Weasel didn't tell you any of this."

"Maybe it was im-implied," he squeaked. "He's—I—Oh man. People really think I'm Mr. Weasel's assistant?!"

"You think someone who literally operates on caffeine, alcohol, and paranoia just lets any random kid handle the merchandise and write up job reports? As far as anyone's concerned, the fact that you survived this long means you're either important, indispensable, or both, and that's a dangerous place to be in."

"But I..." He dropped his face into his hands— "I just wanted a job that paid well."

And now she felt worse.

One look at Ferret and it was obvious that he was just a normal kid. And even by some weird stroke of fate that he wasn’t normal, that didn’t change the fact that he was still a kid. Weasel hadn’t taken up the mantle at his bar until his early twenties, Wade had an extensive military history prior to his mercenary job, and her status as a mutant had landed her in that fucking orphanage. But Ferret? Sometimes he did his homework on his breaks and wore shirts with math puns and Star Wars characters.

How could she, in good conscience, just sit around and let that innocent kid get caught up in something way bigger than him?

Domino set a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. "Listen, Ferret. Maybe you didn't sign up for this whole shebang, but you're in it for the long run and when it comes down to it, you're going to want to be the one behind the gun instead of in front of it."

Peter slid his hands down his face and inhaled. Why didn't he think this was coming after all those weeks of Mr. Weasel teaching him how to disassemble and reassemble guns to make sure they had all their parts in working order, conduct maintenance, and scan for anything like planted mics or cameras? Since then, Spider-Man had never been more efficient in unloading guns and separating slides from their barrels.

But to actually shoot them? Spider-Man would never shoot anyone.

Peter Parker would never shoot anyone.

"I... I don't..."

"I'm not telling you to learn fancy tricks or to start keeping a gun on you every second you're working your shift," she told him quietly. "I wanted you to be able to use the guns I know Weasel has taped under the bar so you get less of a chance to end up dead."

"But you—you said I had immunity, right? At least here on the East Coast?"

It was a weak excuse at best, and he wasn't dumb enough to not know how things like this worked. Immunity didn't mean invincibility, and just because he was sort of safe in New York didn't mean he was safe from the mercs and their associates from everywhere else on the globe.

Killing people was an international business. But who knew, right?

Domino smiled, pityingly, and Peter tried not to slump his shoulders. "The bad shit? Your position gives you connections that can make or break you. The world's not that big of a place for people like us and if there's ever gonna be a target on your back, you have to be ready." She patted his back. "It'll be better if you learn now. Be prepared. But if you want out before you get sucked in completely, I know Weasel and I can pull some strings before you get in so deep you can't get out."

She looked him right in the eye. The intensity made him look away.

"So," she prompted. "What'll it be?"

Choices.

Somehow, Peter always found himself making impossible ones.

It probably started with Ben and the mugger and when his powers made him feel strong, powerful, arrogant. His body made the choice for him that day: to freeze and lock up, to force his eyes to follow the blood spray that erupted from his uncle when he was shot at that bodega. Peter unwittingly made that choice to be useless and watch Ben die.

His enhanced hearing forced him to listen to May crying all alone for the months that followed.

Maybe the next choice had been to keep going out in the first rendition of his suit. Night after night it was metal bats to his ribcage and crowbars to his knees, and he would sneak back into his room in the early mornings hiding cuts and bruises and learned to sew his own stab wounds, curled up in the bathtub as he bit down on a dish towel to stop himself from crying out too loud. That was also when he started funneling his savings into more rubbing alcohol, more bandages, more thread from closest CVS.

(Don't get hit in the face, he would unconsciously chant. Not the face. Not the face. Don't let May see. Don't make May cry.)

The most recent of those choices had landed him in deeper water and almost had him drowned. He was told not to go after Adrian Toomes, not to go poking around Adrian Toomes, not to even look at Adrian Toomes. And then what did he do? He got crushed under a building that no one could save him from and crashed a plane surrounded by fire, fire, fire and the brain-numbing shrieks of metal wings.

He shouldn't be surprised he ended up in a place like Sister Margaret's.

Whenever he made his choices, he never picked the easy ones.

"... I'll go," Peter said, and the words were tired on his lips. "But I'm serious okay, Ms. Domino? I'll practice if I really need to but I'm not going to shoot anyone, not now, not ever."

They started walking down the sidewalk again, a small smile on Domino's face and an unreadable look in her eyes. "Then let's hope it doesn't come down to that anytime soon."

::

Domino was thoroughly stunned.

When they reached the range, a building with no sign, barred windows, and the glass door slathered in all sorts of taped papers and ads. A Sister Margaret's regular named June had been there to greet them; she was middle-aged, hid serrated knives in the stilettos of her heels, and always brought banana bread down to the bar whenever she made too much.

June greeted them with a friendly grin and pointed them to a private range with a single lane but double the space, perfect for their use and had all the appointments on it cancelled for the day, lucky for them.

Domino was going to use today to start Ferret off easy. They would stick to handguns like double-action revolvers and semi-automatics, and while her preferred poisons were her twin SMGs, she always carried around her trusty Tisas Zigana. After earlier, she didn't think the kid would grow to have any gun preferences, and she made a note to talk to Weasel about his aversion to shooting.

So when they actually got down to target practice after she hammered basic gun safety into him until he could recite it back to her word for word, and she expected him to be just like any green-nose. Shit aim, stiff posture, clammy hands...

Strangely, Ferret was none of those.

Right off the bat, he’d become her favorite student despite being the only student she’d had. He paid attention, asked lots of questions, and never pretended to know something when he so clearly didn’t. And maybe there was a bit of an excess in the questions aspect, especially when they got to the part about safety and he had a minor freak out about actually taking aim and pulling the trigger, but all things considered he handled it like any other nervous teenager would’ve.

The first twenty or so rounds, he squeaked a ‘sorry’ when he missed his targets and Domino tried her best not to discourage him with her chuckles.

But after that, she fell into a daze when the gun started to look like it was a perfect fit in his hands.

And when they left the range three hours later, Domino had barely gotten over her shock.

"You're telling me you've never shot a gun before? Ever?" she balked. "Sure you used up your whole first mag trying to figure that out, but after you got damn near close to every 'X' I marked up. Hell, you even shot a bullseye at least five times."

Ferret's cheeks flushed pink as his shoulders hunched up over his ears. "Aw come on, Ms. Domino. It's probably just beginner's luck."

"Bullshit. Don't sell yourself short—I call it as I see it, and you've got talent." She nudged him with her elbow until he cracked a smile. "After we get in a few more practices, I'll start bringing you to those carnival shooting galleries. You know the ones with the ducks?"

Ferret brightened. "Do mercs go to a lot of carnivals?"

"Like the ones with creepy clowns, mirror mazes, and grimy port-a-potties? All the time. We've got the ring-toss locked down." Ferret laughed, listening eagerly. "But I once had a job that sent me to Brazil, smack-dab in the middle of the Rio Carnival."

"That's awesome! Was it worth all the hype? Were there a ton of people? I heard it was like college Spring Break except there's like, a billion more people and a parade that's supposed to rock your socks off. Oh! What about the beach? Did you go to the beach?"

"Better. I went scuba-diving at Copacabana and accidentally blew up a cocaine transport."

He gasped, his eyes going starry as he bounced on his heels as they waited at a crosswalk. "That's. So. Cool."

Ferret's an easy to kid to please, and an even easier kid to hang around. She didn't have a lot of experience with kids outside the Essex House for Mutant Rehabilitation, but she knew a lot of them didn't turn out like him. She couldn't even remember the last time she met someone in the business who was cheerful, polite, and sane, yet Ferret was all three while somehow managing as Weasel's assistant.

And that wasn't even mentioning his age. Christ, how old was he, really?

"You hungry?" she asked. "I'm in the mood for a good burger and I know a great place in Queens. My treat."

"Wh—Really?"

"Yeah, gotta celebrate a successful first practice day—"

"Peter?" a new voice cut in.

Ferret stopped in his tracks. All the color drained out his skin in a second and his eyes were wider than she'd ever seen them; for a moment she thought he'd honestly been turned into a statue by an invisible Medusa before he whipped around, holding his hands behind his back and sticking on a strained smile.

"M-May!" he exclaimed. "What are—What are you doing here?"

Domino followed his gaze. A pretty older woman with glasses and a pea coat approached them, clutching a purse at her side as she waved.

"I was getting some late lunch with some of my co-workers when I saw you pass the restaurant. I thought you were at the library to study for a bit." The woman looked at Domino and held out her hand. "Hi! I'm May, Peter's aunt."

Peter, huh? It fit.

She saw Ferret's—Peter's—visible panic from the corner of her eye and donned an easy smile as she took May's hand and shook. "Neena."

"She's, uh, we work together at the pub," Peter interjected. He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket and of course his aunt wouldn't know he got hooked up with one of the shadiest if not the shadiest business in the city. It was common sense.

But he could use some work on his lying skills. A little. A smidge.

A lot of smidges.

"I ran into him when he was leaving the library, and I thought I'd take him out for a bite to eat after all that studying," she added, taking pity. "He's a smart kid. A real sharpshooter in his work."

Peter glared at her over his aunt's shoulder and Domino held back her smirk—what happened to him liking puns?

May smiled wider, oblivious. "Isn't he? I know he's still in his sophomore year at his high school—"

All of Domino's humor was wiped out in an instant.

"—but I'm glad he's been making friends at work. I've been so worried."

"May," Peter whispered, equal parts flustered and mortified. "Uh, um, I don't, uh, want to keep you from your break, so, uh..."

May rolled her eyes and took Peter's face in her hands to pull him in and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Alright, alright, you're trying to shoo away your embarrassing aunt. I can take a hint." She reached up to tousle his hair. "Don't stay out too late, okay?" She looked at Domino again. "And it was so nice to finally meet one of Peter's work friends."

"Nice to meet you too," Domino bid, and she watched as May gave one last wave before heading back towards the restaurant she'd come from.

For a moment, she and Peter stood there in silence. He looked at the ground and she was looking at him because...

Because fuck. She knew he was young, she knew it, there was no way he wasn't, but he was still a fucking baby. He wasn't old enough to drink, to vote, to enlist, to do fucking anything, and he was working with Weasel.

God, he was working with Weasel. Did Wade know? And if he did, how the hell did Weasel make it out of that conversation without at least six broken bones and a shattered kneecap? Wade or Deadpool, regardless of who the dick decided to show up as, made it abundantly clear that any kid business wasn’t his business and he avoided the younger Gold Card clients like the plague.

Then Ferret showed up out of the blue.

And now she had his real name, his age, and the name of a possible legal guardian.

'What can I say?' she thought solemnly. 'My luck's a superpower.'

But looking at this kid all nervous and scrunched up as they stood right by a busy sidewalk on a busy street, all she could think about was how small he looked.

She sighed and extended her arm. He jerked, brown eyes going from her hand to her face and when he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and she wondered how she was fooled into thinking he was anything older than fifteen.

"You can drop the 'Ms. Domino' when we're out by ourselves," she said. "Name's Neena Thurman."

With shaking hands, he gripped her's. "P-Peter Parker," he returned. He laughed quietly. "Er, I guess I'm really bad at this identity thing, huh?"

"We can work on it." Neena jerked her head down the street. "Come on. I'm starving and I could really use a well-done burger."

Peter blinked before scurrying after her. "Neena, you're so cool, but seriously? Well-done?"

They walked on that crowded street, side by side, in the middle of winter in Queens with the buzz of the busy street drowning them out.

Chapter Text

Peter shut the front door behind him with the heel of his foot and shucked off his jacket, tossing it onto the arm of the couch as he carded a hand through his hair. Spending the day with Ms. Domin—Neena, oh, wow, it was really Neena now, huh—had been a lot of fun. Less on the gun thing and his identity getting unintentionally outed by May, more on the burgers and stories he got to hear about her travels.

Being a merc sounded pretty cool if he completely ignored the whole point of the job, and he purposefully willed himself to not think about all the dead bodies traded in for stacks of cash.

(It bothered him in the beginning. Being surrounded by people with blood on their hands and guns tucked in their waistbands and spare magazines hidden in the linings of their winter jackets. But then he thought about how New York was just New York, and if he even tried to stop them all there would still be a million other people in a million other cities doing what he tried to stop.

Maybe it was a mistake figuring out that all the killers he knew were still people, too. But that was Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, and that was something Peter Parker could live with.)

He pried off his shoes without untying the laces and pushed them to the side of the doorway right next to May's nice tan heels, just shy of being a tripping hazard. As he shuffled to his room, he snatched a half-full bag of chips from the kitchen counter and popped a chip in his mouth as he pushed through his bedroom door. Maybe he'd take a look at his web shooters to see if they needed any—

"Did you take these photographs?"

" Holy —!"

The chips slipped from his grasp and his foot kicked out instinctively, sending them flying to the other side of the room in a rain of crumbs. Loki, watching the aluminum bag land with a crinkle with his hands clasped behind his back, raised a brow.

"Good evening, Peter," he greeted smoothly, a hint of amusement at the corner of his lips. "How was your day?"

"Oh, um, uh, good? How'd you even get in here?"

Loki kept his eyebrow raised.

"Right. Alien God. Dumb question." Peter took one look at the spilled chips on the carpet, thought about it, really thought about it, and resigned himself to shoveling them back into the bag. "Sorry, uh, what were you asking about?"

He glanced up, and Loki looked like Loren today. His walnut brown pants donned a faint windowpane pattern and matched the neatly-folded blazer draped across the back of the desk chair. His light pink button up was rolled and cuffed to his elbows with his wine red tie held down by a simple silver tie bar.

Brown hair, brown eyes, brown glasses.

Like this, Peter thought he could see a little bit of himself in his mother.

"The photographs you have posted on your wall." Loki gestured to the prints of sunsets and skylines taken at dizzying, impossible angles—Peter wondered if he could get away with saying he used a drone to snap those shots—and pointed to one in particular that was a clash of oranges and pinks and blues and golds. "Are they yours?"

"Yeah! Sometimes I like to walk around and take pictures with Ben's old camera. Uh, the scratched up Nikon next to all my books." The teen pushed as much of the bigger chips into the bag as he could before he strode over to his desk. He was careful not to think too much about how standing so close to his mother made his stomach feel light. "The model's, like, super old, but I was able to fix it up enough for it to work like brand new."

"Regardless of the apparatus you used, your images are magnificent. Well done."

Warmth shone behind that magic that turned Loki's eyes brown. Peter ducked his head to hide the flush in his cheeks.

"D-Do you take pictures like this on Asgard?"

"Asgard tends to root themselves in traditional art; portrait, sculpture, prose. Photography of this nature is one of mankind's better inventions that Asgardians hadn't the opportunity to take up. A shame, really, that we Gods do not think completely of a more proper preservation of memory." Loki unfurled his crossed arms. "Though... there is one I have kept all this time."

He reached into his blazer pocket and plucked out a slim black wallet, pristine with a small gold symbol shining on the bottom right-most corner. It barely cracked open when pale fingers pulled out a small photo, glossed and slightly worn around the edges. Peter peered down at it.

A baby with chubby cheeks. A gummy smile.

"Is that...?"

"You were six months old." Loki smiled a bit. "There were some nights when you could never manage to fall asleep no matter the sort of Midgardian playthings I had given you or whatever lullabies those compact discs sung. But the one thing that always ended in your enjoyment were the illusions I crafted to tire you out." His thumb ran across the picture. "Snakes were always your favorite."

Peter peeked up through the floppy fringe of his hair. When May talked about Lora for that short moment when she gave him the box, he thought it was obvious about the type of person his mother would be. Cold. Aloof. Intense. Maybe not to him, but definitely to everyone else. Even when they first met back at Sister Margaret's he thought Loki had probably once stabbed someone with a stiletto.

But now? With that faraway look he had when looking at that baby photo? Peter didn't see even a little of the God that destroyed New York.

(Or maybe he was just biased.)

"Snakes are pretty cool," Peter admitted quietly. Loki roused himself from wherever his head went to and cleared his throat.

"I would conjure slettsnok and huggorm —never the real sorts, though the buorm was your preference; little grass snakes that would curl around you as you slept." He tucked the photo into its rightful place in his wallet and slid it back into his blazer. "Do you keep any creatures of your own?"

"Nah, I don't know if I have the time to take care of one between school and work and decathlon and stuff. Plus I don't think the apartment allows any pets, even though I'm pretty sure Mr. Koval's got like, fifteen tarantulas in the apartment right above us." Peter stuffed a handful of previously-floor-chips into his mouth, missing the quick scrunch of disgust that flashed across his mother's face. "And when Wade gets back I'll be going to the gym again, and I think I have to fit time in with Neena some days? Oh geez, I forgot about that. I'll make it work. I just need a calendar I won't forget about? I'll make it work. Probably."

Loki tilted his head. "Neena?"

"She's one of Wade's friends."

"Ah, the elusive Wade." A picture had been building in his mind since the first mention of the man, someone loud and brash and violent. Some who, all too curiously, seemed to be a good friend of his child's. "I do hope for the opportunity to meet him."

"That should be fine since you already met Mr. Weasel, but, uh, don't mention this to May? Please?" Peter's smile turned sheepish, even a tad guilty. "She thinks I work at a pub and would freak if she found out I'm actually working at an Amazon for mercs."

With a mental note to look up Amazon later, Loki leaned forward. "Are you admitting to deceiving your aunt to participate in illicit affairs in a tavern where blood spilled onto your slacks is commonplace and where others come in to request killers that you, my young bairn , help assign to them?"

Peter blinked, trying to chew his chips as quietly as possible. Well, when it was put like that , "... yes?"

Loki grinned, amusement bright around his eyes. "Delightful." He raised a hand to place on one of Peter's shoulders, but paused for a moment before drawing it back and clasping it with the other behind his hip. "No need to delve in your worries. May will hear nothing from me."

"Do you, uh, do you want to meet up with May? You probably haven't seen her since, y'know..."

"Soon, perhaps." Loki looked back at the pictures tacked up on the wall. "But not now."

And Peter got that. Ever since May brought up the box and 'Lora Olstad' and how Mary had never been his biological mother all this time, they hadn't talked about it much. He wore the necklace every day and kept the box on the corner of his desk, and whenever May thought he wasn't looking he'd watch her stare at him, or the box, or both, and he knew that they'd have to bring it up again some day.

But he remembered how she got about Spider-Man and even if she told him that she'd come to peace with her spider kid, he also knew that on the nights he swung around the skylines were the nights she spent pressed up against the windows waiting for him to come home alive.

Now he was half a space alien whose mother used to be Earth's Most Wanted until their death was officially declared, except the death part wasn't true, and he worked at a mercenary dispatch and was apparently so deep in the mac and cheese that he had contract immunity on the East Coast.

There was no way in heck she'd be okay with any of this.

Loki hummed suddenly. "Ah, yes. I had another reason for my appearance besides checking on your well being." Out of his pressed pants pocket he took out a case-less smartphone. Not a StarkPhone. Yeah, Peter should've expected that. "Simply an exchange of a series of numbers, correct? Which will allow an open channel of communication between us?"

"Yup, pretty much. Here, I'll send a text to my number."

As Peter swiped open the phone and reminded himself to teach his mother about at least password security, he thought about installing all those programs and fixes he and Ned had worked into his own phone. He figured Loki would appreciate it too considering, well, he was still a criminal even if everyone else thought he was dead. Best to keep him off all potential lists and tell him about burners if things got serious.

"It'll take a week or something, but I can add a few bugs onto your phone. It'll notify you of any potential trackers, let you know if phone calls are being recorded, maintain a fake but believable GPS trail if necessary, and send out alerts to designated contacts if you put in a certain code in the keypad," he said, handing the phone back after feeling a short buzz in his back pocket. "And I got a list of prank numbers I can put in your contacts, so that's cool."

Loki observed the phone with a sort of quiet consideration. He couldn't have completely understood all that his son had just said, but after a beat he met those bright eyes and smiled. " Brilliant ."

(He hoped Peter knew he wasn't talking about the phones.)

::

"Belarus. Byelorussa . Belorussia . Bordered by Russia and Ukraine and Lithuania and Latvia with the darned cutest capital of Minsk, population one million—"

"Fucking alright, you want to bone Belarus 'til you snap the headboard, I GET IT." Weasel slammed down the glass he was wiping. "I haven't had a fucking geography class since tenth grade and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Oh sure, just because you got a degree in alcohol content—"

"It was a doctorate in computer science with a minor in software engineering, jerkoff—"

"—you think you're too good to hear about Belarus? Belarus ? That BITCH is CUTE you four-eyed manufacture error of a knock-off Ken doll!"

"What the hell does that even mean?!"

"Maybe she's born with it, Maybelline, but you'll never pull your honeyed locks over my eyes." Wade lifted his glass and threw it back in one gulp, Deadpool mask unpeeled over the bottom half of his face, before leaning over the counter and dropping his voice to whisper, pointing to the seat next to him in a way that was definitely subtle. "And be nice. Between you and me, I'm still tryna convince Josephine over here that she's in good hands."

"Good hands? I once watched you fish days old steak out of a dumpster, say that it was just like Rotten Flesh in Minecraft where the only possible consequence was 80% chance of hunger and losing a couple of hearts, then eat the whole thing."

"So?"

"You were late to a rendezvous point because you were organizing the chunks of your puke in the gutter."

"Wease, be honest. If I had hair like yours, would you have held it back for me?"

"Fuck off."

Weasel tosses the drying rag across one of his shoulders as he stores the glasses, passing the small clock under the bar that read 6:32 PM. It was Christmas Eve with still about an hour and a half until opening, and he hoped all the extra plates and glasses he stocked up would be enough to replenish all the broken ones that would come when one of these assholes would inevitably waltz in dangling a mistletoe.

Honestly, he was surprised that Wade wasn't the asshole that had it planned.

"What, and do it four years in a row?" the asshole in question huffed. "Please. I have class ."

"A Class A medical condition."

"Maybe so." The white eyes of the red mask narrowed. "But the only condition I'm suffering right now is HUNGER and I'm seven whole noodles away from going to the fucking falafel truck down the street—"

Peter's voice filtered out from the kitchen mixed in with the faint sounds of frying oil and clanging pans. "If you can survive the flight from Belarus to New York, you can wait another few minutes for me to finish!"

"Finish what ?"

"It's a surprise!"

Wade thumped his head onto the bar. "UggggggggggGGGHHHHHHHHHHH."

"Kid's been here for over a couple hours now. Rushed straight into the kitchen with an armful of grocery bags, so whatever he's been doing he should be done soon," Weasel shrugged. "Hey, Boy-Wonder! Why the hell're you coming in on Christmas Eve, anyway? I could've cleared you 'til you got back to school."

"Yeah, but I don't really have anything going on. My Aunt picked up a lot of the shifts people are giving up for the holidays and Spider-Man goes out in the day. Since I've already finished all my homework for winter break, I thought I'd help out."

"No friends to hang out with?" Wade piped up, his forehead still smooshed against the polished wood.

"I am hanging out with friends!"

"Friends your age, Gerber Baby."

"Ned's in the Philippines and MJ's in Florida."

"What about the Katie McGrath look-a-like?" Weasel asked as he was elbow deep in the unopened bottles of liquor to restock his shelves. Wade mouthed Katie McGrath look-a-like with two parts confusion and three parts sparkling interest before his friend waved him off in a motion for 'later'.

"She said she's walking me home after my shift today." Peter backed up through the swinging white doors of the kitchen and spun on his heel to face them. There were a few more stains on his apron and a tray in his hands that held the plates he slid down the bar.

Weasel stared dumbly at his plate of potato wedges and a really good looking chicken fried steak swimming in gravy. Wade was equally as quiet, goggling down at his own plate of a three chimichanga stack smothered in sour cream and beans.

"I didn't know what to get you guys for Christmas, so I hope it was okay that I made your guys' favorite food?" Peter piped up. His shoulders hunched when he didn't get a reply. "Um—"

Then, Wade straight up wailed .

" This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me! " He shoveled a bite into his mouth with his gloved hands instead of using the fork that was literally right there and sobbed even harder. "It's so good. So—" sniff — "good."

"What the hell is this?" Weasel mumbled. His hand gripped his chest like he was having a heart attack. "Am I feeling things? Oh god, I'm feeling things. It's not stopping. What the fuck? Wade—Wade, shoot me!"

Wade didn't shoot him. Instead, he didn't stop crying or eating and looked exactly like that meme of that kid on a cooking show flipping something with his tongs.

Peter grinned with what he took as success, or as much of a success as he was going to get, and thought about bringing down a new box of napkins from the store room because when Wade cries, he cries —tears and snot flying like the bullets from Space Invaders.

He glanced at the seat next to Wade and backtracked into the kitchen. "Oh yeah!" He popped back out in tandem with the outward swing of the door and presented a small bowl of cut grapes with a flourish. "How could I almost forget the lovely Josephine?"

Josephine the Blue Orpington Chicken Stolen From Belarus As A Souvenir clucked and pecked at her meal.

Wade drew in a huge sniffle as he stood up and whisked Peter in a great big bear hug, crying into the teen's shoulder and swinging him side to side.

"You're an angel," the merc sobbed, "like those tree ornaments when they hold their dumb little trumpets and—what the god-given fuck happened to your face?"

Three whole potato wedges in his mouth, Weasel raised his head.

When Wade finally set the kid down and he could get a good look, he first spotted the enormous bruise along one of Peter's cheekbones, splotches of angry reds and wine purples rudely decorating his skin. A cut hid on the side of his head, scabbed over and half-hidden by a curl of brown hair, and another bruise drew its unflattering yellow-green mass across his jawline. Several other faded lines dotted his face, more than likely fixed up by his enhanced healing, but the scrape across his nose and specks of dried blood on his forehead were clearly visible.

Peter shrugged as if his face didn't look like a messed-up church mosaic. "Just ran into something I wasn't supposed to. One of the dudes had muscles the size of my head and had a mean crowbar." He waved it off. "But it's healing! By noon tomorrow, my cheekbone should be just a little brown."

Weasel chewed and swallowed his ridiculously delicious potatoes. "You know this is fucked up, right?" He pointed with his fork. "If I were a good boss, I would say that you should at least be an adult to start getting crowbars to the face. But I'm not, so, you got the bad guy?"

"Heck yeah!"

"Huh. Hell of a Christmas gift, I guess. Good job."

Wade had just about sucked down his second chimichanga before pointing towards the kitchen. "Petey, get an ice pack or something. That face isn't a good look."

"But I'll heal—"

"Ice, child! Chop chop! Chip chop! Clip clop!"

Peter rolled his eyes, but he dragged himself back into the kitchen.

For the moment the kid—just a fucking kid —rifled through the freezers for ice that wasn't gross or smelled like meat, Weasel and Wade met each other's eyes. Uncharacteristically quiet, uncharacteristically serious.

Peter Parker. Some kid, wasn't he?

Wade inhaled the rest of his food before licking the plate clean and crouched down to dig through the duffel at his feet. The package he took out had been secured with about three rolls of duct tape and top-tier pizza wrapping, and when he dropped it on the bar, it landed with nothing more than a soft thud. Mostly from the weight of the duct tape.

He looked up. "Do you have any ribbons?"

"Do I run a fucking Hallmark?"

"I was just asking . Maybe you've got a couple bows hidden in a stash like the squirrely motherfucker you are—"

Peter slipped back into the main room holding a ziploc bag of ice chunks up to his cheekbone and plopped down on the stool at Wade's unoccupied side. He set down a stack of quesadillas in front of him, something he knew he could only get away with before Ms. Granny came in and demanded he eat something with more 'substance' to start the night.

"What do you need ribbons for?" he asked.

"For your Christmas gift."

"For my—huh?"

The pizza package was dropped on his lap and nearly slid off if he hadn't caught it between his knees. Peter forced down his bite of quesadilla and put down his ice bag. "You... You got me a gift?"

"You think I'd let my favorite taco buddy off without a gift from yours truly, the Pooliest?" Wade scoffed. He flipped his nonexistent hair over his shoulder. "Blasphemy! It's like saying Belarus isn't bordered by Russia and Ukraine and Poland and Lithuania—"

Weasel balled up his towel and chucked it right in the center of the merc's face. "The gift's from the both of us, by the way. He got it made, I chipped in and made sure it was Ferret-appropriate."

"I wouldn't have gotten anything Ferret-inappropriate!"

"Uhuh. Yeah. Sure."

But Peter only lent half an ear to the banter as he gently took the box in his hands and brought it closer, his lips quirked up at the realistic pepperonis.

Christmases with Ben and May had always been small. Not that he minded—they were warm and cozy and they always managed to put up a small plastic tree and strung up rainbow-colored lights all over the living room. He was never the kid with piles of presents to open Christmas morning, but rather the kid who got a present from Ben and May each and loved whatever they got him, whether it was that cool Star Wars sweater he'd seen at the comics store or a new Lego set he and Ned would drool over when they got the chance.

When he got a little older, he and Ned started to exchange gifts too.

When he was a little older than that and Ben passed, May and Ned were the only ones he'd get presents from and give presents to, and that was just how it was.

"—pen it!"

Peter shook his head. "Sorry, what?"

"You should open your gift!" Wade repeated. Josephine clucked and hopped onto the bar to inspect the shiny wood, sending Weasel skittering back a few steps. "Better do it before opening too, 'cause I think you'll agree that it's a big no-no to show the rest of Sister Margaret's assholes."

"Why the fuck did you phrase it like that," Weasel muttered as he eyed the chicken distrustfully.

Peter, always bright-eyed and always full of energy, could barely mask his excitement as he popped off the scotch tape at the weirdly neat folds and slid the box out of the wrapping paper. His boss was halfway to reaching for the jack knife he kept in his front pocket to help cut away the layers of duct tape surrounding the box, but he was stopped short as he watched the teen's fingers dig into the material and tear it away.

"Jesus fuck," Weasel gaped. "I know you're the mini-Hulk, but goddamn."

Beneath the gray tape was an oddly fancy black box, like one of those suit boxes from those high end stores.

A suit box. That wasn't quite wrong, actually.

Because when Peter took off the top of the box, his eyes grew impossibly wide.

It was a Spider-Man suit.

The material wasn't as thick or as rough as the Deadpool suit, less kevlar-ish and more suited to dodging and flexibility than Wade's favorite straight-into-the-salsa tactics, and was a solid bahama blue—dark enough to blend in with the night, bright enough to glare like a warning if hit with headlights or flashlights. The StarkSuit was worth millions, so it was no stretch of the imagination that the threads woven into it was made with some off-market fabric that was both knife and scratch resistant. This suit, this new suit, made up for its vulnerabilities with what had to be military-grade black padding that covered the upper biceps, elbows, forearms, backs of the hand, knuckles, knees, calves.

Then, there was the spider. Its cephalothorax started at his Adam's apple and its abdomen ended at the middle of his chest. The bottom set of legs ran down the sides of the suits' torso and ended just at the hips; the set of legs just above that ran along the collar bone down the outside of the arms, ending at the elbow pads. The top two sets of legs, however, reached around the neck and crawled down the back just past where the shoulder blades would sit.

A deep, carmine red spider.

"When we were talking the first time I took you by the gym, it got me thinking about that suit you always wear," Wade started up. "The StarkSuit must be pretty cool being Starkified and all that, but you shouldn't feel uncomfortable, so I went ahead and called up some peeps I knew—don't worry, it was totally off record, no questions asked at risk of losing their dangly bits—and got you this suit! Remember when Wease asked you to come in to get measured 'cause another merc your size needed a fitting? Yeah, so that was a lie."

"I had to bribe Wade with three bags of tacos to get him to admit what the hell I needed to do that for," Weasel deadpanned.

"Apparently 'for a good cause' isn't an explanation, which is bullshit because it is, but he should've believed me when I went ahead and got Super-Boy the best. Blue in HEX #006090, red in HEX #AE0020, I went on Google and everything! It's all yours to customize to what your little nerd heart desires—the PeterSuit 3000! Whattya' think?"

Peter tugged out the mask at the bottom of the box and took it into his hands. It was the same blue as the rest of the suit and the lenses were white, carmine red lining the edges.

It looked different from the StarkSuit. It felt different from the StarkSuit.

It wasn't the StarkSuit.

Tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

"... Oh my god he's crying. He's crying. I made him cry ." Wade grabbed Weasel's shirt and hauled him forward until they were nose to nose, the latter sputtering and the former failing to not panic. "I DIDN'T WANT TO MAKE HIM CRY."

"Let me fucking go—!"

"HE HATES IT!"

"Fucking—WADE—"

"Thank you," Peter sniffed. The commotion stilled as all the attention swiveled over to him and his tear-streaked face. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie, careful not to brush against the ugly bruises that throbbed as they healed. 

When he admitted his feelings to Wade about the StarkSuit, guilt came for him later that night. He had no right to complain, did he? Mr. Stark spent millions on a suit just for him and at first, it was great. More than great. Awesomely amazing! It was like he was at the top of the world swinging above the streets in the suit made by his life-long hero. But since the ferry incident and since the realization that the suit wasn't truly his , every single time he put it on it felt like it didn't belong.

Millions of dollars spent on just another teenager in Queens.

Don't get him wrong, he wasn't ungrateful! It had been a major upgrade to the old sweats he tried to pass off as a first suit. With the new safety measures, features, his very own AI and the friend he made in Karen... It was incredible.

But it was handed to him on a silver platter with things like the Baby Monitor Protocol embedded in the functions.

Maybe Mr. Stark would never see him as anything but a kid who could pick up entire cars, but Wade and Mr. Weasel...

He looked back at the new suit—the PeterSuit 3000, he thought with a watery chuckle, and tried not to get overwhelmed with tears.

"I love it," he chokes out. "I love it so much."

Peter wrapped his arms around Wade and buried his face into his bicep. And, faintly, he felt the hesitant, careful pats against his back as he held on.

::

"Hey, Happy. I know it's late, or early, but Merry Christmas!"

A quick flash of Peter's watch told him it was only a few minutes after 2:30 AM closing and his hearing granted him the knowledge that pretty much all of the patrons had cleared out for the night save for Wade and Mr. Weasel. Neena had stopped by around midnight just to say hi before heading out for a job that would keep her out of the city for a couple weeks. Before she left, though, he'd been able to give her a gift of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies and a to-go box of extra-charred chicken wings.

She cried only a little bit, then punched out the guy who called her out on it.

"Sorry if I haven't called in a while. I know I've been kind of off and on with reports after Spider-Manning but uh, I guess if it's in the day there's a better chance to catch me on Twitter or something like that. Do you have a Twitter?"

He convinced Ms. Granny to take an early off, especially since it was Christmas and she'd been telling him how her and her sister were going to spend it getting drunk and watching old sitcom reruns. So at around one when she was putting on her heavy coat, he gave her the gifts he'd hid on the highest shelf she couldn't reach: the softest throw blanket he could find and a 3-in-1 taser/switchblade/flashlight.

She laughed, planted a huge kiss on his cheek, and made him promise to get home safe.

"Anyway, I was thinking of stopping by the Tower one of these days? I just—I wanted to bake some things for you guys for Christmas? I get it if you guys are super busy this week with New Years coming up and any events you and Mr. Stark do, but, um, if you're totally okay with getting apple pie or fudge or something, let me know!"

Peter untied his apron with the hand that wasn't holding the phone and hung it on the hooks by the rear exit. In the main room he heard the front door open and close, the sound of heels on wood and Wade noisily turning his attention towards the newcomer. 

Politely tuning out the ensuing conversation, he ran a last check of the kitchen to make sure all the stove burners were off, the oven was cold, the fryers weren't bubbling, the fridges were shut, and all the dishes were washed, dried, and put away.

No blood stains, no food stains, no problem.

Peter nodded to himself and pushed through the swinging doors—

"So, no updates really, but—"

—and walked in to see his mom throw Wade across the bar and through the pool table.

Chapter Text

Loki traversed the cold streets back to that dilapidated building her son called a bar, her visage as Lora and a black three-piece suit donned beneath a dark green overcoat. The streets were practically deserted compared to the last time she visited, and the few stragglers that lingered near the entrance of the establishment were quick to scramble out of her way.

At least they had come to learn that valuable lesson.

Immediately upon stepping into the red light of the short hallway, her ears filled with incessant chatter. No, it was nowhere near the likes of the endearing ramblings of her dear heart, but more the incoherence of a madman in dire need of a muzzle.

She stepped into the core of the building and noted that the place was practically barren, the chairs stacked and the long sticks that were normally held over fuzzy green tables were lined up along the back wall in some semblance of an orderly fashion. The floor was swept, though somehow managed to maintain some of its notable grime, and there was still that tinge of ale and smoke lingerings that permeated the air. The barman—Weasel—tinkered with one of the electronics behind the long stretch of wood, and she spied the source of clanging vocal chords to be a man dressed in a red and black suit covering the entirety of his countenance.

"I just don't see the merit of there being a height limit on train-shaped roller coasters," the red man whined. "If I'm coming for Thomas the Spank Tank, I'm getting Thomas the Spank Tank—"

"If this is the conversation where I learn that you've secretly had a fetish for wanting to bone trains, I want to leave."

"I'm not saying I would like to fuck this blue train, but I do understand why people want to fuck this blue train. But we're getting off topic." He flapped a gloved hand. "I'm absolutely positively sure I can fit into one of those cargo-cart-seat-majigs."

"Your back would snap like a fucking folding chair."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. You know why I know that? I know that because I've seen your bones twist like a bendy straw when Professor X's thicc transformer went and—"

"God, I would climb that hunk like a tree."

"Alright Wade 'Whack-Off' Wilson, this is a no-splash zone—"

"So you are the infamous Wade," Loki mused. Her heels clacked against the wooden floor as she strode forward, taking the small pleasure of startling the barman into smacking his hip into something as he jumped and cursed. Wade, though, had not moved a hair's breadth until he spun in his stool, the white eyes of his mask blank as they settled on her. 

"That's one of my many deliciously applicable names," he greeted with a waggle of his fingers. "Feel free to wear it out, wash it on cold, hang it out to—" He leaned forward suddenly, tipping his chair— "wait one diddly-dang second! Almost-Katie-McGrath ?!"

"Who also seems to be full of inane comments, though I suppose I had no other background to sustain your preconceived image. Save for your penchant for violence and foolhardiness," Loki commented dryly. Sharp green eyes flashed over to the other man in the room, who gulped. "Weasel."

"Um." He swallowed and edged slightly to the side. "I-I don't think I ever got your, uh, name?"

"Lora Olstad, but Olstad should suffice enough for your tongue," she said, then turned her gaze at the humming of some misaligned tune. "I assume Peter is finishing up his duties?"

"Ye-Yeah, he's in the... back..."

"So you're really here for sweetie Petey-Pie, huh? He's a growing boy, you know, even if he's super short. I wonder if it's cause he drank 1% instead of 2%, and you know what they say about that 1%. They cripple this society and we should bust out the guillotines and eat the rich," Wade went on in that flippant way as the Weasel shrunk further away from the two of them. It was this sort of flippancy embodied by either an unsalvageable moron or someone that very well believed they could hold their own against the likes of herself. Ridiculous, truly, and though it would be in her better interest to put him in his place before his head swelled, she was only moments away from seeing her darling again. What damage could be done humoring this fool, even for a little while? "But if you're going to eat the rich you're gonna have to at least marinate them overnight. I bet they're chewy and bland and full of ick , if you Tokyo my Drift."

She cocked a brow. "I will admit that I am unsure whether or not this," she gestured to the general air of him, "is genuine, or an act. If it is the latter, then I will admit my surprise."

"Don't insult me," he huffed. "This? All of this ?" He gestured circles around his chest. "This is 100% Certified Angus Shithead, my suit-dressed associate, and you can trust me on that."

"Trust?" Loki repeated. She laughed, drew forward, and plucked the half-empty mug of ale and inspected it as she swirled it under the light. "You lot favor that saying 'I trust you as far as I can throw you,' though imagine how disappointed I came to be when I found my ability to throw you all around much, much further than I can even begin to trust you."

"Yeah?" Wade crossed one leg over the other and dropped his chin into his waiting hands, the picture of a bumbling idiot. "And how far is that?"

Loki smiled.

::

"—holystromboliHappyIgottagoMerryChristmasagaintellMr.StarkIsaidMerryChristmastoobye!"

Peter smashed the 'end call' button about ten times more than necessary as he rushed over to the bar where Weasel was standing half in fear and half in indignation over having to get a whole other pool table.

"What happ—"

"Is this genetic?" Weasel asked as he cowered beside the Gold Card machine. "It's gotta be genetic, right? Except you're a legitimate cinnamon roll and she's fucking Little Caesars CRAZY BREAD—"

"Uh—"

His boss pointed a shaking finger out toward the rest of the floor and, consequently, at Wade in a puddle of askew limbs and shattered wooden chips. Some fallen billiard balls made dents in the floor and rolled underneath a bunch of tables. "—but you BOTH managed to break the bar!"

Peter glanced at the off-brown wood planks he used to patch up that Wade-shaped hole in the floor that was definitely his fault and also definitely warranted. 

"Um, I can try to fix the pool table too?" he offered weakly.

"Peter," he hears, and he spun to meet Loki's smiling face. She was Lora today and that all black suit made her look like she should be the big boss in one of the largest buildings in the metro area. "A happy Christmas to you." She frowned and grasped his chin to tilt his head this way and that. "Norns, what has become of your face?"

Loki shot a frosty glare Weasel's direction as if the injuries were somehow his fault and honestly, the guy got way too much crap way too often and Peter was quick to jump to his boss' defense, even as the man slowly shuffled back and tried to disappear between the liquor bottles on the back shelves.

"I-I got into a fight before I came into work today!" the teen exclaimed, his insides fluttering in relief when her attention turned back to him and that intense spark slipped out of her green, green eyes. She raised a brow. "Seriously! These dudes were super beefy and decided to pick on the nerdy kid walking down the street, but it's cool. I took care of it."

He absolutely wasn't going to check if his boss was looking at him with judgy eyes, but he hoped no one was going to bring up a certain web-shooting vigilante in front of his mom. And it wasn't like he was trying to keep it a secret, it just... never came up?

"Really?"

"Yeah. I can totally hold my own, but Wade's been teaching me better techniques."

The red lump on the floor sat up in one smooth motion and pressed his clasped hands to his face. "And you're doing so well I'm gonna put so many stickers on your report card!"

"I have my doubts that this incorrigible buffoon is capable of teaching anything to anyone," she stated blandly without a single glance in the merc's direction, "but, you won your bout?"

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"Excellent." Loki retracted her hand after a moment's hesitation and clasped it behind her back. Weasel was still as far away from the chaos as he could manage and Wade started flicking green felt and splinters off his suit. "Are you ready to depart?"

Peter blinked. Right. The end of his shift. "Su-Sure! But..." He rubbed the back of his head and looked down, tapping a stray cue ball with the toe of his boot. "I'm probably going to stay a bit longer and help clean up."

"You know it's Christmas, right?" Weasel asked. He'd popped open the register to start poking through the night's earnings, but still maintained a healthy distance away from Loki and an even healthier distance away from what used to be the pool table. "Anyone that shows up later tonight can deal with the mess and shit and you've got the day off, no buts."

"Ha! He said butts ."

"Are you sure?" Peter frowned. "I don't have any classes and I planned on coming in the rest of the week anyway."

"Well if you're gonna be adamant on actually coming in this week, I'm definitely forcing your Barney and Friends ass to stay home. I mean it—I'll even make sure Sal doesn't let you step a single foot in her kitchen, and you know damn well she's got a mean ladle," he said. He made the mistake of looking at Loki, gulped, and looked back. "Go hang out with your family today, kid. Sister Margaret's not goin' anywhere."

When Peter smiled it was blinding, and he made a quick run to the break room for his backpack, jacket, and the suit box before skidding back to the main space; Wade was carving something into one of the bigger pieces of felt with his bowie knife, because of course he was, and the more Peter thought about it the more he was convinced the night could have played out way worse. 

He could've been mopping up blood spots again. Or gross-er, Deadpool guts.

"Bye, Mr. Weasel! Bye, Wade! Merry Christmas, and thanks for the gift!" he called out as he and Loki took their leave.

"Merry Christmas, Wonder-Boy. Have fun with your mom," Weasel returned with a lazy wave.

Wade thunked his bowie blade first into the floor beside him and unfolded the snowflake of geometrical dicks he just made. "Bye, Petey! Bye, Almost-Katie-McGrath-Who-I-Should-Start-Calling-Olstad! Merry Chr—" He whipped his head to the side. "Mom? MOM ?!"

::

"Any future endeavor that I am cursed to tolerate that dimwit’s presence would be a moment far too soon," Loki drawled as they strode through the snow-laden morning. A thin, icy sheet of snow layered the sidewalk and Peter admitted he had to cheat to keep himself from slipping. After last time, which came for him out of nowhere and started the line of dominoes that ended with a really jacked up ancestry-dot-com surprise, he couldn't really afford eating asphalt and catching himself on something cold so that someone could see him turn blue . But his mom didn't seem like she was having any problem on any ice patch with those scary tall heels. He guessed otherworldly entities had amazing balance?

"That's what half the people that meet him think, but he's a good guy," he told her. He tipped his head. "Er, mostly. Kinda. At least when we hang out? He's my friend though—him, Neena, Ms. Granny, and Mr. Weasel."

Was it weird that now the majority of his friends were old enough to be his parents? 

"In that case, and only that case, I will refrain myself from exacting extreme bodily harm." There's a sort of humor in the quirk of her blood red lips, and with her long black hair slightly curled and spilling over one shoulder, she was a picture of promise and threat. He couldn't help wondering how someone like him could have a mom as confident as her. Intimidating. Articulate.

He wondered if he could get her interested in science, like him.

She slowed to a stop about a block away from the bar and directed him to a short alleyway with a light guiding of his shoulder. Her eyes roved up the walls and all around them and his gaze followed—no cameras, no people.

Her grip tightened. 

"Bend your knees," she said.

"Wh—"

In reality it lasted for one single second, but to him it felt close to one single lifetime the way the ground beneath him gave way and the world shifted in color and void and bright and dark all under a haze of glowing green before his feet were back on something stable and the frosty air resumed its fanning against his skin.

Peter immediately squatted down into a crouch and once he was at a reasonably low height, fell back to sit with his legs kicked out and both arms outstretched like he was bracing himself against nothing.

"Th-That was... was a lot," he muttered faintly as Loki immediately knelt down beside him. "Oh man, that was a lot. What was that?" He turned his head, his gaze landing on the tops of street lamps and roof ledges covered in snow sheen. "And where are we?!"

"The roof of your apartment complex. I had... believed it best to return you home as quickly as possible, as it is very late and the weather conditions are not at their best." She grimaced and pressed a cool hand against his forehead, so cool in fact she refused to process that both her palm and the skin she touched were beginning to darken to the exact same shade of winter. Careless, careless, careless —what had she been thinking? He was still part human and she didn't know the extent of what magicks he could and couldn't handle. "I—As you are my child, I did not believe that you would have such an adverse reaction to my seidr. I am truly sorry, I... I did not account for this egregious oversight that inflicted this on you—"

Peter's hands reached up to grab hers and saw her eyes steeped in a panic and fear she tried hard to reign in. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, it's not your fault. It's uh, it's just a thing that happens with me sometimes," he explained. "Every once in a while my senses get really sensitive, like, lights get too bright, sounds get too loud, things like that. The teleporting thing just caught me off-guard." He offered her a genuine smile though the edges of his vision were still a little bit woozy. "Also, teleportation ? That's so awesome."

Loki exhaled softly and took a seat beside him. "Still, my deepest, most genuine apologies. I will not let it happen again."

"It's okay!"

It wasn't, but she didn't think he'd let her speak on it for longer.

"Also, I was going to lead up to this on our walk back, but since we're already here..." He swung his backpack into his lap and right on top of the suit box and dug for two things, one small-ish box wrapped in red and green polka dots, and one clear bag holding star-shaped maroon brownies. "You probably don't celebrate Christmas, but I hope you don't mind that I got you gifts anyway!"

Blankly she took the gifts, each easily cradled in each hand. Gifts on Asgard were never so novelly wrapped. Should she be given books or swords or garments cut from the finest cloth, she had always been handed straight to her by Frigga or Odin or left in her rooms by the near hundred servants employed in the palace.

She took a strand of ribbon between the pads of her fingers and tugged it lightly to smooth it out.

"You should open it. I mean, if that's okay. And the baggie of brownies are red velvet flavored; I thought about adding marshmallow topping but it would've just smeared on the cellophane, and then I thought about adding peanuts, but you could be allergic or maybe you wouldn't like them much."

Peter bit his bottom lip as Loki lowered the brownies onto her lap and unstuck the tape on both ends of the polka dot box. Methodical fingers straightened the paper and slipped the plain box out of its confines, and when the top popped open, there on a bed of crinkled silver tissue paper was... what looked to be a device. Slim, orange, a screen that took up the top half and a white donut shape on the bottom half.

"I didn't really know what to get you and the brownies were more of a side thing, so I loaded up my old iPod Nano with a bunch of songs I thought you'd like. Maybe you've already got a music preference, but I made sure to put in a wide variety. Alternative, indie, folk, pop, rock, classical, piano, violin..." he listed off with bright eyes and an almost nervous energy.

Her heart melted just so. It always seemed to, for him.

"I have not taken the chance to explore Midgardian music much. Truthfully, I would not have known where to begin should I have tried," she admitted, and smiled down at his hopeful face. "Thank you."

He grinned and scooted close enough for their arms to touch. "Let me teach you how to use it!"

Loki had intended to bring her boy back home as quickly as possible to keep him out of the night as much as she could. That bar was nowhere near the first ten pages of a list of places she preferred him to frequent with his time, but it was still his life and he was happy and he was old enough to know right from wrong despite her own opinions of his youth. She couldn't tell him what to do—she had no right—and as loathe as she was to admit, Weasel and the Wade treated him kindly. Fairly. That was all she could ever ask of them.

She didn't count the time that passed, but they stayed for a while on that rooftop sprinkled with snow, huddled together with one bud in her ear and the other in his.

::

Peter went to bed around sunrise, woke up around noon, and was distinctly aware of three things.

One, it was Christmas, so, nice.

Two, he was going to make May the best Christmas dinner she ever had which was going to include a whole oven-roasted chicken, four-cheese manicotti, and gingerbread men so amazing that Lord Farquaad was going to steal their little gumdrop buttons.

Three, there was a dagger on his nightstand.

The blade was oddly shaped with a sharp-angled transition between the back section and the point, a pit of snakes engraved and slithering all along the metal. Polished, pitch black wood wound the hilt and a thick band of gold circled around its middle.

A translucent green ribbon of wispy magic sat on the cross-guard.

Your baking skills are impeccable.

The note with it read.

Have a Merry Christmas, Peter.

::

"Is—I—Do I really have to learn how to use a dagger —"

"But of course. With what else would you stab your enemies?"

"I'm not going to stab anyone!"

"Shame. You would be good at it, with that innocent look about you. Many would lower their guard just enough for you to drive your blade straight through one's—"

"Mr. Lok- Loren ," Peter whined. Loki laughed and watched the boy dig into his pad thai with pink cheeks and a pout. it was a slower day out on the streets on the 26th, and the two of them had opted to take lunch at a Thai place near the Historical Society during Loki's break. And it had to be Thai food, according to Peter, because what do you mean you've never tried Thai? How long have you been on Earth? A couple months?! Okay, so we're going to get Thai like right now and then you have to try Chinese, pizza, pho, hotdogs, Mr. Delmar's...

"Surely you would like a means to defend yourself," he says after finishing the last few bites of his own pad see ew. Truly, there was something so delicious and intriguing about the endless variety of Midgardian cuisine. "Is that Wade teaching you to fight with weapons?

"Uh, not really. We focus on hand to hand at the gym." And Neena's teaching me how to shoot guns, but that's probably not worth mentioning, right?

"It is imperative for your young mind to learn to wield at least one melee weapon. A dagger is very versatile and can be hidden on your person in various ways."

"What about a sword?"

"Harder to carry unless it can be concealed by seidr or kept in an accessible pocket dimension. Thus, dagger. For convenience."

"Wade's got two swords."

"And how well would you say that fool's covertness is when wielding such?"

"... Yeah, that's fair."

Loki, dressed in a neatly pressed charcoal suit and hunter green turtleneck, looked almost comical as he expounded upon every single reason why his science-pun shirt, flannel wearing teenager should even have a dagger on his calf in this current moment.

"An adversary could be around any corner at any time, any day," he continued as they stepped out of the restaurant. He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "You will never know if they will make an attempt on your life until direct confrontation, which by then would be too late. Preparation is always key."

"Right," Peter agreed. A faint tingle in the back of his head had him looking down at the circle of orange sparks that started to spin to life around his mom's feet. "Um, does that have to do with dagger too, or...?"

Loki followed his gaze, then tensed. "This isn't me."

Peter tripped back when the god fell through the sidewalk and the sparks disappeared as quickly as they came, leaving the ground as solid and whole as any regular sidewalk was expected to be.

The only thing amiss in the aftermath was the plain slip of parchment lying innocently in the snow where Loki once was, one short address elegantly penned in the center.

177A Bleecker St.

Chapter Text

Peter looked down at the card in his hand, then up at the double doors of the brownstone townhouse in the middle of Greenwich Village. His spidey-sense was suspiciously low-key for Loki's weird disappearing act, all puns aside, and the only thing that could be considered out of place was the circular window on the roof whose metal muntins curved into some symbol he didn't recognize. All he had to do was knock, right? He would just explain to the kidnappers that he was just a high-schooler who didn't have the means to pay ransom for a literal alien god who just happened to be his mom and—that was probably too much info. Or they could already know. Oh my god, did they know he was Spider-Man too?!

"Breathe, Parker," he mumbled. In, out. "You could probably punch your way through this situation." In, out. "Maybe. Channel your inner Hulk. You got this. You got this."

He raised his hand.

His knuckles drew closer to the doors.

Spike.

He wasn't on the street anymore, but this time he braced himself for the nausea that came with the slowly rising familiarity of magic.

The inside of the building was gigantic. A dark ambiance clung to the air; the floors were a marbled pattern of deep reds and earthy browns and blue-greens like the tides on cloudy days. Some leather chairs and roundtables pushed up against the far side walls, kind of like the studies he'd seen in movies in scenes where some old professor type guy sat at a huge oak desk and quoted boring classical literature.

His eyes finally landed on the grand staircase that led up to a second floor.

And to the person standing up at the top.

"You're younger than I was expecting," the stranger said. He started his descent down the stairs and the weird red cape he wore didn't... didn't move the way it was supposed to. It should be creasing with every step and swishing with a twist of the shoulder or the torso, but it was unnaturally still and puffed out, like it was soft and starched at the same time. "How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

"That's—D-Does it matter?" Peter steadied his stance as the stranger slowed to a stop at the bottom of the staircase where the light hit him better. Blue outfit, black boots, a weird necklace on his chest. "Where's Mr. Loren?"

"Fifteen, I think. Did I guess right?"

"A portal opened up and took him," the teen bit. He rolled his wrists, his ever-present shooters cooling slightly against his skin before the activation pads stretched against his palms, undetected. "Bring him back. He wasn't doing anything to you!"

"Right, like he wasn't doing anything to anyone when he brought the Chitauri down on Manhattan in 2012," was the counter. Peter tensed, and the man simply raised a brow. "Come on, don't look so surprised. You went to an address written on a piece of paper after someone with you was transported through mystical means. You know exactly who you were with." He stepped forward and Peter stepped back, so the stranger stopped and held up his yellow-gloved hands. "Tell me, what's a fifteen year old kid hanging around Loki Odinson of Asgard, the Plague of the Realms?"

And that just didn't sit right with him.

Peter knew above all else that Loki didn't have the biggest fan club. All the people he hurt and everything he destroyed, sometimes things like that people can't forgive no matter how much they might try, if they ever. He was a little kid during the Invasion, in a car with Ben and May as they drove across the state line after the evacuation orders hit; it took him a while to understand what it meant when May said they wouldn't be seeing some of her friends again or why there were so many funerals Ben and his cop buddies had to be in uniform for in the following weeks.

Loki, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't be defended.

'But,' Peter thought wryly. 'There's always a 'but'.'

"He goes by Loki Friggason now," he said, thinking back to that day. "And he's not like that anymore."

The look the stranger gave him was almost confused. Almost, because he was still thinking and trying to piece together every word that'd been said to him.

Obviously he could dismiss those claims as those from a child manipulated, but what was the benefit of that? Loki could have whispered in the ear of anyone from supermax prisoner to mad scientist depending on the reason he touched down on Earth for, but instead he'd gone straight for some teenager with a shirt that spelled out Irony. The Complete Opposite of Wrinkly.

Right. Like this was going to be the kid that could help him take over the world.

"I don't even know you," Peter frowned. "If you're going to pull a whole hostage situation, can I at least know who's doing all the kidnapping?"

"I would hardly call trapping a god in a pocket dimension 'kidnapping,'" the man started dryly, "but I'm—"

"Stephen."

They both startled at the name, and Peter bit down on his inner cheek at the newest sight on top of the staircase. There was another man, a little bit older and shorter than the first stranger—Stephen—and dressed in similar robes just in a different color. But the real eyecatcher had to be the blade pressing against the junction of the end of his neck and the beginning of his jaw; his skin was close to breaking, right on the verge of leaking blood, and both his hands hung at his sides with ropes of gleaming mint green magic twined between his fingers.

Loki, still in Loren's suit and wearing Loren's hair and square-framed glasses, held down the man and dagger like it wasn't any effort at all.

The only indication that anything was truly amiss was the way his eyes were swirling with tumultuous seidr.

"There's always been sorcerers on Midgard, but there's never been one so bold." Loki tilted his head to the side. "Deirbhile is no longer your Sorcerer Supreme?"

"Dervi...?" Stephen stared at the space in front of him for the next few seconds, and even the hostage's jaw locked when the implication felt just like the blade about to puncture an artery. "No. No, she... That duty falls to me now."

(How did you know the Ancient One's name when no one else did?)

"Hm." Green eyes darted to the teen on the foyer and, as much as relief curled through their owner's chest like a cat's claws sinking through flesh, they wouldn't let it show. Peter was whole and unharmed—though that wasn't any indication the offenders would end up the same way. "Explain yourself briefly or your associate's head will be cleanly detached from the torso."

"M-Mr. Loki!"

"Give him nothing!" the hostage barked. He growled when the blade shifted and a drop of blood slipped down polished silver.

Stephen didn't panic, but only because there wasn't any room to. In the middle of his friend as a hostage and the dangerous war criminal in the sanctum, he was still trying to wrap his head around the typical-looking teenager demanding he hand over said dangerous war criminal.

Of course he walked right into an outcome he couldn't predict.

"Let Wong go, and we'll talk."

"Ah, so now he wants to talk. Your plan fails and you backtrack with your tail between your legs."

"It was a precaution because I know I'm dealing with someone like you. But, as evidenced by your lack of being in the pocket dimension I drew you into initially, it wasn't enough to hold you." The cloak waved some sign with one side of its collar, drawing a noise of surprise from Peter. "The Sorcerer Supreme's responsibility is to protect this reality from the threats of the multiverses, which is something you so clearly are Loki Friggason." Loki narrowed his eyes. "By the looks of things you've been here a while, and the only thing you've done is get a kid on your side. I think that merits an explanation."

Loki donned a look of consideration along with a long, drawn out hum that sent the temperature in the building dropping tick by tick. It would be so easy to kill the man at his mercy before so very slowly digging into the chest cavity of the one to challenge him in the first place, taking every organ his hands would fall on and ripping them free.

Peter would hardly approve, though, so he smiled. "The stairs are no place for this sort of discussion."

Stephen carefully inclined his head. "I agree."

Peter swore the only thing that kept him sane was his beautiful, loving spidey sense, because when he felt the spike he shut his eyes and tried to focus away from the sensation of the world twisting around him. And when that single second passed, he cracked one eye open.

He was in a chair. A red leather chair. To his right, Loki sat with the poise of every part of the prince he was raised to be, and directly across from them in the other red chairs on the other side of the coffee table, Stephen sat with one ankle resting on his knee and Wong rubbed the sore skin on his neck with a grimace.

The air was as thick as a fog machine running in a room that was 98% humidity.

"One would consider it rude that you have not introduced yourself fully as the new Sorcerer Supreme."

"Dr. Stephen Strange. Why are you back on Earth?" Strange questioned without preamble. Loki scoffed. Always with the power-containing Midgardians and their lack of pleasantries.

"If it is the Infinity Stones that are your worry, I am neither in possession of one or willing to seek them out. The reasons for my arrival on this planet are my own, and that should suffice enough for yourself."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Make it work that way."

Peter glanced around when he knew for sure that none of the attention was on him. He tried to keep his head from moving around too much, but he spotted old, old books on dusty shelves and artifacts mounted on stands or in glass cases. He didn't have a reference for what a sorcerer's secret lair was supposed to look like, but he guessed it was pretty legit. In like, a museum-y kind of way.

"The kid," Strange continued, and Peter unconsciously straightened and tuned back into conversation. Loki's expression kept its delicate mix of aloofness and warning, his bright green irises the eyes of their own storms. "What's his place in all of this?"

"He is none of your concern."

"You've been spending a lot of time with him."

"Astute observation. Would you like to tell me the current shade of my hair then, since you seem to do well with pointing out the very things right in front of you?"

"You're associating yourself with a random kid in the middle of New York, the city you once tried to destroy." Strange's eyes, pale and gray and assessing, flickered over to the teen who sat with his elbows tucked close to his torso and his knees almost knocking together. He was doing a hell of a job at making himself as small as possible, and he just couldn't get the image out of his head that this kid, this fifteen year old wearing a lopsided snowman scarf, had anything to do with Loki. "I'll ask again; who is he, and what are you holding over him?"

"Take care to plan your next choice of words," Loki drawled, his tone gaining an edge as he linked his fingers over his lap. "They may just be the ones you will choke on."

Peter's gaze darted to Strange's squared shoulders and pressed lips, then to Loki's lax posture and the shine of the blade peeking out one blazer sleeve, and quietly gulped.

He worked at the Hellhouse long enough to sniff out the prelude to a fight right away, and while Weasel only ever dealt with fights at the beginning to try and mediate and at the end to check if there were any dead bodies, Peter wasn't allowed to get involved in any unless he was personally offended. And besides the occasional drunk and the few wrists he had to bend when he was still considered fresh meat, he'd never really gotten into anything too big outside the suit.

But right here, right now, there were two sorcerers, an alien, and a Peter Parker. Peter's pretty sure Loki would never intentionally hurt him, but if Dr. Strange was telling the truth about defending this reality from multiversal threats—trippy—then they were the good guys. Not to say that Loki wasn't a good guy too but he... really wasn't, honestly. He just wasn't one of the bad guys anymore.

Oh man, this was going to give him the worst headache of all time.

"Um, guys..." he tried.

"It's obvious you're using him for something." Uh, wow, that was rude. "Playing his sympathies? He's not an adult, he'd be easier for you to manipulate."

Loki raised his chin. "Do continue. Let us all see how pushing down this line of questioning will lead you to your own demise."

"Guys," Peter tried again. More firmly, a little louder, but it still got drowned out by the growing hostility in the room. Wong cast him a brief look before turning back to the other two and bracing his toes against the floor, anticipating the spell he'd have to cast or a spell he'd have to dodge.

"Give me one good reason why you, of all people, should be trusted not to wreak havoc here or anywhere else in the world," Strange demanded. This shouldn't have caught him as off-guard as it did, but Loki's difficulty and venom stewed his nerves more than he liked. It was Asgardian blood to conquer, and even if it was Jotunn that pushed through those veins, it didn't change his upbringing. Thor may be a different story, but this one...

"Because the longer you dare look down your nose at me, the faster it will take for me to decide which part of you I plunge my blade through first!"

Spike.

'Maybe Mr. Loki was actually going somewhere when he joked about me looking innocent,' Peter thought as he threw both his wrists out. Webs glued Strange's hands together and stuck them against the arm rest, dissipating the orange light that began to spark at his fingertips, and Loki's dagger had been halfway past one hand when it came to paste against his palm.

Peter lunged forward to grab the stick that suddenly appeared in Wong's hands and disarmed it easily, twisting a wrist to loosen the grip and snatched the thing by one of the horned-head metal ends to send it skidding across the room as he pushed the man back into his chair.

"Guys!" he called out. Almost in unison three heads swiveled his direction, stunned, startled, bewildered.

"... Spider-Man," Strange returned slowly, his mouth moving before his brain could catch up. "You're Spider-Man?"

"Big fan," Wong commented from the side. Strange squinted.

"Seriously?"

A light shrug. "He does backflips on buildings, and he's cooler than you."

"I—"

"Look," Peter cut them off, and since the webs Loki had been giving him a quiet, appraising stare. Working and living in Queens these last few months there was no way he hadn't seen the news about his alter ego, and maybe he'd caught a glimpse or two of a red suit swinging over the streets like most of everyone in the neighborhood. But even with his mom's probably low opinion on heroes, Peter hoped Loki wouldn't be too disappointed in him. "You might not think Mr. Loki's telling the truth, but I do. He lives here, goes to work here, exists here, and he deserves a second chance. If he wanted to do something he would've done it already, and last time I checked there aren't any aliens loose on the streets." He tossed up his arms. "Hooray! Invasion 2.0's cancelled!" They fell back to his sides. "He might not be a superhero, but he's been better. Why can't you just give him that?"

Strange sighed as his hands engulfed in orange light to burn the webs away, and he stood. "Whether he's telling the truth or not doesn't change the facts of what he's already done. It's established, set in stone, and I'm not going to put my faith in a vigilante." He eyed that snowman scarf again. "Not you or any other one cropped up in the city."

Peter's fists clenched. "That's not fair!"

"It isn't? And what happens if I do take your word for it? If It won't happen tomorrow, it'll happen next week, next month, next year. There's too many possibilities, and I won't allow them to play out when I had the opportunity to end it before it began."

"It won't happen!"

"If it does?"

"It won't!"

"But if. It. Does," Strange repeated pointedly. "Who's going to stop him?"

"I—" Peter swallowed. "Me. I will."

He could. He just... just had to be ready for it. Not that it'd happen because he wouldn't let it, no way, and Loki would never... Would he? No, he wasn't just some stupid kid who believed everything anyone told him because this was different and... and...

"How? You'll turn him in? Let the proper authorities handle him? Kill him?" The man shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're a teenager who probably balances homework, studying, extra-curriculars, and a secret identity the NYPD and tabloids hate, and you're attached to the very entity you think you stand a chance against. Loki overpowers you in every conceivable way; he's a god who's killed, and you're a kid who can shoot webs out of his wrists. Compared to him, what else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?"

"Stephen," Wong warned.

What else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?

Sometimes Peter forgot to do his homework, but he always remembered letting Ben die. Remembered how Tony doesn't talk to him. Remembered how Happy never answered the phone.

Remembered the weight of ten ton concrete.

What else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?

Peter felt like his hands were going numb.

Nothing.

Nothing that was ever going to be enough.

Strange sighed again. "Listen, kid, I'm not saying you don't do what you need to out there, but this is out of your paygrade. Your domains are Queens and the Eastern outskirts of Manhattan, mine is this reality, and I can't be satisfied with unknown variables. Not when the stakes are this high." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "You understand that, right?"

Peter pursed his lips and looked down. "Yeah," he muttered. "I got it."

He blinked when a hand fell onto his shoulder, Loki suddenly at his side. The god's face was the picture of annoyance with a hint of lurking resignation, but it cleared for the moment he looked down and offered the teen a small smile and clouded right back up when he faced the sorcerers.

"Should I tell you the reason why I will stay on Earth, will you resume keeping to your own business? Both out of our way and out of our lines of sight?"

Wong and Strange exchanged glances, the latter clearing his throat and regarding them warily. "If that reason doesn't jeopardize the universe or reign destruction, then yes."

Loki wrapped his hand around Peter's bicep, lightly tugging him closer and leveling a cool gaze. "Then allow me to make this simple—I have returned for my son."

Peter raised one hand in a subdued, half-hearted wave before he bent his knees and let his mom's magic whisk the both of them elsewhere.

But not before seeing Strange's brows shoot up to his hairline.

::

He stumbled a half-step on the iced sidewalk his Vans couldn't find purchase on, caught by the steady hand still clasped around his arm.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and twisted his head this way and that. They were in some part of Central Park, probably, and when he really looked he thought he could see the top of the Historical Society from the thicket of stripped trees. Right. Right, right, right. They'd been having lunch and he'd been worried that they were taking too long until Loki dismissed it because his boss Mrs. Iolani was always trying to bully him into taking more breaks anyway—

"I should be the one giving my thanks," Loki said, and Peter spun toward him with a heavy scrunch in his brow. All that glacial anger he'd been carrying at the sorcerer's lair had faded and now, well, the teen knew how his mom looked at him sometimes. Hesitant, every now and again. Wistful, when he didn't know he could be seen. Friendly, in all their conversations. "To you, for defending me."

But from all the looks Loki gave him, he'd never looked so humbled; touched.

Guilt. Peter could feel it starting to fill his stomach, but he shoved at it until it was down, away, a future problem for future him.

"Of course I defended you." A short laugh fell unbidden from the teen's lips, bitter and brittle as he scrubbed a hand through his hair and retracted the activation pads back into his shooters. "But I couldn't do anything else. They didn't believe me—they didn't even take me seriously." He slumped down onto an empty bench and leaned back, rubbing his hands on his face. "Sorcerers suck."

Loki couldn't stop the side of his mouth that quirked as he took a more elegant seat on the metal bench after wiping away all the dripping snow with his seidr. "Then it is their loss for losing out on you." He looked up at soft gray skies. "How unfortunate, too. It seems you may as well be the assistant's favorite superhero."

A red flush crept up Peter's neck to his cheeks as his shoulders hunched to his ears. "I—uh, I-I was going to tell you about it. Eventually. When I... had a better idea about what you'd think about it." He slid down his seat. "But, um, you're not happy about the whole thing, are you?"

"In light of this new information, not particularly."

Aaaaaand that was exactly what he didn't want to hear.

The Avengers were probably some of the most prominent heroes on the international scale despite the entire Civil War, and if the Avengers were his enemies, then every other suit in the vein like Daredevil or the X-Men were on the same list. Spider-Man would be no different.

"Who else knows?"

"May. Ned. Mr. Weasel. Wade." A pause, then quieter. "Mr. Stark and Happy."

"Stark?"

Peter flinched, still half-hidden by his scarf as he stared down at the scuffs on his shoes. He didn't think he could stomach whatever look Loki had on his face; he didn't sound angry, but... "My—The suit I use is StarkTech. He gave it to me maybe eight or nine months ago, I don't really remember the exact date—" March 12th— "and I go out in it to take care of the neighborhood. Like your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? I don't know if you heard about that besides from Dr. Sorcerer Supreme but, uh, for the Mr. Stark thing I haven't talked to him since October? And—And I definitely didn't tell him about you, I swear—"

"Peter."

"—and even if I did, but I really didn't, I mean it, it would've just been a voicemail that went straight to Happy's inbox then trash and it would've gotten lost anyways because I know there's not a really a point in listening when I just say thing same thing all the time, but maybe they've got a system that puts the call through if there's certain buzzwords, or—"

"Peter."

He blinked and finally forced himself to peer to the side. Loki's legs were crossed, the elbow resting on the back of the bench had the hand that rested against the side of his face, and he was smiling? The same smile he made when Peter started rambling.

"I believe you misunderstand my displeasure," he started, adjusting his glasses. "You being Spider-Man is certainly a surprise, and though unorthodox, had you been raised on Asgard you would have been trained for battle and for noble cause. This is a mighty Midgardian equivalent. As for Stark," his distaste surfaced through an overly slimy emphasis, "distance kept and ignorance shouldered creates no issue. You said you have not spoken with him since October?"

Peter shook his head.

"Then there is no need to worry."

"But..." That didn't make any sense. "But you said you didn't like me being Spider-Man?"

"I do not."

“You just—”

"I have been on Earth since November, and I have learned much since then," Loki said as his smile dimmed and Peter's mouth shut with the quiet click of his teeth. "Your gas stoves are impudent. There are domiciles of unrelated units for unrelated persons. There are innumerable superheroes in New York City alone." His brows drew together, and he spied the skyline. "I have seen you swing building to building and listened to the passersby that speak of your power and your battles, yet there is not a single more publicly hated 'vigilante' than you."

Peter ducked his head.

"The prints from the Daily Bugle spill nothing but poison and controversy and the territory's law enforcement berate you for helping, turn you away, chase you off if you have not already taken your leave from the scene." Loki faced him again, perplexed. "I am not upset that you have become Spider-Man, Peter." A glint of green fire lit in his eyes. "I am upset as to why you continue to be him."

"... W-What?"

"You owe these people nothing," he hissed, the suddenness of this new anger like a cap popping off its bottle as he stood in one smooth movement. "They slander your name, drag it through the mud and gravel and yet you risk your life for those who have not the decency to appreciate what you have done for them! Why risk your life for them? Why risk your life for those who would never think twice about taking yours?"

What?

Peter's head spun. He was on one of those rides where they don't buckle you in and you're kept standing in place by centrifugal force, but in this situation specifically he didn't even remember getting on.

When May found out he was Spider-Man, he spent over an hour trying to convince her that going out wasn't him trying to kill himself. She didn't want him hurt or exhausted or dying, and he'd never felt more like a selfish piece of crap when he saw her crying over a picture of Ben just a few days after that. She didn't want him to go out but couldn't stop him, and it took her awhile to warm up to the idea because she saw that all he wanted to do was good.

Reputation had never been part of any argument he had about it, though.

"I don't care about what they think of me," he protested and scrambled up to his own feet. It might bug him from time to time, but it never got too bad, he promised. "Like yeah, there might be a ton of superheroes in New York, but superheroes deal with crazy supervillains that want to take over the world. Er, n-no offense." He coughed. "But me? I'm not built like them." No matter how much the suit tried to make him. "I look out for the little guy. Just because there isn't another alien invasion out there doesn't mean there are people that don't need help."

Loki searched his face, sifting for something, and Peter held his ground for as long as it would take. And once those long few seconds paused, it was Loki who sighed all his ire away in one breath. He looked a little older, a little more tired, but how else could he wear over a thousand years and over a thousand experiences on a face that barely aged?

"Why you?" he asked. Not accusingly, but that resigned sort of wondering; a need to know.

"Because when I can do all these, but I don't do anything with them... and then the bad things happen?" Peter tugged on his jacket sleeve. "That's on me. And if I can make the neighborhood feel a little bit safer, then it's all worth it."

A few hours from now he'll claim he didn't know what came over him, but when he saw that timeworn sadness parents got when they looked at their kids and wondered when they got so big, it pushed Peter to brave walking on that iced sidewalk and wrap his arms around a dark gray suit. Loki tensed at the contact, but he thawed like old snow on road sides and so very slowly brought his own arms around the boy, one hand against his shoulder blades and the other cradling his head, and brought him close.

Fourteen years was nothing to the Æsir, but it was everything in Loki's quiet realization that he hadn't remembered what it was like to hold his son.

"My moon and my stars," he murmured as he placed a kiss on soft brown hair. "I will never understand how I deserved to be blessed with a child as good as you."

What else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?

Peter's eyes watered as he buried his face into his mom's shoulder.

::

His phone buzzed as he laced up his brown work boots. Double knotted, because the absolute last thing he needed at work was to trip on the floor and give Jay-Ar a reason to antagonize Booth for the fifth time this week.

taco buddy: if pineapples r berries and i blend hwaiian pizza in a blender do it make it a smootie [3:28 pm]

Me: ew u like hawaiian pizza??? Blocked. [3:37 pm]

taco buddy: 1) ur missing the POINT
b) thsi is harrasment to me and all the other superior citizens of the earth
iii) DO it MAKE it A SMOOOTHIW [3:38 pm]

Me: no but i'm pretty sure it makes it a shake [3:38 pm]

Peter tossed his phone back onto his bed and rolled his jeans up to the top of his boots where some of his test tube patterned crew socks poked out. He was buttoning up his dark green flannel over a navy tee when his phone buzzed again, and he picked up his backpack to set it on his bed. Winter break reading assignment? Check. Extra web fluid? Check.

New Spidey suit? Check.

taco buddy: ph my fucking god its a SHAKE [3:40 pm]

Me: hey so do u like kno where i can get a good holster??? [3:42 pm]

He turned toward his desk and pulled open the top drawer. Pushing aside old graded worksheets and scrap paper, he reached for an old shirt and the crafted dagger wrapped inside it. It looked almost too pretty to be used, and as he grasped the handle and angled it better in the light, he traced the snakes on the blade with a cautious finger.

If he listened closely, it was almost like he could hear them hissing.

taco buddy: teenie weenie beanie baby, I have a entire trench coat collection of holsters. Y do u need it? What do u have????? [3:43 pm]

Why did he need it? Easy.

What else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?

Because he needed to be better.

Peter slipped the dagger into his backpack, zipped it up, and slung it on his shoulders over one of his thinner insulated jackets. His shooters were already on his wrists as he fastened his old battered watch and slipped his stone necklace under his shirt. Right before he stepped out of the apartment, he snatched his snowman scarf from the coat rack on the door before settling it on his neck and tucking his earbuds in his ears.

Me: A KNIFE [3:45 pm]

taco buddy: NOOOOOOOO!!!!! [3:45 pm]

Chapter Text

" Oh my god why does he have a knife. "

Peter covered his mouth as he snorted and stepped through the swinging kitchen doors, crossing the short hall towards the break room to dump his stuff on the couch. He draped his jacket and scarf on the closest armrest and rested his backpack against the throw pillow with the giraffe print. After he snagged a can of Arnold Palmer from the mini-fridge and tucked the dagger under his arm, he backtracked into the main room where Weasel's got a spread of bullets on the counter and Wade was standing with a full tan trench coat over his Deadpool suit.

"Oh wow, you really weren't kidding about that."

"There are three things I don't kid about: my undying love for our Lord and Savior Bea Arthur, Mexican food that soothes the rumblies in my tumblies, and taking care of my wittle weapons." Wade grabbed each side of the coat and flung it open like he was flashing people in public. On the right were neat rows of sheaths and holders, and filling up the space to the left were holsters and belts. 

"You look like you got run out of a BDSM club for being too freaky," Weasel said. 

"You don't know me."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Unfortunately, you're right."

Peter sipped his drink right as Wade 360'd on one toe to point at him dramatically in a flurry of weighed down trench coat. 

"But first, I need to know who the hell thought it was a good idea to give you, a tater tot, a fully functional knife that I'm pretty sure you won't even use because you've got a big no-no against stabbing." A gloved finger waggled. "So who's our culprit? Krampus? San-tee Claws? Dasher? Dancer? Prancer? Vixen? Comet? Cu—"

"My mom," Peter cut in dryly. He slipped the dagger from its t-shirt bundle and handed it over. "She thinks it'll be a good idea if I learn how to use it."

"That's one bumpin' blade, yeesh." Wade held it up to the light and twirled it around his hand. The metal gleamed almost eerily and the detail of each snake made them look alive, like they'd slither right off the hilt. He dug around his trench coat. "And speaking of that respectable woman who may or may not jingle my bells the way Batman smells—"

Peter's face screwed up in faint disgust. Weasel suffered a terrible premonition of every single cheesy pick up line he knew the asshole was going to use every time Crazy Bread showed up at the bar.

"—does the enhancement run in the family? 'Cause both my sore tushes and my fragile maiden heart thinks that getting thrown into that pool table wasn't one of those everyday things." He paused. "Is it weird that I would be totally fine if she stepped on me?"

Peter held the can up to his lips for a few seconds before slowly setting it down. "Okay, one, that's my mom, so gross ."

"Not my fault she's a MILF."

" GRO-SS ," he groaned. "I'm going to forget you ever said that. And for the second thing, her enhancement's kind of different? I mean, the only reason why I'm so spidery is because I got bit by a radioactive spider on a field trip. Or, more genetically engineered than radioactive if you want to get technical."

Weasel smacked a box of cartridges on the counter and looked up in honest to god disbelief as if his life wasn't already so goddamn weird. "You're telling me that the mom you literally met like two weeks ago is enhanced in a completely unrelated event. And. You got your powers from a bug ." 

"Arachnid."

"... What the fuck." He shook his head and whipped out his phone. "You know what? I'm actually going to go and process this like any normal barely-functioning adult. Ferret, run maintenance on the Gold Card machine and make sure all the stashed guns are loaded, I'm picking something up." He headed straight for the back way through the kitchen, but turned and squinted when his hand landed on the swinging doors. "Also you're in charge."

He walked through.

Wade cupped his hands around his mouth and screeched, "BUT MOM, PETER'S ALWAYS IN CHARGE!"

"STOP SAYING HIS NAME IN MY FUCKING BAR, CHRIST."

And when the back door shut with the usual aggravation, Peter swiveled on his stool. "One day Mr. Weasel's going to go bald from stress and he's going to be so mad at you."

"That motherfucker's gonna have a full head of hair on his deathbed just to spite me and Pantene," Wade countered. He placed the dagger in a black leather sheath that had belts and buckles of military grade nylon adorning the sides and slid it over. "It'll be best if you horizontal carry that sucker on the back of your hip. It's long so you won't be able to get a lot of quick jabbies, but it's still good for close combat." The other side of the trench coat flapped open and he plucked a gun holster out of its row and tossed it next to the sheath. "And this. Because definitely."

Peter scratched the back of his head. "For what? I don't have a gun."

He jerked forward when he was tugged by the wrist and something dropped into his open hand.

"The Para-Ordnance P14.45 Limited Semi-Automatic Pistol I used when I started up in this biz but before I became Mr. Never Die." Then, Wade's voice evened out, dropped in tone, became something so unnervingly serious that for the first time since meeting him, Peter was afraid. "Dom says you're a natural."

No.

"Nope, nope, nope, no way Jose— "

He shoved the gun back. Wade leapt back.

"Dude!"

"No take-backs!"

"I'm serious!"

"Hi Serious, I'm the Pool Boy, complete with a skimmer net and the best set of abs on the East Coast."

Peter scowled and emptied the gun before tossing it on the table and refusing to feel bad for the offended hey! that accompanied it. "I don't care if I've got a talent for shooting or-or if I'm a wizard with guns! I'll shoot them at Ms. June's range, I'll inventory them for Mr. Weasel, I'll load the bullets in all the stashes, but I'm not going to have my own gun, okay?! Spider-Man doesn't shoot people! Peter Parker doesn't shoot people!"

His voice cracked and suddenly he was in the alley by that bodega. 

His shoulders dropped. "What would Ben think?"

Wade said nothing for a long while, crossing his arms over his chest and looking utterly ridiculous in the trench coat he knew he only bought because a lot of people would inherently hate it. He walked back within arm's reach and let a heavy hand fall onto one of Peter's shoulders.

The teen flinched slightly and looked up.

The Deadpool mask was always on and he'd never seen his whole face, but it was always expressive. He could tell if there was a smile or a frown and when the cloth darkened with blood or tears from watching Disney movies, but now it was... blank. Empty. Intimidating.

It was quiet at Sister Margaret's, and it never was when Wade's around.

"I know you've heard us say over and over again that you're a good kid, but we say it 'cause you are."

"Wade, I—"

"Listen to me."

Peter's mouth snapped shut.

"You're good ," Wade repeated firmly. "You're fifteen, smart, enhanced, and got this whole life ahead of you. But somehow, some fucking way, you ended up in this bar with a bunch of mercs whose job is to drop body after body for a fat check." He picked up the gun. "You aren't on our level. You don't go around here drinking away your guilt or go unloading a whole mag into someone's chest just 'cause you felt a little more pissed off that day, so you know what Wease and I are gonna do 'bout that? We're gonna be selfish sons of bitches when we drag you down with us—just enough to keep you alive." The gun was back in Peter's hand and this time, he didn't refuse. "Because if you died—"

"It'd be on your conscience?" Peter guessed, a bitter taste at the back of his tongue when he remembered the way Tony Stark looked at him like he was nothing more than the spider that bit him.

Wade cocked his head. "What? No, it'd fucking suck because as much as I love putting bullets into slimy bastards, the last thing I need is to go to another friend's funeral."

Peter looked down at the gun, at black grips and a silver body. There were scratches on the barrel and a Hello Kitty sticker near the trigger, and his fingers around it tightened when the weight on his shoulders grew heavier.

Just last year he was fourteen year old Puny Penis Parker with crooked glasses and suffered from the pitying looks from those who knew he couldn't remember his parents. Last year, he was scrawny and clumsy and had an inhaler on his nightstand just in case the asthma he hadn't had since he was seven decided to come crawling back. 

Last year, he had Ben's blood on his hands.

Today he was fifteen, enhanced, half-alien, and an assistant at a mercenary dispatch center.

"You can't save everyone," Wade told him. Peter raised his head again. "And there's gonna be more than enough times when no one's gonna be around to save you but yourself."

T e n   t o n   c o n c r e t e.

"... Yeah." Peter sighed and gathered everything up in his arms. "Yeah. Thank you for all of this. Really." He shuffled his feet. "Um, how much do I owe you for all of...?"

"Zilch."

"Aw man, come on, not this again."

"I don't know what to tell you, Wubbzy, but you won't spend a single cent in my presence until you're legally allowed to vote." Wade climbed over the bar and helped himself to some of the fancy gin hidden all the way in the back row of bottles. "Fuck, where the hell are the clean glasses?!"

"Drying in the kitchen or broken in the dumpster. I'm pretty sure Mr. Weasel went to get our monthly glassware delivery. You know, from that place next to the junkyard he gets those good discounts on?" He caught the holster between his fingers when it started to slide. "Hold up, let me just put these away."

Peter hopped off his seat and hurried to the back room to put all his things in his backpack. The holster got stuffed into the biggest pocket and the dagger and sheath followed, but right when all that was left in his hands were the gun and the clip, he paused. 

There were a lot of stories about kids with guns. Some of the ones younger than him find them in their parents' unlocked safes and some of the ones his age and older bring them to school in the morning and force a lockdown by lunch. But some stories aren't all bad, like the ones where kids aim in supervised ranges or go on family hunting trips in the forest.

He hadn't heard any stories about kids with guns around mercenaries, though, and knew it was bad to hope for at least one so he would know what to do.

"But I'm here," he whispered to himself. "And if I don't want to be in front of a gun, I have to learn how to be behind it."

Peter loaded the clip into his pistol, flipped on the safety, and tucked it into the holster before securing it on the inner waistband on the side of his pants.

"I'm sorry, Ben. But this is one of my responsibilities now."

He tugged his shirt over the gun and let his flannel curtain over it, loose enough so it didn't look bulky, and headed back out.

"Did you fi— Wade, stop drinking the grenadine !"

::

Loki stood outside an apartment door in a three-piece maroon suit and a black shirt buttoned up all the way to the base of her neck. Simple gold circles shone on her earlobes and her dark hair pulled back in a neat, simple bun without a single strand out of place. Her heels were sensible, stiletto, black, and she gripped the bottle of wine in her hands as she drew in another deep breath in the handful of minutes she'd been standing there.

It wasn't too late in the evening and Peter had gone in early to work to 'hang out,' as he tended to do on nights he didn't go out as Spider-Man. Weasel lived above the establishment, she recalled being told, and Wade was an urchin that plagued the bar whenever he wasn't on assignment. She was going to see her son next on what he called New Year's Eve where he would be working at what would be dubbed a "full house," so she told him she would be there as a patron perhaps around eleven.

He also mentioned that May would be off on New Year's Day and that he wished he could spend it with both of them, leading Loki to her current predicament.

She knocked.

A few beats passed, and the door opened.

"Yes...?"

May Parker's hands shot up to her mouth in surprise, glasses on the bridge of her nose and brown hair slightly frizzy as it pooled over her shoulder. The sleeves of her baggy gray sweater slipped down to her elbows.

"Lora?" she questioned, hushed and hesitant.

"Hello, May." Loki offered a small, sad smile. "My apologies for arriving unannounced, but I had no other means of contact and believed that I owe you this overdue visit. I rather hope this is not a bad time?"

May floundered for a moment and stared like the woman in the doorway was a ghost, but eventually shuffled to the side and pulled the door open wider. "No, not at all! Please, come in! It's... It's—It's just..."

Loki stepped into the apartment, instantly engulfed by the homey atmosphere that warmed her from the outdoor chill. The walls of the living room were pale yellow with a mismatch of neutral couches and chairs to decorate the space. It was quaint and comfortable, nothing like the horrid amalgamation that was Wade's bulletproof apartment. Her own residence on the other side of Queens could be considered a dark one with black painted walls and deep brown leather seating, and everything from the pillars to the throne in the Royal Palace of Valaskjalf was cold and mighty and suffocating. But here?

She cast another cursory glance around the apartment. Here was filled with softness and love, a better place to have been raised than the palace, perhaps.

"Shall I set this here?" she asks, gesturing to an empty counter space in the kitchen with the bottle. May, both hyper-focused and far-away in her gaze, blinked before she hurried to close the front door and followed. 

"Oh, yes, that's fine, let me just—" She mindlessly opened up one of the top cabinets and pulled out a pair of wine glasses, one with the white block print of you're doing a grape job! and the other with wine not? in cursive. "Wine. Yeah, I can do wine," she mumbled to herself before she turned back around, armed with cheesy glassware.

And Jesus , Lora was just as scary as she remembered. She wasn't in all black which helps a bit, but she was still tall and clean-cut and all sharp edges even when she smiled politely as she uncorked the bottle and poured before they migrated to the couch. Lora sat on one of the cushions with this unparalleled elegance as she crossed one leg over the other, and May felt sort of small in her leggings and mismatched fuzzy socks.

"How have you been?" Loki questioned, and May jolted like she never considered a conversation. "Are you still a nurse? With an obstetrics specialty, if I recall."

May blinked. That was... actually really nice of her to remember? To be fair, she never got to know Lora personally, especially since she'd never even known her last name , and any time she'd gone to visit Peter when his mother was still around, her focus had always been on him, his well-being, his happiness. On the off occasion, though, she'd been kinder towards Richard. Almost warm.

"Still in that department twenty years and counting. The job gets tough sometimes, but I love it," May nodded. "What about you? Have you been back in New York long?"

"Only since November, and have been situating myself since then." Loki frowned, her nails painted as dark as the wine in her glass. "I must extend my condolences to you. For Richard, Mary, Ben. Should I have known, I would have made attempts to make myself less absent." Watching the myriad of emotions that must have been flooding the other woman's face, she clarified. "Peter informed me."

May took a very long draw of her drink. "So I'm guessing the box you left him had some form of contact information, right?"

"Of a sort," Loki allowed. "I would not have been able to respond as promptly had he decided to meet me before. I had still been entangled in numerous affairs, you see." Her fingers clasped around the stem of her glass. "I know it does not excuse my actions."

"And it doesn't. It really doesn't, it—" May breathed in deep through her nose. "Lora, you've been gone for fourteen years . All that time you never checked in or called or anything!" No news, no number, no word. Just a box with a note she found with Richard's things after the crash. "I know you gave Peter the choice whether or not he wanted to see you, and I waited until he was old enough to make such a big decision on his own, but at the very least you could've asked him."

"It was never my intention to burden you with—"

"He's not a burden."

"A wrong turn of phrase," Loki amended as she held up one of her hands in a peaceful gesture. "I simply meant that I could have never expected the responsibility of child-rearing would fall to you and Ben. Though for what it is worth," some of her cold expression thawed, "he is a wonderful boy. I imagine you’re proud."

"Of course I'm proud." Loki was pleased to see her conviction was genuine. "I love him, and I know he'll be doing amazing things." Not that he hadn't already done some pretty amazing things, like getting Honor Roll every single year he'd been in school, and being Spider-Man. "But why now? I know you said you had, um, affairs to take care of and it looked like you were in some trouble back then, but..."

While Peter was open and bared his heart on his sleeve so boldly it almost threatened the point to naivety, Mary was wary. She was older, suspicious, with every right of a parent who raised a child neither her’s nor her own blood. But Loki knew she needed to do what she did best with almost-truths and not-quite-lies of a tale spun to appease, and who better to convince the unknowing than herself? Lora Olstad was Loren Fjeld who were both still Loki Friggason, and building their pasts was nothing if she skimmed close to what she'd seen on her previous jaunts to Midgard.

"I come from old money," Loki started, and May straightened slightly with piqued interest. "There are unbending rules to follow, a wealth of practices in my studies, and principles I was meant to set the model for. My brother was favored for his strength and leadership, and I instead took after our mother; book works, language, strategy. Court, if you will." She tilted her hand to swirl her wine. "But even with such differences, the man who dares call himself my Father promised us both the highest honor: his place. His throne." Never mine. Always for Thor. "We were molded to the image of Kings and Queens."

And May was back to being intimidated. A background like that explained a lot of it—all the gold jewelry, the tailored suits, the prim and poise. With Lora came power and with that sort of power, old money might as well be the shiniest kind.

"So when you disappeared..."

"It was once more due to suspicion. The time I spent with Peter was time I spent away from home, and the longer I spent away from home, the more my lack of presence was noted. The time I left him in Richard and Mary's care were the times I could not risk absconding from the company of family." Green eyes shadowed. Odin's punishments were never known to be kind. "It was nearing the end of Peter's first year that I could no longer come to New York due to such scrutiny, so I did what I believed to be best." She huffed quietly. "I gave him up."

May absolutely cursed her goddamn sympathy. "And now?" she asked. "Are you out of it?"

"I suppose. They do think me dead, after all," Loki hummed and took a sip of her wine. May let that settle nicely in her brain before she muttered a small oh and drinking about half of her own glass. "Yet again I must repeat, though there was nothing I could do to distance myself from my home to care for Peter, it is no excuse. To him or to you." She exhaled. "Fourteen years is a long time. I'm sorry."

And May didn't know if she could forgive Lora because she didn't know which part of it all she was supposed to forgive.

She might not have ever thought she'd take in Peter all those years ago, but she wouldn't trade him for anyone else in the world. Kids weren't something she or Ben really thought about as much as they adored their nephew when they visited or how many countless mothers and babies she'd seen at her job. But Peter was... Peter was easy. He'd only ever been prone to babble or bouts of clumsiness, stuck his nose in comic books and children's encyclopedias and old radios he was allowed to take apart, and came with all the challenges raising kids came with, but she loved him so much—she couldn't imagine what life would've been like if Ben hadn't gotten that call from CPS on just another typical morning at the Parker residence.

"You don't need to apologize to me, just Peter. He's still... I'm always going to look at him like he's my own." When the admission didn't seem to make the other woman upset, she pushed on. "But he's the one who chose to reach out to you."

"He was."

"Then it's all up to him if he wants you in his life or not, but I know how he is." She smiled and looked down at her drink. "He wasn't mad about any of it, huh? He was just happy enough to get to know you now."

Loki thought about her son's big brown eyes and thousand starshine smile. Peter knew not about Odin aside from the possible threat of death against himself, but he knew about the attack and the Chitauri and still chose to reach out and forgive.

Her boy... Over a thousand years alive, yet she hasn't an inkling of what she was going to do.

"And I have been content enough at being graced with another chance."

"He's got such a big heart," May sighed. "And that's what scares me sometimes."

Because when something finally came along to break that big heart of his, it was going to devastate him. He was too young to remember Richard and Mary, but when Ben... but with what happened with Bed he'd seen with his own two eyes, and when she ran to the hospital because she'd been asked to identify her husband's body , he'd been sitting in the waiting room with dried blood on his jeans and his eyes red and puffy from the tears that wouldn't stop streaming down his face.

"I cannot fathom the thing that will bring him down, but I assure you that I will do whatever necessary to protect him from it." Seidr flowed through her veins with a wave of her fingers, too far deep past her skin for May to see. "I will not disappear again. Should I ever, know they would have needed to beat me bloody and shackle me defiant for me to have gone."

Loki smiled a beautiful smile. May returned it shakily, but true.

Lora was... a lot. Always had been in the past and looked like she will be from here on out, but she cared so much about Peter, so all personality quirks aside, this was something May could deal with.

Except, she didn't want this to be something she just "dealt" with. Peter's mom was back and she was here to stay, and they're going to see each other a lot more often from now on. And, well, Lora wasn't all bad.

Couldn't be all bad, if she came back.

So May made her decision and opened her heart like she did all those years ago when she took the hand of a confused, sniffling little boy.

"I'll keep that in mind." May shifted on the couch to make herself more comfortable. "So, Lora, we didn't get to know each other that well back when Peter was a baby. What else have you been up to?"

And Loki, minutely surprised that she wasn't going to get graciously kicked out after saying everything that needed to be said, held out her glass when May offered the bottle to refill it as those sharp edges of hers started to soften up.

The clock struck ten at night.

While Peter was at a bar weaving through the room and laughing at an argument sprung up at the table with the wobbly chair legs, Loki sat on a well-worn couch as she made her first human friend on Earth.

Chapter Text

Warning: This chapter contains harassment by law enforcement.

::

"So, when do I get to meet your mom?"

Peter closed his locker and jiggled the lock before adjusting his backpack straps. It had been a week since school started back up in the new year and it was like the world glowed a little bit brighter. He'd gotten bonus pay from Mr. Weasel for this super bulk order, his mom came over for New Year's because apparently them and May re-connected, and he beat his record of how long he could last in the ring against Wade by a whole twenty-two seconds!

"Anytime you want. She's off Mondays and Tuesdays and her job's only open to the public Friday to Sunday."

"Can she show me her cool alien powers?"

"Ned!" Peter shushed as he looked around the half-empty hallway and to the other students who didn't pay them any mind. "Dude, c'mon."

"Okay, yeah, but can she?"

"... Yeah, and it's pretty awesome."

Ned, in some burst of common sense, leaned forward and whispered. "Can she turn me into an armadillo?"

"If she really wanted to? Probably."

"Yes."

"But you can't just ask her to do magic tricks like she's a birthday party magician—"

"Magicians can get paid an average of three hundred per party. Do it as a regular daily, they can make fifteen hundred a week." Peter spun on his heel and Ned latched onto his arm just as MJ appeared out of nowhere—nowhere—with the book of the week in her arms and her intense stare boring into the both of them. "Then again, their equipment can range from five to ten thousand, up to twenty-five for the bigger shows."

"... Neat." Ned's heartbeat got back to a normal tempo. "Like, three hundred dollars for the whole day?"

"For an hour performance."

"That's a rip-off!"

"Try explaining the exploitation of children's wonderment to my niece who says my argument has 'too many big words' and is therefore 'uber wrong.'" MJ straightened one of the straps on her backpack. "So why are you losers talking about magic?"

A panicked look passed between Peter and Ned and, when the next few seconds passed of no one speaking up, Ned very-so extra-subtly elbowed his best friend in the ribs.

"Oh, uh, so it's like this." Peter cleared his throat. "I've got a friend who, uh, who's into magic and Ned's got a dream of... getting turned into an... armadillo?"

MJ nodded along. "Yeah. Okay." She huffed a short laugh and threw up a lazy wave. "Don't be late to practice, weirdoes."

"Oh yeah, totally! You know we're never late to practice because, you know, it would look bad on our school and our team and we definitely have to keep up this on-time attendance thing because we're defending our title and..." Ned trails off just as she turns the corner and whipped towards his friend. "Dude! You can't just tell girls about the armadillo thing!!"

"And we can't just be talking about aliens in the hallway!" He scoffed. "You didn't even pick a cool animal."

"Peter Benjamin Parker how dare you slander their good name—"

::

He didn't have a shift today so he took to pacing his room with a dash of ease knowing he had nowhere to be, but also a smidge of guilt at the fact that he was even in this position in the first place.

Both the StarkSuit and the PeterSuit 3000 were laid out on his bed, glaring up at him from messy blue sheets. He really, really, really likes the new suit and it's been the one he'd been taking with him to the Hellhouse every time there was work—folded up and stuffed at the bottom of his backpack right under school binders and extra bullets—but he hadn't gotten the chance to actually use it. The StarkSuit was still the daytime patrol suit and, if he was honest, it was the easiest to explain. He stayed off the radar, Happy and Mr. Stark didn't get suspicious.

And it wasn't because he was scared of anyone else finding out about all the friends he made at his job, it was just—the PeterSuit still needed some modifications. Yeah, maybe he could figure a way to transfer Karen over and maybe change the suit name to something else.

PeterSuit didn't exactly make criminals shiver in their boots, and the new suit needed a little pizazz. New suit. New suit? Nu-Suit. Oooooooo, actually...

Peter picked up the mask that was more blue than red and glanced out the window.

He'll go out in the StarkSuit again today. But tonight, though, when it was darker and there were less people to catch him on their phones, he'll stick to the shadows and put Wade and Mr. Weasel's gift to good use.

::

A kid no older than a middle-schooler put a bag of M&M’s back on the shelf and stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket while he stood behind one of the chip racks this Friday night, hidden from the camera and just out of sight of the cashier near the front. But the old man stacking the shelves saw the quick movement and whispered into the cashier's ear just as the kid slipped out the front doors.

The cashier just so happened to be the owner of this small corner store. He wasn't that upset, not really. Some stolen M&M's wasn't the hill he was going to die on, but he'd feel bad if the kid grew up to steal bigger things or turn to violent crime.

So maybe the beat cops could scare the kid a bit? No harm in that, right?

About a block down from the corner store the kid saw two dark uniforms down the sidewalk and angled to cross the street as smoothly as possible, but he heard the call sent his way and hunched his shoulders on instinct, "Hey! Kid in the pastel blue hoodie!"

Pastel winced and sighed, turning around to wait as the two cops made their way over. They were easy-going and smiling, empty-handed, and he started to sweat. He could hear Gran's warnings ringing in his ears, seared into his head from all the times she'd lectured him in front of a full stove.

"You listen to everything they tell you. Don't make any sudden moves, keep your hands where they can see them, don't say anything even if they're wrong."

He'll never forget how scared Gran looked.

"I won't lose another baby," she'd then mutter. "Not another one."

The uniforms stood on either side of him, one with his arms crossed behind his back and the other with his hands on his hips, and Pastel couldn't help but think how close the latter's hands were to the holster on his belt.

"It's kind of late to be out, huh, kid?" Officer Hands mused. Officer Back nodded emphatically.

"Um, ye-yeah. Just went for a walk around the neighborhood," Pastel replied. It took everything he was not to lower his head or look away as much as he wanted to because he didn't trust the hands on that belt or the hands hidden behind a back. If there was a sleight, he'd miss it, and he didn't want to think about what it would be like to die on this empty street.

"Fresh air?"

"Stretching your legs?" Back piped up.

"Hanging around corner stores?"

"Hanging around corner stores a little too much?"

Pastel didn't hear much else when his heartbeat started to rattle between his ears. The uniforms kept talking, kept looming, kept joking, kept posturing. He was getting nervous. Really nervous. There was sweat under his arms and the hoodie was too stifling even in the middle of a January chill.

He felt like choking when his mouth moved on its own and he spoke a little too loudly. "Can I please go home, officers?"

He didn't think he sounded like he was trying to cause trouble, but he had to crane his head to look up at the two people who had guns on their hips and a license to use them and fingers to flip off the cameras on their chests, and it made him feel like he'd never felt before. He didn’t even do anything. And sure, maybe there was a passing thought of snagging those M&M’s back at the store but he didn’t—he couldn’t get in trouble for empty pockets, but if he took out his hands now would they think he had a weapon on him?

The humor slowly slid off Officer Hands' face.

"Go home?" He laughed a bit, scratchy and condescending. "You think you can just lift from any store you want and get to go home after? That's not how any of this works, and you don't know how lucky you are that you're not getting booked right now."

Pastel swallowed. He was getting light-headed.

Hands stepped forward and the boy flinched, ducking his head slightly but never ripping his eyes away from the front and suddenly, it was like the uniform's bigger and broader and the badge on his chest caught under the streetlight in an unholy gleam. Pastel's never been religious, not that he'd ever tell Gran who dressed up every Sunday or Ma who'd had the same rosary since she was a toddler, but never in his life had he wanted more than to believe in the divine than in this moment.

'I hope I make it to Heaven.'

But something changed in Officer Back's face, almost nervous, but it smoothed out when he grabbed his partner's shoulder and pulled him back. "C'mon, he's just a punk kid. He's not worth the trouble."

"Punk kid? Hey, that's what they call me!"

Spider-Man flipped onto the scene and some of Pastel's fear faded into awe. His favorite superhero had a cool new suit that was more blue than red with the sickest looking spider on his chest. He leaned against one of the utility poles and propped a hand on his hip, somehow oozing cheer through his mask as he looked at the cops.

"What's up with the costume change?" Hands snarked, his hand twitching closer to his holster as he shrugged off Back's grip. Back wrinkled his nose at the appearance of New York's most annoying vigilante, but kept quiet. "The other one needed some laundering?"

"I really needed to take a load off the other suit. It's a small sockrifice, but I threw in the towel and took this suit out of a spin," Spider-Man deadpunned, and Pastel pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing at those awful jokes. He snuck a glance at the uniforms and saw their irritation spike in their clenching jaws and narrowing eyes. It almost got his stomach to drop, but an arm slung around his shoulders and tugged him close—his eyes went from the blue hand on his right up to the Spider-Man mask on his upper left, and even if he couldn't see through those white lenses, he couldn't help but feel kind of comforted.

And had... had Spider-man always been kind of short?

"So what seems to be the problem? I heard the kid wanted to go home, and if it's not too much trouble for you Mr. Officer and Mr. Officer, I could walk him back myself. I'm actually pretty good at that kind of thing, and it's right in my resume with helping old ladies cross the street and balancing the teams on the basketball courts right outside—"

"The kid's a thief," Back cut in.

"What'd he steal?"

Pastel burned a bit red. "I didn’t steal anything," he muttered as he stared down at his shoes. The arm on his shoulders jostled him lightly, and when he looked back up at Spider-Man, he felt like the hero was smiling reassuringly.

Hands rolled his eyes. “He nabbed some candy from that corner store.”

"I used to steal candy from people's houses on Halloween all the time. You know when they say one but you say all?"

Pastel cracked a small smile too.

Hands scoffed, gesturing toward them with a forceful hand. "You condone this behavior? You, butting into people's business and trying to weasel them out when they should be disciplined? Seems real responsible coming out of a vigilante."

He spat the word out like it was poison. The sweat made Pastel's palms tacky.

"I just think you've spooked him enough. He said he didn’t steal anything, and even if he did, it’s not anything he should get sent to juvie for," Spider-Man tried. Pastel wondered how he could sound so peppy all the time. "I'll talk the talk when I walk him on home, sirs."

"You don't police these damn streets," Hands growled. "So take your wannabe-ass out of here and leave the jobs to the professionals."

"And you're a fine professional! Come on, give the kid a break. We'll get out of your hair and you officer can, you know, do whatever it was that you were doing before this. You won't see me for the rest of the night, scout's honor."

Spider-Man snapped his free hand to his forehead in a salute.

And something in Officer Hands changed.

Pastel didn't have a father figure in his life. Or, well, he had his Uncle who used to stop by once every couple weeks. But the older he got the less he saw of the man, and it became one of those things he just had to get used to. It had just been him and Ma and Gran and the framed photo of a stranger dressed in Navy blues in the living room, but sometimes he'd like to imagine what it was like to grow up with dad jokes and a huge, comforting hand on his shoulder. He imagined the stranger in the photo would pick him up and swing him around, and maybe they'd watch movies together with kettlecorn popcorn and laugh, or maybe on the weekends his dad could spare some time to go with him to all the science museums in the city.

His dad would've been nice and funny and kind of lame.

And he would never look at him the way Hands was looking at them now.

Pastel shrunk into Spider-Man's side.

Officer Back must've seen something too, because he turned halfway and took Hands' upper arm with a firmer hold than the last time he made a grab. "It's not worth it."

"While letting Spider-Guy boss us around? I don't think so."

(When it happened, Pastel didn't see it all. But he heard it.)

He felt Spider-Man tense just before he got pushed behind him, his vision full of blue as the hero put both hands up.

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm not looking for trouble, I swear. I was just, you know, swinging around the neighborhood like all spider dudes do, cruising over like a tide. Ha, Tide. Get it? Like the, uh, like the detergent."

Pastel peeked around Spider-Man's side and saw the exasperated look on Back's face before he turned to the other uniform. "And honestly, I'd rather not hear anymore of the wannabe's stupid jokes or else I'll get a headache. Seriously, let's get back to the car. We've wasted enough time on them."

"Oh yeah, I'm super bad with time management. Best wipe me off your shoes before I make you late for anything."

Pastel nervously shifted from foot to foot and must've moved back a bit too much, because his Nike's bumped into an empty beer bottle and knocked it to the side with a muted clatter.

bang

Spider-Man staggered into him and they both stumbled a few steps back before blue covered heels dug into the sidewalk to find their balance, twisting slightly to the side, only a tad, but enough that when Pastel reached out to grab the torso in front of him to catch himself, his fingers brushed against something warm and wet and when he looked down, he saw dripping red.

He screamed.

Then the wind was in his hair and the startled face of Hands with his gun and Back with his horror grew smaller and smaller in the distance. And just as quickly as he was in the air he felt his feet on solid ground—a roof, he didn't know how far, and he didn't stop himself from sinking to the ground as Spider-Man pressed one of his hands against his darkening side.

He just...

"Oh, wow. That kinda sucked," the hero joked. A small wobble wormed its way into his voice. "So, where do you live? I'll make sure you get home."

Spider-Man got shot, and he wanted to make sure he, some random kid who stole some M&M's from the store, got home.

"I can wa-walk," Pastel stammered. They were already somewhere on the edge of Queens and he'd walked a couple blocks from his apartment to that corner store anyway and oh god Spider-man got shot and it was all his fault, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you got hurt, oh my god, you got shot—"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay!" Spider-Man crouched next to him and gave a small hug with his uninjured side. "Cops just don't like me, that's not your fault. Plus, they were giving you way too hard of a time. You didn't deserve that." He shrugged. "Just be good, 'kay? You got someone to go home to."

Ma. Gran. The stranger in Navy blues.

Pastel nodded, his eyes beginning to burn. "They're at home and, and I didn't think, oh god, I really didn’t steal anything I wouldn’t do that and I-I—"

"It's okay," Spider-Man repeated softly. “I believe you.” The back of Pastel’s eyes ran hot and he didn’t know if it was the nerves or the panic that made him hear things, but Spider-Man really believed him? Him, just some kid from Brooklyn? "I'll be good as new in a couple days anyway, so no need to worry." He pulled away, a blue hand gently patting the boy's shoulder. "Just... don’t let them get to you."

Pastel sniffed and swiped at his nose as he kept nodding and nodding, like maybe it would erase everything. "I won’t, I promise."

Spider-Man held out his fist for a bump that Pastel met shakily, and in a grand gesture the former hopped onto the roof ledge with his injured side out of view. With one hand he makes a peace sign and he flips into the breeze like he was made to fly,

(and under his other hand, the stain grew bigger as he fell.)

::

It took a long time for Neena to fully embrace Lady Luck for the goddess she was, but when she did, there was little that actually managed to take her by surprise. She could walk in the middle of a busy street and not get swiped by a single car, or reach into an acre of clovers and pick the four-leafed one on the first try. So when she suddenly got the itch to take a different route home back from the post office, she listened.

Her feet carried her three streets down and a block to the right from the usual. There was a gun in her jacket and more than enough small knives in her boots, and the package she'd picked up stayed tucked under her arm as she passed the alley a few buildings away from her door. She paused at the sound of something tapping against the bulky dumpster pressed against the brick and backtracked a few steps to peer past street lights and shadows.

Neena expected to spot a drunk whose name got printed on a Gold Card or some idiot passed out with a duffle of goodies ripe for the taking, so she strode towards the noise, unconcerned, and brought out her phone to shine a light on the body she found slumped on the floor.

She expected to find a stranger.

She found Spider-Man instead.

Or at least someone she thought was Spider-Man because he had some new digs and he held on tight to his torso, blood soaking the suit. She leaned against the opposite wall and stuck her phone into the front flap pocket of her jacket, the light just poking out.

"You the real deal?"

For a few moments there was only a rumble of engines and the distant siren blares, then he turned his head to the side so that both whites of his lenses flashed. "Y... Yeah..."

She nodded, a bit sympathetic, but she knew her place. Mercs helped mercs by keeping their mouths shut and minding their own business, and if those mercs happened to be friends, maybe they'd share safehouses or stock up first aid kits for more than one person. But vigilantes? Heroes? nah, they didn't mess around with that stuff. It just wasn't their world.

Seeing Spider-Man like this was a little sad, though. She'd watched videos of him doing things like handstands when kids asked him to do something cool or going to some animal adoption event just to pet the puppies. He was harmless. And the longer she stared, the more she noted that he was also kind of... small.

Teen-sized small. Too small. But there was no way.

"Who got you? Looks like you took a bullet wide open."

"Cop," Spider-Man strangled out. "Scarin' a kid. ‘ccused ‘im when he din’ do ‘nythin’..." He gulped down a few breaths. "Hated me, so..." He threw up his free hand and finger-gunned while muttering a quiet pew-pew.

She huffed a short laugh. Gotta keep positive, she guessed. "Well, you know what they say about getting shot."

He bobbed his head, the top of his mask scratching against the ground as his words trickled out in a winding slur. "’m gon’ wanna be th’ one beh’nd the gun ‘stead of ‘n fron’ it.”

Neena's amused smile slowly dropped at the edges. Spider-Man was here, bleeding out all alone in an alley with a bullet that didn't make an exit wound, and all her intent to leave him was sapped up and replaced with suspicion. "Yeah," she replied, eyes flickering around for cameras or good hiding spots. "Exactly that."

Because that, word for word, was exactly what she said about getting shot, and this guy had no business knowing that.

"Should've kn'wn 'bout th' gun. M'ved f'ster. Been better." Muffled rambles pushed out the mask and she found herself carefully leaning forward as she strained to hear him. "'M sorry. Should've... listened t'you 'bout guns." His hand shifted and a small gush of blood made the stain on his side spread. "Wade gave me'a gun. W's f'r Pet'r. Didn'... know'd be f'r Spid'r-M'n too..."

Neena pressed a couple fingers against her mouth, closed her eyes, and counted to five.

One, her favorite thing to hear was a steak on a grill. Two, her favorite thing to see was a sunrise on a beach. Three, her favorite thing to taste was a french fry dipped in a Wendy's frosty. Four, her favorite thing to feel was the grip of a gun she'd used for years. Five, her favorite thing to smell was pine trees in Germany.

Six. What the hell is this.

"Fuck," she sighed before crouching down to throw his arm over shoulders and guiding him onto unsteady feet. At this point she wasn't quite sure what she was more grateful for: the fact that she found the kid before all eight pints of blood emptied out onto asphalt or that he ended up practically on her doorstep.

But thinking about whatever the reason that had him end up here could wait. She hefted him down the sidewalk, to the elevator with the busted security camera, and into her apartment where she lowered him onto her gray couch. She tossed her throw blanket onto the recliner and moved her rug to the other side of the living room; the ottoman she pulled closer before plunking down and slipping out the first aid kit from under the couch.

As she set it on her lap and popped open the top, she glanced over when blue shifted in her peripheral. Spider-Man dragged his free hand up towards his face, scrabbling for the lip of the mask on his neck and pushing it off his head. Slowly, it went over his chin, mouth, nose, cheekbones, screwed up eyes, sweat-matted hair.

Peter Parker blinked at her through pain-hazed eyes, and she swore.

"Fuck," she repeated. "You're so lucky that I'm lucky."

He did his best to crack a smile, but it ended up nothing more than a wince and a tighter grip on his side. Neena sorted through the gauze rolls and pads. She didn't know how long he'd been bleeding out, but judging by the size and growth of the stain and the pallor to his skin, maybe it's been an hour. An hour and a half at most. "You enhanced or is it the suit?"

He put up one finger.

"Healing a part of it?"

He lugged his chin down to his chest in a half-nod. Alright, meant he probably wouldn't bleed out, but she needed to dig out the bullet before it got stuck in him when his body started to pull itself back together.

"Get out of your suit, or at least get it to your hips. I need full access to the wound if I'm going fishing for that bullet," she ordered. She went to nab a lighter from her bedroom and a pair of tweezers from the bathroom and, after quick deliberation, took the couple towels already ruined by that purple hair dye from a few years back. By the time she stepped into the living room once more, Peter had painstakingly peeled the suit off his lower abdomen. It was red and sticky and angry looking, but the edges weren't as raw as they should be and the makings of scabs started to lick through dried blood. "Yikes. I hope you know this'll hurt like a bitch, since I'm guessing you burn through over-the-counter meds like their Smarties?"

He strained a grunt in reply. At least they were on the same page.

She took her seat back down on the ottoman and wet a small stack of pads with some rubbing alcohol to clean around the work area.

"Ned," he mumbled while she flicked the lighter and ran the end of the tweezers through the flame. "Text Ned... 'n text May... tell Ned to pr't'nd ‘m at his... tell May I went ov'r..."

Neena cocked a brow. "She doesn't know you're Spider-Man?"

"Does." He coughed. "But don't wanna worry 'er."

"Ehhh, I don't know about that. Looks like you're up to a lot of worrying things." With the entry wound held open with her left pointer and thumb, she dug the metal into his body and began her search. Peter's muscles tensed and some of the veins in his arms grew more pronounced, but otherwise he was the picture perfect patient. God, when she was fifteen she hot-wired cars and lifted liquor bottles in broad daylight—and this fifteen year old swung around like Tarzan and fought crime? "Interesting costume choice, though."

"Wade n' Mr. Weasel got it. Chris'mas." He pouted, his dry lips turning into more of a grimace. "Aw man... s' got a hole in it now."

"I don't think they'll mind," she remarked dryly. The tweezers clinked, and she quickly drew out the soaked bullet and dropped it on one of the towels. Next out of the first aid kit were the needle and thread; at the sight of them, Peter shifted himself to a better angle for when she started to sew. Which was oddly considerate and oddly... odd.

"You've done this before?"

He bobbed his head once.

"By yourself? Like this?"

He bobbed his head again. His eyes looked a little more cloudy.

"Then it's time for the fun part. Disinfect your hands and hold out your dominant one." Neena connected some surgical thread to the swaged end of the needle and set it in his outstretched hand. "It's better if I see it now instead of later, especially when you look this bad." She pointed to the wound. "Sew up half of this. I want to see if you've been doing it right."

He sort of blinked real slowly, taking in her words one syllable at a time, before he wiggled some semblance of a shrug, cast his foggy attention towards his lower abdomen, and pierced skin.

And just like the time they spend at June's range, she was suitably impressed.

Peter's no professional, but he was far from sloppy. He stabbed through his own skin with shaky fingers and wet his lips as blood smeared, a testament to how many times he must've hidden away in his bathroom to fix up every stab, cut, slash, and shot he'd taken as Spider-Man.

She saw the videos. He'd taken a lot.

At a little over the halfway mark Neena grabbed his wrist to still it when he made no motion to stop. "Not bad, but I'll take it over from here. It's a little crooked, not tight enough, but it does what it's supposed to." Gently, she plucked the needle from his grasp and re-positioned it right next to the last suture. "Watch."

As much as he looked like he was one whole lecture away from passing out right then and there, he made a herculean effort to hold his eyes wider than a squint. Blown pupils tracked the neat, even lines of her work. It was cute in a weird, morbid sort of way—and after seven perfect loops of stitch, she wiped her hands on a towel and stood.

"O-kay," she sighed. "All we've got to do is bandage it, but otherwise you're all good to—"

His head tipped back against a throw pillow and he was out cold before she could even finish.

"—yeah. That looks about right."

She took a gauze pad in one hand and the adhesive tape in the other, but for a moment she stared at the teenager on her couch. "Fuck," she repeated for the third time.

Neena had always known where she was going in this life. When she lived in the Essex house she told herself she'd escape, so she did. When she said she was going to make herself a name in the business, she climbed her way to the top on a ladder of bullet casings and blood splattered. But this?

Mercs never dealt with vigilantes or heroes or all the other names plastered on the headlines every day, but of course Weasel picked up the one kid in New York with baggage the size of the Empire State Building. A bubbly high school sophomore who laughed alongside some criminals but also webbed up the ones he wasn't friends with—damn, thinking about it too much would give her too much of a headache. For what it was worth, it'd be better on her life as a whole if she cut her losses now and told Wade never bother her with Peter again.

She twirled the roll of tape on her finger.

But he always had her order ready when she went to the bar. And she finished those cookies he baked for her in just a couple days. And he wasn't a snot-nosed asshole.

So just as she taped a gauze over his stitches, she swiped his phone from the sewn-in pocket on the inside of one leg and used his thumb to unlock it. It took a bit of snooping in his messages to find and text Ned under Guy in the Chair, whatever that meant. Next she texted May who thankfully was only under May, and then updated her own contact photo under Ms. Domino to a selfie of her and a passed out Peter.

"You're in way deep shit," she told him as she tucked the phone back into his pocket and threw a blanket over him. "But for your sake, I hope you know what you're doing."

::

It was the middle of the night.

While Neena snoozed away after a small nightcap and Peter reached the deepest stage of sleep, his skin started to ripple. The skin around the stitches darkened blue and spread outwards—up and away it traveled, and by the time it glanced at his throat, his breath fogged and flowed out icy.

The blue receded around the time the sun peeked out over the Atlantic, and by then his gunshot wound was light pink and shallow.

If someone touched it, they'd feel like it was a little bit too cold.

::

Peter woke to a fuzzy blanket tickling his nose and a side so sore it was like he ran right into a counter corner like that who-want-lasagna mom. He laid there, eyes trained on the ceiling of an unfamiliar apartment, and let the memories of last night run him by. He hoped that kid got home okay. And the cops? Hm, he guessed one of them wasn't the worst. The other, though...

He pursed his lips. With his luck a Daily Bugle article would roll out in a few days spinning the incident so bad it was going to look like he kidnapped the kid instead of trying to get him away from pushy, trigger happy cops. Man, that was going to suck. Should he hire a PR manager?

He shut his eyes and exhaled. It could've been worse.

But better him hurt than the ones who couldn't protect themselves.

The sound of an opening door had him prying open his eyes again and Neena walked into the living room in running shorts, a baggy hoodie, and another throw blanket over her shoulders.

"Here's some stuff you can wear. Should fit." She set a bundle of clothes at the foot of the couch as he eased himself into sitting up. "Hey, were you cold last night?"

"Um, not really? I was pretty pancaked."

"Huh. It was freezing when I woke up at like, three to turn on the heater. Doesn't look like it did much."

... Oh god. Did he go blue last night? Code Blue?? Did he literally fulfill the prophecy of getting beat black and blue?!

"I have a super high cold tolerance, so I was all good. Thanks for letting me borrow these," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. "But if it's so cold, why are you wearing shorts...?"

"I'm not going to wear pants if I don't have to. And in my own home? That's disrespectful." She pointed to the half-cracked door on the opposite side of the room. "Bathroom's that way, spare towels are in the linen closet inside, extra toothbrushes are under the sink. You like those egg McMuffins from McDonald's?"

"Sure?"

"Nice, I've got Jimmy Dean's in the freezer."

Peter smiled and slipped away as she strode into the kitchen. He made his shower quick and suds his hair with shampoo that smelled like coconut and flowers; the water didn't run pink as it spiraled down the drain, and the bruises on his legs from catching a car just before meeting the kid were outlined yellow.

He ran a ginger touch over the wound on his stomach. It was healing pretty quickly and he'd probably take the stitches out sometime tomorrow morning, but if it was healing this fast, maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought.

Still, he ended up in front of a clear shot. Maybe if he didn't just keep Wade's gun and Mr. Loki's dagger on him when he was just Peter everything would have...

He turned off the lukewarm spray and toweled dry as quickly as he could before pulling on the black track pants that had a flaking A Day to Remember print down the side of the left leg. Rubbing the towel against his hair, he leaned against the sink and stared straight at his reflection.

Pale. Weary.

That... cop really hated him, huh?

What else can you do besides getting cats down from trees?

Peter dragged a hand over his face and took out his phone to two unreads.

Guy in the Chair: CALL ME WHEN YOU CAN [11:23 pm]

May: {thumbs up emoji} np sweetie! Tell Ned I said hi and txt me when you're on your way back! [12:17 am]

"It's a new day, Parker," he whispered. He tugged a purple hoodie over his head, NYU emblazoned on the front. "Call Ned. Check in with May. Swing around that same block from last night to show you're okay. Because you're okay. You're chillin'. You're alive."

He looked back at the mirror and at the exhausted teenager in it.

"You're alive." He swallowed. "You're alive, and you're going to do better."

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom with the Nu-Suit tucked under one arm, Neena was pulling two sandwiches out of the microwave and moving one to another plate. Post-hardcore music spilled from the tiny speaker next to the stove and he slid into the chair she set one of the plates in front of.

He was really bad at this secret identity thing, wasn't he? Like, astronomically bad. So bad that it actually should be illegal for him to have any secrets because sooner or later the outrageous was going to happen, like his identity getting blown up in Times Square by J. Jonah Jameson. Yeah, sure, like Triple J would ever find out Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

Then again, the list of people who knew who he was only got longer. Dang.

"Thanks for last night," Peter said once she took her seat and took a bite of her sandwich. "I was heading home, but wanted to do another sweep of the neighborhood and maybe it wasn't the best idea after getting, y'know, shot, but I'm really sorry you had to take care of me. I promise it won't happen again!"

She waved him off. "I would've felt bad if I left you in the alley."

"I swear I'll make it up to you."

"I mean—"

"You name it, I got you. Extra ammo, text updates on supplies, more oatmeal raisin cookies. You know, I'm actually really proud of those! The recipe I used was from this old card in May's family stuff when I was helping her clean the—"

"Pete."

He shut his mouth and finally picked up his own sandwich that cooled with his rambling. Neena finished chewing. "While I'm definitely not going to turn that down, I didn't help you because I wanted something out of it. I did it 'cause we're cool." She stood. "Coffee? Orange juice?"

Peter hid a smile behind his sandwich. "I'm not allowed to have coffee."

"Yeah, coffee shits are the worst," she replied as she tapped the 'on' button on her coffee maker. At the sound of heating water, she leaned against the counter and leveled him with a look. "So. Spider-Man?"

He stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and dusted his fingers over his plate. "Okay, I think I have the basic rundown this time." He rubbed his hands together. "Basically Oscorp does a ton of shady stuff on the down low and when I went on a field trip there a year ago, I got bit by a genetically engineered spider and now I'm a mutate that can swing from buildings. No, the webs don't come out of my butt and no, the webs aren't organic." His head tilted slightly. "Uh, so the list of people who know are Wade, Mr. Weasel, May, Ned—my best friend and the only one on the list who's my age—uh, I'm pretty sure MJ doesn't know but that's kind of 50/50 actually, um, Mr. Stark, his head of security named Happy, and there's also my mom who you haven't met yet but might because she likes coming to the bar to visit even though last time she threw Wade into one of the pool tables. And now, you!" He beamed. "Hooray?"

Neena blinked. And for some reason, she looked like she was counting to five?

"... They really let you go outside all by yourself?"

Peter sighed. "I guess I deserve that."

"No, seriously, you're a lint roller for crazy. If you told me you had a lizard that can blast lasers from its eyes I'd hate you because it's probably true."

"Neena," he whined, a laugh bubbling up right behind it. One hand fell against his stitches as his other stacked his plate atop her empty one so he could put them in the sink. It was nice to have another person in his corner that begrudgingly took it and just... just tried to help him survive.

Maybe he could really get through this.

His hand pressed closer to his side, a sharp burn of pain racing through his nerves.

He had to.

(For the first time in a long time, he didn't think of Mr. Stark.)

::

Hotdogs.

Peter loved them so much that he still put them in his mac n' cheese to spite May.

The vendors liked to give him one now and again too—as Spider-Man, not Peter, usually as thanks for helping the cousin of someone their cousin knew, and things along those lines. So on one of those days where he felt like a hotdog would help him warm up through the breeze, he stopped by his favorite one run by the Polish grandpa who loved to tell stories about his grandkids and took a snack break on the tallest building in Long Island City.

Me: but i'm doing my hw rn [5:56 pm]

Guy in the Chair: arnt u spidermanning rn? [5:57 pm]

Me: snack break!! [5:57 pm]

Guy in the Chair: ah, the snakciest of breaks [5:58 pm]

He moved the StarkSuit mask to the side and reached into his backpack for his English notebook. If anything, he could at least turn in a rough draft and get credit if he didn't manage to both type and print the essay before second period tomorrow so MJ didn't mad dog him until lunch.

Me: if it really was the snackiest of breaks i'd have those pretzles from th

spike

He snatched his mask and rolled out of the way of the lightning bolt that crackled down from the clear sky. Just after it ripped into the ground where he was just sitting, a figure followed—landing with enough force to shake the building.

"My apologies!" a voice exclaims, and Peter gaped at the sight of blond hair, a flowing red cape, and a warhammer. "Heimdall assured me that my landing here would be most suited to my endeavors, though there is little doubt he had told me so knowing you would care naught for my appearance. To whom am I addressing?"

"Um." Peter looked down at his mask, then back up at him. "I'm Spider-Man?"

"Well met, Spider-Man! Truly, a fascinating name." A grin. "I am Thor Odinson of Asgard. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

A torn green backpack and burnt notebooks lay around Thor's feet.

Peter wondered which was more believable: his non-existent dog eating his homework, or the God of Thunder frying it to ash.

Chapter Text

"I, um, oh my gosh Mr. Thor, uh, your royal highness? You probably don't go by that unless you do then, uh, wow. I'm a big fan!" Peter squeaked and really, under the circumstances, he'd like to see someone who didn't squeak after lighting came down from a clear sky to try and turn him into a fish stick like that messed up Spongebob episode with the fry cook games.

The God of Thunder smiled down at him, friendly and open, and this was simultaneously one of the best and worst days of his life.

"A lively lad you are! Thank you!" He spun his hammer with a quick flourish. "But 'Thor' alone is of appropriate address. It is the norm in Midgard's Northern Americas, is it not?" He shifted a foot and looked down when it nudged against singed papers and an ash-covered backpack. "Ah... I must apologize once more. I promise to offer recompense."

"Nah it's okay, I can take an L."

"Like the letter?"

"Yeah, kinda! But also it means no biggie, I only had half a rough draft and the papers I keep in my folder still look intact." Peter crouched down to shuffle what he could back into the bag, and did a double take when Thor knelt to help him out. "Oh, uh, thanks for the help, Mr. Thor. You don't have to worry about it."

"'Twas a mess of my own doing as my poor landing disturbed your belongings."

"But—"

Thor dropped a handful of stationery and a scorched pair of jeans into Peter's arms, and he fumbled them into his backpack. His sweatshirt was still balled at the bottom of the bag right on top of a scarf and beanie and the hidden pocket he made to keep his dagger. He hadn't needed to use it and he hoped he never had to, but it was a lot better than actively carrying a weapon on his person and no, his webshooters didn't count, but his mom could bypass his spidey-sense no problem now and if he didn't take the dagger himself, he'd find them on the inside of jacket sleeves or tucked in the waistband of his pants. The whole warrior thing was probably the usual, but he was pretty sure Asgard had actual sword classes.

Peter had PE. Those two were not interchangeable.

"Uh, is it okay if we talk in the stairwell?" He asked. The building was too high up for anyone to see, but they were in a residential area and the skies overhead only had a couple burnt orange splotches left in the growing dark. That lightning bolt would've been clear as day to anyone in the area, and #Thor would be trending if it wasn't already.

"Of course," Thor easily agreed. "Though we would have to take many of those stairs to reach the bottom."

"I think it'll be fine if we use their elevator? But we need to, I mean, I..." He sighed. "I'm way too bad at this, man."

Peter held open the door to the stairway for a bemused god and glanced around the rooftop one last time. Charred backpack straps and torn paper scraps on their way to ruin from old snow were all they were leaving, but it was his spidey-sense that eased his nerves as he shut the door behind him.

"I'm so sorry, but real quick let me just—" He pulled out the sweatshirt and held it between his teeth as he tapped along the thick black lines high up on the forearm of the suit, detaching them so he could peel off the material from there to his fingers like a glove. He dropped them in his backpack and yanked the sweatshirt over his head. It fell a bit loosely around the neck and his sleeves covered his hands completely—dang, did he take Ned's? "Is the red noticeable?"

Thor didn't hesitate in nodding from his spot a few steps down. "Red is quite a bright hue."

Peter dragged the scarf out and wrapped it twice around his shoulders, its lopsided snowman smiling at one end. "How about now?"

"Now it is well obscured!" Exclaimed Thor. He tipped his head. "Though I am compelled to admit my confusion— are you... concealing your identity, Spider-Man? Whatever for?"

"Well, my identity's always been a secret. You really weren't supposed to see me without the mask." He winced and tugged on his jeans. The holes were goners even to his newly improved sewing skills, but at least his suit pants could easily pass a pair of leggings. "In the suit I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who usually sticks to Queens, and out of it I'm—I'm Peter Parker, by the way—" and incidentally one of the worst secret identity keepers in the world— "and, uh, it would really mean a lot if you didn't tell anyone about it. Spider-Man can get into a lot of dangerous things, and a lot of people in my life would be better off not getting involved, you know?"

The god looked thoughtful, and it was a little funny to see this otherworldly hero in a grand cape and legitimate shining armor having this conversation in a four foot wide corridor.

"So you don a moniker to protect those you care for," he considered. "Perhaps I myself would have never thought to veil my face and uphold my mystery, but your cause is noble and true." He strode up to clap a large hand on the teen's shoulder, barely holding back a surprised laugh when the force didn't send Peter stumbling. "You are sturdier than you appear!" A short pause. "And you say you know Queens?"

"Born and raised, and if you're looking for something, I can point you in the right direction!" Peter replied. Like the best Thai place was hidden behind a corner, never ask the cashier at the bodega with the Fran Drescher poster in the window why there was a Fran Drescher poster in the window, and Delmar's had the best sandwiches in the borough, just ask Mr. Delmar himself. But if there was more of an interest in the alien kind of thing, he still has a map of every location Chitauri tech had been found or activated. Ned and Karen were the best for helping him maintain it.

Thor wasn't at the airport back in Germany, and Peter honestly couldn't say whose side he would've been on, or if he even would've picked. And maybe he was a little grateful for that. Before the bite—before Ben—he knew the Avengers were always going to be larger than life when they used to live at the tower like a bygone modern Mt. Olympus.

On TV, they were heroes someone like Peter Parker was never going to meet.

Then Mr. Stark came. Then he fought the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Then he fought Captain America. Then he fought a guy who could go ant-sized.

Then he fought the Vulture, alone.

Then he realized that "hero" was a more complicated word than he first thought.

So he knew he should've been holding out for disappointment the moment the sky crackled because the only Thor he knew was from newsreels and shaky phone clips and merch that clogged every souvenir shop on the block. And regardless of the keychain Ned jokingly got him when they killed some time in the neighborhood one day, he couldn't use that to get a read on the guy. Hero. His Majesty.

"I am here more to search than to visit, though I admit I am at a loss at what exactly it is that needs to be found," he said. For a brief moment something in his face changed, dulled and humorless as he asked, "Do you have any grand centers of knowledge in this locality? Those aligned with the sciences or the fine arts? Midgardian histories, perhaps?"

Peter blinked. "Like museums and libraries? Yeah, I can take you to some!" Not what he was expecting, but he wasn't complaining. "A lot of them might already be closed or close around now or in an hour or two, but narrowing down what you're looking for could help if you can think of anything." Thor frowned again, and he waved his hands in front of him. "Not that I'm rushing you! I mean, science, art, and history are super broad subjects and your best bets would be college libraries like Butler or Bobst. Both are in Manhattan, but if you really want to stay in Queens, you'll want to head to the public library at Elmhurst. I don't know if they'll have what you're looking for, but we can try!" He checked his phone. "Sweet! You're lucky, Mr. Thor, Elmhurst closes at eight on Thursdays."

When he looked back up, the god's expression changed again. Something wistful twinkled in his eyes as that charming smile bounced back onto his face. "Then Gefjon must have allowed me some of her good luck to be aided by Queens' defender!" He scratched his chin. "And I suppose I shall also attribute this encounter to Heimdall as well. If I do not, perhaps he would leave me stranded on your planet lest I beg!"

He laughed. Peter was pretty sure he missed the joke.

"Let us make haste, lad!" Thor made a move to spin on his heel and stride down the stairs, but at the last moment whipped back around. "Ah! One last matter!"

The hammer sparked.

And Peter only had half a second to shield his face with his arms before the stairwell enveloped in bright light and his nose filled with the scent of dripping ozone. It dizzied him for a beat, pure energy skimming his skin and rustling his clothes, and when everything evened out another second later and the bulbs above them flickered then steadied, he peeked out.

Gone was the armor and cape and everything else remotely archaic, replaced by a black hoodie under a gray jean jacket and a Spider-Man-red scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. There was even a plain black umbrella in his hand instead of the hammer.

"Dude," Peter gasped. "You can do that kind of magic too?!"

"There were quite numerous opportunities to learn in my fifteen hundred or so years," Thor beamed, and the teen couldn't stop his rising excitement. "My mother is a practitioner of many fine, intricate magicks, and even if it was my brother who had grown with her talent..."

He trailed off, again dulling, again humorless, and suddenly it was like there was permafrost along every one of Peter's bones.

Right. His brother.

Thor cleared his throat and forced a smile. "But yes, your library! If you could lead me there, I would owe you a great debt."

"I got you, Mr. Thor. And really, it's no biggie."

Maybe a little more of a biggie than he was letting himself believe, but he could have a crisis about it later if everything went back to his sort-of normal. Right now they had to make the thirty-ish minute commute to Elmhurst without getting found out and the sun down was a huge help, but as he looked at Thor he noticed the neat braids in his pulled back hair and the colored strips of leather woven through them.

Peter tugged out his beanie. It had a black pom pom on top and a couple fuzzy threads sticking out, and the words 'cool guy' in block letters ran across the cuff.

"Do you want to use a hat?"

::

Loki reclined in his armchair as he read the next book in his list of popular Midgardian literatures, fiction and non-fiction alike. Stephen Hawking, Anne Frank, Zhu Xi, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Victor Hugo, Zora Neale—just to name a few of the hundreds he hungrily dove through. He always made a point to pick up a novel or two with every visit and when Peter was but a babe and found his toes more fascinating than the the Goodnight Moon he had been assured was age-appropriate listening. As he was taking a more... lasting stay in this realm, there was certainly enough time to enjoy what he could.

He sipped his wine.

There were also other writers Peter said were quite popular, though sensational in a different way. John Green, Lemony Snicket, Neil Gaiman. He added those ones closer to the top of the list.

Bzzt.

Peter: don't panic [6:34pm]

Peter: bc i totally have this under contrl [6:34pm]

Peter: nd i don't want u to get in trouble and i promise i'll be a-ok [6:34pm]

Peter: so will u please please plaese stay at home or work or wherevr u r? [6:34pm]

Peter: please [6:35pm]

Loki peered at the succession of bubbles lighting up his phone and the Spider-Man insignia picture he set up as his 'lock screen.' That was the first time he watched his son grow so red and flail with his most adoring embarrassment, and his fondest memory to date had been when the boy swung through his window solely to accuse him of getting May to change her lock screen to match.

Which he had, of course. There was nothing wrong with being proud.

Though it did nothing to settle the disquieting feeling each new text bubbles granted.

Me: I will if you promise me that you are alright. [6:35pm]

Peter: yea! i swear! [6:35pm]

Peter: so [6:36pm]

With the long stretch that came with the three small dots at the bottom of his and Peter's correspondence, he took a moment to slide his bookmark in place. Unfortunately, his confidence was too high in that whatever would come would not allow him peace of mind to read for the remainder of the night.

Peter: thor appeared on the roof where i was doing my hw and now i'm helping him look for something but i don't kno what it is??? he asked for museums and libraries in queens specificaly so it doesn't sound like sumthing big and he doesn't kno about u either i don't think so u should be safe but i'll make sure we don't go near ur place. like he doesn't look angyr or anything and he's dressed n normal human clothes and looks pretty unrecognizable so ther won't be any news from that i think [6:38pm]

Peter: oh and he saw me w out my mask [6:38pm]

Peter: but he promised not to tell [6:39pm]

Loki stared at the block of text before imbibing the rest of his wine in a single gulp.

Me: If I do not see you physically alive and well by midnight tonight, I will look for you myself. [6:41pm]

::

A comical appearance of alarm took hold of the lad's face when he looked down at his rectangular device as they both slid out the yellow car, but before he could put forth an inquiry, the driver lowered his window and poked out his head.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Ferret! Mr. Ferret's friend!" He smiled. "And your rides are still under Mr. Pool's name, so you don't need to worry."

"Wait, still?" Peter questioned. "Come on, can't you just let me pay and not tell Wade?"

"No can do, I appreciate my kneecaps exactly where they are."

"I'll try to talk to him. Again. And withhold nacho privileges if I have to," he added in a grumble. He sighed and pocketed the device before a grin overtook his young features and he held out his fist towards the driver. The other man made a fist of his own and their knuckles tapped—though neither of them had mustered any strength for sound impact. "Thanks for the ride, Dopinder."

"Anytime. Take care!"

As the car rumbled down the street, Thor fell into step with the boy beside him. And boy was not a stretch nor offense—his youth was not well hidden and his mannerisms reflected the kind of naivete born from only adolescence. He had yet to be well read on Midgardian cultures and customs, so he was sure to make up for his lack of quick cleverness with simple observation. Peter was young by his own homeworld's standards, and with the way humans treated their children, there was no doubt his age must be in contention with the mask called Spider-Man. He wondered if Stark knew of him.

The lad was hopeful, voluble, spirited about the eyes.

... Much like how his brother had been so long ago.

His scarf slipped a bit off the bottom of his face, and he watched his breath pool into small clouds.

Asgard did not have a changing season like Midgard. Their realm did not curve and he needed to mind his strength due to the change of gravity, durability, density, interdimensional cosmology—but that was something Loki would take any joy and interest in explaining, and Thor wished he could stand here and feign boredom while he listened to his brother tangle himself up in his lively ramblings. Unburdened. Happy.

He... could not recall the exact moment things went wrong. Perhaps it had been when Father praised him for his kills on hunts instead of Loki's gift of form changing, or perhaps when the appearance of elegantly crafted daggers could no longer be found on the grounds Thor tended to frequent, or it could have been when his beloved little brother expended long bouts of absence only to finally return home angry and bitter (and heartsick). He did not know what he should have done but he knew he should have done more of it—too late a realization. He knew that too.

And yet, Thor ached.

It had been three long years since Loki died in his arms, and he was still haunted.

"Aaaaand this looks like the history section," Peter displayed with a wave. It seemed to have been out of his attention that there was no longer a glance of the chill along his cheekbones. The lad somehow contained the same level of enthusiasm in his whispers as his exclamations, and as they stood next to one of the tall shelves, there were little patrons left in the building. He expected the library's daily closure to be soon. "Uh, I don't mind helping you look for whatever you need, but I don't really know what you're looking for?"

Thor blinked. What he was looking for. Right, he had been looking...

Walls of books stared him down, and he was surprised that this realization accosted him faster than they usually do.

"... Ah," he breathed. "Please excuse me, Peter. I believe that I have wasted your time."

Peter frowned, and that too reminded him of his most persistent ghost.

Norns, he's getting worse.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

A broken laugh spilled past his lips and the hand not tightly gripped around Mjolnir's guise tucked deep into his jacket pocket. A fool—it had been one of Loki's favorite insults that often led to arguments and horseplay and a ruckus about the palace. Before he thought all that in jest, because how could Loki take all that seriously? How could he, after all those years growing up together, believe that his own brother did not care?

Thor's shoulders dropped. And how could he let Loki think it?

"Peter, " he murmured. "We've not known each other long, but I find myself asking something of you once more. Since you have allowed your trust in me in keeping your secret, will you keep this one of mine?"

Peter nodded quickly. "Yeah, Mr. Thor, of course."

"My brother perished on Svartalfheim a year after he reigned terror in this city. He had been imprisoned in the dungeons for the entirety of that year, yet he saved my life as well as Jane's by way of sacrifice. His own." He shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath. "I left his body in that wasteland corroded by the dark matter in its own star system and I... It was too late when I went back for him. There was no trace, most likely led to ruin by the caustic atmosphere."

He'd searched. By the endless cosmos had he searched, scouring the remains of that battlefield and everywhere encircling it. And nothing.

"I was lost for longer than I care to admit. I could not go to my father, for he would have little to say, and I could not go to my mother, for I had known that she would have smiled, and held me, and told me to mourn as I took all the time I needed to let go. But I could not let go, so I could not let her see me make what she thinks is one more wrong decision."

Peter wrung his hands as he listened.

"My warrior brethren and Loki had little amiable interactions and with how many secrets he kept close to his chest, he had no true companions I knew of. So I wandered for another long while, lost in musings and memories that I often brought up with my dear friend Heimdall. It was only recently that he spoke of something I had never heard." Thor's expression twisted, brows pulling down and lips pressed flat. "There was a period, it must have been fifteen or sixteen years ago now, in which my brother disappeared for months at a time. About nine to ten full cycles of your moon, at the longest. No one knew where he had gone and I suspect Heimdall had a hand in the ploy, but he informed me that it was to Midgard to which Loki traveled—North America, New York, New York City, Queens. He would not say more."

There were even fewer people here now. A person was at a far table and a couple others were squished into a corner at the other side of the room, and no one cared to cast them a glance.

"I do not know if there is anything left of him here, and if there was, where it would be. And by my own irrational thoughts, I believed some miraculous force would present me with what—who—I search for; that if I went anywhere Loki would love or have any interest, I would find him." He swallowed down a twinge, and his lips quivered. "But a library is just a library, and I will not find any of my answers here." He rubbed the back of his neck and forced a wide grin. "Foolish, am I not?"

Peter's face, honestly expressive in the couple hours he had come to know him, filled with sincerity. "I don't think you're foolish at all. You miss him, and you shouldn't blame yourself for that."

Thor's face didn't crumple, but it was a near thing.

"An-And I don't know how much it means coming from me but, uh, if Loki were here, I think he'd be touched that you've been looking for him for so long." The lad offered a small smile, accentuating the boyish rounds of his face. "You're a good brother, Mr. Thor."

If only he had been.

But when Peter gazed at him with those budding brown eyes, good and true and kind, he almost believed it. And peculiarly, he found those eyes awash with the most minute speckles of green.

::

Peter jumped when the door opened before he could even dig out his spare key and let himself get tugged inside of the apartment.

"Of all the beings you could have crossed paths with, it of course needs to be Thor," Loki hissed as he shut the front door with a wave of his hand. He held either side of the teen's face as he turned it this way and that, trying to spay any bruise or injury he might be hiding. Man, he didn't say anything about some cracked ribs one time— "What did he do? What did he say?" Loki brushed his fingers through unkempt curls, searching for any bumps or blood spots along the way. "And what problem could he possibly bother you with that he could not figure out on his own—"

He flung his arms around Loki and squeezed, his burnt and torn backpack still dangling from one hand.

"—oh." A pair of arms wrapped around him in return and held onto him just as tightly. "So something did happen? If he dragged you into one of his messes—"

"No it's just," Peter's voice muffled against the shoulder his face was smushed against. Since coming to Earth he hasn't seen Loki in anything Asgard-esque, sticking to suits, button-ups, and everything business-like and wrinkle-free. But tonight he was dressed in a green tunic and a simple leather vest that reached down to his knees; it was a far cry from the fancy armor he wore during his first real introduction, but he didn't doubt he was any less ready to fight, "I'm glad I got to meet you and that we get along."

Loki pulled away, worry in every inch of his face as he held his shoulders steady. "Now you have my utmost concern."

"I... Do you hate Mr. Thor? No-Not that it was any of my business! He's just really torn up about you, um." He glanced down. "Dying."

"What?"

Two heavy knocks sounded at the door.

"Peter!" A terribly familiar voice boomed. Peter dropped his backpack. "I am remiss to have forgotten to return your 'cool guy' headwear, though it does look quite dashing on myself, and Heimdall was kind enough to direct me to your current whereabouts—"

"Oh my god I swear I didn't tell him anything I made sure he went up in that rainbow beam-me-up light before I swung all the way here!" Peter whisper-shouted.

"Heimdall."

The name seethed like acid, and Peter clamped his mouth shut as a spark of something vicious flashed across Loki's face as he glanced toward the door. He was mad when he met Dr. Strange, but he was furious now, sharp energy pulsing along his skin and dark shadows lurking in his gaze. This was the person who led an invasion over the city, and could've had every capability of succeeding.

But then he looked back at Peter, and it was gone.

"You need not convince me that this was not your doing," he assured quietly. "Heimdall is all-seeing. Though I have discovered a way to cloak myself from his gaze, he has known of you since your birth. I should have hidden you from him as soon as you summoned me." He paused, then cursed in a language Peter didn't recognize. "So now you choose to have an inkling of a brain."

"I need no brain to know your magic.”

Loki’s eyes fell shut, shifting from pained to resigned to haughty, almost as if he was an actor preparing for a role. Peter wondered if being the God of Lies also meant being the God of Pretending.

“Two runes etched in the bottom corner by the hinge of any door you currently stand behind—one to help keep noise from leaking, the other to warn of presence," Thor said, suddenly at the entryway of the living room. His tone loosened and faltered near the end, and the tiniest crackle of electricity slithered along his umbrella handle. "How did you think I always found where you were in the palace?"

"The runes are hidden."

"The runes are yours."

Loki turned and moved Peter behind him.

"I cannot believe you are alive, after all this time," Thor said as his face screwed up. "I mourned you.” His throat strained, each word fractured as they fought to push past his mouth without drawing his tears. “And here you are after all this time living among the people you once almost destroyed!"

Peter tensed. Uh-oh.

He couldn't see Loki's face, but he watched his back straighten just so as a dagger slipped out from somewhere and into his waiting hand. "Ah, you have only just arrived in my home to preach my sins as if I am not aware of them myself. Are you done, or will you leave?"

"If you think I will leave of my own volition, you are sorely mistaken."

Thor took a step forward. Peter stumbled when Loki took a step back and brandished his blade.

"Brother, please. I can't lose you agai—"

spike

The dagger was halfway across the room when Peter darted in front of his mom, hand stretching out as the umbrella rippled and shimmered back into the hammer as it was thrown back in response.

It probably wouldn't have hit—Loki was too quick and too magic-y and Thor clearly loved his sibling too much—but he couldn't let two gods duke it out in the middle of a high-rise in the middle of Queens. That was exactly the type of thing that would hit news stations for the whole week; an Avengers-level shebang that could hurt a lot of people and put May and his friends in danger and bring Mr. Stark down on his head and get Dr. Strange after Loki who'd been arrested for all the things he did before and—and he wasn't equipped to break into a wizard dungeon—

He caught the hammer by its silver head before flipping it to grasp it by its handle.

"If there's going to be a fight, it has to be outside!" He exclaimed, gesturing vaguely with the newly-acquired weapon. It was way lighter than he thought it'd be. "Where there's no people, and no cameras, and far enough for no one to hear. Or see. Or, actually, that might be pretty far and, uh..."

He trailed off when his only reply was silence and two sets of incredulous eyes locked on him.

Loki stared with a bright mix of wonderment and pride. Thor, on the other hand, stood with his jaw dropped and stance frozen, his eyes drifting from his hammer to Peter to his hammer once more. Oh man, he hoped he hadn't committed a cardinal offense on Asgard for bad weapon etiquette or anything like that, he hadn't heard any stories about that yet.

For another few beats a heavy silence sat in the midst of the dark living room.

Then Thor's expression morphed, all previous traces of severity gone in a flash of lightning.

"Peter," he said. "How do you know my brother?"

He felt one of Loki's hands curling protectively over his shoulder.

Loki probably wouldn't get mad at him for telling the truth. God of Lies and Mischief was one of the more universal titles attached to his lore, especially in all the old books and online encyclopedias Peter knew not to trust ever since whole pantheons turned out to be real and alien and if he'd gotten the memo that one of them was his mother, maybe he would've learned to get better at lying on the spot.

But trying to lie to Thor? The guy who spent three years looking for someone he thought was dead because it was something he just could never let go?

He squared his posture and kept his bearings. "I'm his son."

"Son?"

And suddenly the biggest, most genuine grin Peter had ever seen stretched across his face. His spidey-sense stayed traitorously silent when Thor bolted across the room in a flash and hefted him into his arms, hammer and all, and swung him in circles.

"A nephew! Brother, you're alive and you've given me a nephew!"

Peter let himself get rag-dolled, or at least he didn't mind it too much because it wasn't like he could toe-to-toe with a literal myth. That, and his feet were about a foot off the ground and he was getting carried by the coolest Avenger—

"Thor, don't you DARE—"

Thor picked up Loki and smooshed against his son, his unnecessarily muscled arms locked around them like a vice.

"Put me down, you brainless oaf!"

"So you can abscond yourself and fake your death another time? I think not!" He squeezed tighter, and Peter blinked. What. The heck. Was happening. "This calls for a celebration! Drinks, all around!"

"Absolutely not!"

"I'm not old enough to dr-drink?"

::

After Peter turned in for the night at Loki's gentle request, a quiet settled over the apartment and Thor's mighty grin mellowed into a smile. Really, what fate to meet such a pleasant lad only to discover he was family! The spirals in his chest and the exhaustion of three years worn of grief and sorrow were mere rumbles at the back of his head as he took it all in—his brother healthy, his nephew lively, the two of them in obvious care for one another on a planet the former had before been so adamant in proclaiming in his hate for.

It incited a warmth in his chest he thought he'd forgotten.

"Peter is yours by blood?" He asked.

Loki scoffed. "Do you find that hard to believe? You cannot fathom how someone worthy could come from someone so poisonous?"

"Brother," he frowned. Ah, and there it was. This distance. This abyss between their feet. It felt like eons since the last time he had even been called 'brother' in genuine return. "You know very well my words held no such ill-intent."

Loki turned with a furrow in his brow, arms crossing his chest as he looked away.

"... I bore him here on Midgard, fifteen years ago," he said. "It was summer, nearly mid-August."

"Alone?"

"How else was I supposed to be?"

"On Asgard! In the palace!" Thor exclaimed. He had witnessed a birth once in the midst of battle on a realm he could not currently recall. It had been loud and bloody and the soon-to-be-mother wept in tears of pain and fear, and he loathed to imagine his brother in such a state without a sliver of comfort. "You would have been safe and Peter would have been raised a prince—"

Loki chuckled under his breath, a hollow sound.

"Yes, why did I never think of that? I should have strode in through golden doors with my announcement in the wind. 'Mother! Father! You will be pleased to know I'm with child out of wedlock, his father a human with no knowledge of my true kind! Let us host a celebration!'" He gritted his teeth. "You idiotic, thick-headed fool. Do you really believe they would have let Peter roam the halls with such blood in his veins? Mortal and Jötunn—" he spat the name like a slur, and on Asgard, it might as well have been— "I did not know I was a monster then, but Odin did, and he would have slain him in his first sleep."

He heaved a heavy breath and massaged his fingers across the space above his eyes.

"And now a criminal in addition to it all," he muttered. "It will take more to survive this time."

"I..."

And Thor stopped.

Before, he would have protested, defended their father who had raised them both to be kings. But then why raise them with resentment for the frost giants when it was who Loki was, why promise them both the same world when there was only one not to share, why favor, and favor so obviously that now the damage could not be undone?

"Your birthright was to die as a child!" Father's voice reverberates in the throne room, echoing down and around his youngest wrought in chains. "Cast out on a frozen rock. If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now to hate me."

"I do not know if he would have, but I understand why it is something you fear," he said. "I am sorry I was not there for you then, but... This life you have now is quiet. Free of the complications of home." He lightened his air. "And perhaps it would be to your benefit if Father continues to think your death on Svartalfheim was your last."

Loki stilled and slowly turned his gaze back on him.

"You will not force me back?"

"Never. You have my word."

"And when has any word of yours been good to me?"

The distrust stung like a Fossegrim drawing one's hand across fiddle strings until it bled, but he should know better. But even with the anger, grief, exhaustion that already rattled in his ribs and held hostage his heart, he meant what Loki would not allow him to speak.

"Then it is my hope that one day soon you will consider them so," Thor said. "No matter how long it will take or how much blood I will shed, I will be here for you as your brother and for Peter as his uncle. Asgard will not harm either of you as long as I am here and I promise you, I will stay."

There was an openness to Loki's expression, displaying the cumbersome weight of fatigue that seemed to ease in Peter's presence. He looked to have a million things to say and a million more to snap, but green eyes flickered towards the direction of Peter's door and sighed.

"He has lessons early in the morning. I do not want him to wake if our talk escalates."

"Brother—"

"Go," Loki told him, holding no room for argument. He spun around and faced some of the hundreds of books he kept on these shelves. "Is it not as you said? You already know where to find me."

It was not a final dismissal nor a promise to disappear the very next day, and that warmth in Thor's chest stoked and burned brighter.

"Sleep well, Brother," he bid softly. "I will see you soon." Because I do not know what I would do if I had to watch myself lose you again.

::

The sheets were more expensive than he'd ever pay for and the bed would've taken up half his whole room back at May's, and he wished he could just bury himself in it and sleep. It was one of the rare days he could get more than six hours before school the next day, especially since Loki's apartment was farther than May's and he needed to get up earlier for the commute.

Peter shut his eyes and tried not to feel like the worst for not saying anything about his enhanced hearing.

(He doesn't think it's working.)

Chapter Text

"—sort of empty skull do you ferry—"

"I said to visit soon!"

"The sun has barely risen in the subsequent day you absolutely idiotic—"

Peter sat up before he even thought of opening his eyes and by the time he rubbed away the crust and pried them open, it was about an hour before he had to leave to make it in time for the second bell. Mom's and Thor's bickering filtered through the pitch darkness of the room; the thick blanket he had kept over the window would've been good enough to block the sunlight from his senses, but when Mom saw she'd cast spells on the frame, the pane, the glass, and still she'd bought a pair of black-out curtains in dark blue.

He slid out from under his ridiculously soft sheets and fumbled for his AcaDec sweatshirt, then jeans, and right when he was pulling on one sock that stopped at his ankle and another that reached the middle of his calf, the door swung wide open. 

Peter squinted and shielded his eyes. "Oh, dude."

"Good morning, Nephew!" Thor greeted, climbing sunshine breaking through behind him. He was in jeans again, a brown leather jacket over his shoulders and that same red scarf from last night slung around his neck and hanging just past his waist. And, was he, he kept the beanie— "It is to my knowledge that the children here wake quite early for their lessons, much earlier than on Asgard for reasons I cannot fathom, so I had taken care for Heimdall to inform me when it was appropriate for my next visit—"

"And it was not," Mom's voice echoed faintly from down the hall.

"—and it was because I said soon and this morning certainly qualifies as such." He smiled brightly. "Would you like to eat?"

"Sure! An-And good morning to you too, Mr. Thor!" Peter tacked on quickly, hurrying to his feet to scoop his notebooks and binders into his arms and ducked through his open bedroom door. Dirty blond brows pinched together.

"None of that, lad. Call me Uncle!"

"Oh, um..."

Ben was the only uncle he ever had. Richard was his only brother and Mary was an only child and even if May had always been a Parker in his eyes, she had three sisters; Annie who'd died before he could meet her, Jan who lived down in Boston and sent a postcard every Christmas and a birthday card with twenty dollars every August, April who was just gone. And even then, Ben became less of an uncle and more of a...

He bit the inside of his cheek.

The wafting scent of celery, onion, and thyme accompanied a faint bubbling and the rhythmic stirring of a stirring pot. Loki, clad in a dark gray robe and looking way too elegant at way too early in the morning, looked over his shoulder from his spot in front of the stove and raised a short glare that zipped right over Peter's head.

Thor waved a hand and smiled down. "In your own time, then," he reassured as he tousled brown hair. "In the meantime, I suppose 'Mr. Thor' will suffice. Or simply Thor, if you feel daring."

Peter managed a grateful look back.

"Good morning," Loki greeted softly as he patted his son into the seat at the head of the table, then cast a mildly exasperated glance at Thor when the latter plopped down in the chair to his left. "How was your rest?"

Peter set his things down on the floor under his chair. A couple pens rolled. "Good! I think I caught up on a lot."

Breakfast was served with the huge pot of celery-onion-thyme soup moved to a mat at the center of the dining table. Plates of dried haddock and bread and butter filled the surrounding space like they were about to feed ten people instead of three, but he guessed between his enhanced metabolism and the other two's literal other-worldly stomachs, this was normal.

"It was curious to watch you prepare this meal," Thor said as he ladled soup into Peter's bowl until it nearly spilled from the lip. "Your mother and I were never allowed in the palace kitchens; too 'destructive' and 'distracting' and 'disruptive' and a whole host of other disparages that begin with the letter 'd.'"

"He was a particularly thorough menace," Loki grumbled and tore into a piece of fish.

"Charmed the cooks for sweetmeats." Thor winked. "Alas, the things I do for divine honeyed rolls."

Peter smiled around a spoonful of soup.

And he thought Loki almost smiled too before he caught himself and schooled his face into something close to haughtiness. As he poised one leg over the other and crossed his arms over his chest, he was every bit as princely and cold the stories make him out to be. "As you have made it abundantly clear that you will be a consistent presence in Peter's life and this residence, there will. Be. Rules. You cannot gallivant as you please under these circumstances."

That friendly cheer didn't quite leave Thor's face, but a shadow muddled solemnly in the crinkles around his eyes as he nodded. Fifteen hundred or so years, Peter remembered him saying last night. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what it meant to be alive that long.

"First and foremost, I am dead. Do not utter my names neither here nor there and do not approach me so obviously in my other forms. You would also do well to mind your appearances in places we frequent, which is not an invitation to surface at Peter’s school, home, work. He cannot, under any circumstances, be likened to you as an associate."

"Aye, I am not so thick."

Loki scoffed and plowed on. "And that includes when he appears as Spider-Man."

"Brother," Thor pouted. "You would not allow me to battle alongside such a fine warrior?"

Peter blushed and stuffed barley and parsnips into his mouth until he chipmunked.

"Brother," Loki mocked. "I would not allow you to battle within fifty mil of him, but your persistence is grating and I know well enough your obstinacy is best quelled from the start. You may see him all you like, but you will never be seen with him. Is that understood?"

A relenting sigh. "Yes, you have my word. Secrecy is a small fare in exchange for safety."

The smile he flashed at Peter was different from what he saw on short interview clips on YouTube. Thor was a living myth, unearthly, born and raised and hailed a god. He was all wide grins and unshakable postures, answering questions like a medieval king and just enough out of place in the modern world with his flowing cape and crackling hammer that it was almost as if he was the world’s collective hallucination.

But this smile was a lot quieter. Gentler. And when Thor reached out to gently clap his upper arm, some of his soup jostled off his spoon and Peter didn't mind it all that much.

"And what of my visits to you?" Thor asked as he turned his eyes across the table. 

"... Pardon?"

"If it is my unannounced visits that vex you, then I will inform you every time I am to come. Often enough, I hope, as Mother and Father will think it for my duties in the protection of Earth than anything other. And I... meant what I said last night, with everything I have." He opened his mouth, but thought better of whatever it was and shut his mouth with a short exhale. "I was never there for you before, not in the way you needed. Now, it is my only wish to amend that for you and your son."

Peter pretended to be more interested in the identically cut celery in his bowl when he caught an expression he'd never seen on Loki's face before. Grief, maybe. And anger, and bitterness, and something so lonely —

He wiped a palm on his jeans and stuffed another spoon of soup in his mouth. Wow, this soup was good. May would probably like it, so he wondered if Loki would teach him the recipe after he and Thor dealt with what sounded like hundreds of years that led them, well, here. Here, where Thor still called Loki brother and came back even though they fought in the city for billions to see. Here, where Loki was a guilty criminal, a fugitive, someone supposed to be dead and mourned. 

Here, where he didn't know who Loki hated more: his brother or himself.

Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Guy in the Chair: dude how cld u leave me HAGNING last nite [6:47 am]

Guy in the Chair: thor was like totally back in NY for 2 sec beofre poof [6:47 am]

Guy in the Chair: rainbowed bac up to space [6:48 am]

Guy in the Chair: did u see him??? [6:48 am]

He bit his cheek.

Me: aw what i MISSED T H O R??? [6:49 am]

And shoved the phone back in his pocket like it burned him.

"I've got to start heading to school or else Mr. Morita might call May for another parent-teacher conference and she'll cut even more of my Spider-Man hours." Peter drained the last bits of his soup straight from the bowl as he slid out of his chair to put all his things in the sink. When he turned back towards the table, Thor had his cheer and Loki his composure. "Plus I need to take a detour to get another backpack."

"Are the stores open this early?" Loki questioned as he strode towards the counter to pick up the soup thermos and began to fill it from the pot. "By the lightning scars on the one you returned with, I assume someone appeared on a rooftop with meager care?"

"Am I to be the God of Thunder without a great prelude?"

Loki rolled his eyes and handed Peter the thermos. "Be sure to finish your lunch and bring your new pack to me once you have made your purchase; there are some charms I can cast to improve durability."

"Wait!" Thor's exclamation echoed near the front door before the god himself—when did he even get up to move? He could talk as loud as his title, no way he could just sneak away like that— "I did not intend to ruin his belongings and made to correct it before my arrival!"

And he walked back in with—

Peter pressed his lips together.

In Thor’s hands was a black backpack with white spray-painted art of what was a hand holding Mjolnir in all its glory as stretches of lighting flashed all over the front. 

"They have products for each of the Avengers!" He grinned. "A whole section of dedication to my comrades and I, with ample back-packs to choose from. Of course, who else to 'rep' but your 'cool' Uncle?"

Loki held a defeated hand over his face, and the burst of laughter that pushed out of Peter spilled all the rest of pens and pencils on the floor.

::

"Rubber bullets? " Wade's mask scrunched up in mortal offense at the customized box that Weasel slid over the counter toward Peter. "Not only are you one, using something with limited range, reduced accuracy, and bouncy projectiles, you're two, smuggling it in a fucking Lego box?" He jabbed a finger. "I swear if you didn't even build General Grievous' Combat Speeder—"

It was Peter's turn for mortal offense.

"This set was like thirty dollars and you think I didn't build it before bringing the box? Please, I'm a cultured member of society."

Neena bent her straw and sipped her soda. "And everyone knows he gets frowny about using guns." She jerked her head at the stacked chairs around freshly wiped down tables. Sunlight still barely filtered through the sorry excuses they had for windows, and it'd be well past dark before the patrons started rolling in. "It'd be weirder to see him with anything else."

"Rude as fuck you keep hogging the braincell from the testicle with teeth," Weasel said.

"It wouldn't survive in there."

Wade then swiveled his gaze to the teen, and narrowed his lenses. "You, I'm suspiciously suspicious about. Don't think I haven't seen that you like to keep your mags in your pocket instead of in your gun, so even this order? Suspicious."

"What if this is character growth?"

"You can't start to use guns and gain fourth wall awareness, Petey. That's OOC, OP, and really, that'd be copying my schtick."

"What? What does that even...?" Peter shook his head. "Wait, let me get this out. Yeah, I didn't want to get into this stuff at first and yeah, I'm trying for rubber bullets when everyone else I'm going to meet here is going to use metal, but it's not that I'm trying to be like you guys when you get shoot-y and stabby. Like, that's probably not even on the list of things I want to do with my life. No offense!"

"None taken," came the resounding chorus.

"And that better not change," Neena warned. 

"So I figured that if I could compromise with less lethal ammo, I could learn to shoot to incapacitate and you guys don't have to worry about me."

Weasel crossed his arms. "Okay, and which asshole would you pick to teach you to do the opposite of their job?"

"Well, uh, I was thinking, maybe..." He peeked to the side. "That Wade could let me tag along on his mission tonight?"

A startled laugh jumped out from behind the bar. But when there was no follow-up joke to that, Weasel blinked and pushed up his glasses. "Oh, you're not being funny. Thought you were finally adopting some local humor, but no, this is just some shit you end up saying. Yeah. No. Absolutely not, what are we talking about next?"

"But I already did the research!" Peter protested.

"You’re giving me fucking stress ulcers."

"The client wants info destroyed and there's a thirty minute time period right after nine tonight where the info the client wants gone is at the Staten Island Ferry terminal, Manhattan side, and cross-referencing the system inputs and hours of security camera data showed a transport discrepancy and false documentation. Here's what I found, triple-checked and everything." He set a flash drive on the bar. "And I won't interfere, I swear!"

"You're actually insane." One of Weasel's clammy hands tangled in his hair as he scratched the back of his head. "You know, I didn't think I was going to have a conversation about judgment with you, but this is what I get for hiring straight out of the womb.”

"But—"

Wade plucked the drive and rolled it between his gloved fingers. His thumb pressed against the slidey-switch, up click, down click, up click, as he spied the clump of lint wedged in the metal like it lived in the bottom of the kid's backpack for a few months because it came with a college fair goodie bag and he'd kept it around just in case.

Smart kid, a voice that wasn't his thought.

'Course he was. You never know when you need a flash drive, after all.

"This'll be good for him," Neena said, setting her drink on the coaster. "If he wants to learn, let him learn. It's not like he can't keep explaining away weird acrobatics as gymnastics training or super strength with adrenaline rushes."

"—u've forgotten, wait. Wait." Weasel's head jerked towards her. "What the fuck did you imply to me?"

Down click. "I'm confused, because this sounds like you know the secret-that-must-not-be-named and that can't be true when Peter is our golden boy who would never put his life or identity in danger."

"Pete's Spider-Man."

"Don't say it out loud, Jesus CHRIST—"

Wade clapped his free hand on the teen's shoulder. "You're so shit at secret keeping."

"Ugh, tell me about it."

"But he's right." Neena leaned on her elbow on Peter's other side and dropped her chin into her palm. "He's a great shot at June's, and you know something's gonna happen sooner or later and it's better he learns when he wants to instead of when he has to. Upside is he gets real experience, downside is you get Wade as a chaperone, but you take what you can get." She lifted her drink. "Plus, he's enhanced. Gives him a hell of a good chance."

Which, true. Wade wasn't going to lie and say he was a boy scout who's got all one hundred thirty seven merit badges on his sash, but the few he had he was trying to wash the blood stains off, he promised! But there was no way in hell he'd let Peter get within two feet of Death even if she said 'pretty please.' But those unloaded guns hadn't been the only thing he noticed. Lately, it was looking like mercs started moving their grubby feet out the way wherever Ferret carried food or drinks and giving him actual answers when he asked how their day was going.

Once you earned Sister Margaret's anointed respect you had to be so fucking careful about what you did with it. But high schoolers shouldn't even need to think about shit like that except here, apparently, and that made him one of them.

"Time to make your case," he said. "Question one: what weapons would you bring, if you could bring them?"

"My dagger and the 14-shot M1911 you gave me."

Wade nodded. "That completes the questionnaire and you've passed with flying colors. Congratulations! You're hired!"

Weasel planted both hands on the bar and scrunched his face like it was a Taco Bell basher in that gut. "You did not just say that after he listed one gun and one knife."

"Do you need hearing aids? Al's got like, 30% off coupons for the ones that go in the canal—"

"There's a reason why you, Deadpool , had this mission on your roster, and you know it's not because you needed a new stack to roll so you can snort your fucking lines," Weasel snapped in some rare fit of sanity. You had to be at least one coffee bean short of a cappuccino to get a merc dispatch running as efficiently as the Hellhouse, and he thought Weasel lost more than a handful years ago. "The info you're after is guarded by up to thirty built-ass yippee ki-yay motherfuckers where stealth isn't optional and injury is 95% probably and you want to bring Ferret?" He threw his hands up. "Get your own fucking dish boy!"

"Mr. Weasel?"

Three pairs of eyes (four, technically) pivot to him.

Peter sat up a little straighter. "I know you never planned on sending me out on stuff like this, but it's like Neena said. If I can do this, it'll be a lot easier on you."

A weary sigh blew past chapped lips. "Kid, it's not your job to—"

"It's not, I know, but," brown eyes flickered down for a moment, "I've got access to records, inventory, and the Gold Card machine. I'm fifteen, and..." When his eyes rose again, the adults winced. God, he didn't know the kid could make that face, but if he really fought through that Coney Island wreckage on the news— "And I need to do better. What if someone like Kairo Green starts something again? What if I have to fight and I can't use Spider-Man to do it? I want to learn, and I don't have to like it to understand that all of this is bigger than me." He toyed with the watch on his wrist. Old. Battered. "I still don't want to kill people, I won't , but I'm going to stand behind this gun before I'm shot dead in front of one."

(His side pulsed with a phantom ache. The pistol against his hip was cold.)

"Please, Mr. Weasel," he said. "Let me do this."

Weasel's face scrunched up like he went to town on a chalupa folded into a Mexican pizza slapped onto a crunchwrap supreme at four in the morning. Both his palms covered the bottom half of his face and his glasses rode up with the tips of his fingers smudging the lenses.

The most disgruntled-underpaid-teacher groan puffed out his mouth as his elbows hit the bar. "If you die out there, I'm docking it off your next paycheck."

Wade's lips twisted into a bleak smile under his mask.

::

Peter spied his reflection in his blade before he slid it into the sheath on his left calf. The utility belt he borrowed from Wade had a DP logo on the buckle, fashionably debatable, but it carried the reload for the gun strapped to his right thigh and his webshooters in case things went south. The plain black hoodie he threw on covered the red spider on his chest which was kind of a bummer, and he already had to lose the full mask from the risk of being even remotely associated with Spider-Man—and Spider-Man could not be seen with one of the most infamous mercs in the business. Not if he didn't want the Bugle to start a witch hunt on his head for being even more of a 'menace' to society.

Wade's solution to that was a tactical half mask that made him look like Plo Koon's cousin and a pair of blue tinted goggles looped around his hood to keep it over his head. Part of his forehead was exposed and some of his hair poked out the front, but Wade swore that if it worked for the Winter Soldier, it'd work just fine for him too.

But upside! It was the second time he was wearing out the new suit Wade and Mr. Weasel gave him! He felt awful leaving it for dust in his backpack when he left it in the breakroom during work. He kept telling himself he’d get to use it one day when he was able to swing around the city in the sunlight when he didn’t have to worry about Mr. Stark and the general population of New York City raining down on his head because of it, and they never seemed to mind there was a lack of mostly-blue suit on the corner TV, but that wasn’t fair, especially not when they took the time to actually get this for him. And when he slipped it on, the first thing he noticed was the bulk. Heavier where the guards sat. More tightly woven, but less dense than the Deadpool suit to account for his flexibility.

(It wasn’t the StarkSuit.)

Karen was still attached to the other suit and Ned had been helping him poke around the systems every now and then to see if they could transplant her to other devices without letting Mr. Stark know. And without her with him, he'd have to do any tech problems they ran into himself, but he could probably destroy the data on his own. 

How hard could it be, right? He can do this. He had to do this.

—besides getting cats down from—

Wade pulled the binoculars down, but didn't tear his gaze away from the Whitehall Ferry Terminal. "What we're looking for's in the actual terminal, no boat boarding necessary. We'll make it to the first dock below the loading ramps with maintenance access. Real easy targets to spot, just like Wease said: crazy, sweaty, John McClane-adjacents hired straight out of Minions R Us."

"So what's the plan?"

"Considering the best course of action is bringing the butcher to the meathead? I was gonna bust in while going (insert vocalization of the Mission Impossible Theme Song here)."

"You could've done the vocalization in the same time it took you to say all that."

"It wouldn't have been the same."

Peter snorted and pressed a button on the side of his mask. "Maybe you should get one of those belt grapples like Batman." His voice rang a bit deeper now, nothing like when he tried it back when he webbed that guy to his car but not sounding unlike the younger mercs that stopped by the bar. They weren't usually chatty and never stayed long for drinks, but they always tipped up to 40%. "Wait, we actually might be able to do that. I'm pretty sure I can web you down a building."

"Fuck no, you're swinging me into a building so I can kick through a window and pose like a ninja turtle."

"Michelangelo?"

"I've always wanted to channel Raph."

One of the ferries jolted and began to ease its way out of the port, prompting Wade to fold his binoculars and shove them in his belt as he slung himself off the edge of their perch. Peter startled for a brief second and followed—he resolved to keep his sticky fingers to himself. An uncanny mask was one way to get him into hot water, but literal wall-crawling?

He shook his head. This wasn’t Spider-Man’s mess; it was Ferret’s, or whoever he was now in whatever trouble he was in. Who used that code to find a job listing at Sister Margaret's? Who was the one who stayed, willingly fighting for his friends when he knew there was always a chance they'd end up the same way the Gold Card names did?

(It took him a couple months to learn that just because someone wasn't good didn't mean they were bad. Wade, Neena, Mr. Weasel, Granny Sal.)

((Mom.))

Near the port, Wade started to load a gun. Peter hesitated, then started to load his too.

"Hey, Pool?" He whispered. The man tipped his head to show he was listening. "I'm really not going to kill anyone, but... would it be asking too much if I asked you to not kill anyone either?"

One of the first things Weasel taught him when he got the job at Sister Margaret's was where the ladder was and that there was a box of chalk under the counter. 

"That thing gets changed at the start of every week or when there's an actual death, so get used to it," Weasel tells him as he points at the blackboard hanging over their heads. "Don't spell any of the names wrong either or you'll get a bitch fit on your hands."

"What's a Dead Pool?"

"We bet on who dies. Not to be confused with Deadpool, one word, 'p' not capitalized. He can't die, and he won't shut the fuck up about the chalk dust making him sneeze."

They've been friends for months now. Since the beginning, before making it through the trial period and before he started getting trusted with budget and inventory, he'd been warned about Deadpool. Top mercenary, enhanced, more than a few sets of screws loose that would get you a bullet in your head faster than you could open your mouth. So initially he planned to keep his head down and dish out the bar snacks in case Deadpool walked in on a particularly bad day, but he should've known better than to listen to rumors. Flash spread enough of them for him to stop listening.

"You're really serious about that, huh?" Wade looked at him. "It's not even hard."

The goggles were too dark to see the stare Peter gave, but he crossed his arms and Wade thunked the back of his head against the brick wall behind them. "I can't believe your life reached this exact point and there isn't an intervention waiting on the other side."

"You let me come with you."

"Fuck," Wade whispered, with feeling. He peered around the corner and tapped the comm in his ear. It echoed in Peter's. "Thirty guards, exactly, scattered. You're faster, so you start with the left half at the edge; work your way towards the middle we're we'll meet. Pretty open space, mostly railings and metal walkways, easy peasy lemon skeezy." He turned back to him and raised a solemn three-finger salute. "And I guess I can aim in the general direction of typically uncontested 'non-lethal' areas of the human body."

A tiny smile lit up behind Peter's half-mask. "Thanks, Pool." 

"If we weren't taco buddies..." He muttered, then bent his legs. "Count your bullets, remember the rubber ones can bounce, and shout if you get a hole in your ribs and you can't stop the bleeding. So, without further ado, let's start your interactive Mercenaries on Missions 101, CD included. Lesson One: If you get in a real pickle, break the jar."

"Uh, I don't want to break anything. Last time I was here, a ferry literally broke in half."

"Ohhhhh shit, that was you, huh."

"Dude."

"Fine, just pop the lid with a butter knife."

So when Peter dashed into the open, he aimed for the legs. It was mostly the thighs that weren't protected and he shot between holster straps, one two three. His spidey-sense was better at dodging bullets these days and he managed to roll behind a crate unscathed after kicking away the downed guards' main guns. 

"No killing!" Bang. "Can you fucking believe—" Bang. "—that? All you dick tips—" Bang, bang, bang. "—should be so fucking blessed—" Bang. "—that my fist isn't—" Bang. "—up your FUCKING—"

'Downed' didn't mean 'incapacitated' and it meant working twice as hard as the other mercs by risking getting hit from the ground or mis-counting which people could still be a threat, but that didn't change anything. He was Peter, Ferret, Spider-Man. And now, all his knockout blows still hit jaws or temples or the sides of necks with a force just shy of breaking bone. Getting shot at point blank with rubber bullets was still fatal.

"Get the little bastard in the blue tights!"

Four—to the other side of the terminal—ten—twelve. Wade yanked out one of his katanas and started swinging in a feat of self-restraint Peter honestly didn't think he'd see today. When he started his first incursion forward, he tucked away his gun and drew the dagger to butt a few with the hilt. Thirteen, fourteen. He blocked a bowie knife with his blade and swore the snakes carved into the wood began to writhe before winding a kick across the wielder's face—fifteen.

"Shit, when did Deadpool get a sidekick?!"

Okay, rude. He sheathed back his dagger and flipped down a heel kick into that dude's gun and shattered the barrel, then punched them straight through their army green balaclava.

Sixteen—over to Wade—eighteen, twenty-three, twenty-four. Six more.

He ducked out the trajectory of a swing—

"Lesson Two!" Wade shouted. "There's no 'do not cross' tape on the nards!"

—and kicked that guy straight in the nards before uppercutting straight off the ground. Twenty-five.

"YEAH! THAT'S MY BOY!"

His shoulders hunch a bit towards his ears. Joking or not, he hated how genuine that sounded. It made his face warm and his skin crawl with embarrassment, but at least for once he really did feel like he was doing something right. 

The left half is mostly clear with the remaining guards swarming Wade. He plucked his gun back out, shot a straggler in the forearm when they reached for another weapon, then aimed around Deadpool.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. Steel glinted. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. 

He darted closer and swept a pair of legs and drove an elbow into their face when they fell. Twenty-nine. 

A body collapsed beside him, blood leaking out of his torso and the faintest up-down of his chest carrying steady. Peter wrenched his gaze away and stood. Thirty.

"That wasn't too bad, right?" He panted. He stepped around the bodies and recounted. "Now we just need to find where that info's—"

Thirty-one. There, another body wedged beneath metal grate stairs and slumped into their own lap. He must've counted wrong, then? But that didn't make sense, Wade had said thirty guards exactly and that wasn't a type of mistake he'd make. Maybe if he started on Wade's side and then make his way to his for a better count, so that body under the stairs, one, laid out on the floor next to them, two, three, four, five, six, seven on the railing, eight nine ten in a pile, eleven on their stomach, twelve—

Oh.

Twelve wasn't dressed like the guards. Twelve had on a sweater and a blazer and a bulletproof vest that was too big on him because he wasn't packed with muscle and wasn't armed.

Oh no.

Wade stepped up next to him, a pistol on his shoulder and a hand propped on his hip. "Yeah, it didn't sound like you knew."

"It—It sounded like it was a hard drive, or, or..."

"The only way you can make sure you have one copy of something is to keep alllll your little thoughts right up here." Wade tapped the barrel to the side of his own head, and Peter's gaze wavered down to where a black-gloved finger sat dangerously close to the trigger. "Makes you invaluable, 'cept you've gotta live with a target the size of Colossus on your ass. The X-Man, not the statue of Rhodes."

He pushed the body onto their back. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of their mouth.

Peter swallowed. "Are you...?"

Wade dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Lesson Three: Always see it through."

It . What the heck was it supposed to be? The mission? The objective? The happy little surprise that info could mean living person and he'd begged Mr. Weasel to be on a mission where the endgame was for someone to die? His hands clenched. But would standing here be different than him handing out those Gold Cards like one-way tickets to hell? He knew people died all the time at that bar, and he served their killers chicken wings and nachos and pints for a chatty shift. 

The hand on his shoulder shook him lightly. "Have you ever seen a dead body before?"

A gunshot for a wallet. Blood on his hands. Ben? Ben, no, stay awake, please, please, please—

(This is going to break May's heart.)

"Once," he said. Wade kept silent for a moment, just the two of them in a sea of still-breathing bodies. A refreshing chill swept through the open air of the terminal port and only just held himself back from ripping off his mask and inhaling freezing air to clear his head.

His shoulder was patted a couple times.

"You did good," Wade told him sincerely. Peter's heart swelled in his chest, and it ached. Then he was spun around to face the other way, Wade's hand resting easy on his shoulder and got a face full of one of the sleeves of Deadpool’s suit. "But you don't have to see this."

Peter's nose filled with the scent of gunpowder and copper.

You don’t have to kill him, he wanted to try.

There has to be another way, he wanted to plead.

Does this make us the bad guys? He wanted to ask.

"Okay," he ended up saying instead.

The last shot of the night rang out behind him, and he was too numb to flinch.

::

"Hello?"

"At least your number's still in service."

Peter froze, his insides swooping like he'd fallen off a building and forgot to check his web fluid, and it took a lucky bout of restraint to keep himself from shattering his phone.

"... Happy?"

"You haven't called in over two weeks and Spider-Man is still active most nights. I, uh." A cleared throat. "Wanted to make sure the line was still in use."

He glanced around the alley. Nothing but wet streets and a couple silhouettes hanging out down the way. "Oh. Um. I didn't mean to not call, I've just been kind of busy? Not that calling you is low on the list or anything! There's just been a lot of homework to make up for winter break since I guess a teacher's second favorite hobby is grading. Ned and I haven't hung out as much between that and spider-ing, but we still do homework together and go out at least once a week to try and find the best hotdog in Queens. I've also been learning to cook now, graduating from those frozen meals May used to stock up on and like, I know she tried to cook but we still ended up between those and take out and wow, fresh broccoli? That's on a whole other level—"

"Sounds like you're doing fine," Happy cut in, and Peter's jaw clacked shut. "And the line's good, so."

"... Ri-Right." Okay, Parker. Just hang up. Don't ask, you're going to make yourself sound like—but what if it was different this time? His chances were never good and he didn't know why he was still holding onto his hope when this whole thing had been 'leave a message after the tone' and talking to no one over and over again. But maybe, this one time, and he couldn't help but ask, "So, um, anything—anything from Mr. Stark?"

A crackle of silence. 

"I'm sorry, kid," Happy rumbled quietly. "Stay safe out there."

Click.

It wasn't much of a snow day today. There have been a couple flakes here and there and like always, he could barely feel it through the red plaid jacket Wade threw on him before he stepped out because your brand isn't Brawny, so there's no reason for you to wear a hoodie with paper towel sleeves.

Cigarette smoke lit the air. Glasses clinked in the bar behind him. Neena might get into another fight.

His boots were still stained red at the heel.

Peter lowered his phone and watched the recent calls screen gleam up at him. Right by Happy's name was a profile pic of a little red box with a yellow smile on one side. 

A tap and contact opened. Another tap and settings popped up. One more tap on the last option and a confirmation screen gleamed. 

Are you sure you want to block and delete this contact?

He breathed in, and thought about how nice it felt to have someone in his corner during a mission. Ned was great, don't get him wrong, but he'd never put his best friend through... murkier stuff like this. And even though it was Wade's mission and Peter promised not to get involved, he'd been allowed to fight half the security detail, allowed to take more than one hit and not get dragged out of battle to wait on the sidelines, allowed to make what he thought were good calls without the patented adult disapproval.

Tonight ended with a metal bullet, and Wade told him not to watch.

"I'm sorry too, Happy, but I don’t know what to do anymore," he whispered. His voice didn't tremble—it didn't. "At least you’ll get some peace now, huh?"

He breathed out, and the air in his lungs was too cold to see.

Tap.

Chapter Text

boss-man: storm tonite [2:31 pm]

boss-man: like lit eral shit ass snow bitch [2:31 pm]

boss-man: stg if ur crazy ass ends up on the news bc u swung arund nyc in a leotard at negatve butfuck degres im not payin workers comp [2:32 pm]

Me: crime waits for snow man [2:32 pm]

boss-man: yea [2:34 pm]

boss-man: thats comin out yuor pay chrck [2:34 pm]

Me: dang [2:35 pm]

Peter tipped some more hot chocolate into his mouth as he walked, mindlessly dodging melting ice patches on the sidewalk and nudging Ned away from the ones he almost stepped on.

"I always forget how much I hate snow until we actually get it," Ned grumbled after taking a gulp of his own hot chocolate. Peter could hear the crunch of peppermint bits between his molars. Traitor . "Like, what did I do to deserve this? You saw me slip this morning, and now my butt cheeks are still numb."

"I told you to stand in front of that space heater in the coffee shop."

"No one in there needed to witness my buns get toasted."

Peter snorted and shoved his phone and the hand holding it into the pocket of a thick-ish brown jacket that was a little too big, its sleeves hanging down to the tips of his fingers.  He'd grabbed Thor's jacket by accident this morning—oh man Ned would freak if he found out—after the god stopped by for breakfast the fifth time in two weeks. Mom had been in the middle of pulling a tray of cardamom buns from the oven when Thor strolled in through the front door already talking about some creature Peter's never heard of before. His jacket went down on the couch arm next to the smaller also-brown one with sleeves that went to the middle of the palms but before he could say anything else, he'd stopped and stared at the tray of fresh bread in Mom's hands like it was the very last thing he expected.

"Alas, the things I do for divine honeyed rolls."

Mom wouldn't look their brother in the eye the rest of the morning. 

But long story short, he picked up the wrong jacket when he left for school. It had roomy pockets and a stupid number of zippers, and Thor wouldn't mind if he had it for the day, right? Probably. Hopefully.

He gulped down some more hot chocolate.

All after-school activities had been canceled because of the weather, and it had to be a bad one if both Midtown and Sister Margaret's shut their doors for the day. That also meant patrol would be non-existent if people couldn't get out on the streets to even do crime, so if he was getting one of those rare days off from Ferret and Spider-Man, maybe Peter Parker could go out and do something for a bit. He could take his camera out and add to his picture board he hadn't been able to update in a while, or sneak into a library to chill out with a few books he wanted to read instead of barreling through this year's book list, or take apart the old stereo half dunked in a dumpster. 

Or he could sit quietly for a while in the snowfall, just watching for a little while.

"Hey, so." Ned looked down. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm... I'm worried about you."

Peter's forehead scrunched as he turned his head. "What?"

"It's just, you've been kind of different lately. Not in a bad way! You're doing good, and I'm really happy for you." But then Ned frowned, and Peter's shoulder began to tense. "But I don't know how you're doing it."

He tried to keep the strain out of his smile. "Seriously, what are you talking about?"

"You sleep four hours a day at best because you work the weirdest shift from eight at night to one or two in the morning on random days, you nap at lunch and eat at practice, manage to get all your homework done with all that bullcrap padding work from all our APs, and somehow between all that you're, you know." Ned held down his middle and ring finger on his free hand and thwip -thwipped in random directions. "Dude, how are you even alive?"

If Ned found out that the homework got done between gym time with Wade and range-shooting with Neena and that the weird shift he worked got cut in with business stuff for Mr. Weasel before sometimes spending the tail-end of the night with lighter Deadpool missions, his friend would simply perish on the spot and he'd have to find a way to explain to his Lola how a normal human could spontaneously combust. Not to mention he was also staying over at Mom's a couple nights at a time, especially during the days May worked graveyard. It was hard to keep track of which clothes he left at which apartment, but both places were in Queens and if he really wanted to make the trip to match a pair of socks, it wouldn't take long. Easy peasy. 

Peter glanced at the snow-crusted sidewalks. 

... Maybe less than peasy. But 'great responsibility' was synonymous with 'crushingly heavy,' right?

"It's not that bad," he shrugged. "It might sound like a lot, but how bad can it be if I'm still alive?"

Ned cast him a dubious look over his chocolate splattered cup. Peter tugged his sleeve to pull him away from another ice patch. 

"Don't give me that face. You know you only have to worry the day I turn down Lego night for something that isn't any of those things that's supposed to kill me."

The quip flew far enough to pull a huff out of Ned, but the second those words passed Peter's lips he was struck with a passing thought: why was it that any actual luck he had only worked for skydives? For fire? For concrete?

His chest churned as he went to tip back his cup. But when nothing but a couple undissolved drops of cocoa powder hit his tongue, he crumpled the cup in his fist and chucked it into the nearest recycling bin.

(He missed the layer of frost that covered it before it hit the bottom.)

"Just keep me in the loop?" Ned asked, and Peter felt like the worst best friend in the history of best friendships. But what else was he supposed to do? Ned wasn't half-alien or spider-mutated and even though he could hack into a system designed by one of the greatest geniuses of the century, that didn't stop him from getting stabbed. Shot. Hunted down like an animal if he ever got on the wrong side of the merc on a bad day, and then what? Ned got hurt? Died?

How many people would have to die before Peter knew better?

And. And if Pool's missions all ended the same way, well. Even better that Ned never learned. 

"I'll let you know when things get bad," he lied, and this time the ice in his gut wasn't from somewhere out in the stars. He forced his best smile. "I promise."

::

prickle

"Oh good, still human enough to go to corner stores like the rest of us."

Peter's mouth quirked into an unwitting, humorless half-smile as he snagged a pomegranate drink from the fridge and closed the clear door and turned to the person standing behind it. 

"Hi Dr. Strange," he greeted. "It's way too cold to be coming in hot like that."

Stephen shrugs, the heavier coat on his shoulders shifting over the dark blue cardigan he had buttoned underneath. "Winter's not my season—makes me a bit contentious. Prickly."

"You've got more spikes than a cactus."

"Well don't hold back."

"Okay. You're an SOB, too."

"Fair enough."

"A real bunghole."

"... Interesting choice."

"I mean, I guess I could just call you an asshole," Peter said as he twisted the purple cap off his bottle and took a swig. "But I feel like everyone else already does that for me."

Stephen's face crossed with an expression Peter liked to call "the cheek," but one side of his mouth curled up before he unhooked a small pack of almonds and a bag of salt and vinegar chips off the passing shelf. The bar was probably rubbing off on Peter, Granny Sal especially since she loved to talk smack while they were back in the kitchen and had him spending the night scrubbing chipped dishes and laughing into his sleeve. Ned had to be wrong about this too; the days both Neena and Wade were both out on jobs and when Weasel was busy mixing drinks and printing cards, he'd be elbow deep in cheap soap and dishwasher, just breathing. 

"They're not wrong," Stephen said, snapping him back to Delmar's Deli & Grill. "I'd like to think I'm getting better at it, but I was too focused on possible threats at the time. It's not an excuse, I know."

Peter paused. "Wait, are you, like, trying to apologize right now?"

"Wong may have mentioned it. And as much as I hate to admit him being right, he has his moments."

"Uh. Wow."

"And for what it's worth, I am... sorry." The word stretched like every letter had to be strung out the man's mouth one syllable at a time. "For how I treated you at the Sanctum."

"It's. It's fine," Peter answered lamely. You were right, anyway, he didn't say. That he was just some brat way over his head who probably couldn't stop Loki even if he tried because what else could he do besides getting cats down from— "Look, if you're here about—"

"I'm not." Stephen crossed his arms. "I've kept tabs on him just in case he decides to turn tail and destroy New York again—"

Peter pressed his lips together and tried not to pop the bottle in his hands. 

"—but he's stayed quiet. He works at a museum, lives in an upscale apartment in Queens, and looks after you." He glanced around the empty bodega before he sighed. "Spider-Man is Loki of Asgard's child. How many degrees off-axis has the Earth been knocked."

"If it makes you feel better, I've only known about it for a few months."

"It doesn't. Actually, it might make me feel worse." Stephen looked at him from the corner of his eye. "But there have been more frequent Thor-sightings and every building is still intact. For their sake, they better keep it that way." A pause, then sounding a bit more like when they first met, "Though the second I hear there's a god-made hole in the middle of the Woolworth, you won't be getting more chances."

Peter blinked. "Oh." He nabbed a couple bags of sour gummy worms when they ambled past them down the aisle. A chance? He was getting a chance ?" "Oh! Mom just wants to have a life outside Asgard—"

'Mom,' Stephen mouthed. 

"—and I ran into Mr. Thor by accident and when he found out Mom wasn't really dead he said all he wanted was to keep visiting on the down low without all the rainbow-y UFO lights from the Bifröst."

The Bifröst, which he recently learned was controlled by someone called Heimdall. That marked this mystery guy as someone who had interplanetary modes of transport and an all seeing-eye that got Thor to find them out in the first place; if he was a friend or not, he didn't know, but between Thor's camaraderie and Mom's disdain, he had to be at least be someone neutral. 

Stephen stared at him. "... Right. I have no reason to interfere. For now, at least. I trust they'll keep it that way?"

Ah, not a chance. Just a message for the delivery boy.

"Yeah," Peter replied, keeping his eyes toward the front counter as his tongue swelled with a bitter taste. "I'll let them know."

A small bell rang at the entrance as Stephen nodded once, then cocked his head. "I never got your name."

A grumbling mrow perked up around their feet, prompting the teen to bend down and scoop a hefty orange-y brown cat with long hair that already started to stick to the sleeves of not-his jacket. The furball stretched and writhed until it fully flopped its head over his shoulder, purring all the while. 

"I'm Peter," Peter introduced. He tipped his head at his fuzzy friend. "This is Murph."

Murph yawned. 

An odd expression crawled onto and stayed on Stephen's face as they finally made it to the register where an older man was sitting on his stool, facial hair graying and gray as he appraised the bunch with a raised brow. 

"Found your cat, Mr. Delmar. I think you should reward me with a discount."

"I gotta credit you with bringing back mi perozoso gorrón to this counter? You're lucky I don't double it, Mr. Parker." He was already opening his register. "Number five, pickles, the smush?"

"Yeah, and thanks!" Peter called out to Ruben in the back—always a fun name for someone who works at a deli—before he pouted to a decidedly unimpressed bodega owner and handed over a crumpled ten. "Am I getting too predictable?"

Delmar made change for a five in single bills. It was only ever five for the sandwich, never a cent more no matter how many bags of gummy worms Peter brought up to the counter, and it only made him feel worse about getting the old store destroyed. Consequences were something he'd gotten too acquainted with lately, with Toomes, with Mom, with Mr. Stark, with Wade.

(—with cops who hated him, with news articles that loathed him, with great power that might not save him one day—)

But that was okay. He was okay. He was alive, just like he told Ned. No way that didn't count for something.

"You just can't resist the best sandwich in Queens."

"Of course. I like the color of the new place, too."

He stepped to the side and leaned against the counter as Delmar waved over the person behind him. Murph chirped before he leapt back down onto the floor and wound around Stephen's ankles one, two times before meandering back through the aisles with his fluffy tail up high. 

"And what can I do for you?"

"These, and a two and a seven. Please." As Stephen set down his bags of snacks on the counter, his eyes drifted down to the freezer chest close to his hip. Peeling and perfect stickers overlapped along the scratched white outside and inside the ice build-up could use a little chipping, but they nestled the uniform brand of ice cream just fine. "Spider-Man popsicles, huh. Are you a fan?"

Peter froze. 

"Heh, yeah. I owe my life to that guy." Delmar rubbed his nose with a finger. "Old place got busted by some type of alien weapon and he got me and Murph out. I never got the chance to thank him for it. Fourteen even." He took the twenty handed to him. "He probably doesn't remember me, but I gotta pay him back somehow even if he doesn't know it."

Peter felt the burning stare Stephen subtly shot his way. He refused to raise his head to meet it.

"You know, I still see him swinging by the window from time to time." The elder man settled back on his stool with a small sigh and an even smaller smile. "Glad to see he's still sticking to the neighborhood. You remember when Coney went up in flames? When that Stark, I think, plane crashed, the bird guy who stole it had his ass webbed up right on the beach." A brief laugh huffed right out of his chest, and Peter wished he could laugh along. "Thought Spider-Man moved onto bigger and better things after that. Wouldn't blame him if he did."

Mr. Stark thought so too. That was the only reason he'd been offered a spot on the Avengers—he'd proven his worth through plane rubble and sweltering ash he couldn't get out of his nose. He'd been way excited too, honestly. What was going to be up for him next if he joined the big leagues? Secret underground organizations? Space battles? Time travel? Multiverse hopping?

But then, he thought, who'd look after Queens?

"He'll always stick up for the little guys," Peter said, and he felt Stephen's eyes back on him. Again, he ignored it.

"And so he gets the popsicles." Delmar smiled and slid over the three sandwiches Ruben dropped off by his elbow. "Don't get caught out in that storm, yeah? It's gonna look rough out there in not too long."

"No problem. Later Mr. Delmar! Later Murph!"

"See you on another afternoon, Mr. Parker. And tell your aunt I said hi!"

"Definitely not!"

Delmar's hearty laugh followed them out the door. 

Snowflakes drifted softly from the darkening clouds overhead as rushing people passed them by, swaddled in thick coats and long scarves and warm hats and even Stephen, his small plastic bag dangling from his fingers, almost immediately zipped up his overcoat to his neck when his feet hit the sidewalk. Peter tipped his head up at the gentle storm, drops of cold brushing his cheeks that aren't quite enough to force him blue. 

"You really won't come looking for Mom?" He asked. "They're not... They won't cause anymore problems."

"Do you know for sure they won't?" Stephen returned. "Because they already invaded New York once and that's enough proof that they're capable of doing something on that scale again. I don't trust them, and neither should you."

Crack went the bottle cap under Peter's grip. 

"But," he continued with a sigh, "as long as there's peace, I won't argue more." He angled himself toward the left of the bodega, the opposite direction the teen initially turned. "Stay safe, Peter," he bid, and the sentiment rattled in Peter's chest loud enough to make him nauseous. "I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I think it's already too late for that."

He inclined his head and started down the street with quick steps and hunched shoulders, blending in perfectly in the freezing-over of New York's streets and leaving Peter with his sandwich, his worms, and a half-empty bottle of pomegranate juice.

Peter watched after him for a moment before he slung off his backpack and stashed all his food inside.

He wasn't that hungry anymore.

::

He flinched awake in the high corner of the library he tucked away in. The little space between the top of a shelf and the ceiling stayed out of sight of any window, and if there happened to be a security round or anyone else who decided to stop by after closing, he was up high enough that no one would notice. And yeah, he'd snuck in after hours. It wasn't his fault closing at five was out of style.

He'd been catching up on some reading during his free afternoon, getting through a couple more books on the booklist for the semester so he'd have notes and annotations before they got assigned so he'd get through future English homework faster and free up even more time for his "extracurriculars."

Peter scrubbed his eyes and tore the webbing off the books he stuck around him and jumped down to slot them back where he found them. Outside could still pass for daytime with the way the moon bounced off the icy whiteness of the slow storm. Some stoplight reds and do-not-cross oranges sprung off the snow with no cars or pedestrians to direct, but how could anyone wander around when the cars were covered up to the tops of their tires?

Wait. He glanced at his phone.

The storm was at a lull after ten in the evening, and he was surrounded by the aftermath. There was a text from May telling him to stay safe at Mom's, a text from Mom asking why they had to lie to May about his whereabouts, and a text from Wade who sent a picture of a dick he drew in the snow.

Peter globbed together the last of his webs and shoved them in his backpack with his dagger, his gun, Pool's spare utility belt, his half mask, blue-tinted goggles, and the suit all wrapped up in a spare black hoodie and maybe he should sit down one day and figure out when his school backpack turned into an inventory chest for a first person shooter. Not today, though, so he pulled out his blue Spider-Man mask and tugged it over his head. 

The blue suit was all he carried around nowadays. He was still too chicken to wear it on bright, three-in-the-afternoon types of patrols where he'll see a reel of himself the next day or on a spidey-spotting account on Instagram filled with blurry pics and distant shots. But on late nights he stayed out of the lamplight and tried to dodge smartphone flashes to keep the new suit out of circulation; it was only a matter of time before people started asking questions and articles started demanding answers, but he had time. However little he might be. 

He slipped on the rest of the blue suit and let Thor's brown jacket hang loosely over his shoulders, and just before he opened one of the windows, he made sure his deep green beanie was snug over his head, then leapt. 

Webs wouldn't work too well tonight. Their formulation upped the strength and viscidity compared to webs from an actual spider, but he could easily misjudge the depth of snowfall and whiff, or snap off chunks of ice that pretended to look like they could hold his weight for a millisecond. So it was all his hands and feet as he aimed to jump on rooftops instead of building sides when he could. It'll be a while until he made it to Mom's this way, but he had that other blue thing that would keep him from turning into one of Mr. Delmar's Spider-Man popsicles. 

Me: see u tmrrw May! [10:34 pm]

Twists, spins, somersaults. No one was out to see Spider-Man tonight, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun. 

Me: my bad i overslept! [10:35 pm]

Me: at the library [10:35 pm]

Me: long story [10:35 pm]

Me: in the bronx rn, mihgt nto make it to queens? will lyk! [10:36 pm]

Mom: Be sure you do. The storm is a fierce one, regardless if you can withstand it. Take shelter if you will not make it, and be well. [10:37 pm]

He nosedived down to a snow-packed car and spent a few minutes drawing his best impression of Lightning McQueen on the windshield.

Me: ka-chow.png [10:49 pm]

taco buddy: well now my dick looks stupid [11:01 pm]

It was when he re-opened his maps app trying to figure which direction to turn next that he was hit with the scent of smoke and burning. 

He didn't have Karen to scout or fill him in with what she knew and, actually, it was weird having Karen only part-time as Spider-Man. He missed having someone to idly chat to on patrol even if she was probably programmed to keep up with teenage boy ramblings and wasn't technically a person per se, even though she was super cool. But ever since Happy...

Peter steeled his nerve and diverted his course toward the fire. 

He hoped Karen didn't mind that he'd been feeling more blue than red lately.

It was useless to try and sling himself all the way there, wherever there is, so he picked up the pace and focused on sticking and unsticking every step to try and keep up some traction if his body betrayed him again by putting him butt-first on ice. 

The storm was nothing but a few fluttering crystals and a deadly silent winter night, and it was soon through clearly lit skies that he spotted a rage of bronzed orange in the distance. As he got closer, he saw the flames licking up from the top corner window of a two story apartment complex. A mismatched crowd in pajamas and winter gear huddled in the middle of the street in front of the building

Nearest to the front, held steady by a few of the adults, was a man with a small baby and a toddler cradled in his arms as he sobbed.

"Please," he begged, "my son—my son went back into the fire—for—he—Eli! ELI!"

Peter wasted no time touching down before he shot a web around a nearby streetlight and used its leverage to crash through the window right next to the burning one. A haze was starting to set in, but only just, and he navigated past a hall of bedrooms and the living room before he burst into the hallway where smoke poured out the open door to his right. 

"Eli!" He called out as he bolted into the apartment. Fire on the couch, the walls, the tables, the beach —focus. FOCUS. Nothing in the living room, nothing in the kitchen, a bookshelf toppled behind him, spreading burning pages onto burning floors. "ELI!" He shouted. "Where are you?!"

A faint cough rang in his ears somewhere to the left.

He ran into the first room in the hallway, the master bedroom lit up with a heat that made Peter's skin crawl and sweat as he pushed through the smoke. A boy wheezed while front-down on the floor—a teenager, a high schooler, someone that could only be his own age—with his lower half under a queen sized bed and a collapsed wooden bedframe alight with embers. His arms are outstretched and swathed in a baggy punk sweater with an old shoebox tight between his fingers and an even older cat laid by his wrist, meowing raggedly but making no motion to leave. 

Peter whipped off his backpack and dug, the straps straining from the force of it, and yanked out the half-mask he used on missions with Wade. It was almost textbook that every tactical mask be fitted with respirators, and he was quick to fasten it over Eli's head before he turned to the bed, crackling and red and eaten by a scorching bite. 

There was no hesitation in grabbing the bottom to lift it enough to get Eli out, splinters almost piercing through gloved hands. The sheets were on fire, of course the sheets were on fire, and they singed his jacket on his upper arms before the hit his suit, melting, burning, blackening, and the second fire pushed against skin—

Peter screamed. 

Fire had never felt like this before.

When he was eight and put his hand near the gas stove, he jumped and cried and got away with Neosporin and a band aid for a week. When he was ten trying to flick a lighter and got his thumb, he cursed a word that May cuffed his head for out of instinct.

A few months ago Coney Island burned around him, a little too hot for his liking but nothing he couldn't handle. 

Now, the fire seared down to his marrow.

'I turn to ice now,' he thought faintly as he only managed to move the debris down to  Eli's knees before the burning became too much. 'I turn to ice and I'm in fire.'

"Mom's box," Eli whispered, his voice even fainter through the mask. Peter collapses next to him with tinted purple blood running down his suit. "Dad can't." A small breath. "Can't lose th' rest of her."

Peter shook his head as the box shifted marginally closer to his shaking fingers. "You'll give it to him yourself when you get out."

The cat croaked pitifully as Eli's eyes began to well with tears. "Cat. M' sisters love her."

"And you'll get out with her, I promise." Peter's voice cracked as he reached for the bottom of the bedframe again and tried to push away the feeling of the flames on his palms roasting him alive, burying him in a shallow pit of gasoline and inferno. "Shit, shit." His vision spun. "Just a little more, just—just—AGH—!"

"Spider-Man?"

A crack resounded above them.

Peter turned his head. This kid could be fourteen or fifteen or sixteen and it wouldn't have mattered because either way he was Peter's age needing Peter's help and he—and he couldn't, because it felt like his skin was liquefying off the sinews of his muscles. 

"I..." Eli's eyes dropped halfway, tears filling a small puddle on the carpet. "I don' really wanna die."

spike

The ceiling fan fell, the embers around it reminiscent of fireflies.

"NO!!"

::

Spider-Man walked out with a cat under one arm and a shoebox under the other.

Eli wasn't with him.

::

He stood on a too-familiar front porch surrounded by a haggard stench of ash and dried salt stains stuck on the backs of his hands where he scrubbed at his eyes. A minute passed, then five, then thirty, and not one second of it could he bring himself to crawl up to the second window on the right side and knock.

"'m sorry, Ned," he murmured. 

He turned and ran.

::

Boxes of bullets littered Neena's coffee table as she counted up her stash. It was one of those sleepless nights where shut-eye just wouldn't do it for her and she'd kill for some wings and a half a dozen bottles, but with the storm outside and everyone boarded up for the next couple of days, there was nothing else but to make do with but the pizza rolls in the freezer and the shitty box of IPAs in the fridge that Wade dumped on her months ago. Asshole. 

knock... knock

She loaded one of her pistols as she rose and undid the six locks on her front door before she opened it just enough to cast an eye into her hallway. She didn't know who to expect, or how to expect anyone making their way through the mountains of snow outside, and yet.

It was Ferret on the other side of her door and looked smaller and younger than she'd ever seen him. Black smeared the red spider on his chest and dyed his hair dark and the too-big brown jacket on his shoulders hung singed and charred and mixed with thick, liquid violet. She didn't know where his mask was, but his snow-wet curls stuck against his forehead and tear tracks cut through the angry burns and blisters from one cheek down to his chin.

"Hi," he whispered hoarsely. "Can I crash on your couch tonight, please?"

Jesus, kid.

"Come on, Pete," she said, stepping aside so he could limp through. "I've got pizza rolls to go with that couch, too."

Chapter Text

Peter wasn't sure, but he thinks he's tired.

Not physically tired because he was lucky he didn't need to sleep as long as a regular human—but a sentence like that being normal just added another reason for the tiredness. The super tiredness. The almost-can't-deal-with-it tiredness. And he wasn't saying that he couldn't deal with it, hence the almost , but he used to be just Peter and Spider-Man and he could barely remember thinking just those two things were too much.

Strange how life worked that he ended up getting bit by the spider; he was one punk kid in a city of other punk kids, going to school and getting pushed around and doing homework and being able to lift a car with one hand. Puny Parker, leaping off street lights. May's kid, getting thrown into buildings. Queens, drowning in river water and concrete. 

But that was fine. He'd gotten used to it.

Except then he was the new dish boy.

No one looked at Ferret the first week, and when they did it was always pitying or mocking and not one dang thing in between. Ambrose never met his eyes when his nachos got served with no guac and Mox would shake his head whenever he walked past with a stack of dirty plates in his hands. But that was okay because being alone was already kind of his thing; at school because he flakes, on the phone when another voicemail hits and he can talk about whatever because he knew no one was really listening, in the skyline because there was only one Spider-Man to do what he could do.

Some days were a little harder than others, though. With no one who got it and not wanting anyone to worry, it kind of sucked. So sometimes when he dropped from a web he fell, and fell, and there was a last second where the ground came at him so—

But the longer he stayed, the warmer it got. His jokes started getting chuckles and thanks were grumbled whenever he stopped by a table. "That dead kid, Ferret or whatever" turned into "Weasel's dish boy, Ferret" or "Wade's kid, can you fucking believe that" or "I'm good, Ferret. How many people died last week? I've got fifty on the dead pool and I think it's finally my day."

Still... that shouldn't be right. Right? That he felt right at a place that Spider-Man wouldn't hesitate busting. It brought up a lot of questions he wasn't answering anytime soon, but yeah, why not just throw in a bigger headache in there?

Peter Parker, Midtown High student. Spider-Man, suped up vigilante. Ferret, Mr. Weasel's assistant. 

That math didn't add up. That math was three different formulas!

But he still juggled STEM student and freak and criminal and it was the most messed up act he ever played. One second he was memorizing Keith Douglas' key poems—Vergissmeinnicht, How to Kill, Desert Flowers—then there was a bat in his gut and now he was printing cards and updating hit lists and he was spending time with May and Ned and now Neena at June's and Wade at the gym and both of them at the bar and Flash shoved him again, Mr. Harrington lectured him again, Happy didn't answer again. 

The night usually ended with Spider-Man or Dish Boy-Man and both of them perfected the art of evenly spaced sutures.

And that—that wasn't even mentioning the mom thing.

Mom. Where was he even going to start with that?

Maybe from when he saw the sky tear open and he thought the world was going to end.

... No, that was too much trauma. He was probably better off starting from Wade's apartment instead. 

So Wade's apartment had been a safe-haven ever since Wade himself brought him by and explained how to lockpick every lock after all the keys were forgotten in the other Deadpool suit, and not twenty-four hours later he found a new keyring on his carabiner with ten different lock keys, two hours keys, and a fat Pikachu keychain.

No—wait, this wasn't about Wade. Wade was super cool. This was about Mom. Not to say they weren't also super cool, but it was their genetics that made him part Yo-ton? Or whatever they'd said to Thor when they thought he was snuggled in bed fast asleep. And he was snug as a bug in a rug, by the way. It was just hard to sleep when all you could think about were all the wrong decisions you've made and how they haunted and held you by the throat so you couldn’t get a good night’s sleep.

But the first time he really met Mom had to be at Wade's. There was at least one melee weapon within any two foot radius you stood in and a loaded gun within every four; evens were Stevens, Wade always said, and odds made him itch. Either way there were a ton of things he could use if things went south, but his mom wouldn't do anything he needed to worry about, right? Between rice bowls and mismatched dining chairs and Harold the Stuffed-Rainbow-Sea-Turtle-Won-At-A-Bottle-Toss-Before-Being-Banned-From-That-Carnival-Game-For-The-Rest-Of-The-Day, he was going to walk out with Lora or Loren and no matter who Mom turned out to be he'd understand, he was so sure of it.

Then—there was always a then nowadays—a golden glittery glow filled the apartment that could rival a weapon's store unit and in Lora-Loren's place sat Loki, Prince of Asgard, a villain in every history book by the end of twenty-twelve, and that was it. He was going to die. The leader of the Battle of New York bought him lunch and was going to kill him by the end of it.

But Loki was kind.

But Loki cared.

But Loki loved him.

Ferret-Man, Spider-Parker, Peter Lokison.

He was all of them in all their mish-mashes and a couple months in he thought finally, this is where I start. This is where it all goes right because I've got a place that likes me, a family that wants me, and I can go out there and help people with everything I am.

... Then Eli died, and maybe Dr. Strange was right.

What else could he do besides getting cats down from trees?

"You look like shit."

Peter looked up from his spot half-sunken in one of the most comfortable couches he'd ever crashed in. His blue suit and its charred upper body lay across the ottoman and he was left in yesterday's jeans; at least his backpack came out unharmed because if he had to replace one more bag in the span of three weeks—not to mention a bag Thor got him—he might already be sobbing into a cup of Swiss Miss.

But not today. Or at least for the next few hours. That'd be totally uncool.

"Still feel like it, too," he answered with a self-deprecating quirk of his lips. Neena plopped onto the couch space by his feet, propped an elbow on the back pillow, and dropped her cheek into her hand. 

"How are your burns?"

He glanced down at his arms and torso and at the bandages swathed around them. They throbbed dully even when he just spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, and only winced when he pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Healing, I think?" He flexed an arm. "It's not going as fast as it usually does but, um, turns out I'm kind of less fireproof than I thought. I guess being a firefighter isn't a great future job prospect."

"Something from your spider side?"

"Actually, I think it's something from my mom's."

And how could he forget about this other Mom thing, just another tab with thousands of other subsections. Mom-Loren-Lora-Loki was alien, literally otherworldly, even older than the written manuscripts of the first time Earth documented the myth of the Norse Trickster God. Peter had never seen them turn all the way blue, but the same day in Wade's apartment when they took his hand in theirs and his skin melted away to icy blue, raised patterned ridges molding into symmetrical patterns all over his body. Ice powers, cold resistance, an extraterrestrial healing factor added on top of his mutated one and his sudden tanked vulnerability to fire...

What did it all mean? Why didn't Mom talk about it?

And why did it make Mom hate themselves so much?

Neena waved a hand, snapping his gaze back to her.

"Hey, lost you for a sec. You okay?"

"Yeah." He blinked and glanced down to poke at the bandages around his wrist. "Yeah." He repeated. "I'm just a little tired."

Something he didn't recognize crossed her face, but it left as quickly as it came as she downed half a glass of her vodka orange juice. "You looked halfway to hell last night, so don't beat yourself up while you're healing up." A loud series of knocks rang out at the front door, and she patted his ankle a couple times before she stood. "You're also off the rest of the week; I already told Weasel not to let you clock in any hours."

"Wait—you—you snitched?"

"Hell yeah I snitched. Half the time you come into work looking like a Jackson Pollock and half of those halves you shouldn't have even been on your feet, so think of this as a long time coming."

" But— "

"Butts are for flicking into sewer grates, kiddo."

Neena stayed to the side of the door when she reached over and pulled it open, Wade strode right in shaking the snow off his outer jacket and stamping out the ice bits from his boots.

"Jesus FUCK it's like Jack Frost's wet dream out there, swear to god I've got fifteen bagillion snowflakes shoved so far up my ass I can build Elsa a ten foot tall snowman."

He spun around with a flourish and flashed his widest grin—

Peter blanked.

This was the first time since knowing Wade that he showed up without his Deadpool mask. He didn't know what to think when he'd literally given Peter his full name, phone number, home address, and all the fake social security numbers he'd collected over the years. Wade had never been a self-conscious sort of guy, but seeing that his skin being angry and wrinkled and stretched with thick layers of scar tissue didn't stay on the bottom half of his face, he felt bad that he hadn't gotten Wade to feel more comfortable with him a lot sooner.

"Oh shit." Wade stopped dead in his tracks when he turned towards the couch. "You look like shit."

A short laugh puffed out of Peter. "Good morning, Wade."

And out from behind him stepped out Mom.

Since she was with Wade she was Lora, her lips curled in a small sneer as she glared at the other's back. Her deep green silk button up tucked into a pair of black slacks and her heels made her almost as tall as Wade, but as soon as Peter was within her sights her brow furrowed and she was immediately at his side. 

"Lora? What're you and Wade—"

"You did not text, and you are burned," she murmured. She held two fingers to Peter's chin and moved his head to the side to get a better look at the bandage on his face and the shiny red skin poking out from under it. "I should have cautioned you against fire. The fault is mine, and I must apologize."

"S'okay," he tried to smile. "Ice, fire, basic Pokemon type match-ups. I should've known better anyway."

Loki frowned. Wade nodded sagely behind her.

"Before I forget, Pete's banned from working until next week, but only if he actually looks better." Neena shut the front door. "That means that's your job, Wade. I'm on west coast time starting tomorrow, and I know you don't have anything 'til next month because of the Ulaanbaatar job you're lined up for."

Wade clicked his heels together and delivered a perfect salute. "Aye aye, Captain!" His voice deepened. "I can't hear youuu!" Then he drew in a deep breath. "AYE AYE, CAPTAIN!"

Loki stared for a few seconds. Then looked at Peter. "If it were possible, this endears him to me even less."

Wade flapped a hand. "Petey gets it."

Peter shrugged, careful not to jostle his injuries. "I get it."

Neena snorted as she donned a friendly smile and approached the stranger in her living room. "Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Neena Thurman, one of the mercs that work through Weasel's bar."

Loki eyed her up and down once before she accepted the offered hand. She must've seen something she liked too when the disdain she usually showed Wade and Weasel was nowhere to be found. "I am Lora Olstad, Peter's mother."

"Huh. Nice to finally meet you, then."

She tipped her head slightly. "Likewise. It is agreeable to see that there are more sensible persons Peter has aligned himself with." She tried to pin another glare on Wade, but found that he'd migrated to the kitchen and was making a mess of the area with a pan heating on the stove and a spatula set on the counter top. "You allow this boor to prepare food in your home?"

"Wade's a lot of things, but he does make a mean pancake."

"Blueberries and apples and half a pack of bacon, oh my! Dom, it's like you've been waiting for the Griddle King to work his magic!"

A smaller, realer smile wormed its way onto Peter's face as he shifted and leaned heavier against one of the folded throw blankets on the couch. Warmth slowly spread over his skin, and it didn't feel like it came from the burns that would take too long to heal.

But the small pit of ice in his chest grew a touch bigger, a smidge colder, a little too close to everything he ever was, he let its edges press against his ribs and burrow closer to his heart.

::

Peter walked with a greater heaviness to his shoulders, and Loki knew he tires.

It was a beast that tormented warriors once fighting battles no longer just meant facing foes on the battlefield. Shadows followed even the strongest ones home, grief-filled fangs puncturing down to the marrow, melancholic whispers ringing soundly in the ears. She had seen some fighters give in to misery, seen others eaten away by guilt they could not pull out of their own skin. But such was a risk that many often took to join the ranks of the glorious, and she considered herself one with an abundance of luck to find herself without propensity to suffer as many do.

But it was with great tragedy that Peter had not come out so lucky.

Oh, but how could he? This child was not built for war. His heart was full and soft with the endless love it carried, and she wished nothing more but to bundle him in her arms and shield him from all the wrong of the blood he carried in his veins.

Ferret, Spider-Man, Peter Benjamin Parker Lokison.

How numerous these heavy titles were when the one burdened with them was but an infant in the eyes of the Æsir.

"I bet you twenty dollars that if I lick this pole my tongue won’t get stuck."

Loki withheld a sigh at the ridiculous string of words that endlessly poured out of Wilson’s mouth.

"You could just give me the twenty and save yourself the pain," Peter said.

"O ye of little faith." Wilson stuck his tongue out of his mouth and blew, echoing a sound not unlike flatulence. "I thought we’ve been taco buddies long enough that you know I’m totally able to do shit you wouldn’t believe."

"But you’re totally not above the science of phase transition."

"It is typical to let an idiot learn the hard way, Peter," Loki said as the three of them stopped at the next metal pole they came across. "It is the only thing with enough force to break through the build up around their skull. As you have seen, my brother endures the same condition."

Wilson slapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them, a truly impish expression crawling across his face under the shadow of what she heard was called a ‘baseball cap.’ "Okay, nonbelievers. Watch and learn from the Ice King."

Loki raised a brow. "Were you not already the Griddle King?"

"I’ve earned many crowns in my day. Most notably from Mr. The Burger King himself."

If she recalled correctly, that was the name of an eatery she had seen on many streets in this city. Even then she did not understand the reference, the smile on Peter’s face grew despite his mounting worry and he still took a step forward for one more try in convincing him to choose quite literally any other option than this.

"Wait, I know you’re just going to rip off a layer of your tongue because you’re not patient enough to like, warm the air around the ice when you do get your tongue stuck so I really think you should get a popsicle from the store to save yourself the trouble—!"

"Nice try, Petey-Pie, but behold! The Ice King will strike where you least expect!"

How he and Peter managed to get along so well, she would never understand.

And as much joy it would bring her to see this lout injure himself for no other reason besides misplaced bluster, she did not know why he was leading them down these streets after their impromptu breakfast. Miss Thurman could not accompany them, citing her need to prepare to leave for assignment in the early afternoon, but all the same sent them off with a kind word and a mouth full of a fourth helping of pancakes. So, she grabbed the scruff of the man’s jacket and yanked him back before the tip of his tongue could swipe the pole and dragged him forward. 

"Allow yourself your lunacy another time," she hissed, pushing him forward with the barest flick of her fingers. Yet when he turned back around to face them, he batted his eyelashes as he deftly avoided any obstacles he encountered while walking backwards. He blew a kiss. She wanted to dissociate his lips from his face. "Mutilating yourself would extend this trip, and I would like to arrive at our destination in as little wasted time as possible."

"Trust me, I’m leading us to the holy grail. The promised land. Paradise." He clasped his hands together and drew in a shaky breath. " Margaritaville ."

Loki massaged her forehead. Idiot .

"Dude, you’re so old."

"I refuse to hear this Jimmy Buffett slander."

"Who’s Jimmy Buffett?"

"SLANDER."

Unfortunately Wilson’s pancakes had proved more than edible, especially the ones with apples that somehow managed a comparable crisped sweetness to those from Iðunn’s garden on Asgard. She uttered no sweet words but cleaned her plate, and when Wilson saw his eyes blew wide as he sang a terribly off-key ballad that could have prompted her to reach across the table and shatter a ceramic dish over his skull. But it sent her dear heart into a fit of snorting laughter until his wounds flared and she turned to soothe them with a light burst of Jotunn frost, her annoyance turned down to only simmering.

Regardless of her lack of comprehension, she could not turn a blind eye to how important this Wade Wilson was to her son. She thought his humor crude, his voice raucous, his actions borderline deranged, but around Peter he was—dare she say it— good . His character stained with the filth of working as a hired hand and his lifestyle reflected the wealth of what must be years of the bodies he piled up in exchange for coin, but he mentored Peter in the arts of Midgardian combat. He taught the boy with care, trained him in non-lethal ways even when he himself never utilized such tactics.

Loki watched as he slung an arm over Peter’s shoulders and pulled him close, whispering something that made the boy groan while he threw his head back in laughter.

And Wilson was, after all, the one who showed up unannounced on her doorstep earlier this morning to show her a video of a building engulfed in flame taken on shaky cell phone footage.

"Uh. Wade?" Peter turned towards his friend as they stopped in front of a building with tall glass windows and a black cloth overhang above the entrance displaying a single red square with a four-lettered word across its middle. "Why are we at the Lego store?"

Wilson grinned and pulled a yellow card from his back pocket. There was a little man made of blocks on the front.

"So there was this guy I murked the other day, blood everywhere , I had to pick up another Tide pen on my way home and everyone needs to start carrying those in their purses, it’s like Gandalf and Mr. Clean made a real magic wand—"

Peter’s face scrunched up, appearing far smaller under the bandage that covered nearly half his face.

"—but when I was going through his wallet he had this whole two-hundred dollar gift card for Legos and it’s not like he’s gonna use it when he’s splattered all over Emmons Avenue—"

"Wade."

"—so ta-da! A second uber late Christmas present or ridiculously super-duper early sixteenth birthday present!" He exclaimed as he held out the plastic card.

Peter hesitantly took the card into his own hand and flipped it over to look at the back. "... A two-hundred dollar gift card? I don’t know, that’s a lot of money for Legos. What if—"

"Had no kids or family or whatever, so it would’ve gone to waste if no one else’s using it."

Still, Peter ran a thumb down the edge of the card and peeked up at Loki in silent question. She was surprised that he always seemed so reluctant in matters that concerned himself. Legos were simple things, she learned from May, where small pieces were made to be put together either by planned model or by freehand, and she had seen some of the smaller plastic figures along the windowsill in his room.

Thor had never been that way. Neither had she.

Loki smiled. "For as empty of a head he balances between his shoulders, a fair thought or two appears like a worm in a rotten core." She gently urged him into the store, patting him past the entrance and further into the intensely yellow decoration. "Go, find what you wish. Wilson and I will be around."

Brown eyes twinkled the brightest they’ve shone this entire morning before he was off faster than a spooked stag towards the shelving in the back. She would not lose him as long as he wore his necklace, and she sensed that since their initial meeting it never strayed far from his person. She could live a thousand lives and never deserve him in either one, and—

"So you really would love me if I was a worm."

This time, Loki couldn’t restrain a disgruntled sigh as she looked to her companion. The shade across his face darkened in the artificial light and with his hoodie pulled over his cap, he performed a fair job in minding his visage from the rest of the patrons.

"If you were a worm you would end up as nothing but squashed beneath my feet."

"Promise?"

She could strangle him. "You are simply impossible."

"I live to please," Wilson cooed through puckered lips before fluttering to the other side of the store where the Avengers had their own line of Lego sets, a sight that nearly made Loki gag. She followed him at her own sedate pace, her ponytail swinging slightly behind her as her heels barely clacked on the flooring.

The boxes boasted models from the Iron Man suit to the Captain’s shield to Mjolnir itself, though the likeness could not be compared to its original grand design. Yellow minifigures of each hero were arranged in battle stances with a range of weapons that could each be bought in different packages.

"Captain America’s always been my favorite." Wilson picked up a box for a Captain America minifigure outfitted in what appeared to be an older uniform. "I had a bunch of his comic books when I was a kid and wouldn’t read anything else that didn’t have good old Steven Grant Rogers on the cover. ‘Course, that was all before he was found frozen in the middle of the butt-fuck arctic and turned into a war criminal, but it be what it be and it do what it don’t."

"The soldier," she murmured, mostly to herself. The box made sure to note that the blue helmet was detachable. "And a man out of time."

"I wonder if smartphones freaked him out. You think he’s got the hang of them now or do you think he’s got a spot on his belt for his own personal rotary?"

"The Captain means nothing to me, so I hold no opinion."

"Oo, I get it. Team Iron Man, huh?"

"If Iron Man made himself known to me, may he suffer a worse fate than your worm-self at my heel." Loki clicked her tongue and spied a Hulk with both his fists up as he screamed toward the heavens. She drew a subconscious step to the side.

"Ding, ding, ding, that’s the correct answer! I mean, after all the stuff I’ve heard about Stark? Especially when it comes to, you know." Wilson’s hand twisted in vague motions behind him. "Dickhead’s ego is the size of his bank account and he’s got no business fucking around with a kid’s life. ‘Specially that kid? Does whatever a spider can? The mystery mustelid? And yeah, I can follow thematic repetition as a rhetorical device—that’s not my main point, by the way. I’m just letting you know." He put the box back onto the shelf. "What I’m saying is, Stark fucked up and now he’s losing out on one of the best kids he’s ever met. Don’t know what else he does besides jacking off in his Iron Giant cosplay, but jokes on him, I’m the one who’s getting crunchy nachos under all that ooey-gooey cheese." He scoffed. "Douche."

The soft round lights boxed in yellow cubes along the ceiling filtered overhead like sunglow in a pocket of winter. Children of all ages and sizes wandered about, excitedly dragging their parents around in puffer jackets and knitted hats to warm their heads. There were multitudes on Midgard she had yet to fathom as well things she knew she did not have the capacity to grasp no matter how much seiðr she could conjure between her hands.

But she did not ever anticipate that she would be able to recognize love all the same across the galaxies she’d traveled.

"There was no dead man’s gift card, was there?" She asked.

Wilson pulled down the front of his cap. "He wouldn’t take it otherwise. He won’t even take the taxi rides I cover for him—I’m always finding bills stuffed around my place ‘cause he doesn’t know I’ve even got all the change in my couch cataloged."

And suddenly that artificial light cast upon him much differently from when she first saw him.

"Thank you," Loki said before she could stop herself, "for taking care of him, Wilson."

"He’s my taco buddy." He shrugged. "Not much I won’t do for him."

Loki’s eyes flickered around the rest of the store as her hand dipped under the collar of her shirt to clasp around the stone of her own necklace. With no one but Wilson at her side in this row of merchandise, green wisped along her palm and she pinpointed Peter drifting down one of the aisles, still within the confines of the store. Safe.

When she turned back to Wilson, his jaw unhinged in a most unsightly manner.

"You’re—?" His hands pressed on either side of his face as his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper. "You’re a wizard, Harry?!"

She blinked. "Olstad."

"Okay seriously, what rock are you living under? I don’t think Patrick’s got any more space and you really should start paying rent."

"What nonsense are you blathering on about now?"

"I’ve gotta get you to watch Spongebob. Peter’s gotta get you to watch Spongebob. What planet are you from that you haven’t watched Spongebob? He’s been on cable since the early two-thousands—"

He went on and on in the same manner he’d been irritating her with since she threw him into a pool table, only this time she had enough sense to hide her small smile as she listened to his absurdity on their way to return to Peter.

(How Odin would turn on his throne if he could see the life she led now.)

Chapter Text

May ran a finger over the waxy patch of skin on her nephew's cheek. She poked and prodded and when he only beamed under all her fussing, she sighed and pinched his cheek until he whined for her to let go.

"See, May?" He said when both her hands were back on her hips. "Almost fully healed!"

"After two weeks," she stressed. May sighed again and went back to stir the pot of instant ramen at the stove. "I don't know all the details about your spider abilities, but I know that's much longer than what it usually takes to heal. Is something going on?" She slid some chopped tomatoes and sliced ham into the pot. "Or is it something like, you're more flammable because you're a bug?"

He leveled her with a look. She flapped a hand.

"You know what I mean."

And, well, he guessed he did know what she meant. But he didn't know what he was supposed to say to that; Mom and May had Girls' Nights every other Friday and sometimes Tuesdays and Mom always came over for Sunday night dinners, and as far as he knew there was no alien talk. Nothing about blue skin or ice or even as a squeak about the frostiness of it all, so he knew better than to bring it up on his own. There was a lot of Spider-Man talk, though, from May ranting about Triple J to Mom smirking as she pulled up a video of a dumpster lid whapping shut on its own after he took a swan dive into it which only happened twice and he swore he was going to find whoever—

Peter swiped his hair out of his face before picking up both ramen bowls to move them out to the coffee table and placing the significantly larger one in front of his seat. "I'm not really sure what's happening," which wasn't a lie, "but I'm definitely going to keep my distance from now on." He took the chopsticks May handed him and grabbed the blanket on the couch arm when she took her seat next to him. "Do you think I should invest in a fire-proof jacket?"

"I'll get you one as a late Christmas present or ridiculously super-duper early sixteenth birthday present."

He choked halfway through shoveling the first bite of ramen into his mouth.

"Your teeth are used for chewing, baby."

"Thanks, May," he replied dryly as he scooped up more ramen, not even finished with his initial bite. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

She settled into her own spot on the couch, fuzzy socks tucked under the other half of the fuzzy blanket as the sleeves of her fuzzy sweatshirt pooled around her wrists. "I think the usual response is to make a crack about cooking, but all I've got for you is crispy meatloaf and too-salty spaghetti." Peter nodded absentmindedly at that, and he got a flick to his ear for the trouble. "Hey! You're supposed to say Nooo, May, your cooking whips and slays."

"What voice—I don't sound like that!" His face scrunched up. "And I know you know that's not how you use those words. Who taught you that? Who's making you embarrass me?"

"What makes you think I need someone to tell me how to embarrass you? I'm a strong independent woman who knows you tried to wash your sheets behind my back when you accidentally peed the bed in fourth grade—"

"May!"

She tousled his hair, and he could feel her gaze linger on his cheek before she looked back at her bowl. 

"Besides, you don't need to worry about cooking." Peter donned his best grin for her, the one he knew she couldn't see through and the one he could use when he had enough in him to pretend it was actually real. "I swear I've perfected the un-soggy nacho and a variety of other pub foods and I know what you're thinking: Peter, that's unhealthy! Where's all the green? " He stuck his tongue out at his aunt's protest that she sounded nothing like that. "But I think my meal prep speaks for itself. How was the pesto chicken yesterday?"

"Deceptively healthy. I'll never look at another Lean Cuisine again."

She was smiling again, and the line of his shoulders unwound.

Peter reached for the remote and crossed his legs so he could balance his bowl between them. "I could probably teach you how to roast vegetables at least; it tastes better than steamed and you won't burn them. Probably."

He laughed as he leaned away from her half-hearted swat and pressed play on the rom-com May picked for the night, another bundle of noodles already up to his lips. 

(Can't worry May. Can't break her heart again.)

((He doesn't know if he could live with himself if he did.))

::

Peter dented the metal floor he crashed into.

"Cirque du So-Freak!" One of the goons shouted down at him. The hatch shut before one of Peter's bullets could shoot past it, and he grimaced as he moved his head to avoid the bounce-back of the rubber projectile.

"Welp," he said as he glanced at his surroundings. He didn't know what type of psycho built a hatch down into a walk-in freezer, but either way it looked like the info they got was mucked up ten ways to Sunday. The headcount was about triple of what they'd been expecting and with how many floors were in this office building they'd been at a disadvantage from the start. Weasel had warned them that the job sat on shaky foundations at best, white-collar and uppity with a political stink all over it. The Hellhouse didn't usually take jobs like that because, well. Mercs helping out people who made laws against killing people? Totally went against the business.

But the money was too good and the sketchiness was bad enough to end up in their alley, so he and Weasel came to the general consensus that the job would go out to one of the top runners at the bar. 

Ergo, Deadpool. But it was a little too big for a one-man mission. Ergo-er, Deadpool's "sidekick" tagged along.

He didn't mind another assignment and if he was being honest, he actually kind of enjoyed it. Wade swore there wouldn't be a surprise murder at the end like last time and Weasel, having seen that his first mission hadn't reduced his dish boy into a teenage crisis puddle, gave his blessing in the form of the tiredest sigh and the thunk of his head on the bar.

Peter promised he'd give a full report when he got back. His boss sighed so loud he sent himself into a coughing fit.

Ice plastered to the plastic shelves and frosted the floor, and the stacked crates filled with spare boxes and loose bubble wrap. There were a couple containers of clear ice cubes cut into perfect squares, but those didn't show up as often as the nondescript boxes sealed shut with layers upon layers of packaging tape. 

"Come on," he muttered to himself. He slid a medium sized box off a middle shelf and turned it over in his hands—weirdly heavy, solid, probably something valuable. "Did you miss out on reading the Goon Manual? It's like you're asking for a search under probable cause."

He slipped his dagger from his calf, the hilt cool even through his gloved grip as the now-familiar hiss of snakes echoed faintly past his ears. It sliced through the layers of tape like butter, and he was only half-surprised there weren't any drugs. 

Just a solid gold bar. 

A few more boxes were cut open after that, leaving Peter staring through his tinted goggles at an assortment of precious jewels and more gold bars. 

"Oh." He blinked. "So at least the money laundering part was right."

And just after he snapped a few pictures of the freezer-safe and the hidden wealth inside it, the faint trickle that spread out from all along his spine made him pause.

It wasn't quite his spidey-sense, wasn't quite a warning, but a cue that something was happening. The something he wasn't sure of but the nudging at the back of his head told him it happened before more than once or twice but not enough for him to be comfortable and that though alone forced his breath to shallow and quicken.

No, don't panic. Panic wasn't going to do anything for him right now. He was alone in a freezer worth more than anything he'd ever make at the bar with both a phone and comm that boasted dead signals. Wade probably made it to the upper floors to sweep for some physical documents to serve as more evidence the job wanted them to scout for, and Peter hoped he didn't freak out when he realized the comms on his end fizzled out—when were these made? The 90s? He was going to work on them the minute they got back to the bar, this was so embarrassing.

He cast another searching look around. They probably killed a lot of people by freezing them to death down here, now that he was thinking about it. The temperature was far lower than it needed to be and if the only thing they were keeping in here were precious metals and stones and weird rich people ice, it wouldn't be a stretch to use this as a cleaner method of getting rid of people. Thick steel walls, a door that looked like it had water pouring down the seams on the regular to keep freezing over so there'd be a lesser chance of anyone getting out, and a hatch on the ceiling to drop people through.

Completely. Psycho.

Depending on how many layers a victim wore and just how low this room shot down to, someone could get hypothermia in as little as ten minutes and frostbite could permanently damage skin and blister tissue—

Peter slowly raised his head.

He cracked his mask and breathed out, and he waited for the cloud puffs that would normally squeeze into his vision.

It never came.

"... Okay. Okay, this is fine. This hasn't happened in a while, but it's normal. Is it normal?" He shook his head. "No, bad, panic later. First step: check if you've gone blue."

He pushed his goggles to his forehead and flipped his phone camera forward.

A stranger stared back, raised lines in perfect symmetry on both sides of his face, and his face—it was completely, utterly blue . Blue from deep cracks in glaciers, from arctic waters, from ice cut jagged against biting winds, and he wouldn't have almost dropped his phone if he hadn't been thinking his eyes would be blue too, because why wouldn't they be? But not, not even close, because his eyes went from dark to darker to darkest red, sclera to iris to pupil, and the ice starting to crust on the sides of his phone crept and spiked and—

He stuffed it back onto his belt and held his hands away from his body as he tried to back up, but his legs didn't listen. 

Not his fault since apparently his feet were encased in ice and practically fused to the floor.

"Nope. Not fine and panicking, that's two strikes. Super praying there's not a third."

He yanked one foot out the block, splintering the ice beneath him. His other foot freed easier and in, out, in, out, he was fine. In, out, in, out. The powers correlated with his alien side. Think: the best thing they could've done was throw him down here because he was one of the only ones out there who could survive unscathed. 

"Second step: get out of here."

About fifteen minutes had already passed. They probably thought he was already dead.

Peter trained his eyes on the hatch.

"You got this," he whispered under his breath. "You learned to wall-crawl no sweat, and you're going to learn this too."

He leapt up next to the opposite side of the hatch hinge and stuck to the ceiling with a single hand. Ice, he'd discovered, was an interesting solid type in relation to his spider abilities. Him and Ned have notebooks full of theories about how they think he worked, and the fact that the information was firmly rooted in scientific explanation? That meant that they could get their answers through their ballpark of procedural experimentation.

The setules all over his body, microscopic and in the millions and enhanced through extensive genetic manipulation amplified in his human genome and double-walled by his alien one, participated in Van der Waals interactions that typically required dry and unmoving surfaces so the points he adhered to wouldn't shift.

In one early experiment, he squeezed a dry soap bar and ended up with crushed soap bits. Ned wrote that down. In the next phase of the same experiment, he squeezed a wet soap bar and nailed himself in the eye. Ned laughed before writing that down too.

So the goons messed up again without even knowing, because with the freezer so cold with no chance of the ice thawing or being thawed by the average person's body heat, both spider and ice were playing the game at their strongest.

Peter swung his body back, then forward, back, forward, back, SLAM!

He sprung both feet against the hatch and launched it down whatever hallway he got jumped on in the first place and landed in a crouch above the new hole in the floor, soft white crystals twining the carpet threads beneath his feet and fingertips.

In, out, in, out.

He went for his gun first, but the moment he made contact ice exhaled along the grip and he snatched his hand back before he made any severe damage.

"Dang," he muttered. He switched hands and hesitated over the dagger. He didn't want to ruin a gift from Mom, but... his fingers curled firmly around the hilt before he slid it from his sheath and leveled the blade across from his eyeline.

And, just. It was the wildest thing.

He could feel the light tug on his veins when the cold pulled out from his left hand, swirling past polished black wood until a thin coat began to drag along the metal. The sheet couldn't be thicker than half a centimeter at most, serrated edges biting into a normally flat side. Sharper, rawer, deadlier—and when he peered closer at the pit of engraved snakes he swore writhed when he wasn't quite looking now stared back at him with bright red eyes. 

"I," he said, "am going to lose my entire shit later."

Later was the important word there. If he didn't get his head in the game now, he wasn't going to deserve a spot on any other job in the future. 

Peter didn't even risk tapping his comms at this point. Forget it getting busted because of the signal, it was probably an ice sphere that not even Wade tone-deaf singing Thank You For Being A Friend would be enough to blow past it. Crackle, crack, crack rang out softly and he whipped off his goggles just as the lenses blinded with frost, and his eyes crossed to try and peek down at his black mask. He could only catch flashes of pointy and white.

"Oh my god," he whispered. It was a wonder his voice modulator still functioned. "I'm Sub-Zero."

Wasn't Sub-Zero sort of an alien too?

Later, he berated himself as he darted down the hallway towards where he was sure there was a stairwell entrance. The security feed would've picked him up the second the hatch lid flew on the other side of the world and if that wasn't enough to track him—

Peter threw a look over his shoulder, rolled his eyes, and burst through the metal stairway door to start his ascent to the top floor.

—then the white footprints in his wake were a good enough bread crumb trail.

Six floors up was when he first heard the shouting. Seven, the footsteps got louder. Eight, the doors below him were getting thrown open. Nine, the first shot missed. 

"Alright," he said as he glanced down the spirals of stairs. Goons dressed in black with hairlines of all recessions were filing after him and soon enough they'd be streaming down his front too. "Let's make you like a stack of dishes and hang you out to dry."

At the top of one staircase he pivoted, jumped, and catapulted off the back wall to completely body the first person in the line following behind him. The force blasted them off their feet and dominoed almost a third down the line, and he flipped and hit the ground running. Bullets spun past his head, his arms, his thighs—but none of them landed. None of them would land if he had anything to say about it; just a couple weeks ago he'd managed to convince Wade and Neena to team up and help him practice dodging by having him be their moving target.

"You sure?" Neena asks. "I'd feel pretty bad if I was the second reason you ended up on my couch with a bullet in your stomach."

"You got shot?!" Wade whipped his head around. "Non-consensually?!"

"And I'm trying to not get that second shot on my record, so will you help me? Please?" He peers up at both of them. "I trust you guys, and I'll be the best moving practice dummy!"

Neena stared at him for a few beats before turning to Wade. "Do his eyes always do that thing when he asks for stuff?"

"Uhuh."

"But I can't say no to those."

"Yeah, welcome to the fucking shitshow, Dom. FastPass is out of season so you've gotta wait in the regular line with no sunscreen like the rest of us."

Peter dodged the punch thrown from the first person to leap out from in front of him and flipped them over his shoulder to collide into the stream of people still coming up his rear. The ice blade blocked the downward swing of another knife, solid ice chipping straight into the metal as the goon across from him met him eye to red eye.

They blanched. "What the fuck—"

He broke out of his block and kicked before ducking, the punch aimed at the back of his head swinging instead to hit one of their own friendlies and he threw a hard elbow into their gut to send another domino collapse down the way. He took the distraction to heft himself onto the railing and boosted himself to the stairs overhead, swinging himself over the other railing like he weighed nothing at all.

"What the hell's with that acrobatics shit? And is he—is he fucking blue?!"

"Told you Deadpool's sidekick's a fucking freak. Hurry up before he makes it back to his goddamn Batman!"

Yup, gotta go, and gotta make it speedy.

Peter shouldered though the closest door onto another floor, three down from the very top, and pushed his back against it with his heels dug deep in the carpeting to hold his place. 

He left too many of them standing. With the stairs so narrow and the middle drop so far down that any fall from any height might result in a broken neck, the risk of accidentally killing someone was too high.

Thud.

If he was Spider-Man, he'd be dangling those goons in the stairway like they were popcorn streamers and the door would be webbed shut with no amount of manpower short of the Hulk able to knock it down. Still too risky and would get too political if it ever got out that a vigilante was taking an actual stab at government proceedings.

THUD.

The push against the door was barely enough to jostle him, so he was left to think. Elevator was too slow, too finicky, too cramped for how many people were available to jump him, so the stairs were the best bet and comparing the first push against the second, their troop was growing. But what else could he do to keep the door shut?

THUD!

water pouring down seams on the regular to keep freezing over

Peter shoved his left hoodie sleeve up to his bicep and unlatched the band above his elbow guards with a crispier-than-usual click to peel off the bottom section of his sleeve, shedding off layers of powdered ice. He dutifully ignored his churning stomach at the unwavering blue of his skin and held his palm against the door handle and shut his eyes.

In, out, in, out.

Think of deep cracks in glaciers. Think of arctic waters. Think of ice cut jagged against biting winds. 

Think that you need to be better, because if you had been, maybe Eli wouldn't be dead.

In. Out.

He opened his eyes and stepped back to the sight of the stairwell door frozen from the floor to the ceiling.

The corner of his lips quirked humorlessly beneath his mask as he took his first real steps onto the floor, straight into the seas of prone bodies. Their shallow breathing couldn't be louder with each body he passed by and he was—he really was thankful for what Wade was willing to put up with for him. He knew that every mission from here on out that if Deadpool brings his "sidekick", it was going to be marked non-lethal because he asked, and he wasn't stupid enough to think that because of a sudden change of heart. Wade was doing this because they were friends, and not a day went by where he wasn't grateful that the craziest merc he's ever met also happened to be one of the good ones.

His grip tightened around his dagger. The snakes hissed louder.

He didn't stop walking until he was at the elevator.

And then, he'd remember later, it happened too quick.

He jabbed the up button with his dagger hilt and shoved his loose sleeve into his front pocket. All that walking jiggled his hoodie sleeve back down to full length and his hand was a close enough color to his suit that it wouldn't draw attention. 

He was ready when the door opened and three people lunged at him.

He was ready when he swept the legs of the first and knocked the side of their head with the butt of his dagger.

He was ready when he kicked the second into the nearest wall hard enough to bruise, sending them into unconsciousness when they landed the wrong way.

He was ready when his left hand surged forward to grab the last person around the neck, never tight enough to choke but enough to—

A desperate scream barely ripped its way out of number three's mouth before they fell eerily silent, thrashing and clawing at his arm and trying to scream again but nothing and they're sobbing and paling and fading and Peter dropped them like he'd touched fire again, eyes wide as he cradled his arm close to his chest.

Their skin was burnt. Pitch black in the shape of a hand wrapped the front of their neck and the tips of their fingers matched from the skin to the nail to the way it pulled rigid just having glanced Peter's skin for mere seconds. 

Not burnt, he realized faintly. Frostbitten.

Ding.

The elevator doors started to close, and.

And.

"I'm so sorry," he croaked before he slipped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind him. He jabbed the top floor button, and he swore he was frozen to the floor because he couldn't move. Couldn't bring himself to face the doors.

I've seen it before, it happens all the time, the tinny speakers sang. You're closing the door, you're leaving the world behind.

He'd been thinking non-stop the moment he dropped into the freezer.

It was... weird. Having done that on accident and ending up not thinking much after.

You're digging for gold, you're throwing away.

One floor up.

A fortune in feelings, but someday you'll pay.

Another floor up.

You're as cold as—

Ding.

Peter caught himself as he stumbled onto the top floor, half his head trying to keep his breathing even and the other on the assignment because he already told himself once, this wasn't going to be the last time he was getting sent out. He had to do this—needed to—because at the end of the day it wasn't about the experience or the paycheck. Wade trusted him, Weasel trusted him, and it was just like Neena said when she hadn't known he was Spider-Man.

His position as Weasel's assistant was dangerous. He needed to know the job cover to cover and be prepared to make the right calls if anything came up, and now that he was out in the field with all he knew about the paper-pushing side of the business?

He represented Sister Margaret's in all facets of his life that didn't use the word spider.

Wade wasn't on the floor yet, and a small part of him was relieved that he wasn't the only one struggling through their bad intel. But as it was, it wasn't like he could rifle through the documents unless he wanted to deliver literal sheets of ice. He looked at the hilt of his dagger and sighed, then flipped it around so that his pointer and middle finger held down the cross-guard as he used it to open drawers and push things around to look for more of that incriminating evidence.

Peter was in the middle of typing a password into the main computer key by agonizing key when the window beside him shattered inward. His spidey-sense remained politely silent, so he kept typing as he turned to look at how Wade dragged himself up and over and then into the pile of glass with a heavy crunch. Ouch.

"Do you know how long it took my ass to get up here?" He wheezed. The Deadpool suit was ripped on the chest and both his gloves were missing. "After we split they threw me out a fucking window! Left me to crumple like a ball of fucking foil." He stuck a katana—Dorothy, Peter thinks—into the floor and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. "Did you know that if you microwave a ball of aluminum foil it makes it smooth?"

"Nice try. You know you'd be the one who'd have to replace my microwave after it exploded, right?"

"Aluminum explodes microwaves?"

"... Dude." Peter tapped the enter key on the keyboard and the profile loaded in on screen. "The money laundering was right, by the way. They've got an entire freezer full of solid gold bars and gems, probably as safer storage from all the liquidated assets. I took a bunch of pictures."

"You think we could snag some of that pocket change on the way out?"

"Pool."

"Ugh, fine."

"While I'm logging in, can you look through all the paper files? I, uh. Can't," he finished lamely.

"Can't? Why?" Wade finally raised his head after yanking out the bigger pieces of glass out of his face and chest and looked him straight in the— "OH what the FUCK."

"I... Yeah."

"The Avatar sequel doesn't come out until 2022! When the hell did you put on cosplay? Or did you slip in a blue paint puddle and roll in it, imagining you were going down a grassy hill like you're in Little House on the Prairie? Gotta give you credit for putting on those red contacts for whatever reason, y'know, commit to the bit, but, c'mere, you can't keep wearing those if they're giving you pink eye—"

"Wait, don't, I—!"

But just like with the webshooters, Wade always moved too quick and it was almost always too late, and his hand wrapped loosely around Peter's smaller left wrist for a millisecond before he jerked his hand back and dropped to his knees. "GOD, FUCK, OW, FROSTY THE SNOWSHIT."

"—give people... frostbite." Peter crouched down next to him and tucked his arms close to his body as he cocked his head, brown hair stringy with sweat. "I'm so sorry. You really have to wait for me to finish my sentences."

"You can talk faster, I believe in you," Wade groaned, both of them staring at his hand. The thick black splotch on his palm was already slowly receding at the edges. "So is this, like, permanent, or...?"

"I usually go back to normal within half an hour but I've never turned completely blue like this before. I'm going to talk to... someone about it but, uh. Yeah, so, apparently I'm immune to the cold and can make ice weapons and I've got to have a current internal temperature close to dry ice and there's probably more? I'm not sure, but this only happened because they threw me down in their safe-death-freezer thing. But I'll figure it out. I promise." His shoulders dropped. "I'm really sorry, Pool."

"Nah, no worries." Wade reached out to pat his head, but thought better of it at the last second. "I'll wait until you're back at a toasty ninety-eight degrees." He paused. "Oh my god," he whispered. "You're Sub-Zero."

Peter hoped that Wade didn't call him out on how his answering laugh almost broke into a sob.

::

When he did not hear a vibrant greeting as the front door shut, Loki immediately slid a strip of leather between the pages of his current book and set it atop the low table at his side.

It is early—or late, he noted as his gaze drifted to the minimalist gold wall clock mounted across from the chaise lounge. Most days his bar duties carried well into the second morning hour and if he stayed the night, he tended to appear through the doorway with a skip in his step near half past. His enthusiasm rarely snuffed out regardless of the exploits of his night, and he supposed his son had his heritage to thank that just a few hours rest was enough to sustain his boundless energy.

But now it is barely midnight, and it is quiet.

"Peter," he greeted warmly as brown hair rounded the corner. "How was your night?"

The boy's pack was slung on one shoulder as he clasped the straps with both hands, twisting his grip this way and that. His head remained bowed, sweat-dried hair hanging limp over his brow. "Oh, it was..." He chewed on his lip for a brief moment, dark brown irises searching the floor and the piles of books and somewhere far off to the right. "Not great?"

Loki frowned, stepping forward as he searched for any injury. Not that he could deign to find any with the ill-fitting ensembles the boy favors; tonight's consisted of a dark oversized flannel over a dark oversized sweatshirt, that unseemly snowman scarf so loose around his neck that the fringes sway near his hips. His face was unblemished save for the finally-fading scorch mark on his cheek—a miracle in itself with how often and how casually he walked around with injuries he sustained from entering altercations on purpose.

(It reminds him of Thor, a bit, back in their youth when his brother flashes wide grins through blood-stained teeth, their war trophies scavenged from ravaged battlefields and those slain by their hand.)

"What troubles you?" He questioned. He laid a hand on a narrow shoulder, but that bowed head did not raise. "Peter?"

"I turned blue today," came the blunt statement.

Loki flinched.

"I was just on another assignment with Wade and he promised me there was no one to kill this time. I don’t know if you already knew that part where I, like, don’t kill people but I don’t and I wouldn’t and I know mercs don’t think the same and, I mean, it’s not like I blame them or anything because I knew what I was getting into when I first got this job and at least they respect my decision as much as I respect theirs and I’m—um—it’s." Peter shook his head as if the notion could knock loose whatever overgrowth teemed behind his eyes. "We, uh, our info was bad and we walked into a building with so much security that when we split we got overwhelmed and they threw me down a hatch into a freezer. Like, what kind of rich do you have to be to have whole freezer floors walled with steel? But the freezer was still both a laundering-safe and a murder-box and I could’ve gotten out with just my strength and my wall crawling but I wasn’t even in there twenty minutes before my whole body went blue and I had no idea what to do and when I did get out it wouldn’t go away. I was leaving snow-prints and my eyes were red and I could make and control ice and I…"

Peter he could trust to ramble until the end of the world, and that endearing thought usually warmed his heart so thoroughly it tethered him to the earth and convinced him there was still goodness to be had for the one cursed to carry his blood.

But he felt the muscles in his neck string taut and the edges of his palms grew wet with dug crescents his own nails carved. His gaze strayed to a frayed thread on the boy's sleeve, his brow knitted and anger and guilt and shame and hate coalesced into a ball in his sternum so true in its mission to pull him down to sink.

How could he let this happen? Even before the discovery of his damned legacy he should have thought, should have planned, should have already known as the shadow of a golden prince that the only thing he could offer a child of his own was quarrel and grief.

(And he should have known then that he could only ever deserve to be Jotunn.)

A hand grasped the silk sleeve of his robe. "Loki?"

He refocused, his no doubt wrought expression cycling and clearing as he tried to pull on his cool aloofness.

He is not as persuasive this time.

"I know you won't talk about it. I don't know why you won't or why it bothers you so much and I'm sorry for bringing it up like this, but. But you have to tell me what it is." Peter looked up at him, baby fat in his cheeks and haunted eyes, and Loki tired of seeing the one he loved most live a life more than unfair. "I think I... I might have..." His bottom lip wobbled. "Someone got hurt today because I don't know what I am. Please, I—It's just this once, I promise, just tell me what it is this one time and I'll never bring it up again." He drew in a shaky breath. "Why do you hate wh-whatever's going on with us?"

And he crumbled like mountain edges against a windstorm.

Us. No longer just I.

"I hate it because I am Laufey's child," Loki told him, quietly, like it was not the secret that tore his whole world apart. "The high king of a cold waste."

::

"There is one story of the Frost Giants that all Asgardians know. It is not long, or moving, or crafted into the stars, but it is important.

There had been a battle on Jotunheim. There had always been battles on Jotunheim, just as there will always be battles throughout the numerous galaxies.

But this took place in your timeline, nine-sixty-five, after death. The Frost Giants arrived on Midgard, led by their King Laufey, looking to plunge it into another ice age and call it their new homeworld. Many Midgardians perished in that initial attack, their blood frozen solid in their veins and their skin blackening burnt at the single brush of their invaders, and those who dared to survive were to live the rest of their lives in servitude. And here, so long before your iron men and your captains, they would have succeeded.

Had it not been for the defensive charge of Asgardians led by the mighty Allfather; Odin, son of Bor.

Odin and his armies drove them away from your realm, back into the cold darkness of the heart that was their own world where it was atop a temple that Odin himself bested Laufey in single-combat. Laufey, in exchange for his life, agreed to a treaty for peace between Jotunheim and Asgard, its earliest expiration to be a thousand years from that day.

And with their seized peace, the Asgardians took the Jotunn's source of power as well: the Casket of Ancient Winters.

Then.

Well, what more than that?

Then Odin went home to rule and raised two sons with his wife Frigga, both to rule as kings in their own time."

::

Peter sat on the couch, his eyes trailing his mother as they stood at the window to overlook Queens' dark morning.

"But?" He asked.

"But," Loki repeated. "I will tell you the version I learned when my brother was cast to Midgard."

::

"Odin and his armies drove them away from your realm, back into the cold darkness of the heart that was their own world where it was atop a temple that Odin himself bested Laufey in single-combat. Laufey, in exchange for his life, agreed to a treaty for peace between Jotunheim and Asgard, its earliest expiration to be a thousand years from that day.

And with their seized peace, the Asgardians took the Jotunn's source of power as well: the Casket of Ancient Winters.

But alas, Odin must have thought. Those were not enough spoils for a greatest conqueror of them all. So before he left, back to his golden throne, back to his golden son, he also took the abandoned son of Laufey, a nameless child left to die.

For peace, he said to me. For a brighter future for both our worlds, he told me.

But he could not have glimpsed the future to see that his stolen relic would grow to be one more disappointment. They crafted magicks while their brother crafted swordsmanship. They read and studied and learned, their brother fought and killed and won . Both meant to be ruling warriors, champions of Asgard and princes to behold.

While I did not know I was masking demon skin, I did know that I never stood a chance against Thor."

::

Loki had that look again, the one they had when Thor said he would never leave them again, and Peter glanced away.

Resigned, resentful, so painfully lonely—

::

"Hundreds of years I thought I was letting everyone down because I could not be better. Odin would never be proud of me. Thor would never respect me. Frigga would never cease to pity me even though it was her love that helped me through.

In the beginning, I never wanted the throne when it was given to me. Later when I tried to take it, it was because it could have never been mine.

I was the very thing I was taught to hate, the monster in the stories parents told their children at night, the enemy who lost the war. A relic cannot rule a kingdom, nor can a captive believe themselves to be more than what they truly are."

::

Loki met his eyes. "Do you know what I had done to prove my worth?" The teen gulped and shook his head, and the God of Mischief breathed out a humorless laugh. "I set out to destroy Jotunheim. I was close. And if given the chance to complete the task, they would already be reduced to a shrinking core in the center of its supernova."

Peter swallowed, his mouth cotton-dry as the story settled like ice cold chips at the bottom of a glass. This story was supposed to clear up everything, give him an idea of where he was from and who he was and he did ask for it, it was just...

Loki was still, and always would be, Loki. The God who led an alien invasion on Earth, the Trickster imprisoned on Asgard for the wrongs he never denied committing, the brother who was supposed to have died on Svartalfheim. Peter wasn't making any excuses for them—their actions have consequences and Earth should've never been the target for their misplaced anger even though they deserved to be angry.

"Do you think the worst of me?"

"How can I?" Peter replied. "After all of that, no matter how bad a lot of it was, you..." He ducked his head and resumed toying with that frayed thread on his sleeve. "It's going to sound so selfish, but—but you're here. You work as a conservator and historian, you visit me at work, you support Spider-Man even though you don't support why I keep being him." Loki's shoulders trembled, and the way they kept their face half turned towards the window didn't stop him from spotting the mist in their eyes. "You've been doing the best you can, and that's more than enough for me."

"Enough to amount to this blight I brought upon you?"

"Loki—"

"The Jotunn are a disease," they hissed, and the worst part was that they really believed it. "And I have given mine to you."

Their hatred spat out like the lick of a flame, bright and sharp in a chronic loop around their heart. Peter had been helping people for a pretty long time now and he'd watched both Ben and May help people for even longer, but this? This was so out of his depth that the problem wasn't even rooted in his own star system.

He'd gotten his answers, though. Frost Giants. Jotunn . But the rest that came after it...

"Thank you for telling me. For all of this," Peter said as he stood. "It's a lot, but we can work through it. Now we just have to figure out what we're going to do next."

Loki paused before finally turning away from the window, mistiness clearing its way for confusion. "What is there left to figure?"

"How to be a Frost Giant, I guess?" He hummed. He missed the slack-jawed expression on his mom's face when he reached for his bag. "You probably have better control over it so you can probably teach me that, if you can. But do you know the limits of how your powers work? I already mentioned the controlling ice thing and not being susceptible to freezing, and there's probably more, right? If you don't know, though, we can definitely find out."

"Do you hear yourself? Did you not listen?" Loki closed the gap between them, face pinched and mouth curled. "Nothing good comes from association with their kind.

"But we are their kind."

Loki flinched again, and Peter grabbed one of their hands.

"There's probably nothing I can say that'll change how you feel, but have you ever looked at it from the brighter side? You've got all these powers you can use, and figuring them out doesn't mean you have to get rid of what you already have. I might be able to use it to my advantage for the missions I get to tag along on with Wade, but, um." He squeezed their hand lightly. After a beat, they squeezed back. "I'm just trying to say we could make something out of this. We don't have to be like the Frost Giants from your stories; we can be us. And, you know, maybe you won’t have to hold onto all this hate."

Loki never dared to hope for much anymore. Falling from the Bifröst had twisted him irreversibly and when they'd been left floating the unyielding vastness of space, they had thought...

They quirked an unamused lip. "A thousand years of hate does not go away in one morning."

"But you can start," Peter smiled, his endless optimism bubbling up as easy as he breathed. "And it's never too late to try."

He sputtered when Loki raised his free hand to rap their knuckles against his forehead.

"You," they said, unable to contain the utter fondness leaking into their voice, "are a ridiculous boy."

Peter's smile turned blinding as he wrapped his arms around them. "And you're a great mom," he murmured into Loki's shoulder. Some of his tension finally began to slide off his shoulders and his weariness gave way to fatigue when his lean forward became more of a slump. "I'm glad you're here."

The arms that come around him are hesitant at first, but they coiled tightly around him in less than a moment and tucked him close.

"I am glad you brought me back," Loki whispered, but by then, Peter's eyes had already fallen shut.

Chapter Text

Peter dove forward, sliding across the tile and skidding to a stop just before his head hit the pipe running down from the bottom of the sink.

He jutted one hand out and above his head, waving the three mice in his grip.

"Okay!" He exclaimed. "Okay, this is progress!" He looked up at Granny Sal sitting on the spare stool they dragged to the back, her arms over her middle and an amused upturn to her mouth. "How many do we have now?"

She peered into the plastic box on the table next to her. "With what you just grabbed? Ten."

"Nice. How many are still loose?"

Two separate mice ran across the space between them. Sal's expression morphed into a more apologetic one.

"Somethin' like twenty or twenty-one."

Peter sighed. One of the mice in his grasp nibbled on his finger, and he dropped his catch with a small yelp.

"Or twenty four."

"Sorry, Ms. Granny."

"You're doin' your best, sugar."

Weasel poked his head into the kitchen, eyeing the makeshift barriers of bricks and towels stuffed into every which crevice from behind his cloudy lenses. "So I'm probably gonna close the bar tonight because of... this." He plucked his glasses off his face, squinted as he rubbed them down with the bottom of his orange-blue flannel, and slid the frame back onto the bridge of his nose with slightly clearer smears. Then gestured vaguely in their direction. "Also I banned Jay-Ar and Kaia from making any more executive decisions about our ant problem."

"You've got this sweetie back here playing exterminator because you listened to those idiots?" Sal planted her hands on her hips and dogged him down with one of those stares reserved by long-suffering grandmothers. "See, this is why you don't have a girlfriend."

"Sal, I swear to fucking god—"

Peter cocked a brow. "You let Jay-Ar and Kaia back here?" His head tilted a bit before he glanced towards a different corner of the kitchen. "That sounds like it's your fault for listening to anything they say, Mr. Weasel."

"Do you know how much cheaper they are than calling an actual guy for this?"

Two sets of unamused stares bore into him. Weasel suffered under the pressure for an entire five and a half seconds before he crumbled.

"Okay, fine, shut up, fuck. It was a bad call." He sighed. "Did we decide on Raid for the bugs?"

"Yeah, I texted Wade to get some."

Weasel pulled a face. "You're on my ass for Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Fuck and you got that flared-based ass plug running errands?" A hand slid up his face to rub his eyes, re-smudging his lenses back to square one. "You know he's going to kill someone on the way here, right?"

"You've got crazy faith in the guy that rakes in one of the highest job completion rates," Peter remarked dryly as he crouch-crawled towards the quiet scuffle he zeroed in on from across the kitchen. One knee was all the way bent while the other stretched out to the side as he held his balance on the tips of his toes, fingers splayed across brown tiles and stained grout. With a hunched back and a laser-focused gaze, he crept forward with an uncanny resemblance to something with a little more than two legs. "And I need to keep him busy because these lil' guys are still out and he'd just shish-kebab them the first chance he gets."

A flash of white and he tumbled into the bottom shelf between two boxes of spare dishes. Still, he emerges with his hair fluffier and a pair of mice wriggling from his grip on their tails.

"Look!" Peter exclaimed, sticking out his hand. "How can you skewer these faces?"

"I can think of a few ways," Sal muttered under her breath.

"Shoulda named you Mouse instead," Weasel said, scuttling a wary few steps back when the kid brandished them closer. "Jesus, put those things the fuck down, you want fucking cholera or something?"

"Mice don't give you that," chirped Peter.

"Idiot." Sal shook her head. "And if there was ever a girlfriend around here she'd be saying the same damn thing—"

::

So he was walking down the street with two bags of Raid, right?

At first it was just going to be the Ant & Roach Killer, the OG, so he got that, but then there was Multi Insect Killer that might work better and he was set. Until he saw Liquid Ant Baits and that was jail for ants. Jail. Mini-jail. And right next to mini-jail was Ant Gel, gross, because no one should ever think those little six-legged fucks should be getting those rights. Then after using those comprehension skills every functional adult should have and he'd read the back of the package, it was after the harsh sting of betrayal in learning that it actually wasn't for ants to style their hair but for them to eat shit and die, then he threw that in the basket too.

But there were also beetles? Or at least there were no more beetles to eat the ants because the mice ate the beetles, so he got Flying Insect just in case there was a survivor and the Multi Insect didn't work. Perimeter Protection probably would do good for after, so yoink, Bug Barrier, so yoinker, and if that wasn't the crossbones in the potion cabinet he didn't know what was. Yoinkiest.

Gotta be careful with that Multi Insect, though. Can't kill Peter by accident.

"Hey!" Someone snapped a short distance to his left. "Fuck off!"

Wade slowed his stride, but kept his head tilted away from the noise. Because when you look you get involved, and when you get involved you get into trouble. At least when he ended up in the thick of it—just a whole schmear in another job that ended with brain matter on his knee pads and he was getting sick of buying hydrogen peroxide by the gallons for laundry day. The CVS three blocks down from his place probably thought he was a fucking serial killer.

"I said—fuck off!"

He looked up. And cursed—idiot, what did we just say—but didn't look away because the least he could do was respect the binding clause of eye contact. Battle every trainer you fuck up on sneaking past. But instead of a seven year old with a bug net and the saddest Metapod you ever did see, there stood a classic mugger mugging a muggee, and while that problem wasn't technically in his job description, the only future he saw if he walked away was Peter's disappointed puppy dogs eyes on that baby face because a fifteen year old was just a baby and that baby needed Raid but FINE, he could help out the muggee this one time, because we obviously have the resolve of the first little piggy's shit ass house, and that'll be his last Good Samaritan sticker for the rest of the year.

And he totally had this in his hoodie over his scarred-fuck mug shouting, "Hey dipstrip! What kind of cliché—"

The supposed-to-have-been-muggee whipped back her free arm and threw the sickest punch against her assailant's jaw hinge and they both watched the mugger crumple boneless on the ground. She had gold wire glasses and brown hair that frazzled as she caught her breath, and after a couple seconds she paused and looked up at him.

"Hell yeah." Wade gave her a thumbs up. "Was gonna help you, but I guess you don't need it after that mean-ass right hook."

She puffed out a breath and picked the strands of hair off her face. "Uh. Thanks."

Stand-up deed, Wade. Pat ourselves on the back. Good to know there was someone out there one-two-blamming like they're Manny Pacquiao. The mugger was down, nine out of ten with a point off for form, so he raised one of his bagged hands in attempt to wiggle them around in an imitation of a wave—

Swish. Clunkclunkclunkclunk claNK.

UgggggggggGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH.

He sighed as he sunk into a defeated crouch with the corpse of a plastic bag and spilled cans of Raid. It was fine, his hands worked, he could probably stuff some in his jacket and any pickpocket better be lucky he spent his hard-earned stabbing money on quality bug killer.

The first one he picked up he tucked under an arm and after picking up the second he paused, considering, and tried to hold both of them under his arm at the same time. When he went for the third a pair of different, smaller hands took hold of the last two cans as well as the tube of falsely-advertised Ant Gel.

"Those bags get thinner every year, I swear," Not-Muggee mentioned with a friendly smile. "Looks like your infestation's pretty bad."

"Yeah, 'cause my dumbass friend listened to his dumbass customers about dealing with dumbass ants by dumping a cup of dumbass beetles to eat them, so instead of an ant problem there's an ant and beetle problem." He stuffed one can in his left jacket pocket and one in his right, then offered up his last bag for the stranger to drop the rest of his stuff in. "'ppreciate it." He cradled the bag to his chest, because if that one broke too he might just have to pop himself in the head. "And then those dumbass customers had a second bright idea to deal with the dumbass beetles with dumbass mice and, well." His shrug swung the strings of his zip-up. "So Pe—my buddy, who works for my dumbass friend, sent me on a Raid Run. Capitalized R's."

By now, most people would be giving him that blank-eyed stare, face shut off from the confusion and caution creeping into their posture from the weird burn victim looking motherfucker who wouldn't shut his damn mouth. It wasn't that bad of a deterrent on New York streets when others with his sort of mind flow weren't exactly a toothpick in a syringe stack, but Not-Muggee only cocked her brow and didn't side-step away for comfort.

"Your buddy's not a dumbass?"

"Nah, he's just a kid. Small and scrunchy, needs a nap, way smart. Y'know, the type that when he gets to talkin' about molecules or galaxies or somethin' like that, it all goes whoosh." His free hand zipped over his hand and jellyfished to mime an explosion. "It's real cute. I just also happen to be a dumbass."

She grinned. "Aw, that can't be true. You're helping your buddy out." She eyed the cans sticking out of his jacket. "I mean, it might be a little overkill, but it can't hurt to be thorough."

Somewhere along the way Wade's pace picked back up on the sidewalk, steel-toe boots crunching into the leftover ice from the storm earlier in the week. And right alongside him Non-Muggee strode along in her ankle-high snow boots with fluff all along the top. From his spot to her right, a quick glance into the tote bag over her shoulder granted him a view of a pair of sneakers and bunched up blue clothes. Scrubs. So someone of the hospital variety. Don't got too many of those kinds of friends when we're a murdering dipshit.

Maybe one day he'd egg Wease into kidnapping a doctor.

"Only 'cause the kid asked, by the way. Dumbass Two—he'll never take One away from me and if he tries, it's through single-hand combat—shouldn't have let the gaggle of Other Dumbasses make the call in the first place. And look where we are! The kid's out there catching mice out there like a goddamn human cheese trap."

"Exterminator."

"Bless you."

Not-Muggee chuckled. "Your kid's catching mice by hand?"

"He doesn't have the heart to kill 'em," he shrugs. "He won't use those sticky traps and yeah, I know there's nothing great about a dude getting stuck in glue, but it would've been so much easier and I even offered to get him all the vegetable oil in the world so he could free their slimy selves into the sewer." But he said no. "But he said no. And, like, if I was the one cleaning up Dumbass Two's mess, I'd just shish-kebab the little fuckers and—"

He paused.

Wait.

LMAO.

Un-fucking-believable.

"Bitch," he cursed under his breath. "That punk-ass brat set me up." Quieter, and maybe with a sniffle, "I'm so proud."

"You've got to watch out for the clever ones." She waggled a finger. "They might be great kids, but they've got a butt-load of secrets, let me tell you." A finger pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before she stuffed her hand back into her puffer jacket. "Actually, your kid kind of reminds me of mine. He's crazy smart, like, it's all technology and innovation with him. Building or re-inventing or just being out there in the world—he's amazing. but I think he's pulling himself a little thin." For all her bright-eyed humor and frankly unshakeable disposition, Wade finally spotted a sliver of uncertainty nudge its way onto her face. "He's got all these... extra-curriculars along with his part-time job and he's keeping up his straight A's just like we agreed, and I'm just..." She sighed. "I just worry, you know?"

"I totally get that. If I wasn't two screws loose from a fully functional HEMNES dresser I'd be filling out stamp cards like so fast it'd be illegal; get eight heart attacks and the ninth one kills you for free." He rapped his knuckles against his head. Who's there? Whisk. Whisk who? We're one more stolen BLÅHAJ from getting banned from IKEA but that's a whisk we're willing to take. "Teenagers. What can ya do?"

"Remind them how they used to cry when they just walked past the mall Santa during Christmas time. It keeps them humble."

He barked out a quick laugh as he stopped at the corner where he was meant to make a left turn, but saw that Not-Muggee's angled to head right. "So, this has been an unusually normal conversation. Freakily decent. Surprisingly not the worst."

"It was nice talking to you too," she responded almost dryly, but it did nothing to dampen the sincerity in her voice. "I hope you and your kid figure out your plague trail mix problem."

Wade cracked a smile—slight with a flash of teeth, pulled from the small pit in his chest Peter had managed to mush up like bananas in banana bread. "And this might not mean much, 'specially since I don't know a damn thing about your kid, but you probably don't have to worry too much. He sounds like a good one."

Her gaze softened as she lifted a hand in one last wave before he watched her disappear in the throngs of the swarming crowd with a million different places to be in the middle of a New York winter.

It was a little weird, though. He'd never seen Not-Muggee before and chances were he was never going to see her again, but he couldn't help but feel there was something about her he just missed. There hadn't been a single familiar thing about her face or her words or the way she dressed but maybe, he didn't know, maybe there'd been something in how—how friendly she'd been, how kind, how—

Swish. Clunkclunkclunkclunk CLANK.

... We're so not touching ourselves tonight.

He dropped to his knees and held his head in his hands. "UgggggggggGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH."

::

Wade kicked open the door to the bar.

"I have hunted!" He ducked into the main room with an armful of Raid products and not a single ripped bag of betrayal. "And I sure as shit have goddamn gathered!"

As he dropped them on top of the bar, uncaring of the cans that ended up rolling onto the floor, Peter burst out from the kitchen with brown hair that frazzled in every which way as his eyes glimmered, bright-eyed and excited as he bounced out to greet him.

"Wade, Wade, Wade!"

"Petey, Petey, Petey!" Wade parroted. "What's shakin', crispy bacon?"

"Mr. Weasel just got in a new job and it was kind of on the down low, so he texted me the info with the most constipated look on his face and I mean, he should totally be used to stuff like this by now, but look!" Peter shoved his phone screen into his friend's face, and Wade took a few moments to focus from going cross-eyed. "The job request was for you and your new 'partner' and they started calling them Dead and Blue!!"

"What?! That's SO fucking cool!"

"No, it's fucking not!" Weasel shouted from somewhere in the back.

"Eat my fucking tots, Napoleon!" Wade shouted back as he slung an arm around his taco buddy's shoulders, pulling him close and gesturing to his spoils. "So listen. At first it was just going to be the Ant & Roach Killer, the OG, so I got that, but then there was Multi Insect Killer that might work better and I was set. Until—get that look off your face, this was made through a series of important decision-making—until I saw the Liquid Ant Baits and that was jail for ants—"

::

May shrugged off her parka as she stepped into the apartment and just managed to pull off her snow boots before she dropped onto the couch, glasses askew and tote bag filled with the scrubs she had to put in the wash, but that could wait. Her shift might not have been too bad but man did she hate going from place to place in the winter. Usually she'd flop onto Peter and complain about it until he started whining and she'd have to pinch his cheeks because he was just so damn cute, but he had work and she wouldn't see him until tomorrow morning.

You probably don't have to worry too much. He sounds like a good one.

Yeah, he was.

So today, instead of letting herself get to worrying, she pulled out her phone and tapped on one of her most frequent contacts.

Almost always, the phone picked up after the first ring.

"You must have much to say to call me so soon after your shift."

"Lora, get a load of this," she greeted brightly. "I almost got mugged today!"

Chapter Text

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Thor said as he and Peter walked far past the city limits where the greenery was more lush and the various clearings were far enough from the average passersby who would rush to their location when the big rainbow beacon crashed into the ground and left an ancient crop circle in its wake. Peter couldn’t even imagine getting caught up in a conspiracy between two worlds. 

He might make a lot more money at Sister Margaret’s than any other place that would hire a fifteen year old, but he still wouldn’t be able to afford a PR manager like that.

As Thor strode unburdened through the forest, he melted back into his Asgardian wear completely the opposite of his sibling; Loki changed forms in the quickest flashes of green light, Thor was slower. Quieter. Every step was a brown button washing gold or a winter boot thickening to two-thousand year old creature hide—slow, relaxed, half-way transformed by the time they were half-way to the meeting point.

“Your mother has voiced your inclination towards the sciences! They have always preferred an elegant painting or written prose and I myself have never found favor with learning taken indoors. Tell me, what is it that draws you so?”

“Mmm… figuring stuff out?” Peter spun the end of his scarf in small circles in front of him. “But it’s always come pretty naturally to me. My dad—Richard—was a scientist too so maybe it runs in the family.” He held out one of his hands, activating one of his webshooters and letting the mechanism crawl onto his palm. Thor fully stopped to bring his face close to it. “So if you’ve seen me swinging around the city, it’s because of these! The first version I managed to throw together with a bunch of old computer parts I dug out of the traA—ctually an old. Spare. Donation. Bin.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I got them upgraded a few months ago and it helped increase the force of t—WH—”

Thor pressed down on the trigger. And moved his head to the side when the webs sailed past. 

“Ha! How novel!”

“I need to put a child lock on this thing,” Peter muttered as he tugged his sleeve over his wristband. 

February was warmed but not by much and the air still made everyone’s cheeks ruddy except for his. Snow was melting, the bar was starting to fill up again now that everyone was coming back from jobs out in states that didn’t ice your butt right off the middle of the street, and things were going pretty good. Thor tried to visit at least once a week between superheroing and space demi-god prince-ing and he seemed to be happy even if some visits only lasted as long as dinner. 

(He knew Mom’s happy about it too. They always said they were annoyed whenever their brother came to visit, but somehow they always managed to make his favorite foods.)

“Richard,” Thor repeated after a long moment. Golden brows pulled together as a patch of jacket sleeve slowly morphed into intricately carved armor. “That was the name of your father?”

“Yeah, Richard Parker. He was a geneticist at Oscorp—this company that specializes in experimental science, military research, and cross-species genetics.”

“I see.” Black cloth to brown leather, rust orange hoodie to grand red cape. “Your mother has never mentioned him, so I have never asked. 

Peter shrugged. “Mom couldn’t stay on Earth anymore and left before my first birthday and Richard and my other mom, Mary, were in a plane crash when I was young so I don’t remember them much. So, um, I figured they didn’t know each other that well, before or after. Y’know.”

Thor hummed and didn’t sound too particularly troubled about what he was thinking. “I cannot speak for Loki—I could never speak for them, as I had not understood most of their actions in the past. I had never thought to, and perhaps that has been one of my greatest mistakes.” His face shadowed and weathered for the briefest second before he flashed his nephew a kind smile. “Without regard to whatever the nature of their relationship, you are a wonderful young warrior with no doubt both their finest qualities.” Peter hated how he could feel how red his cheeks got. “So similar are we in mind and heart, Midgardians and Asgardians and all those around the sides and in between. Though the peculiarity of this planet, it invokes my deepest gratitude that Loki has finally found home with you.”

… Peter was going to ugly cry and he was going to look so lame, but the strong hand that clapped him on the shoulder rattled his brain enough to remind him he needed to keep it together. At least until he got back to Queens.

By the time they end up in the clearing, Thor was back to his otherworldly regalia and his blond hair was free and flowing, one of the strips to the side of his face twisted into a perfect braid. Peter hummed and wondered how that worked. Were his casual clothes, like, moved to a different plane in exchange for his Asgardian ones or were the layers still there, overlapping each other like stacks of paper and the ones not in use both invisible and intangible? Or was it pop! And it was gone? He wasn’t sure where magic actually fell in terms of the law of conservation of matter, but—

A metal note tacked onto his brain to ask Mom about it later as they stepped into the clearing. Thor reached for a tree a couple feet behind the defined edges. His palm flat against the bark, a crackle of lightning burned on the spot already blackened with a handprint and with a flash of blinding light, the imprint of what resembled a celtic knot burned over the previously empty clearing.

Gods, magic was so cool. He wished it didn’t make him nauseous every time he was near it, though.

“We are quite fortunate that Heimdall’s aim remains true!” Thor laughed as he strolled back to Peter’s side. “Let us hope that the continued use of one clearing can withstand the strain of multiple trips across time. It has yet to fail us, but one can never be too cautious.”

“How come opening the Bifröst leaves a mark every time?”

“I believe the energy of realm to realm travel is too great an exertion to leave unscathed physical contact, though I suppose it takes no mark on those taking such transport.”

“So there needs to be an equal transfer of force and because it can’t be taken by the recipient, it needs to be taken by something else?”

“Perhaps that is so.” Thor’s entire forehead scrunched as he threw the idea around in his head for a few moments before he visibly shook it off. “I will be the first to admit that the deeper intricacies of the Bifröst are too grand for my own understanding, so I do not think I can further answer your queries,” he apologized, then lit back up not a second later. “But your mother most certainly would hold such knowledge! Heimdalls would as well, should you ever have the opportunity to make his acquaintance.”

Peter bobbed his head as he made sure to keep his feet firmly out of the crop circle. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mom had millions of books back at her place, and even though a lot of the shelves they kept empty to fill with books they found interesting here on Earth, they still kept other books in languages he couldn’t read and ones that glowed along the spines if he leaned in close enough. Those ones he didn’t touch in case they ended up having teeth like those monster books in Harry Potter—but if he ever got the chance to ask Heimdall?

He tried to tamp down on the thoughtful frown threatening to surface as Thor readied himself to call up for the Bifröst. Heimdall was… someone he wasn’t really sure about yet. Mom didn’t like him but Thor undoubtedly did and that didn’t mean much considering Mom didn’t like most people they knew and Thor was their exact opposite, so he usually balanced them out by judging people with a healthy amount of caution. From everything he heard, though, Heimdall was powerful. Older than old. All-seeing, but he still wasn’t sure what that meant. 

“I shall be taking my leave,” Thor bid. He scooped Peter up in a parting hug that swept the teen clean off the ground and it had been like this every time he saw the demigod off, so he dangled and wrapped his arms around armored shoulders and happily squeezed back, the tips of his fingers from each hand almost able to touch.

“Have a safe trip back,” Peter chirped as he was set back down. He shuffled, again, outside the outer ring of the Bifröst imprint to make sure he wasn’t the victim of an accidental abduction. “Did you already let Mom know when you’re coming back?”

“Of course! There was nearly a dagger in my shoulder the last time I came unannounced, but I have grown too swift!” Thor laughed. “It will be a fortnight at the most; a much longer length of absence than the times between my previous visits, but Father has expressed a concern in how often I am coming to this world.” His expression flew through complicated bouts that made Peter’s insides twist. Odin. A bogeyman over everyone’s shoulders. “He believes it is my duty with the Avengers that continues to draw my time. It is the truth, of course, but his considerations do not lie further than that. You and your mother will have nary a worry.” Thor cast him one last smile before he positioned himself at the center of the circle. “Until we next meet, Nephew. It will not feel like long when we see one another next.” And he tipped his head back, eyes heavenward to a blue sky as he called. “Heimdall, my friend! It is time for my return!”

Peter, who had seen this scene tens of times before, expected a burning rainbow and warmed his face like he was sitting in front of a bonfire before he was blinking the spots out of his eyes, and then he’d be making his merry way out of the thicket of trees on his way to work.

But—

spike

Then—

FWOOM

And Peter didn’t eat shit, but it was a near thing.

He barely had time to acknowledge his spidey-sense before his vision exploded into what the world must’ve looked like to mantis shrimps and he immediately braced himself the same way he did the rare times Mom whisked them off and he should’ve landed steady on his feet if the Bifröst felt anything like that, but it didn’t. Mom’s magic was hazy, like getting lost in a foggy evergreen forest, like getting dunked in a tank of ice with no water as the world gave way under his feet. But when the sky ripped and a torrent of rainbow light crashed in from above, it sucked all the air out of his chest. Tingling warmth poured off scattered beams in a refracted prism and trapped him, pricked into his skin—

Rubber soles hit solid ground and when he stumbled, he latched onto the first thing his hands found purchase on.

Which happened to be a very shiny gold sword.

“What is the meaning of this?”

As blurry vision tried to stabilize itself and limbs tried to solidify from the jelly they’d become, Peter looked around at the golden stairs the bottom of his body sprawled over, his upper half almost flat on the circular platform the steps led up to.

He blinked and looked behind him.

Thor’s fists clenched at his sides, red cape billowing as he stood in front of a wide, round opening in this gold, gold, gold dome they were in, a vastness of greens and blues and purples breathing galaxies into endless space at his back.

Oh, that was so fu-reaking cool.

A pair of firm, gentle hands hooked under his arms and pulled him back up to his feet in one graceful swoop. He stumbled once before he found his balance and he shook the lingering fuzziness from his eyes. 

“Oh man, thanks,” Peter said as he turned towards the other person in the dome, but stopped short. The Asgardian stranger was tall, taller than Thor even, covered in rich gold plating and shiny brown leathers like they were a fixture meant to reside with the rest of whatever this place was supposed to be. A grand, equally gold helmet sat atop the stranger’s head, thick horn-like protrusions growing from either side to curl towards the center point, maybe a foot taller than the highest point of his head. 

“You have no need to lend your thanks, young Peter,” said the stranger in a voice Peter didn’t think could sound like anyone else on Earth. It was deep like unsearched waters, a faint echo at the edge of his words when there was nowhere else for the sentence to bounce off of in the first place. “Your sensitivity to high seidr is more heightened than I have thought to realize. I would have warned you first, if I had known.”

“Um.” Peter blinked and stared up at the pair of eyes twinkling like stars that felt like the ones only an arm’s reach away. “It’s… fine?”

“It is not fine,” Thor growled as he strode up the steps. “My nephew cannot remain here lest he be discovered—send him back!”

“I will not.”

“Heimdall! ”

“My prince,” Heimdall returned mildly, impressively impassive even in the wake of thunderous royalty. His star bright eyes slid back to Peter and his unsure expression. “Hello, young Peter. I have been watching over you for a very long time.”

… What the heck is he supposed to do with that?

But it meant something to Thor, at least. Tension rolled out of his shoulders and his face dropped, tired and sad and old. Peter already lost track of all the times he’s described Thor as old .

“When did Loki ask?”

Heimdall never once averted his gaze to answer, and Peter hunched at the heavy weight of it. “To watch over him when they could not, to grow up to be like Richard Laurence Parker and Mary Teresa Fitzpatrick.” Softer, and to him, “Your mother held the belief that there was no other to have raised you better.”

And again, one more time, what the hell is he supposed to do with that? He’d grown up with stories of his parents, Ben recounting them fondly and May always piping in with everything she knew even if it wasn’t much. When he was younger he listened with rapt attention, soaking up all he could when he couldn’t rely on his own memory to remember what they looked like. But as he got older, Mom and Dad became interchangeable with Mary and Richard, and Ben and May became…

“So does this count as a kidnapping, Mr. Heimdall, sir?” Peter asked. He quickly waved his hands in front of himself. “Not that I’m accusing you or anything! If it was an actual kidnapping I figure there’d be a lot more rope-tying or face-punching, not that I’ve been kidnapped before but if it’s like the movies—well, I guess I did get tossed into a freezer one time and I know it’s not the same and I was kind of asking for it since we broke into the building and everything, but they definitely could’ve been nicer about it.” He looked between Thor’s bewildered face and Heimdall’s stoic one, and he swore he spied a short uptick at one corner of the latter’s mouth. “And we’re on Asgard, right?”

Heimdall nodded once. “That is correct.”

“Okay, cool, cool. Um. Why am I on Asgard?”

Thor crossed his arms and scowled in Heimdall’s direction in practically the very same picture of Mom whenever they talked to Wade or Mr. Weasel.

‘Whoa. Talk about siblings.’

“You could never have visited as long as you are with your mother,” Heimdall said, and yeah, that was fair. “However, it would be unjust for you to not experience your heritage at least once in your youth. So here I stand, watching over you,” his eyes glimmered like twin globular clusters in a not-so-distant cosmological horizon, “while your mother is not.”

“Oh.” Peter rubbed the back of his head. “So, like ethical kidnapping. A field trip kidnapping. That’s not the worst thing in the world.”

Heimdall chuckled lowly as Thor rubbed his face with both hands.

“I do not know how you have convinced the Allfather of your neutrality, old friend,” Thor sighed as he ran one hand through the length of his hair. “Your will is only ever your own, aye?”

“I seem to recall your will built of the same mettle not so very long ago.” A dark brow rose. “It is not as if led the charge into Jotunheim against—”

“Well!” Thor interrupted loudly. He swung himself in front of Peter, doing his absolute best to shield Heimdall from view. It was a pretty poor effort though, considering the horns still sprouted out from behind his head and a pair of half-amused eyes peering out from above a crown of golden hair. “I suppose then you will be staying here for a brief period of time. Not long enough to cause inconvenience, I hope?”

“I don’t have school tomorrow, and that evening I’m supposed to be at May’s for dinner before I have to go to work,” said Peter. “How long am I being kidnapped for?”

“Until New York’s next morning light, if it suits you.”

“Oh! That’s way shorter than I was thinking—no, yeah, that’s no problem. It won’t bother Mr. Weasel if I miss tonight’s shift. He’s been complaining that my perfect attendance gives him hives.” The last part fell under his breath as he muttered it mostly to himself, but judging by the mystified expression on Thor’s face, they heard him anyway. Peter cleared his throat. “Staying overnight sounds awesome! But are you sure it’s okay? I really don’t want to impose or cause any trouble.”

I don’t want to offend Odin and have him try to kill me either, was what he didn’t say. Mom rarely talked about him, and when they did it was always with sharp tongues and ice-hot fury. And judging by the lack of Thor’s defense of his own father when they went on one of their tirades, it chilled him to know that none of the accusations were exaggerated. 

“You are certainly no trouble,” Thor told him firmly as he clasped one of his shoulders. “While this visit is… unexpected, it is far from unwelcome, and Heimdall would not have brought you here had it been detrimental to your well-being. Though there must be an engagement in deceit to our true relation you are forever under my protection, and my respect. This I so swear.” Yellow lightning wound in thin rings around his fingertips and for a second, Peter was taken back to Wade’s apartment where he met Loki for the first time. A promise. An oath. What were they so serious for? He was a punk kid too young to vote to drink to be better— “All the same, you are a guest! I will make arrangements for your stay, alert those in the palace to your presence, speak to the Allfather if necessary though it should not be.” He frowned and looked at Peter. “I will have to leave you in Heimdall’s care while I bring everything to order—I promise you it will not be long.”

“No biggie!” Peter waved him off with a smile and glanced around the dome. He could stay out here and stare out into space for days if they told him that’s all he could do. “This is probably the nicest kidnapping experience I’ll have, so I’m going to enjoy it.”

Heimdall chuckled again as Thor’s expression morphed into something more pained. 

“Nephew, please refrain from calling this a kidnapping.”

Peter’s smile twitched, eyes alight with mischief ((and Heimdall turned and looked and witnessed one simple expression in a heavy gravity of familiarity, though lacking in malice, in mirth, in green)). “Even if I’m being a really good hostage about it?”

“My prince,” Heimdall interrupted serenely, amused even in the stiff posture contained in armor and the constant hold on his sword. “Perhaps the sooner you make your arrangements for young Peter, the sooner you can show him the realm.” He glanced at the teen. “A high privilege for even the most esteemed hostages, I assure you.”

Peter’s smile widened. 

Thor sighed, but he barely fought off his own smile that came crawling across his face. “I shall be off. Expect my return shortly and—Peter? Feel free to ask Heimdall all you wish. He will have ample knowledge of the answers you seek.”

With a wink and a flutter of red, he strode out the dome and towards the grandest fixture on Asgard that was also so gold it practically bled into the air around it. Peter didn’t know whether to keep his eyes on Thor’s brisk, retreating form, the actual space around them, or keep observing this crazy dome that served as a transport pad? Landing port? He squinted at one of the gear-shaped carvings in the walls, noting how it made him feel like he got dumped in more of a steampunk city than a medieval town.

This was a lot more sci-fi than he was expecting.

“You have questions?” Heimdall prompted, and Peter whirled back around. Right. Heimdall. Thor’s old friend and one of Mom’s most repeated curses.

“Uh, yeah. If that’s okay.” He looked at the sword, back over his shoulder at the dark expanse of endlessness, then back up at that gleaming gaze. “Do you know why opening the Bifröst leaves a mark in the ground every time? And like, how are you able to open a portal between realms? Is it just you and magic or is there actually a divine science that—”

::

“Oh, but Sif,” Volstagg whined as he slogged his feet beside her. Sif rolled her eyes. “Himinbjorg is so far to travel on foot to ask Heimdall one measly question, why did you have to insist on refusing the mounts?”

“Why do you insist on complaining when we are already nearly there?” Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders, still tacky and slightly frizzed from their training session earlier in the morning. “Taking Heimdall’s account of the battle on the last turn of the third moon for the archives is an important job as any other.” Her eyes slid toward her friend as unamused as she was when they first set out on the errand. “We just came from the dining hall, do not tell me you already hunger for more!” He pouted and sighed like a lover forlorn and she rolled her eyes a second time. “You are truly insatiable.”

“But there was more roast!”

“And there will be even more roast at the feast tonight!”

“To be left waiting for hours, what an incredibly cruel and unjust time,” he bemoaned as he did every other day. Sif huffed as they continued their long strides towards the edge of the Asgard Sea.

He should be so lucky there were things to do in honor of the throne. Sure they and the rest of the Warriors Three still took quests among the realms and defended Asgard from her insurgents, but things have certainly tapered since Thor’s attentions have become so divided. Between his frequent excursions to Earth and his duties, there was little time for him to spend the days as he used to with them. His time showing off his skills had been replaced with studiously committing Asgardian doctrines to memory and the hours he spent boasting of his prowess and spinning tales now found him deep in council rooms or off helping Midgard when they could not help themselves.

Maturity was not something she expected Thor to wear well. Or to wear so seriously.

“—ke building blocks, right? You stack them together and can make anything you want! Ned and I finally got around to making Captain Rex’s AT-TE a couple weeks ago. A month ago. Um… two months? Wow, I guess we really… haven’t… I-I mean, it’s this Star Wars set we got late last year. Do you know Star Wars?”

Sif and Volstagg exchanged curious looks at the unfamiliar voice.

“The interstellar wars that took place in the Shi’ar Galaxy two hundred million lightyears off the Cyrane Om’lr System?”

“The. The what.”

Volstagg strode in through the golden curve of Himinbjorg’s entrance first, Sif close at his heels as they stumbled upon the gatekeeper and a guest, a wholly unknown one, at that, yet at very first glance there was an uncanny recognition. But it must be the wear of the day, Sif dismissed easily, because the longer she looked the more she was certain she had never seen this boy in all her life.

He dressed not of this realm in blue trousers of rougher material and a forest green long sleeved skyrta that hung too largely on his frame. Though his slightness could be attributed to his youth; his cheeks still swelled with the apparent roundness of babes and nestled into the decorated scarf wound in loose circles over his shoulders. Dark brown hair fluffed up his head, and when they stepped further under the golden dome, equally dark brown eyes slid towards them and widened with unmistakable panic.

“I did not know we would be having visitors this day,” Volstagg mused curiously. He took no subtlety in examining the boy head to toe. No sigil to mark a diplomatic envoy nor crest to bear designation to family or realm or nearby planet. “Who do we have the pleasure of speaking to? I am Volstagg the Valiant!”

In turn, Sif offered a broad smile. “And I, the Lady Sif.”

The boy swallowed and cast Heimdall a nervous glance before he straightened his spine and folded his hands behind his back—another flash of recognition so quick and nimble it slipped away again before Sif could think to grasp it—and smiled, small and shy.

“I’m Peter. Parker, uh, son of Richard Parker, I guess? You can just call me Peter, though, most people do on Earth. Er, Midgard.”

“Midgard,” Sif repeated in surprise. She eyed him up and down again and narrowed her eyes. “Are you one of Thor’s comrades?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Peter nodded as he tucked his hands into the large pocket on his front. “I actually, um, beamed up with him? It was a last minute kind of thing.”

“He will return home on the morrow,” Heimdall added. “He holds questions the prince alone cannot answer, but a day on Asgard may.”

Volstagg nodded consideringly. “A seeker of knowledge! Asgard will have all the answers of any question you may pose! Are you a scholar in your realm?”

“I’m still in school, if that’s what you mean? I’m planning on college for sure and I’ll probably shoot for a PhD, and, huh. I guess you could call them scholars.” The boy rubbed his chin. “I guess I’ll be a scholar at twenty-five, twenty-six at the earliest?”

“And how old are you now?” Questioned Sif.

“Fifteen.”

“You look much younger than fifteen hundred years,” Volstagg said as he leaned in suspiciously. Peter sputtered.

“Fifteen hun—? No way! I’m just fifteen, period, no other zeroes.”

Sif’s brows shot to her hairline. She heard that Midgardian lifespans held no candlewick to their Asgardian counterparts, but to be merely fifteen whole years and already on the cusp of young adulthood—was that enough time to learn? To grow? Fifteen years, by the Gods, she was not even sure those on Asgard would be allowed out of their home on their lonesome at that age. 

Humans, made from traces of stardust. If it were true, how could they not live as long as the stars did?

“Fifteen?! Why, you are not more than a bair—”

An elbow digs into Volstagg’s side and he yelps as he instinctively doubles over. Sif keeps her serene smile over the sound of coughing as she meets the boy’s wide, guileless stare.

“If your visit is as a scholar, then Thor should not have left you here. There is a perfectly suitable library within the palace.” She gestured over the Rainbow Bridge. “Come, I will show you that and what the rest of the royal grounds have to offer. Volstagg will have no trouble in collecting the information from Heimdall in the meanwhile.”

“Sif! ” Her esteemed warrior friend whined. 

Sif leaned in close to Peter and faux-whispered into his ear. “Perhaps he will learn that there is more to duty than ravaging the feasting table at all hours of the day.” Her smile widened at the unbidden laugh that burst out of him before he covered it with a baggy sleeve. “Let us move onward, Peter. There is much to be seen.”

She swept an arm to encourage him onward, and after he traded one last look with Heimdall from over his shoulder and cast Volstagg an apologetic smile, they were both striding out of Himinbjorg and making their way over the Asgard Sea. 

It is there past the welcoming arch of the dome that Sif watched the boy’s face morph from a nervous sort of apprehension to unbridled awe. Faint brine underlies the clear crispness that filled their noses and underfoot the stout waves swayed, barely a shush as they bumped into the pillars that held up the bridge before they cast themselves off the edge of the planetary body. Above them, the void rolled an endless darkness dotted with warm-toned celestial globes.

“Ned would be so jealous,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath. She huffed a quiet laugh to herself before turning towards him.

“How is the view of the cosmos on your realm?”

“Pretty bad if you’re living in the city,” he said, moving his gaze towards the bridge’s crystalline light sparking beneath his feet. “New York’s—huge. Super old. Maybe not in the way that you guys would consider old but there’s a bunch of culture and history and lots and lots of people squished and stacked on top of each other and that’s a perfect equation for light pollution. You’ve got to go outside any city limits to get a real good look. Sometimes it’s better when you’re on top of the tallest buildings over the cars and street lights and high-rise windows, but it’s nothing like out here.” He raised his head to peer off the edge again, so taken in by their galactic surroundings that he went as far as to walk alongside the edge of the bridge. Many newcomers, warriors and not alike, did not tend to stray far from the middle path upon the idle threat of being swept into the cold wasteland in the near distance. The boy, though, seemed to carry none of those worries. “I met Thor on one of those tall buildings a few weeks ago.”

Sif’s ears perked up at the mention of her future king. “Did you?”

“Totally fried my homework when he appeared on the roof,” Peter answered with a short laugh. “He felt pretty bad about it, and since then I’ve been showing him some human-y things on Earth. Midgard.”

“And he believed it an appropriate apology to introduce you to our realm?”

“I feel like it’s less of an apology and more of him wanting to return the favor of showing him around. I mean, I had a lot of questions about space and Asgard he couldn’t answer himself, but he said Heimdall would know a lot more about it.” There is a certain brightness in his eyes, his stance, young and eager and obviously so willing to listen and learn all he could. A seeker of knowledge, indeed. “I guess Heimdall heard and thought it was easier to answer them in person instead of using Thor as a middle-man. Middle-god? … Mediator.”

“Heimdall knows much. If you informed me that he in fact does know all, I do not think I could muster any surprise.”

“He was so cool! I thought he’d be more—” A strange look startled across his face, wrinkling the space between his brows and contorting his youthful visage into one beyond his meager years— “well, not more of anything I guess. He sounded pretty intimidating, and he is. But he’s so cool!” He repeated as his face smoothed back out. “I hope I wasn’t bothering him with all my questions, though.”

“Cease your worries; he more than likely enjoyed your inquiries. It is not often that his expertise is sought after by those outside our realm.”

Peter smiled, and its sincerity prompted her to return it.

At the foot of the Royal Palace of Valaskjalf, the boy fell back to follow in her steps instead of keeping pace like he had previously. The guards did not hide their curious looks and the servants lingered their gazes just over and around Sif’s shoulders. She turned to him, a reassurance on the tip of her tongue no doubt ease the nerves she’d seen bundled under his skin, but caught herself when he did not have cowed shoulders or the uncertain gait he’d undertaken at their parting with Heimdall.

He walked with a tall spine and raised head, doling friendly, charming smiles to everyone as they passed between his wide-eyed wonderment at the palace’s grand ornamentation.

There—that thread of familiarity at the corner of her eye. 

She glanced to the side, but it was already gone.

“Is what I’m wearing okay?” Peter asked. She gestured him to walk closer, and he quickened his step until he kept pace by her shoulder again. “If I knew I was coming here, I would’ve dressed up.”

“There is no current occasion requiring such,” Sif assured. “For ceremonies, important announcements, or large diplomatic convoys, perhaps, but this day our warriors continue to train and our royal house busy themselves with duties of a more studious scale.” She led them down a set of shaded stairs just beyond and to the right of the palace entrance. Dark sand sprawled away towards a distant waterfall, cutting through the spray and curving into a crescent and ending at a jagged cliff. Patterns of stone raised waist-high walkways that created the borders wound between each training ground, and the warriors training in each of their confines remained in each of their own sector. Clashing metal and exerting shouts echoed in the open air, light and faint stars shining streams around thick pillars as large as the dwarves of Nidavellir. “Though I suppose you will have to be dressed in more appropriate wear for the banquet tonight.” She hummed in thought. “It will not be difficult to acquire, as you are Thor’s guest.”

Peter whipped his head around from watching the servants walk around offering fresh drink and sweat cloths. “Ba-Banquet? What banquet?”

“It is one of our general’s two-thousandth year in service to the Royal House, all are invited and welcome.”

“I, um, I don’t think that really includes me!” He rushed to say. His tall posture disappears somewhere between the hunching of his shoulders to his ears and the nervous waving of his hands. “I’m here on last minute decisions and I don’t—I— not that I don’t want to go because I’m sure it’s going to be a great party and wow, two thousand years ago Julius Caesar getting assassinated literally would’ve been new news—I mean—”

She clapped a hand against his back and he swallowed the rest of his stammering, the tops of his cheeks light pink and a sheepish tilt to his mouth. 

“I mean,” he re-started after a small cough, “I don’t want to intrude.”

She pushed down her widening smile. Now where did Thor find such a funny lad? “Nonsense! You can not truly experience Asgard if you do not attend one of our grand celebrations!”

“But—”

“I will hear no more of it,” she dismissed easily. “And believe me when I say that Thor would whole-heartedly agree.”

And she carried that statement with every ounce of its truth. In spite of all Thor’s hardened maturity, he still continued to welcome every obstacle with open arms and a rushing thrill in his eyes. He fought like every battle was his last, drank like he did not believe in drowning, cast himself in the throes of life without abandon. An anniversary to celebrate would have him acting as if he were only young and arrogant again, the Queen Mother smothering her laughter behind an exasperated hand, a subtle amusement in the eyes of their ever stone-faced All-Father, Loki in the corner—

A viscous tar of hatred bubbled in the pit of her stomach, and she shoved it down with a firm hand.

No. There would be no more thought of them today.

Sif suddenly halted in her step and shot an arm out to the side to block Peter from taking another step forward as a lance soared past them and lodged itself in a crack broken through one of the two walls partially encasing the training grounds. 

She glowered and looked to the pit that held an indifferent Hogun and a smiling Fandral still locked in the heat of battle.

“Our sincerest apologies!” Frandral called out.

A scoff puffed past her lips before she moved her attention back to Peter. “If it were sincere, they would not be apologizing so often.” She gestured to the servants that, upon a closer distance, were alert and gracefully dodging stray weapons. “Those who serve at the grounds are sure to be trained in basic combat and evasion. While our warriors are mindful of their battles they cannot account for everything, and this way we can avoid major accidents.”

“Oh, nice.” His head twisted this way and that, taking in their surroundings with what she noted was an incredibly critical eye. His wonderment remained apparent, that was for certain, but there was a resident heaviness there. Quiet, settled, sharp at the edges like a meticulously whetted blade. There were eyes on him from warriors and servants alike, but he seemed more intrigued by traditional Asgardian fighting forms and the few ravens perched up high and nearly out of sight. “Are visitors allowed to learn your fighting styles?”

“You fight?”

“Sometimes.” 

“Well?”

“Well,” he grinned, though she knew she couldn’t fully decipher the low laugh he gave when he curled his lip. “I’m not too bad.”

“Then the best way for us to see if the Asgardian form is complementary to your current knowledge is for your body to engage against it! Here, you will have formal introductions to Fandral and Hogun before we—”

Sif did not see it happen because what happened was too fast to see.

One moment Peter is at her side, eyes on her and aptly listening as she spoke from their spot by a training pit holding resting warriors. Fandral and Hogun battle in her peripheral, servants hurry around on light feet, the weight of several gazes skimmed past the dried sweat on her skin to peer at Asgard’s newest visitor. 

Then somehow Peter was no longer there. He had bridged the gap by the meeting point of two walkways with a leap she only caught the tail end of, and in the time it took her head to turn and her eyes to widen, the hilt of a stray dagger laid motionless in his grasp, a hand’s length away from a servant’s face. The tray they had been carrying dropped in the midst of the shock but Peter was already holding out his second hand, fingers splayed and palm skyward and caught it with an impeccable balance that did not spill the water pitcher at its center. 

“Are you okay?” He questioned the servant.

The servant stared at the tip of the blade that had nearly made a new sheath through his eye and gulps, then bowed low. “Ye-Yes! Yes, I thank you, esteemed guest, I should not have been so foolish as to lose my bearing at the royal training grounds.”

“Hey, accidents happen. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” The boy twirled the dagger around the back of his hand—that trick, she’d seen it before, but where—as he placed it down on the tray. “I’m Peter, what’s your name?”

“Kvistr, esteemed guest Peter.”

His cheeks dimpled, his smile ever-friendly. “You can just call me Peter.”

The servant opened his mouth, no doubt to speak upon a claim of propriety, when a new voice crackled out as loud as the footsteps thundering down the steps.

“In my frequent absences it appears that even the warriors of such high order would be so flippant in ignoring their surroundings when they could have harmed a servant of the royal household!” Thor boomed. His cape fluttered behind him like a trail of red smoke and the scowl he granted the training grounds at large prompted the other fighters back into their own battles like they would not now be more subtle in their eavesdropping. “Fandral! Hogun! What have you to say for yourselves?”

Fandral slunk up to their little grouping, lips already on their way to a charming grin as the tip of his tongue began to line itself with excuses to balm Thor’s ire. Hogun, as always, stayed as quiet as a hunter though she knew he would hold more penitence for the accident that almost unfolded had it not been for Peter’s interference.

Sif blinked and pulled her attention away from her fellow warriors.

Peter was not concerning himself with the lecture. He had busied himself in speaking quietly with the servant instead, chattering a million lightyears a moment in the wake of the swelling expression of intrigue and amusement on the servant’s face.

“—re lucky Peter and his quick wits are here to abate the path of what may have been a grave mishap,” Thor said. He clasped the boy’s shoulder and pulled him closer in a prideful shake. It snapped the servant back to his wits, and he quickly took the tray back into his hands before he bowed and murmured another bout of thanks. Peter waved at him as he took his leave. The servant paused, raised a small wave of his own, and left to continue his duties. “A great warrior is in your presence!”

Peter’s cheeks flared slightly. “Dude.”

“A Midgardian warrior?” Hogun finally spoke up. 

“Of course!” By Thor’s tone, he may as well have never been more offended. “He is as formidable as his mo—”

“I’m small-time back on Midgard,” Peter was quick to interject. “I mean, I just help out in the neighborhood. You know. Swinging around.” He chuckled a tad. “It’s not like I’m an Avenger or anything.”

“Then what is it that you do?” Sif prompted as she grasped her chin between her fingers and leaned towards him. “You question like a scholar, say you have experienced the heat of battle. With Thor’s support you must have tales of your pursuits, perhaps still not unlike the Avengers.”

“I—”

“Another hero!” Exclaimed Fandral. “Then we must spar!”

“—Oh, um, I, uh—”

“Which I had been trying to put forward,” Sif drawled, “until one hog-brain or another lost control of a weapon they should have mastered.”

“My lady, your words are like a stone shot to the center of the forehead.”

Hogun turned to Peter. “Weapons or hand to hand combat?”

“Enough.” Thor sighed and swiped a hand down his face. Maturity she had mentioned as an important point of her dear friend’s growth of character in the time she had known him but with it came a new breed of wariness; a change of threshold on what he would and would not come to put up with. It seemed that now, in a time of greater peace, he came to put up with less from them. “Sif, you have my thanks for taking care of Peter while I was fulfilling some duties. Fandral, Hogun, you have my utter exasperation, as always.” Fandral laughed. “But we will be taking our leave.”

Sif blinked. “What? Surely it will be no issue for Peter to participate in a spar. We are all comrades in arms here, if you are worried about him taking injury—”

“Never that,” Thor cut off firmly. “He is smart, and strong, and can fare against you fairly and equally.” His hand still warmed the place it settled on the boy’s shoulder, and youthful cheeks burned darker at the praise. “We simply have other matters to attend to at the moment; his visit is short and we are to make the most of it.” And as he tipped his head down to address the boy, the smile he granted was small and soft and, dare she mention, almost paternal. “It was my thinking you would want to peruse the library, if it suits you?”

Peter lit up like the Milky Way’s sun.

“Seeing the library would be so cool,” he breathed. 

“Then at the library we shall be.” Thor regarded his friends once more. “We will see you at the banquet tonight.”

“Um, thanks for showing me around, Lady Sif,” Peter said. Thor began to lead him away, and he raised his voice over his shoulder. “And nice to meet you too Fandral, Hogun! See you guys later!”

The pair retreated to the stairs that led them up to the palace, and it is then that they are far out of ear’s tune that Fandral deemed it appropriate enough to utter, “I bet my mustache that the boy is somehow of his blood.”

In the distance, Peter tripped up one of the steps.

“I bet the right to shave off your mustache that he is not, and I bet away the use of my prized knives for the time until the spring harvest,” Hogun responded. His arms crossed over his chest. “Sif?”

Sif glanced down at her arm.

Earlier, she had thrown it out to stop Peter from walking into a thrown blade. But she did not recall even a brush of green fabric against her skin like he had known to stop before she had known to stop him.

“I bet a season without my choice of steed that he is of the royal family,” she said, dragging her eyes back to the pits before her and picking up the nearest sword. “Thor would not be so invested in his well-being, should it be otherwise.”

::

Her attendants whispered amongst one another from around her back, heads ducked low and running mouths hidden behind nimble fingers. It is rare that Midgardians were seen on Asgard, even rarer to be allowed to roam the halls of Valaskjalf even with a proper escort—especially with that escort being the crown prince himself.

Odin would have already heard. Would be on his way for a confrontation as she lingered at the balustrades overlooking the training grounds. But she was nothing if not patient, and would bide her time with the poise and patience that came second to none. 

Frigga’s cool gaze trailed after her firstborn son and the strange boy that seemed so much like him as they disappeared down the hallway leading to the library.

Peter, she thought, rolling the syllables over in her mind’s tongue. What an interesting lad.

Chapter Text

Peter held onto the ornate gold railings that spun along the length of the stairway and peered up though the gaps and what he could see of the second floor; walkways stretched from all the corners and middle points to meet at the center and wound down the gilded, spiraling stairs he was on now. Everything gleamed in polished metals and smooth stone encapsulating high vaulted ceilings and spaces that felt like there should always be a hundred more people around because how else were they supposed to fill it?

“Forgive me if you wished to participate in training,” Thor apologized. His stance finally began to unwind when they escaped into the library and with each step, Peter cataloged the change from heir-to-the-throne to demi-god-lost-in-the-middle-of-Queens. One step higher and another chip in his armor crumbled at their feet—another step and Peter knew that he’d get nowhere if he ever forgot that people were always more than their fronts.

Not that it was totally a bad thing to have his impressions when he first met someone as long as he was willing to cast them aside when he was proven wrong, and Sister Margaret’s hammered that into him pretty early if not pretty immediately. Like when he first met Weasel his boss acted the same with him as he would with everyone else at the bar: paranoid, blunt, kind of suspicious. And in Wade’s words, all glued together with the vibe of a twitchy drug dealer who overcharged rich kids for shitty weed.

So, a sort of person who May wouldn’t be too sure about him hanging around. And Peter thought so too at the start, but that was until the two of them started talking about old video games and how you main Little Mac in Smash Bros, Mr. Weasel? No wonder Wade makes fun of you all the ti—hey! You can’t throw rags at me this is employee abuse—

Peter’s eyes trailed down the railing and raked over the grand shelves and the millions of books neatly tucked in each and every row. Weasel was an unshakeable foundation in the business, and it sucked for everyone who didn’t believe that to learn the hard way. That one guy, Kairo Green, might’ve attacked the bar way back when, but that was the ballsy-est move new blood to New York could’ve taken if he wanted to stake his own claim in the city. The bar had contacts with everyone, everywhere, and because of the emphasis on general neutrality and serving as the home base for bigger names like Deadpool and Domino, it was practically untouchable unless someone wanted to deal with the fallout.

This was also the same place where Ms. Granny was in the middle of teaching him how to make her famous fried catfish, the same place he was going to meet Wade later this week before they’d walked to a midnight screening of Gattaca at this old theater nearby because apparently no self-respecting sci-fi lover wouldn’t have seen this movie, and it was the same place that was across from where him and Neena were going to try these new bacon-wrapped chili cheese dogs that promised the best chili this end of the street. Well, he’d have to see about that one, Mx. Hot Dog Connoisseur.

It was also the same place he met Mom for the first time.

But… yeah. Don’t judge a book by the reviews on a blog. A lot of people don’t know what the hell they were talking about. 

“It sounds fun, but it was probably for the best.” Peter glanced around and strained his ears for a moment before he leaned forward and pitched his voice quieter. “Uh, you know how Mom’s not really from around here?”

Thor bobbed his head. “Of course.”

Peter continued to stare at him. Thor paused on the third to last step to the second floor and stared back for a handful of breaths before he visibly reached his own understanding. 

“Oh.” His head tilted consideringly, strands of blond hair loosening from their braids. “Well. It is not something unexpected to be passed down to you. Is… Do you hold concern for your ability to change natures?”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s a huge problem?” As unsure as he sounded, actually going blue wasn’t the highest on his list of concerns. He already had his go around with his hundreds of trials and hundreds of errors when getting down to the creaks and crevices of his spider powers and getting a handle on his Jotunn side was just as hard, but not so different. Of course, there was still that deal with Mom and their internalized space racism which was, well, yikes , but he guessed it wasn’t hurting anyone to have most of his focus on trying not to accidentally give Wade frostbite whenever they went out on assignments together. “I can go back and forth pretty easily now, but I’m still learning about the things I can actually do.”

The second floor was flush with hard-backed chairs twisted to be reminiscent of twining tree trunks, carefully carved golden leaves fluttering along the wood. Peter could see Mom in one of those chairs, engrossed in turning pages as an endless pile of books scattered around them. 

flutter

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of brushing feathers.

“Either way,” he continued when he saw nothing but gold trimmings and the firelight that made them glow, “it’s been really useful. The Elsa jokes are getting kind of old, though, and even Wade’s changed my ringtone in his phone to Let It Go because he’s the worst.”

Thor blinked down at him, uncomprehending.

“Oh, Midgardian movie reference. My bad.”

“Movies! I have yet to engage in the experience, though you must introduce me to your favorites on my future visits.”

“I’ll make a list for us when I get back,” he grinned. “I love Star Wars and I’ll probably make you watch the original trilogy with me one day, but I don’t know how sick of space you are since,” he gestured vaguely around him, “you know.”

“Star Wars?” Thor repeated. “Your realm has made a movie about the interstellar wars that took place in the Shi’ar Galaxy two hundred million lightyears off the Cyrane Om’lr System?”

… He didn’t know how he felt about hearing that sentence twice.

“Uh, this one’s not real. I don’t think.” His brows furrowed. “Do you know what a Death Star is?”

“If I were to make an inference, I imagine it would be quite a fatal astral body.”

“Yeah, then the movie’s just a movie.” Probably. “Just a cornerstone of the sci-fi genre.”

Peter knew him stopping by came on a whim that wasn’t his own, but he couldn’t help but admit that he was glad he had a chance to visit Asgard. Even if he was only here an hour it would be more than enough because at the end of the day, Heimdall was right. No matter how much Mom hated this place and how apparent that Mom wasn’t originally from this realm, this had been their home once upon a time. Humans and Asgardians seemed to have the same stickling rules about familial traditions; the importance of ancestry, repeating the stories of where one comes from, wanting blood passed on and spilling blood in the name of it.

Mom never brought up ever going back to Asgard, and unless Thor was king, the only time they might ever get the chance to would be in shackles. 

“Here we are,” Thor said, snapping Peter out of his head as he took in the line of shelves they stopped at. There was a sorting system notched on the sides in thick, rigid lettering, and Peter followed curiously when the demi-god stepped up to the first rows of books. 

Actually, that wasn’t quite right.

A lot of what filled the shelves were books of course, but there were also dark bricks, metal sheets, glowing orbs on stabilizing mounts, spherical objects that could fit in the palm of his hand with holographic texts in an assortment of languages in slow orbit around the surface like rings on a planet. His eyes widened as he was handed one of the spheres and, while cradling it in his hands like it was a precious egg to be hatched, a clearish panel the size of a thumb was pushed to activate a hard light display of an open text book.

“I see that my judgment was correct in that you would enjoy some of our technological volumes,” explained Thor. “We did not stay in that library in Queens long enough to explore it, but in my cursory observations I did not see anything like these.” He reached up to swipe on the interface like he was turning the projection pages like it was physically floating at their eye line. Peter hoped he wasn’t drooling. “Of course, this is not the only type of scientific text at your disposal. We have handwritten manuscripts and printed publications from throughout the nine realms, digitized blocks from the Andromeda Galaxy with many of them from the Nova Empire, and I do believe we have detailed observations of the three suns of Indigarr somewhere in—”

“Wait, sorry.” Peter forced himself to look up from his inspection of the activation panel on the sphere. “This whole section is for science ?”

Thor beamed at him, almost as bright as the stars that looked out at him from just outside that golden dome. “Yes! I brought you here first because I thought it would capture the height of your interest.” He gestured down the row. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? Dude, this is one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen! I mean, the golden dome was cool too and the rainbow bridge was awesome and the palace is also, like, really, really cool but you’ve got a collection of scientific information crossing galaxies. Even NASA could only dream of having access to things like this! And sure, there’s been strides in advancement that’s increased alongside the discovery of the extraterrestrial, at least in regards to Earth—Midgard—and with new research and developments of—”

(He talked as if his interests themselves brought air into his lungs, a brilliant mind with a mouth that could barely keep up. He looked the happiest in all the realm surrounded by knowledge.)

((He looked just like his mother.))

“—er, I mean. It’s all so cool,” he ended, a pink tint to his cheeks that turned a piece of Thor’s heart to jelly. “Do you have any dictionaries for other languages, though? I’m pretty much limited to what’s spoken on Midgard and it’d be awesome to do a deep dive into this stuff. And learning other languages? Also a crazy cool plus.” One of his fingers came up to flip a page on the display. So, so cool. “If not that’s totally fine, I could spend days just figuring out how this device works, because hard light ? Wow.”

“Oh of course, how remiss of me to forget.” Thor turned back towards the stairs. “Please, peruse this selection to your heart’s content. I will find some translation tomes in common languages to bring back home with you—ones I believe your mother would not be in possession of.”

And off he went back down the stairs, blond hair disappearing down the winding railing.

Peter turned back towards the shelves as he rolled the sphere along the length of his hand. No matter how he turned it and no matter how he adhered any of the sides to his skin, the display remained clear and glitch-free and he had to focus on keeping himself from practically vibrating in place. Alien tech. In his hands.

Sci-fi as a whole had drastically changed with the invasion in 2012 and because of it, a new resurgence of all things extraterrestrial hit the top of the mainstream with a running start and was only bolstered by the Avengers’ residency and the rise of heroes and vigilantes and opposing forces all over the globe. The world had changed in that moment at a scale and speed comparable to an apocalyptic disaster, and if it was for the better or for the worst, he still didn’t kno—

hum.

Peter straightened. 

He looked over his right shoulder. No one. 

Then his left. Nothing.

So he shut his eyes and let the weight of the sphere ground himself through the center of his hands. 

At the beginning, he thought his spidey-sense was an end-all-be-all alert that flashed anywhere from being stared at in a crowd to a bullet sailing towards his head. Regardless of the level of danger, as long as it was a danger, he’d know about it. And the longer Spider-Man made his mark on the city by throwing himself off buildings and swinging over busy streets like a Halloween-themed acrobat, his sense narrowed and refined, and the difference between a look and a bullet came down to the way his nerves ate at his skin; prickles like syringes probably wouldn’t end in a brawl, stomach-swooping spikes became common in the thick of his fights. Since starting at Sister Margaret’s, he thought he got most of everything there and in between down to a studied science.

But then in the middle of a library outside his own solar system, his spidey-sense told him something new. 

The humming that started up between his ears ballooned so large and so quick it could’ve cracked his skull, fuzzing out his vision at first frequency and making him stumble and catch his balance on the shelves. He turned a split second after that, one finger hovering over the web release on his right wrist and his other hand held ready to grip the dagger belted along his lower back, easily hidden under the folds of his oversized hoodie.

“Your senses are keen,” an old voice noted. Weathered, rough, it carried itself in a tone that demanded respect. Or at least, an acknowledgement that it deserved as much. “It is a trait one is content to see in those still young with much to learn.”

How convenient for him to get cornered when the one person set to look after him had disappeared to a completely different part of the library, but at least it told him that there was a slim chance this meeting was a coincidence.

Peter’s insides dipped ominously as he braced himself before turning around. 

The stranger loomed tall in gold-plated armor, more salt than pepper hair brushed to lay against the backs of his shoulders as the pure white of his beard framed the hard angles of his face. There was controlled power in the way he stood, calm and level and a cut of gold fit over the divot of his right eye. He didn’t look at Peter like he was lesser, necessarily, but he felt small in the wake of this other demi-god, an indiscernible pressure weighing him down like his muscles were osmium.

This was a King.

One that Mom wanted to keep him realms away from.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Peter said. He fought the urge to dip his gaze— never take your eyes off the enemy—but his voice did soften under his nerves. “I’m sorry, I’m—I’m not familiar with Asgardian customs. I hope any missteps I make won’t be taken as a sign of disrespect.”

Odin considered him.

“Peter Parker,” he intoned. “It is in my belief that those who address new surroundings with care and consideration uphold the honor of their character. You are young yet, as my initial greeting has already mentioned, but most of all you are a guest of Thor’s. If he has judged you fair and just and has allowed you within the walls of our home, then you are a welcome guest despite the unsureties you have divulged.”

A line of sweat streaked down the back of his neck. He hoped it didn’t freeze against his skin.

“Thank you. Sir. Your Majesty,” he amended quickly. His hand dropped from its hover over his lower back as his other came to meet it in a loose clasp behind his hips. His fingers wrapped around the band of one of his shooters. 

Odin’s heavy gaze moved away from him, taking a passive interest in the shelves they stood next to.

“Are you interested in the sciences?”

“Yeah, I love it. I’m probably going to get my PhD in biochemistry, er, one of the highest certifications in the field.”

“Then I wish you well and wish you luck.” His eye turns back to the boy. “It is to my understanding that your intelligence is not the only thing you should carry with pride.”

So either the palace had ears or gossip churned out quicker than sausages out of a meat grinder, though Peter had a feeling that it was both. Odin was too old and too smart for the walls not to have at least a couple sets of eyes, and he could’ve been watched since his first step onto royal grounds. 

“Thor respects you as a warrior,” said the King. Peter didn’t even pretend to look surprised that the god heard his son being embarrassing on the training grounds. “It is unfortunate that it could not be displayed in honorable combat between comrades.”

“That’s okay!” Peter mustered up a smile. “We can spar any time if they come to visit Midgard! At least then I’d have all my gear with me. I mean, I would’ve brought everything with me if I knew I was coming to visit but uh, last minute planning really gets you sometimes.” He spotted the orb he dropped to utilize both is webshooters and his dagger and quickly picked it back up to set it neatly on the shelf. “Not that I’m not grateful for the offer, but the palace is beautiful and the library’s amazing . I could spend weeks in here.” He blinked. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome either! Uh, thank you so much for letting me stay overnight, sir. Your Majesty.”

Something close to amusement flitted across the hard lines of the Allfather’s face. Peter wondered how close the genetic make-up must be between humans and alien demi-gods; were they around when Sahelanthropus tchadensis became the first hominin of the chimpanzee-human divergence? Did they look at Earth in the times of prehistoric religion, documenting the history of the species before they discovered a system of writing or record collecting? Or maybe did the alien gods bear this form to be easier understood, two legs, two arms, a head to hold high, and a mouth to speak. Of course there was magic to make up for the things that science still couldn’t quite understand, but maybe he could do a little side-research when he got back to New York. His own genome might be whacked out because of Oscorp’s mutation, but he could probably take a look at his DNA, cross out the spidery parts on the map and run a comparison between his blood, Mom’s, and one of the full humans at the bar. Maybe Mr. Weasel if he asked nicely enough.

“You are too kind, even in my company,” said the King. “I imagine one so young could not be capable of such, but you are quite the eccentricity.”

“No offense, Your Majesty,” he replied as he tried for a more joking, confident grin, “but you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

(Odin stuttered his breath.)

((His child looks at him, black hair frazzled, green eyes cut with a thousand years of burning hatred. “You have no idea what I am capable of!”))

“Allfather!” Thor’s blond head reappeared around the bend of the stairs with a thick tome bound in brown leather tucked under one arm. A slight crease sat between his brows but he was otherwise unworried, easily striding up to the two and throwing his free arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Have you come to greet our guest?”

Odin looked between them for a beat, and Peter only just managed to push back against the urge to hunch his shoulders and press himself into his uncle’s side like he was a little kid. “... Yes,” he answered eventually, turning his gaze to the prince. “You know as well as I that it is the rare occasion a Midgardian graces the palace with their presence and my curiosity has outweighed my patience.” He glanced back at the boy, eyeing him from the scuffed whites of his shoes to the bunched up hood behind his neck. “Your attendance at the banquet is expected.”

“Ye-Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Your manner of dress, of course, will adhere to tonight’s affair.”

“I will see to his wardrobe myself, Allfather, you need not worry,” Thor smiled. Odin nodded once and turned slightly to make his leave.

But he paused once more to level one last look at Peter, his blue eyes as icy and deep at the immensity of space. “It has been… enlightening to meet you, Peter Parker,” he said. “Asgard welcomes you into her care, however short your visit may be.”

As he left, Peter swore he heard another flutter of feathers in the distance. 

::

“I do not believe that my father suspects anything amiss,” Thor murmured as they slipped out of the library. Peter held a small stack of texts to his chest as one of the hard light spheres sat in his hoodie pocket. He didn’t think there was a stamp system in place for borrowing books here, but he’d make sure to get these returned in tip-top shape. He probably couldn’t afford it otherwise. “He may have his misgivings, but paranoia is as useful a tool as any. Only worry  should he take direct actions against you.” He looked at his nephew with a deeper crinkle in his brow. “Did he say anything of note?”

“Not really.” Peter pretended to scratch his lower back, and when his fingers traced over the outline of his dagger and made sure it was still in place, he tucked his arm back under the books. “Him and Lady Sif have been calling me a scholar and I guess that’s true, and then he said it was ‘unfortunate’ that I didn’t fight on the training grounds.”

Every time they passed a servant—it was like there were hundreds of them—they would pause to bow before continuing on their way. Thor acknowledged them with a brief nod, and even then the attention was starting to make Peter’s hands tacky. He didn’t need his spidey-sense to feel the lingering eyes and any gaze he managed to catch was another anxious zing down the back of his neck. But he still smiled, and every time he got a ducked head or a surprised blink in response. 

Oh man. He hoped he wasn’t ruining his first impression.

“Warriors are revered. To be noble, strong, and true is to be the pride of Asgard,” Thor said. “Midgard has come forth with notable ones of their own in recent times, and they are quite intriguing.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, a curious flash in his eyes like something just occurred to him. “Do you wield seiðr?”

“Nah. I mean, you saw me get whammied when Mr. Heimdall beamed us up. Not only don’t I have it, but I’m also super sensitive to it.”

“How unfortunate, though you are already quite incredible with the skills you already possess. Seiðr requires many, many moons to master to its utmost function, and very few can adorn it well. In most of my previous battles, there had been one user that I trusted with the entirety of my being, and he—” he faltered— “he was there for me.” His voice softened, a soft exhale to all his enthusiastic bearing. “Through the best and the worst.”

Peter knew his mother loved him with all their heart. He didn’t have to question something that was a veritable fact, but he knew how much hate stayed buried in their heart. Not to get all philosophical or anything, but it might be one of the most defining things about them. And that sucked, because Peter also knew they were so much more than that. He got it, though—Mom had always been the “other one,” falling short to their brother and the steel gaze of their father. Mom was bitter, ambitious, cruel, and there wasn’t an excuse for it he knew, he knew, he knew , alright? To that insistent voice in his head, to the angel on his shoulder dressed like Spider-Man when he still dressed a red hoodie over a blue sweatsuit.

It wasn’t an excuse. But he liked to think he could understand them a little better now.

“Do you miss him?” Peter asked like he hadn’t been a witness to Thor’s grief in a near-empty library.

Thor set his eyes on him, a soft, electric sky blue. “Not as much anymore,” he said. He tousled brown hair and grasped the back of Peter’s neck to pull him into a side-hug. “Now! Shall we find you proper attire for the banquet?”

“I’m guessing it’s not like a suit and tie kinda deal?”

“Akin to what is worn at Stark’s gatherings? No, nothing as lavish. We will find you a tunic, dark trousers, armor to highlight your status on Midgard, though something lighter in nature to compliment your fighting technique. We have platings of numerous metals from around the cosmos…”

Peter allowed the demi-god’s rumbling explanations wash over him as he relaxed into his side. The arm across his shoulders grounded him to the palace floors and he had to hope his hair wouldn’t get caught in the armored buckle that fastened to the red cape trailing behind them. 

It was… nice.

(For the first time in a long time, his eyes didn’t well up at a reminder of Ben.)

flutter

This time Peter snapped up his gaze without moving his head and zeroed in at the ceiling. In the distance, cleverly hidden behind the swirls of another golden decoration, he met the beady black eyes of a raven the size of his neighbor’s shih tzu.

It tilted its head. Peter forced the shakiness out of the smile he returned.

… What were the chances that didn’t mean anything?

::

“To the great General Ullr, may he live and triumph for many more battles to come!”

Cups raised up high all throughout the banquet hall.

“ Skål !” Echoed the resounding cheer, and Peter brought his own back down to take a small sip of the dark amber liquid.

He immediately spit it out.

Thor howled with laughter and clapped him on the back. “Not quite like the spirits on Midgard, aye, lad?”

“This would peel my boss like a banana,” Peter coughed, “and he takes tequila shots every day.”

Thor laughed again and accepted the drink when the teen handed it over. “There are fruit wines and sweet meads more suitable for your tastes.”

“Thanks, man,” Peter answered as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand and kept his arm held out to keep any liquor from dripping onto the very nice and very expensive clothes he borrowed. Woven leather wrapped around his forearms and biceps, oil tanned leather thick enough to save his own hide from getting cut by any blade. His tunic was deep blue, sleeveless and durable and a couple shades darker than the type of blue he was slowly getting used to looking at on his skin. A thin bronze plate curved down from one shoulder, turning up to crescent from the bottom of his sternum and ending at the top of his other shoulder. It matched the plates layered down the outside of his thighs like scales, and he wished he could wear his dagger proudly with the rest of it. He didn’t know if it was actually crafted here on Asgard, but if the hissing snakes weren’t going to get recognized by the host of Asgardian Royalty he would eat his boot—so underneath the tunic it stayed, tucked in the right side of his waistband and never soaking up any of his body warmth.

But, he was glad that despite the clothes having been made of material for kings, it was far from the flashiest thing at the banquet.

He trailed after Thor through the booming attendees and it was kind of funny how similar it was to navigating a busy Manhattan street. Crowded, lively, a little sweaty

“Famished?” Thor questioned as they came up to five long tables stretched full of dish after dish. “Because I implore you to feast until you are close to bursting!”

Near the end of one of the tables, Volstagg waved at them with the raised meat leg he was halfway to tearing through. His thick red beard was already littered with scraps.

“You must try the boar roast!” He exclaimed. “After that, the venison, slow cooked until the flesh heaps off the bone and oh, the sausages are smoked to perfection!”

Peter grinned. “I’ll make sure to try one of everything.”

“That’s a good head on your shoulders there, lad!”

Thor shook his head with a chuckle as Peter picked up a plate and started perusing through the first food table.

“Rumors speak of how when he was but a bairn, the only mode of pacifying his wailing was a maw full of mutton.” Thor muttered out the corner of his mouth. Peter snickered and bit into a sweet glazed carrot to stifle the rest of his laughter. “But his sense of good is as large as his stomach—he is an unfailing ally.”

“Who, Volstagg or the sheep?”

Sif strode towards them with the same presence and grace of a high-ranking warrior of the Asgardian forces but with a much softer appearance than when Peter met her just a few hours ago. Polished silver armor still shone on her torso, but now it acted like a corset to her flowy burgundy gown that swept the floor around her sandals. 

“Volstagg, though the sheep is a near second,” Thor said as he plucked what looked like a mini meat pie. 

“You look super pretty, Lady Sif,” Peter smiled. He stacked a couple of smoked fish atop his slices of braised red meat. “I like the ornaments in your hair! They really compliment your eyes.”

Sif touched a light hand against the braids on the side of her head where gold slivers threaded the strands. “Oh. Thank you, Peter. You are very sweet.” She leveled her prince with an unamused look. “You could take notes on how to be pleasantly agreeable from him.”

Thor leaned into her personal bubble with the widest grin he could muster. “Why, Sif! Do my eyes deceive? In front of me is an incredibly beautiful lady of the sword with hair that tides like an umber Élivágar river—”

She laughed and pushed his face away. “Cease your drivel, you absolute boor. There is a young warrior in your presence and he is not to be influenced by your nonsense.”

Peter stacked a handful of meatballs on top of his smoked fish.

“I wish I had come here for a chat amongst friends, but I am afraid I am here for a higher purpose.” Sif jerked her head toward the end of the hall where General Ullr and those under his command had gathered, trading loud stories of the warrior of honor and throwing back drinks like water to a hiker who underestimated the desert sun. “You have yet to greet Ullr and join the heart of the festivities. As the crown prince it is your duty—”

“By the norns, the banquet is still in its infancy!”

“ It is your duty ,” Sif repeated, “to act as host with the reigns passed to you, as both the Allfather and the Queen Mother have taken a step back to observe how you conduct yourself when it will not be you who is the first to drink yourself into a sea of mead.”

Thor’s jaw tightened as he glanced down at his boots. Yeah, Peter knew that face pretty well. The I-know-you’re-right-but-I-don’t-want-you-to-be face was one he owned a lot growing up with May. It must suck a hundred times more when the-thing-someone-else-was-right-about dealt with kingly things, though.

“I am not here often enough for such duties.”

“It is because you are not here often enough that drives Your Majesties to demand the most of you.” Sif crossed her arms. “Do you sincerely believe that your increasing journeys off Asgard would make you less of an heir to the throne?”

Peter stuffed one of the meatballs into his mouth and moved down the table. Yikes. Politics. The North American ones were already a bitch to untangle and just because he wasn’t old enough to vote didn’t mean he shouldn’t stay active and informed, as May and MJ made sure to remind him on occasion.

But space politics?

He met Volstagg’s eye and the demi-god tipped his head towards the argument before making a cutting motion at his neck. Peter placed a warm roll at the very top of his meat tower and threw back a thumb’s up.

No thanks. That was a whole other can of alien worms.

“I am also meant to accompany Peter for the ni—”

Peter raised the serving fork-thing meant to serve the breaded meat patties and used them to point accusingly. “Whoa dude, using me to bail on your job? Not cool.”

Thor frowned. “I would never stoop to such levels.”

“Yeah—but—I—I mean. I’m a last minute guest that you had to run around and accommodate. And while I’m extremely grateful, I know you still have a lot of important things to do and you shouldn’t let my being here get away of that.” He lifted his plate and the mountain of food on it. “Besides, I think I’ll be eating for a while. I already told Volstagg I’d try one of everything.”

“An endeavor you will not regret!” Volstagg exclaimed, ripping a bite off his fifth roasted leg. And yet the crease in Thor’s brow grew deeper as he considered the teenager who looked every part of the Asgardian he was meant to be. Loki would kill him if anything happened. Flay him, strip his muscle from the bone and run a rampage that would make the invasion of New York City a child’s learning game. Could he leave Peter alone? His comrades would treat him with nothing short of respect and Father would not try anything, would he? No, why would he, but if he had no qualms of condemning his second child to the dungeons beneath the palace, what would he do should he know that Peter is—

“He will be fine,” Sif said as she flicked a drop of mead off one of the plates of his armor. “He is a smart, delightful lad. It is not his doom to be unattended for the night.”

Thor looked at the raised brow of one of his oldest friend’s, Peter’s face still round with traces of baby fat, Volstagg at the end eating like this meal would be his last, and he heaved a sigh. He raised a hand to run it through his golden hair, but stopped short when he remembered it was done up in a bun he didn’t want to mess up so early into the night.

His hand dropped. He sighed again.

“If anything is wrong, come find me immediately.”

Peter bobbed his head. “Yeah, for sure!”

Thor stared at him for a few beats longer before sighing a third time and turning to Sif. “Should any harm befall him—”

“Please,” Sif scoffed, “who would come to harm him in the palace?”

::

Rönnbär berries had always been in her favor. Bright orange-red baubles clustered like swollen pockets of disease, their raw taste quite bitter, fervently unpalatable, and no matter if they fermented into wine, distilled into spirits, pressed into jams, they would always retain a sharp edge of bitterness just there at the back of the tongue. 

Frigga slipped her wine on a secluded balcony outside the celebration, the rönnbär selection set out just for her. She heard the variant grown on Midgard was poison in its freshest form. Next time Thor absconded to Earth—it would be soon, she knew, her son could barely be kept in the realm longer than a fortnight before he was off with his Midgardian team—she may ask him to bring some back.

She set her chalice down atop the golden balustrade and watched twinkling firelight spread out across the darkened land. Moonbeams skittered across the ever-turbulent waters of the Asgard sea as the nebulas loomed close by, ribbons of color cutting through the backdrop of the star-dotted sky.

A glass door opened and shut behind her and a young servant stood at her side with a tray of spiced cookies lightly drizzled with blåbär berry honey.

“Thank you, Kvistr,” she smiled, and the young man bowed his head as he set the dish onto the balustrade and held the empty tray to his person. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“I do not believe he is here with malicious intent, Your Majesty. Though it would not be as if His Highness would bring such a threat into your home.”

“Of course.”

Kvistr nodded. “He was in the company of Sir Volstagg and was quite impressive in keeping up with his intake. He had six full plates before halting and continuing to engage in affable banter.”

So the boy was not human. At least, not entirely. Frigga had only been on Midgard as many times as she could count on one hand and that was far before they had the inventions and machinery Thor came to describe after his involvement in world-shaping battles. Though her knowledge of Midgardians was rather minimal, she could infer that six full plates was far out of the ordinary for one of his stature.

“He was then offered a selection of drinks and refused all those that would inebriate. Of all the drinks he sampled, he chose the mix of äpple and rönnbär .”

A small, surprised smile flitted briefly across her face.

“When Sir Volstagg was pulled away by his comrades from his foot soldier days, he settled for another small plate of food before striking up conversations with servants who minded the food tables.”

“I see. Did he pry for anything specific? Bribe for information?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. He asked for the names of the prepared dishes and told them that all of it tasted ‘awesome and out of this world.’ Then apologized for the joke.” Kvistr’s own small smile nudged its way onto his face. “The only major inquiry of him was if he would be able to bring back the fruits that made his drink back to Midgard.”

“Nothing from Iðunn’s garden?”

“No, Your Majesty. We informed him of the orchards outside the palace and he stated that should he have another chance to visit, he would want to go out and see them.”

Listening to it all had begun to frenzy a restless energy in her nerves.

“Bring him here,” she directed as the chalice of wine returned to her hand. “And tell him nothing.”

Kvistr bowed. “At once, Your Majesty.”

Frigga watched him slip off into the hall, the brief opening of the door allowing streams of laughter and light-hearted talk to pour through before it shut once more, leaving her in hushed and moonlight.

Peter Parker, the boy who favored rönnbär berries.

It would be best that Odin did not have it in his mind to kill him.

Chapter Text

“Am I in trouble?”

“Whyever would you believe so?”

“Bringing me aside, taking me to a secondary location against John Mulaney’s sound advice.”

“Who is John Mulaney? An authority figure?”

“More than half the teachers at my school, honestly.”

Kvistr exhaled slightly through his nose, a smile playing on his lips. Were all Midgardians as curious as he? This guest was young and, in his own words, still attending mandatory schooling for youths in his realm, and yet there was a certain air about him that kept all the servant’s eyes drawn. Kind and friendly and quick-witted and mature enough to mind his bearings in a foreign galaxy.

And was Prince Thor’s son if Lady Sif and Sir Fandral were correct in their assumptions.

He snuck a peek at Peter’s side profile, and hid his frown. He still was unsure about the claim.

“Your summoning was only a request. There will be no offense should you change your mind for refusal,” Kvistr said as they reached the edges of the banquet hall. This side in particular curtained with long vines, lush beautiful flowers shimmering with the overflow of the Queen Mother’s seidr that kept them in stasis, never a threat of withering with time. Some of the petals brushed past their faces at their approach and Peter’s forehead scrunched as he rubbed at the parts of his skin that came into contact with them. A heightened sensitivity to the arcane, perhaps? He did not display the countenance of a sorcerer, but the facets of his abilities had yet to be revealed. 

Either way, that did not matter much to him. Peter had saved him without thought and had not asked for anything in return. Not that he held the expectation that guests of the realm should worry themselves with bouts of courage, but it is his hope that those who resided on Midgard were much like him.

“Through here.” Kvistr gestured to a resplendent glass door hidden slightly behind the vines, an opaque pearlescent sheen rippling across the surface. “And this is where I leave you.”

“Thanks!” A pause. “But I’m really not in trouble, right?”

He pressed his lips together to hide his smile. “Correct.”

“Cool, cool.” Peter nodded and proceeded to hold out his fist in front of him. It was not in any offense or threat, merely hovering in the space between them. A few silent moments passed until, “Oh! This is, like, a thing on Midgard. It’s used as a greeting or a goodbye or a what’s up, so you hold out a fist too—” Kvistr followed the instruction and mirrored the movement— “and then it’s just a tap!”

Peter bumped their fists together. It did not bruise nor sting, barely a brush of their knuckles.

“Like that!” He beamed. “Neat, right?”

“... Yes.” Kvistr blinked down at his own hand. “Neat.”

Peter grinned and waved as he stepped through the door and onto the balcony where the Queen Mother awaited.

He stood there for another moment more, staring at the closed door while his fingers still curled into a loose fist before he went to continue to attend the celebration. Perhaps after the guests were strewn across the floor and he and the other servants had finished cleaning up around them, he would ask if anyone would like to join him in picking a small bundle of fruits from the orchards.

::

Kvistr was a cool dude but Peter was almost positive that he was at least in a little bit of trouble. What for, though, was probably going to be a pain to find out. The human thing could be one reason, the rumors about him being related to Thor was another—which was wild as hell, by the way. Thor didn’t even radiate dad vibes.

As he waved at the servant and shut the magicky glass door behind him, a muted peace hit him right in the face. He hadn’t realized how loud it was inside until the balcony let him hear the faint ringing in his ears; the bar was the same way with how all the glass-breaking and gun-firing had Mr. Weasel gifting him these sick ear plugs to wear during his shifts. 

And with that faint buzz in his ears, he took in the person staring out into the night. She stood with a ramrod straight back, elegance in her posture and how she cradled the chalice in one hand. The heavy sleeves of her gown pooled into the crook of her elbow with its deep teal waves shimmering more green than blue. When she turned towards him, she smiled, blonde-brown curls a golden wreath around her head.

“Peter,” she greeted against the stillness of the Asgardian night. The moment his name left her mouth, his hands fell behind his back as he startled to attention. “Thank you for taking the time to join me.”

“Ye-Yeah, of course. I’m always up for meeting new people.” He shuffled closer when his spidey-sense stayed settled beneath his skin. “Um, Peter Parker. But it sounds like you already knew that.” He smiled sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head. “And you…?”

The demi-god smiled from behind the lip of her chalice.

“Come, admire this view,” she beckoned. Peter slowly treaded forward keeping his hands pressed up to the knife against his back. Okay, so this might be worse than thinking he was in trouble because trouble was all that was going to spell out for him if he didn’t keep watch over his shoulder. He’d just been telling himself that he wasn’t going to butt into alien politics and here he was, invited by a stranger who probably wouldn’t tell him her name no matter how many times he asked.

Which meant she definitely had a high-standing on Asgard. Oh man, if he messed up here did that mean he was going to get thrown in the dungeons. Did they even have dungeons?

He peered out, and immediately braced his hands on the edge of the railing to hold him up as he leaned forward as far as he could to take it all in. One of the best parts about being Spider-Man were the moments on the upswing, when the world paused between web strands, when he soared over rooftops and clouds of pollution where the air was fresh and the stars were blinding. He spent a lot of time on Midtown High to stargaze, sometimes the Empire State, sometimes the Chrysler, but there was something about his empty school building at the dead of night that helped the skies shine brighter.

But here? Back at Heimdall’s he felt like he could skim the galaxy with his fingertips, but to see the rainbow of space studded with astral bodies he didn’t recognize overlooking architecture that didn’t exist on Earth was…

“Wow,” he murmured.

“I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel the realms in my youth and even with all that I have witnessed, it is this view that will never cease to amaze. Though of course, perhaps you may color me biased.” She winked conspiratorially, her kind and open air drawing a smile out of him.

“Oh, I have been so terribly rude.” She plucked the second chalice from her drink tray and poured in some translucent red liquid before handing it to him. “It is hardly polite to invite your presence without sharing my favored wine. Do you drink?”

“No, sorry. I’m still not old enough for alcohol and I’m not a big fan of the taste. My uh, part of my boss’ job is mixing drinks and he’s been teaching me.” He looked down at the drink rippling in his cup. “Like, I can taste the difference between scotch and bourbon and things like that—and I guess scotch and bourbon are apparently different kinds of whisky? Either way, it’s not my first choice. Not just whisky. Alcohol in general.”

“I see. Place your chalice down here, if you would.”

Peter did as he was told and watched with eager eyes as the demi-god held a light hand against the chalice’s stem. He then felt it at the tips of his ears, a change in pressure just in the vicinity of her ring-laden fingers, and saw the succession of heating and cooling phases in the span of seconds when it should have taken a span of hours. When the pressure re-equalized, she passed the chalice back to him. 

“There,” she said. “Spirit-free.”

Peter stared at the cup for a long while. No way.

“You—” His head shot back up. “You just magicked up a single-cup vacuum distillation!”

She gazed at him in twinkling amusement and raised her own chalice to her lips. “Do explain.”

He set down his drink and turned back to her expectantly, brown eyes shining with the faintest flecks of green. “Permission to give a long-winded science-y explanation?”

“Permission curiously granted.”

“Okay, so!” Peter beamed. “The boiling point of ethanol is around 78°C and while heating it up to that temperature would be the straightforward way of alcohol reduction, you also run the risk of losing taste and texture in your drink. So to avoid all that, the best way would be utilizing vacuum distillation—reducing the pressure of the process by one bar and allowing it to run in the range of 30 and 60°C. Usually you’d need a bunch of machines and set-ups with a whole lot of working parts to get an end-product like this, but the fact that you managed it through an entirely different physical force is amazing! I mean, there’s always been the argument that magic is just science not yet understood, but I think that’s just an excuse for close-mindedness.”

His brow pinched. It had been weeks since his mind drifted to high-rise buildings and multibillion dollar labs and drivers with ironic names and invincible superheroes. It… reminded him of a conversation from a while ago. More of a rant, really, as he sat at one of the benches in the private labs as Tony Stark went on and on about Thor and how it shouldn’t be possible to store lightning in a hammer. 

And that was totally not how it worked, by the way. Thor was the God of Thunder, not the God Responsible for Thunder, so why the hell would a naturally occurring state of energy manifest in a tool of control?

“Um.” Peter snapped back to himself, blinking away imagines of too-white labs. “I guess you can’t blame anyone on Earth—Midgard, sorry—for thinking they have to be opposites. But I mean, the definition of science is the systematic study of the structural and behavioral properties of both the physical and natural worlds, no more, no less. Magic is magic, a science of its own that should be observed under its own merit instead of being compared to topics already studied, you know? And sure, you can have spells equivalent to vacuum distillation, but it’s not like there aren’t going to be other spells that can’t be made to understand through the lens of Midgardian physics.” He peered at the demi-god’s face and was relieved to find an expression that was often on Granny Sal’s: amused at the youngin’ who was bursting with too much energy. “Right?”

Granny Demi-God crossed her arms as she regarded him, her wine sloshing up to the rim of her half-empty chalice. “I do indeed agree with your sentiments. The study of seidr and the study of science, do they balance themselves in the forefront of your interests?”

“Science does for sure,” he acknowledged with the bob of his head. “I even had one of those at-home microscope kits when I was little and would smudge anything and everything on the slides until I ran out.” That went on until about middle school, and instead of getting a new pack of slides every Christmas it turned into a new Lego set or something related to Star Wars. “But seidr is pretty new! I met a sorcerer a couple months ago. I don’t think he likes me.”

“Not all who practice the arcane arts are also gifted with the temperament worthy of them.” She drained the remains of her drink and set the chalice down on the railing. “You cannot channel seidr?”

“Nah, but it’s super cool to see.”

“Then perhaps you would care to witness another feat?”

“That’d be awesome! But you don’t have to if you don’t want to, like, the distillation was already one of the highlights of my week.”

“Oh, for what purpose should we wield this power if we cannot learn its means for enjoyment?” She waved off. She glided to the outer palace walls to peruse an expanse of flowers along it, and Peter took this moment to thank every star in this unfamiliar galaxy that this wasn’t turning into Odin 2.0. Granny Demi-God was everything the King wasn’t: kind at least outwardly, friendly though she probably wanted something from him, and used seidr with pride even when it wasn’t the culture’s first pick, which made him wonder if Mom ever met her before.

She came back with a plucked flower between two fingers, its full bloom petals so deeply violet it could be pressed into dye for the highest royalty.

Then it outlined in a whitish-blue light, crawling tendrils through petal veins and pollen-dusted anthers. In a flash of that same colored light the flower morphed and writhed and disappeared, and in its place—

“That’s such a little guy,” Peter whispered. The now deeply violet frog croaked and swelled up a pouch of skin under its chin. It hopped from Granny Demi-God’s hands and into his. “Oh my gods, is this an actual frog?”

“It is as real as the blossom on the vine,” she said. “It is easy to turn one thing to another, but one must remember a transformation is only as strong as its origin.” She leveled an easy gaze from under the canopy of her curls. “The palace will run amok should the perceived son of Thor be this amazed by the arcane.”

Peter laughed as he stroked the top of the frog’s head. “If I were Thor’s son I’d be so mad I didn’t get his hair.”

(She did not wager for the lad to have great talent in lying, but with both the distraction of her seidr and his continual lively manner it must not be true. Though not apparently born of her eldest, it is not outlandish that others had directed to such a conclusion.

Yet, there was more. She knew there was. There was something on this boy’s shoulders that even Thor had sworn himself to protect and if the erratic movements of Huginn and Muginn were to be inferred, Odin must have an inkling to that exact truth.

Her gaze traveled from the transmuted froskr to the softness of Peter Parker’s face.

And, with a nudge of her power—)

The frog croaked again and leapt towards the railing, missing just slightly, and tumbled down tens of stories to splat by some unassuming guard’s feet.

At least that was what probably would’ve happened if Peter wasn’t so keyed into his new buddy. He wanted to give a shout-out to the squirmy dudes from Sister Margaret’s Infamous Mice Night where he spent hours wrestling rodents into a box while Wade wielded Raid products like he was Rambo. As the frog leapt, he followed, and he cupped the little guy between his hands as he stood on the outer side of the railing.

Well, maybe dangle was a better word? He was almost horizontal and had a great view of the guards that were actually posted on the ground floor of the palace, dulled golden helmets winking in the surrounding torchlight. One foot stepped back to balance on the flat top of the railing, then the other, and he turned and crouched to face back towards the balcony.

“Can you turn him back into a flower?” He asked with a sheepish grin. “I think he’s got too much of the hops.”

Intrigued, Granny Demi-God waved a faintly glowing hand. His palms tickled and a warm rush of prickling magic washed over his life lines and when he opened his hands, there was a still vibrant violet flower.

“That’s never going to stop being cool.”

“With what manner are you adhering yourself to the structure?” She peered at his feet with a calculating eye. “You have already noted your lack of sorcery—has Midgard advanced in their technological invention to create anti-gravitational tools? Physical adhesives to obey the push and pull of command?”

“I’m sure some aerospace engineering companies have stuff they’re testing with specialized operatives, but I don’t really get my hands wet with classified government objects.” As per the rules of the bar, anything traceable or taken from regulated facilities were banned within a ten mile radius. “But this is all me! I’m sticky.”

He cartwheeled into a single-armed handstand on the railing and launched himself so that his feet stuck to the parts of the side wall not lush with vines. “Ta-da!” He exclaimed and jazz-handed because that usually made passers-by snort. And while she didn’t snort, Granny Demi-God smiled and regarded him with her unending amusement.

“The universe is vast, and it will always amaze me that I will continue to meet those unlike any other as long as I live,” she said as he held out a hand to help him back onto the balcony.

“Aw, shucks. You’re super cool too!” Peter took her hand—

(Jolt.)

((“Why am I not enough?” Loki cries. Their workbooks are overturned at their feet, papers crumpled and folded at the force they have been thrown. “I am more studious, more intelligent, more proficient in strategy and yet—and yet that is not enough?” They exhale harshly and spin towards the burning fireplace. “Why am I even here?”

“You are here because you are my child,” Frigga tells them firmly. She bends down to pick up a strewn book and begins to turn each damaged page to straighten them out with brief flares of whitish-blue. “You are studious, intelligent, and strategic, as you are already aware. That will get you far in life, gifted and talented and brilliant—”

“I am not Thor, Mother,” they cut in with their barbed tongue. She will be the first to admit that it cuts even her on the worst days. “And that alone seals my fate.”

She frowns. “Your brother is your companion—”

“He is the standard that Father will never stop lording above my head.” 

Hate has made a nest in their once clear eyes and as the days pass, she cannot help but stay the sole witness to it pooling into place in their heart. She taught them the arcane arts in hopes that he would finally find himself in it, that with all their skill and raw power they could finally find contentment. 

But Odin, her love. Odin, her fool.

How could he refuse to see what his indifference was doing to their second born?

Loki’s hands ball at their sides as they storm across the room.

“Loki, wait.”

They barge through the door,

“Loki!”

and disappear from the study.

She sighs and looks back to the books across the floor. She lowers herself in the middle of the mess, waving a gentle hand for the texts to pick themselves up and arrange themselves into short, neat stacks for easier sorting at a later time. As the book to her right lifts, she spies a gleam of green hidden beneath white and yellowed pages and reaches for it.

Ah. The charm Loki often used to mark pages in the stories they enjoyed most. A raw green stone cut into the size of a coin with thin gold wire wound around the center. Attached to the top is a gold chain; should the end attach to the stone, it would have made a simple necklace.

Frigga carefully lays it under the cover of the book they had most recently been enjoying before she sets off for her wayward child.))

—and hopped back onto the balcony not unlike the frog had when trying to take a swan dive with a view. He moved to pull his hand back, but it didn’t budge. “Uh?”

Then, he glanced up at her face.

Her eyes had gone distant, misty, her jaw dropped slightly as her free hand hovered unsurely over the the bottom of her face.

“Are you okay?” He questioned softly. “I swear calling you cool was a good thing. It’s a real Midgardian compliment! If I had connection on my phone I would pull up Google, which is a search bar which is, like, if you have any questions you could punch it in and it’d give you a million ads and regurgitated articles so if you want answers from real people you’d have to go on Reddit or Yahoo! Answers.” He paused. “I can also totally explain Reddit and Yahoo if you want.”

She squeezed his hand and huffed a short laugh.

“Oh, Peter,” she murmured with a light sniff. “I would love nothing more than to hear you speak of your life on Midgard.”

Which was kind of odd, he guessed. She was fine up until she took hold of his hand and—it wasn’t anything to do with his Jotunn half, right? She was magic but he wasn’t sure if she could tell from just that. Didn’t Asgaridans hate the Jotunn, though? Mom completely despised that part of themselves and was always hesitant when he got them around to helping him practice.

The glass door opened and Kvistr stepped through to greet them with a short bow. “My apologies for the interruption.” His eyes flickered briefly to their clasped hands. “Your presence has been requested, Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty?

What the fuck did he mean, ‘Your Majesty?’

“It was so wonderful to meet you,” she bid him quietly.

Ice crystalized in his bloodstream as Frigga squeezed his hand one last time and strode towards Kvistr as she cast him a knowing wink. He was glad she could find some of this funny—he was too busy punching down his anxiety when he knew his skin threatened to flush blue. What was he supposed to say to that? What was he supposed to do about that? He’d been talking to the Queen the whole time while jokingly referring to her as Granny and turned out the terms were synonymous . Oh man. Oh gods.

‘This is real low,’ he thought morosely. ‘This is real Parker Luck low.’

“Peter,” she called out. 

He braced himself and turned, nervously clutching his hands together and keeping them balled against the small of his back. Frigga stood with a calm, regal air of long-standing royalty and how the hell did he not see this before?!

Keeping and sussing out secrets were so not in his bag of tricks.

“I truly do adore your necklace.”

Her and Kvistr gracefully took their leave from the balcony, the glass door closing behind them with a near-silent schnick .

And Peter held himself steady against the railing and breathed out a shaky sigh. No, he couldn’t have another breakdown here. Not when he was lightyears away from home and the King of this realm wanted him dead. Deep breath in, deep breath out. In. Out. In. Out. In. And. Then. Out.

One hand rose up to press against the armor over the center of his chest. Beneath polished metal and the thickly woven material of his tunic hung Mom’s necklace, one of the only things he’d painstakingly tried to keep hidden the whole night. He’d made sure the leather strips wouldn’t poke out of his shirt and that the stone would stay flat and not tap-tap against the metal plating.

And yet she saw through him like holes in swiss cheese.

“Damn,” he muttered. 

He piled the glasses, the remaining wine, and the plate of cookies back onto the serving tray—he popped a cookie into his mouth, then a second and, okay, the third was the last one—and carried it back into the main banquet hall. The second he stepped back into the warm lantern glow and the ever-growing cacophony of brawl beginnings and booming laughter, a servant flitted by to lift the tray out of his hands.

“Oh—thanks!” He beamed. “I didn’t want to leave a mess for you guys outside.”

A fourth cookie wound up in his mouth as he ventured deeper into the party. The later-night festivities were a lot more familiar; most of the guests were drunk or well on their way, red-faced and staggering, and with well-practiced ease he dodged wayward elbows and gasoline-bleach liquor splashing out of their cups. It took him a little bit to wade through—heh, Wade—the masses until he finally spotted impeccable blond hair.

Peter stuck his arm up. “Hey, Thor!”

Thor whipped around and the slight crease in his brow smoothed out at the sight of him. As he moved, others seamlessly slipped out of his way and back into their original places after he passed. It was kind of like watching a shark meandering through a school of fish.

“Good, you are still in one piece,” Thor smiled down at him. “How have you been faring? Are you having fun?”

“Yeah, everyone here’s super cool!” The teen grinned. “Plus I’m still stuffed from everything. That boar roast is no joke.”

“Aye, it will always remain the shining star of any cook’s banquet spread. Should you hunger for more, the food will replenish until the light of dawn on the morrow.”

“If I want a midnight snack I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

A shout rang out to their left, and both of them turned to see Fandral beckoning them his way with each hand wrapped around the stems of overfilled chalices. When one of them got too close, Hogun pushed it away with a single finger while polishing off his seventh cup, and Sif nursed her own drink with pinkened cheeks and watched her loudest companion with mild, open disgust. 

“Your friends look like they’re having fun too,” Peter chuckled. “What about you? Sober night?”

“I… will partake, of course,” Thor said as he crossed his arms. “The God of Thunder entertains at the heart of celebration, large or small. There are simply things currently on the mind.”

Peter had a pretty good idea about what those things were.

At Sister Margaret’s, his identity was safe for both the civilian and the vigilante. There, Ferret took their place, the too-young babyfaced kid with access to the cash register and the key to the gold card machine. But no matter what he did or how much he could hide, the one thing that was always present was his face. His appearance. His age.

It didn’t help that Thor was hyper-aware about his father either. But unfortunately, he was a little too late to worry about that.

“Well, I hope your mind’s up to wilding out soon because I won’t be able to hype you up while I’m asleep.”

“You are to retire so early in the celebration?” Thor questioned. The corners of his smile turned down. “But you have informed me of your having fun!”

“And I am! But it’s also like, I’m pretty sure I’m running on my twenty-fifth hour awake. I crammed for a test I forgot about last night and I’m not proud of it.”

“Then I shall escort you to your room.”

“Nah, dude, come on.” Peter tapped a fist against the demi-god’s shoulder and flashed his widest, most disarming grin. This was a grin that got a knife away from his face more than a handful of times. “We’re at a party!”

“And you are my guest,” Thor reminded him seriously.

“Who remembers the way back and will ask any of the guards or servants where to go if I get lost. It’s practically around the corner, right?” He gestured to the tens of servants minding the feast and all the pairs of guards posted at the main entrances. “The God of Thunder you keep mentioning wouldn’t say no to that.”

(Later, Thor would think back on this moment and consider himself tickled. Loki used their silver-tongue to bait him into many ill-advised plans that did not seem as thought-out in the throes of their punishments. Of course he would admit that he upped and badgered on their shenanigans more than half that time, but…

Peter was not Loki, and Loki was not he, but Peter was bright and cheerful and mischievous and kind. Some sort of manipulative as well to have aptly convinced him so, but perhaps he would blame the ale he already consumed and the siren call of his oldest friends that whisked him away.)

But now, Thor sighed and dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I will come find you at first light, and you will tell me if any have accosted you this night.”

Peter bobbed his head. “I might still be asleep at first light but don’t hesitate to toss me off the bed if I don’t wake up.”

Thor laughed and tousled his hair until every strand pointed in a different direction.

“I will hold you to that,” he smiled. “Keep safe tonight, Peter.”

“You too! And make sure not to sleep on your back because you can choke on your own vomit if you throw up.”

Thor’s thunderous laughter followed him out as he weaved a path and carried him past the banquet tables—so that roast boar was really good, sue him—and smiled at the guards as he pushed through the doors and into one of the grand arching hallways.

“Esteemed guest Peter?” A new voice queried.

He spun around to see the servant who’d taken the tray from him earlier; less than middle-aged, rust orange hair, around his height. She cradled a simple leather pouch in her hands and held it out to him with a short, polite bow.

“Uh, cool.” He took the super light bag. “Did you want me to take this to someone?”

The servant hid her smile behind her hand. “The confections served to Her Majesty the Queen Mother were on request and not part of the serving list for tonight’s banquet. You appeared to enjoy them, so we packed the rest for you to enjoy at your leisure.”

“Aw, what? That’s so sweet, thank you!” Peter peered into the bag where the cookies were indeed piled up carefully, none of the honey glaze sticking to the inner lining. “Tell whoever made these I’d totally work for them for free to get the recipe.”

Her smile widened, still rushed to be hidden behind her hand. “I will be sure to pass on such a complimentary message.”

She bowed again and moved to return to the large hall.

“Real quick—what’s your name?”

She blinked and turned back to him, hands neatly folded at her front. “Meya, esteemed guest Peter.”

“Just Peter’s good,” he corrected absentmindedly as he tied the pouch to his hip using the string that kept it tied shut. It’d be better to have both hands available in case a raven wanted to jump him on his way back to the guest room and no way he was ending up with a bag full of crumbs. Even if it wouldn’t stop him from pouring it into his mouth like he did with the tail-end of a Hot Cheetos bag. “Thanks for giving me this, Meya! I’m going to try really hard to not eat them all in one sitting.”

That startled her into another short laugh she forgot to cover, her smile bright with her slightly crooked teeth.

“I bid you good rest, Peter.”

“Thanks again! I’ll see you around!”

And he took down the hall, a pack of cookies richer. This had to be a sign of a normal night after he blew his cover in front of his grandma, right?

::

Halfway to the guest room Peter was ninety-five percent sure was in this direction, he stopped.

And looked around at the silent, empty, opulent hallway. 

No servants. No guards. Just him in a palace he didn’t belong in.

HUM.

He crouched and pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead. His spidey-sense thrummed all the way to the ends of his hair; it was like white noise curdled itself awake in his ears and fanned across his skin like needles and digging fingers into his brain. Danger, danger, danger, it hissed and spiked the edges of his vision, hurry, hurry, hurry, go, go, GO—

‘Go where, go where, go where?’ He demanded desperately. A second wave forced him down to one knee, his hands pulling down to cover his eyes from the soft lamplight. ‘Where, where, where—’

“Breathe.” He hears Mom tell him. 

In out in out in out in out.

“Focus up,” says Neena. “Keep it steady.”

In, out. In, out. In, out. In. And. Then. Out.

“Never lose where you are. That means you’re lost,” Wade nods sagely. “Ground yourself. Follow your gut. No one’s gonna get your shit together better than you.”

He slowly peeled his hands from his sweaty skin and blinked away the fuzz in his eyes from pressing against them too hard for too long.

“So what’ll it be, Boy Wonder?” Mr. Weasel drawls. “You gonna sit there and wait for the boogeyman to find you first?”

Peter slowly rose to his feet and straightened. 

The whole world zoomed into perfect parity and passed him by, flowing over his shoulders like a steady stream as he searched the invisible current for the threat. Moving his feet felt like moving through muddy sand in a riptide, but his head was above water. He was breathing. He could count the waves. One foot in front of the other and the other and the other, silent, careful, heavy down a hallway he’d never been before. Thump, thump, thump, went his heart in his head, thudding dulling against his skull and amplifying the unsettling quiet. 

The gaps between the lights stretched longer. The walls felt narrow. He was alone.

But it was down here, whatever it was, whatever made his spidey-sense hum and scream at the same time. It never stopped thrumming just under his skin like a wound he couldn’t sew shut. For hours or minutes he couldn’t tell, he traversed twists and turns and scattered flights of stairs; he was sure he was somewhere below the banquet hall, too far for anyone to hear him and too far to run even with his mutated stamina. 

But down he went, encased in the splendor of soulless riches. 

Until he pushed through a dark wide-set door of something like a vault. Unlike the rest of the palace, the walls here were gray and sloped, angled to give shape to a triangular prism with a pattern of warmly lit panels on both the thin strip of a ceiling and the farthest wall. Several pools of water trenched the boundaries of the dark floor, faintly illuminated two golden bowls of fire burned at the bottom of this last staircase he tread down.

Though it was the alcoves dug into the sides of the room that proved his vault theory right. Each one displayed a brightly lit artifact labeled in runes, and as he slowly passed each one, he noted at least the things he could easily recognize at a cursory glance. A flame, a chalice, a pillar, a crown… 

And then the one at the end of the room that began to glow when he looked at it.

Ice, it seemed like, wreathing wisps of frigid air around it. With a furrow in his brow he drew closer, and its cool blue light undulated within its corners. Closer, even more, and its chill drew a frozen streak though his chest that felt like family.

Peter grasped its carved silver handle and lifted it.

“Stop,” he said in his next breath. “I know you’re there.”

Nothing, for a moment. Then.

“Do you think you are cursed?” An old, raspy voice questioned. He didn’t even consider lying.

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

The voice filled the chamber with a calm baritone—even, grounded, every way a good king should speak to his subjects.

“I’m Loki’s son.” Peter set the artifact down and turned, blue receding from his skin as the rush of cold siphoned out of him to leave behind a muted spidey-sense and the growing awareness of the dagger on his hip. “But you already knew that.”

Odin merely stood at the bottom of the staircase. Collected. Unflappable. He didn’t need to be looming to be intimidating, but that didn’t change the fact that he could probably murder Peter ten different ways from all the way at the other side of the room. It didn’t help that he blocked the only exit. But Peter didn’t come here for a fight, believe it or not. No matter how much Mom hated him—for good reason—this wasn’t his fight. And if it was, he wasn’t sure spiders measured up to divinity and tapping into his heritage would only solidify his place on the execution block.

“There was a time not so long ago that your parent stood where you stood, holding the Casket of Ancient Winters as you held the casket. When their skin changed to those who walked the cold waste of Jotunheim, they were distraught.” Odin took one measured step forward, and Peter’s heel bumped against the pedestal when he tried to step back. Odin eyed the movement but didn’t take another step. “You, on the other hand, present yourself as one with nothing to fear.”

Peter frowned. “What do I have to be afraid of?”

“... Yes. I suppose that would be a truth for you.”

What was telling him all of this supposed to prove? So Mom stood here, so Mom held this, so Mom had to watch their skin turn frostbitten for the first time in their long, long life and they must’ve been so scared. Did Odin know how much Loki hated themselves? How often they apologized to their own kid for passing this down to him, calling it a curse and going legitimately green every single time they saw their own skin bloom into the color they were taught to hate?

All this time, all these hundreds of years, and Peter understood why Mom would always believe they were set up for failure.

Gods, Odin was a fucking bastard.

And said bastard turned his head and approached the third alcove to the left of the entrance, bridging the gap between them by a little more than halfway, and stared at whatever artifact kept on display there. He said nothing, just kept calm in quiet observation like he was at any old museum.

When an entire minute passed and no one moved, Peter mashed his lips together and crept forward against his better judgment. The dagger almost seemed to vibrate at his hip, invigorated by the energy from the Casket, but he wasn’t going to draw it here. Or at least drawing it would be one of his last resorts; Mom and Wade both taught him that it was in poor planning to discount any option including the ones he really didn’t like.

He made sure to keep a wide berth from the King at least an arm’s length away and took a quick look at the…

He paused.

“What… is that?” He asked. A perfectly cut cube laid under a spotlight, glowing almost like the Casket he had in his hands but in a lighter, brighter blue. The light in it didn’t move really, but it… it felt like it was… looking at him?

“Midgardians called it The Tesseract when they placed it in its capsule, and they lost it in one of your wars and unearthed it from ice alongside a warrior,” Odin explained. Peter perked up—this thing had been on Earth? With Captain America? “Others around the galaxies call it the Space Stone, and it was what Loki used to draw the Chitauri to Midgard.”

Peter flinched and turned back to the stone. Magic and seidr were subjects he really needed to study up on. Mom’s personal library didn’t all come in Earth languages and the translation books Thor was letting him borrow would take weeks to work out with his schedule, but he could probably swing that, and if Dr. Strange wasn’t such a douchenozzle his wizard building would’ve been a great place for some light reading. But this Space Stone—how powerful was it that it could open wormholes over whole cities. Regardless of tech or some other security or containment, blending two bodies of natural universal matter…

“Yeah. Mom did. I already knew that.” Peter crossed his arms tight over his middle. “Sir. Your Majesty.”

“And you condone such actions against your realm?”

“I can love them and know what they did wrong,” he said, mouth twisting like he popped a piece of Toxic Waste candy. “Not that it’s really any of your… It was a long time ago. Sir. I was eleven years old in a shelter while the city I grew up in blew up all around me.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. People died that day and that’s not going to change just because…”

Because Mom came back for him.

The Space Stone breathed on its perch, radiating some sense of unexplainable power. The more he stood near it, the more it pressed against the edge of his spidey-sense like it was an exposed nerve.

“Look, is this really what you wanted to talk to me about? You lead me all the way to this secret vault to show me the artifact Mom used to try and take over New York?”

Odin faced him fully and Peter shifted his weight to the tips of his toes for a faster dodge.

“You must understand the curiosity you are, child. You are but fifteen gravitational turns around the largest object of your solar system. A Jotunn walks on Midgard with the gait of a warrior and the heart of a human,” said the King. “Loki’s born, a contradiction, opposed to the violence of his mother.”

Peter’s cheeks began to burn, but not because of embarrassment or shame.

“There are many wrongs I have done in my life,” he remembered Mom telling him when they first revealed who they really were, “but I would not have invaded had I not been under the Mind Stone’s influence, and by that extension, the mad titan.”

How could this guy talk about his own kid like this? All of it just to bring up the attack and how they did it and—

Wait. Hold on.

“The Space Stone,” he muttered to himself, his thoughts running far too fast for his brain to parse through them quick enough. “If that’s the Space Stone, is it related to the Mind Stone?”

Odin tilted his head. “Your knowledge of the Infinity Stones puts you in a more precarious position, then.” There was an uncomprehending weight to those words. The Infinity Stones. “There are few on Midgard who truly understand the extent of their power.” He eyed the boy with a critical gaze. “Are you one of those few?”

Peter pursed his lip, then slowly shook his head.

“When the universe dawned,” he began, the fires illuminating his metal eyepatch with a glimmering sheen, “it came like a tide of war—fiery, explosive, creation instead of destruction. And from such creation spawned powerful, gem-like objects from six separate singularities: Space, Reality, Power, Soul, Mind, and Time, aptly named after what constitutes the living existence.”

Peter never thought of existence that way.

“One stone, as you have already witnessed, is already more powerful than any one entity has the right to control. But due to their nature, the beings that wield them must hold a power of equal intensity lest they find themselves cursed, or ill, or dead. However, the cosmos are greedy. There will be battles over them, the hungry and desperate clamoring for a scattered piece of the universe with vain hope that they will be absolute.” For the first time since coming down here, a furrow creased his brow. But he dismissed it the next moment. “Perhaps one will be after gathering all six, but it is a fool’s thought and a villain’s game.”

“Is there anyone?” Peter asked quietly. “Actively trying to get all the Infinity Stones, I mean,” he clarified after a beat.

“There are rumors of a Mad Titan.” Odin was even more relaxed than before, like the thought was even more ridiculous than his last. “Unless they prove more fact than rumor, I will not hear things that waste my time.”

Funny he said that when he wasted Peter’s time just fine enough.

Peter pursed his lips and pulled his shoulders back, straightened up, raised his chin when all he wanted was to sink into the ground.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” Peter asked coolly. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my visit, especially in a vault I’m not supposed to be in.”

That made Odin stare at him consideringly for a long, long few moments before he turned back to the gleam of the Space Stone.

“You may go.”

Finally.

Peter stepped back and kept his guard up all the way to the stairs where he hopped up them two at a time, his spidey-sense like an extra six eyes all around his head, wide-eyed and waiting. As he reached the top and placed his hand on the heavy door, Odin spoke to him one last time.

“I believe you are destined for great things, Peter Benjamin Parker Lokison.”

Somehow, his full name sounded like a curse, and a foreboding shiver curled up his spine. Odin, the old, gray, wizened God, gazed through him and everything that he was. Peter wondered what he saw.

“But greatness comes at a cost that you must decide is worth it to pay.”

::

The boy dropped himself on one of the golden stairs and sighed around the bite of a baked good, mindful to angle it so the honey and berry bits did not spill all over his lap.

Heimdall raised a brow and glanced down at him. “Hello, young Peter. Are you not enjoying the festivities?”

“Oh no, it was really cool. Spilled beer, loud drunks, fist fighting.” He grinned. “Just like the bar back home.”

He offered up a satchel of treats. Heimdall looked at it, lost for the briefest second before he allowed himself a single one. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be the Queen Mother’s preference. So they had met.

He looked back at this peculiar Midgardian. Dressed in Asgardian fineries and armor of the warrior class, he painted a canvas of one who could have very well grown in the halls of Valaskjalf. Had Loki remained, perhaps those halls would have been filled with childish laughter and the royal family would not have been upturned by the loss of one prince and the ever-growing absence of the other.

But he was The Watcher of Worlds, not The Watcher of Possibilities. While his loyalties remained with Odin, son of Bor, he was well aware that the King was not known for his leniency. A half Midgardian, half Jotunn would not be allowed sanctuary here.

“Then what troubles you this celebratory night?” He questioned. 

The boy rested his arms on bent knees and pillowed his head on the crook of his elbow. Brown hair sat mussed and curled and the back stuck up like he ran a hand over it too many times. Though in spite of all that worried him, his eyes gazed out into the unending macrocosm and the gaseous bodies so close that it would not be inconceivable to reach out for their stellar coronae.

“It just… gets kind of tiring dealing with people’s agendas. I mean everyone’s got one, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’ve got to be so… so…” He flopped backwards, stretching out across the raised platform within Himinbjörg without a care for how its edges dug uncomfortably into his person. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Heimdall?”

Heimdall smiled a bit and tipped his head at the inverted visage beside his feet.

“You may, young Peter.”

“You know about the Infinity Stones, right?”

“I do.”

“And about the people out there who wanted to… to collect all six? And use it for, like, total universal power?”

“I do know about those sorts as well.”

Peter stared up at the ceiling and at the winding, intricate murals on the underside of the dome for a long while before he sighed and his eyebrows began to droop, his arms crossed loosely over his middle. “Do you believe the rumors about the Mad Titan?”

“I believe that Thanos believes he will be able to capture the power of the Stones,” Heimdall responded. He peered closely at the expressions slowly phasing across Peter’s face. Gone was the elation of his inquiries of science and magic he was so enthused by earlier, replaced by a world-weariness that pressed heavily against his shoulders.

“Thanos,” he repeated quietly. “So that’s his name.”

The galaxies flowed. The stars shone. The universe continued to swamp even the grandest of civilizations, leaving the individual the barest speck in its grand design.

“Mr. Heimdall, sir?”

“Yes, young Peter?”

“Thanks for being a pretty cool dude.”

And even awkwardly positioned in a way that contorted his usual shape, his eyes shut fully under a blanket of starlight and gold. Heimdall watched him with his all-seeing eyes of molten constellations for a moment longer before he turned his gaze back out to the careful strokes of nebulae against the void.

“I hope you persevere,” he told the boy once he had fallen into the hush of sleep. “And that you will not be lost in everything else you have to become.”

For the rest of the night, Heimdall kept at his station. The Watcher of Worlds.

(And perhaps still, the Watcher-Over of Peter Benjamin Parker Lokison, as he so promised that short time ago.)

::

“Now, Sister—”

“Do not Sister me, you empty-headed wretch!” Loki snapped. “Asgard! Of all the places in the infinite cosmos!”

“Heimdall is not one so easily swayed—”

“Heimdall is a presumptuous tool and you are a fool! As if that gatekeeper does not work under your command, you allow him to—”

Peter’s tongue stuck out as he focused on untying one of the lengths of twine wrapped around a basket-shaped package. The quick zap back to Earth was just as disorienting as the first and it wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t get loaded with a bunch of stuff he got to take back with him. Not that he was ungrateful or anything! Everything was super thoughtful, he just didn’t think he’d have, well, stuff to take back.

After an out of breath Thor found out he’d fallen asleep at Heimdall’s after apparently running around with a hangover for any sign of him and subsequently began to lecture him on pulling disappearing acts with no notice, he froze halfway and muttered something about sounding like his parents and marched him right back to the palace so they could freshen up before they left.

Peter swore he didn’t take half an hour getting ready when he saw his unused guest bed neatly filled with more than just the books Thor was letting him borrow—reddish-orange berries from Kvistr and Meya, dried meats from Volstagg, what he was told was a rune of protection carved on a small maroon stone the size of a quarter from Sif, more cookies from the Queen.

“It is not as if any one of them suspect you are his mother,” Thor pleaded and definitely didn't whine. “Is that not the truth, Peter?”

“I don’t think anyone suspects,” Peter answered honestly. It wasn’t like Odin and Frigga could suspect anything if they already knew the truth. “But everyone totally thinks you’re my dad.”

“See! I—” Thor blinked owlishly and looked at him. “... What?”

Dark clouds brewed over Loki’s face as a dagger materialized in one hand.

“Wait—no—Sister—I did not—! Sister!”

Peter fist pumped triumphantly to himself when he finally managed to untie the knot without having to slide a knife through it. Take that, Boy Scouts. Wade probably had a knot-tying Boy Scout badge he stole, he could probably throw down the gauntlet and challenge him over it. There had to be a knot-tying badge, right?

“Hey, Mom,” he called out as he slipped the basket out of its packaging and let all the perfect, unbruised berries finally breathe. “Are we supposed to leave these out or should we put them in the fridge?”

Loki paused in wrestling her brother in trying to stab him directly in his side and glanced over her shoulder. At the sight of Peter patiently waiting with a smile, she stopped fully, hesitated, then sighed before she flicked her wrist to dissipate the dagger. Thor breathed a sigh of relief that wasn’t subtle enough and got the flat of a hand smacked into his face for his troubles.

He tumbled dramatically over the arm of the couch and splayed over the cushions.

“How I could have perished!” He bemoaned.

“Shut up, you blubbering oaf, do not believe for a moment that I am finished with you.”

“Shutting up, dear Sister.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes as she strode into the kitchen, long black hair swishing decisively around her shoulders. Her expression thawed slightly at the sight of the berries, and even more at the bright smile that always came so easily to her heart.

“Fruits grown on Asgard hold up much longer than those on Earth,” she said, eyeing the basket and lifting up one of the bitter berries. “These rönnbär are from the palace?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure? They told me about the orchards but I didn’t get a chance to see them.”

“They are tended to year round for bountiful harvests whenever the palace pleases.” Loki‘s brow furrowed and she dropped it back into the basket. “They have always been in my favor, though it has been some time since I have partaken.”

Peter hummed. Didn’t the Queen say these were her favorite too?

“I had a drink made of these at the banquet—” Banquet, Loki mouthed as she sent a withering glare back into the living room— “but can I eat one as is?”

“Raw, no. They maintain toxic properties that will very much disagree with your human side. And are unpalatably bitter as well, though they are much sweeter after a frost,” she said. “They will be much more enjoyable as a tart or a jam, whichever you prefer.”

“Hell yeah, either one sounds great!” Peter grinned. Sweeter after a frost, did that only apply while it was still on the tree or would it have the same effect if it was already picked?

He plucked a berry from the top and carefully held it between his thumb and pointer finger. The ice in his veins already began to stir just at the thought of its power and the tips of his fingers bled that frostbitten blue so he could maybe—

The berry encased in ice, doubling its size. He tapped it on the table. Crack crack crack.

“Well,” he said as he rolled it across the table like a marble. “That’s a lot better than accidentally freezing myself to the ground, right?”

Loki chuckled and rested a light hand against the edge of the basket, and with only the slightest pained pinch to her face, drew an easy wave of frost over the berries.

“Call to it gentler,” she said and brushed a few mussed strands from his forehead. “Next time, try asking rather than demanding. Sometimes this side of you demands its,” her face screwed up more, “respect. You must be in tuned. Delicate.”

“Delicate,” Thor snorted from the couch. Peter pressed a fist to his lips to hide his laugh as Loki slowly turned around with two daggers at the ready.

“Come again, dear Brother?” She questioned with dangerously false sweetness. “Because I do not think there is a working brain under that hay bale on your head!”

“Hay bale?!” Thor gasped. “You have gone too far you cow-horned snake—”

(As she stormed back into the living space she caught sight of the honey-glazed cookies that had also come back into this atmosphere with her son. The taste was already on her tongue, soft and spiced and even sweeter when stolen fresh from the kitchen, from when it dabbed at her tears after disappointing the Allfather once more, from when they were enjoyed on warm balconies where Mother loved to—)

((Her eyes burned. She feverishly wiped the memories away.))

Chapter Text

Granny Sal ashed her cigarette in the jewel encrusted bowl Wade stole off some minor royal in Morocco five years ago and blew a trail of smoke out of the corner of her mouth. At her left, Neena stared down at the cards in her hands—three of them—and sipped on some of the fancy Japanese whisky one of the bar’s regular clients dropped off.

“We don’t have to do this,” Weasel said from Neena’s left. Cool Ranch dusted his fingers and kept away from dirtying the five cards in his hand and his gaze flickered around him from behind smudged glasses. “We can end this civilly. Peacefully.”

To his left, Peter regarded his own five cards with an intensity saved for AP exams. He said nothing as he reached for the bowl of Spicy Sweet Chili, the most underappreciated Doritos flavor, and laid in wait. Wade rounded out the circle at the table and grinned too widely over his ten cards, sharp and pointed and endlessly malicious.

“Peace was never an option, you cock-guzzling lizard.” He slammed a +4 in the center of the table. “Make it as yellow as the piss bottle tower near the dumpster!”

Sal stuck the cigarette back between her lips and dropped another +4 on the pile. “Keep it yellow, sugars. Can we shoot whoever’s leavin’ that nasty shit outside?”

Neena’s stuck down a +4 of her own. God. “Yellow’s good. I thought there was a camera in the alley anyway because someone would not stop vomiting in the same place no matter how much cat litter you put on it.” She looked at her cards. “Also, I’m loving this frankenstein deck. There’s a million cards in here and it’s full of hate.”

“This is what happens when you keep every Uno deck you get over ten fucking years—you birth a monster with fifty red zeroes.” Weasel side-eyed her with a patented stink eye and stacked a yellow +2 right on top of it. Neena jumped in with her own green +2 and a chipper call of Uno. “Jesus Fuck, I gotta purge this nightmare.”

He raised his head, made direct eye contact with Wade, and dropped a blue +2 into the mix.

Wade started to sweat.

“Petey, listen.” Wade turned to the laser-focused teen who hadn’t looked away from the cards once this round. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way—you’re my elbow buddy, my second in command, we bunked together in Vietnam and I let you have the rest of my chewing gum rations—”

“What’s the best Doritos flavor?”

Wade shut his mouth with an audible clack.

Peter slowly spun in his seat, feeling like he should be leisurely petting one of those sphynx cats. But Josephine was the perfect substitute for such a role and allowed him to pet her head as she loafed in his lap.

“One easy answer,” he prompted. “Or I’ll crumble the kingdom you built on nothing but expensive liquor and a dream.”

“I have honor.”

“You have a choice.”

Wade held his chin high despite lowering himself onto his own chopping block. “And my choice is to stand behind my Spicy Nacho and never betray her to the likes of you, you purple-bag sympathizer.”

Peter sighed and shook his head. “That’s a shame, soldier. We could’ve won this war together.”

He pulled from the middle of his hand and sealed his comrade’s fate with an ugly, disgusting red +2.

Wade screamed.

“That’s what your dumbass gets,” Sal huffed as she put down a red three and didn’t blink when Neena emptied her hand with a red seven and cinched her place at the top for the eighth game in a row. “Play stupid games, win Super Loser for the fifth time today.”

“Plus twenty, bitch!” Weasel crowed. “How’s that twenty-nine card hand taste?”

“This deck fucking blows.”

“You are what you suck, chode cheese.”

Wade grumbled and threw the rest of his hand over his shoulder.

It was still early in the day, a few hours before the bar opened where no one had any assignments to complete, mercenary or high school or otherwise. Peter plucked a Spicy Sweet Chili chip and fed it to Josephine and she clucked in appreciation before attacking the corners with vigor. Things had been… suspiciously smooth sailing since his impromptu field trip to Asgard a couple weeks ago and with no ravens to watch for or riddles to wrap his head around, he was content to kick his feet up and not get dead last in Uno.

Him and Ned even finished putting together the Rebel Combat Frigate Lego model set they’d been meaning to do! Look at him, being mindful of a work-life-vigilante balance and stuff. He deserved a gold star for that.

“Oh yeah! Before I forget—” Peter turned to the backpack hanging on his seat and wrestled out a smaller string bag filled with bits and bobs of sleek metal. “Mr. Weasel, I managed to apply that phase switch configuration and amp up that resistance barrier. I’m not going to lie, it really helped that you got your hands on all that StarkTech scrap. Old phones included.”

“A lot of good parts go to waste when people scramble for the new model every year,” Weasel said, taking a sip of his whisky. “You got them to withstand a decent temperature range?”

“They should be functional between -30°C and 60°C. They’ll kick it after five to ten minutes at the extreme ends, but I added an alarm tone that sets off two minutes before they go dead for real.”

“Fuck yeah, let’s see ‘em.”

Peter cracked open the bag and dug around for the beta models and clued in the rest of the table. “Mr. Weasel and I’ve been looking to upgrade the standard comms Sister Margaret provides because right now they’re kind, uh…”

“Cheap,” said Granny Sal.

“Shitty,” Neena supplied.

“Like you took the working parts out of a walkie-talkie you get from the kid’s section at Walmart,” Wade added.

“D, all of the above,” Peter agreed. “So I bullied Mr. Weasel into getting some new upgrades. I don’t know if I’d go straight into into stealing out of back channels—”

“Kid, I’m a perfect picture of malicious scrimping.”

“—but I was able to fix up some decent trials. Here, try it out for a bit, tell me what you think.” He handed a set to Wade and Neena and Weasel and, “Want to try it out too, Ms. Granny?”

“Thank you kindly, sweetie, but I’ve already got my hearing aids.”

“Fair. Maybe in the next upgrade I can make a more hearing-accessible version.” He looked at his boss. “It shouldn’t be too hard to make something like that, right?”

“It probably won’t have all the functions of these ones, but you could probably figure out a good alternative.” Weasel downed the rest of his glass and picked up the bottle to pour himself some more—and for Granny Sal and Wade too when they stuck their glasses out. “You wave that fucking soldering iron like you’re the Harry Potter of Circuitry.”

Wade squinted. “Isn’t there an L in that word?”

“What?”

“Sold -er-ing.”

“L’s silent, dude. Saa-der-uhng.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, why put the L in there if you’re just going to make it silent?”

“Do I look like Merriam Webster to you?”

“I don’t think you could pull off being a Merriam. Marguerite, maybe. Marley at best.”

Peter opened up the notes app on his phone and made a few bullet points for the next upgrade cycle on the comms. And there would be an actual upgrade cycle for their tech if he had anything to say about it.

“I’m going to get more apple juice from the back.” He carefully lowered Josephine onto the floor and brushed chip bits off his lap. 

“Get me some too, please,” Neena said as she shook the ice around her empty glass. “If I have any more of this I won’t be able to drive tonight.”

“Sure! What about you, Ms. Granny?”

“If you can get my pills from my purse—”

“Blue cap, two tablets?”

“Oh, you’re just the sweetest thing.” Granny Sal reached up and pinched one of Peter’s cheeks as he came around the table. “Weasel’s bum ass doesn’t deserve you.”

“At least I can pronounce words correctly.”

Wade grabbed a handful of Spicy Sweet Chili, because he could afford to waste this flavor specifically, and chucked it.

“Hey! There better be some left when I get back!” Peter warned on his trek to the break room.

“I don’t work for unjust causes, Super-Boy!”

Bold words from someone who was about to get a box of only Spicy Sweet Chili straight from the factory on his birthday.

Peter rolled the muscles in his neck as he crouched down in front of the mini-fridge, his gun shifting in his waistband and his dagger pressing into his ankle from its place in his work boots. This shift was going to be a good one, he could feel it; him and Granny Sal had finally convinced Mr. Weasel to make tater tot nachos a seasonal menu item, and what better season was it than It’s-March-And-I’m-Craving-Tater-Tots? No doubt it’d be a hit of the rest of the mercs who were decent potato appreciators.

He dragged the gallon of apple juice out and off its side and snagged a water bottle and shut the fridge door with a foot before heading over to the dark red purse in one of the storage lockers. Mom would be by later to walk him to May’s, too. They did it a lot less often than they did when they first came into his life, but they came by to hang out every now and again to fight with Wade or make Weasel sweat with a single imperious look. But they’d been on edge since Asgard and sometimes scowled directly up at the sky when they were particularly annoyed.

He understood the concern. Hell, it warmed him that Mom cared about him so much, but he didn’t think Heimdall would call him up again so soon.

Heimdall. Not the King or the Queen, because even if he didn’t want him dead like Odin did or spin him around in circles like Frigga did, he had an agenda the same as everyone else.

Why beam him up to Asgard at all if he didn’t?

Peter tapped two pills into his palm before he screwed the cap back onto its bottle and slotted it back into the purse.

The Space Stone. The Mind Stone. The Infinity Stones. 

Thanos.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the break room, chips on his mind and his constant burden of responsibility a little heavier on his shoulders.

::

“Wipe that ridiculous look off your face.”

Peter’s grin only widened. Loki scowled.

“I’m just happy you’ve got friends at work too,” Peter said as Loki fussed over straightening his clothes. It was just a button up, some nice pants, and shoes that weren’t sneakers, an outfit he would’ve worn if he was giving a presentation in class, nothing close to fancy like what Loki as Loren wore today with his pitch black suit and deep brown turtleneck. “Now you’ve got May, Neena, Mr. Weasel, Wade—”

Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes. “May, yes. Neena, an acquaintance. Do not entertain the idea that I more than tolerate the latter two fools.”

“I thought you finally liked Wade!”

“He is barely endurable when he keeps his mouth shut, and he has proven time and time again that he is incapable of even a modicum of respectable bearing.”

“So you like him sometimes.”

The look leveled his way made him laugh as he was spun around so that the invisible lint balls could be brushed off his shoulders. 

“He is the algae that foams on the surface of still lakes.” His mom’s eyes drew to the gold hands of the wall clock, and he purses his lips ever so slightly. “You need not attend if it is not your wish,” he reminded for the thirtieth time in the last hour. “My coworkers have no obligation to your time.”

“I didn’t put on my nice pants to not go.”

“Those are your nice pants?”

“Mom.”

Loki sighed. Maybe it was just long enough that Peter couldn’t remember what it was like to try and decipher the looks on his face anymore, and sometimes he marveled how the God of Lies could have expressions that were so painfully honest—like now with his displeasure sprinkled in grudging acceptance. He wouldn’t have even thought about attending this party if it weren’t a requirement for the Historical Society staff, especially with how his boss urged everyone to bring along a plus one.

So naturally Peter jumped at the chance. 

“It won’t be so bad,” he said as he slung on his jacket and looped his snowman scarf loosely around his neck. “We’ll stay for a while, say hi to everyone, check out that new exhibit, and then we can get Thai before the evening dinner rush. Easy peasy.”

Loki sighed again and donned his own coat a shade darker than his turtleneck.

“We one day must speak of your penchant for allowing yourself into dreadful situations.”

“Meeting your boss isn’t a ‘dreadful situation.’”

“Meeting yours was.”

“You’re just mad Mr. Weasel’s so cool.”

“Cool is certainly a word I would have never deemed fit to use myself.” Loki extended an arm and Peter quickly latched on, wrapping both hands around brown wool, keeping his feet flat and shoulder-width apart, and bending his knees. Green eyes turned down at him, amused. “Ready?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “You know it.”

Cold flashed over his skin like river rapids and the harsh tug at his navel nearly spun him to nausea, but he focused on the black marble under his feet being replaced with concrete in half a millisecond and felt the air he breathed now tinge with ice instead of the ambient temperature of the upscale apartment. 

“You are improving,” Loki said as they stepped out of a shadow in the alley they appeared in.

Good, he thought as he sucked in a deep breath and ironed out the fuzziness in his head. If he ever had to fight a magic user and they warped him around like fast travel he’d have to get used to the brief, spinning headaches he got for the trouble. Was this what a hangover was? Because he didn’t know how people did it if they couldn’t metabolize it before they could order their second drink. Or at least, that was what usually happened with Wade.

“Definitely better than the first time,” he agreed. “You know, I almost ate it when I got beamed up.”

“The Bifröst has always lacked the finesse the individual sorcerer can more easily attune. The force required to bridge light years of distance will rarely manage to contain itself.”

“Yeah, Mr. Heimdall explained it that way too when he went into the politics of the runic knot it leaves and the conquering nature of land branding, branding in general, which, yikes.” He shook his head as they climbed up the steps of the Historical Society. “But you probably know about all that stuff already.” And it probably wouldn’t be productive trying to talk about the ills of imperialism to someone who belonged to the Asgard’s Probably-Imperialist Royal Family But Only Because He Was A Stolen Artifact, so.

Loki hummed in assent but said nothing more as he opened the door to the bright, open interior of the museum. A fair amount of people already milled around inside, swimming in conversation and swathes of business casual wear; lots of earthy tones, bold jewelry, fun patterns on long skirts and comfy sweaters. It was like standing in the teacher’s lounge and he was the new kid who’d mistaken the door for the bathroom.

He glanced down at his shoes to make sure there weren’t ice crystals forming on the soles. 

Mom leaned down, perfectly calm and cool as brown eyes glimmered behind his glasses. “No one has made note of us yet; an escape may be conducted with no shortage of dignity.”

The most menacing glare he could muster only got him a chuckle before they both pulled their eyes over the crowd. Between training and patrol and working the bar, he picked up a thing or two about scoping out a new place. Note the exits. Objects that could be used for cover. Place to hide. Things that could be weapons, which turned out to be everything more often than not.

Dagger on his calf? Check. Web-shooters? Hidden under the sleeves of his button up. No gun today, though, he tried to keep that at Sister Margaret’s.

“Is this like a cube of cheese on a toothpick kind of shindig?” he asked. 

“Why would one deign to cube their cheese?”

“Loren!” A cheerful voice called out from ahead of them. An older, tattooed-covered woman approached them in a bird-patterned skirt that swished around her shins. Pigeons, specifically. Wade would love her. “Right on time, as always.” She turned toward Peter, pleasant surprise gushing through her kind brown eyes. “And you’ve even brought a guest!”

Peter smiled and held out a hand. “You must be Mrs. Iolani! M-Dad’s talked about you—he’s a big fan of your coconut pie!” His smile widened when Loki’s own polite smile twitched. “I’m Peter.”

Mrs. Iolani blinked. “Peter,” she repeated, like if she said it herself it would make the sound of who she knew as Loren having a kid be more believable. She took his hand in a solid grip. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. I wish I could say your father talked about you too! Are you interested in the arts?”

“Dad finds a way to make it sound interesting, but I’ve always been more of a science guy.”

“‘Science Guy’ is not such an apt term.” A hand came down to rest on each of Peter’s shoulders. “He is also one of the top students at Midtown Technical High School. Have you heard of their Academic Decathlon’s recent exploits? Because it is due to Peter here that they were able to cinch their latest victory at their opponent’s absolute laughable attempt at explaining the development of the atomic bomb, an elementary introduction to nuclear physics—”

Oh gods. Loki was that parent.

Just a couple days ago, he and Ned watched a video of a coconut crab demolishing macadamia nuts with a meaty claw and they subsequently learned that they had the strongest grip strength in the world. Crustaceans were the arachnids’ fancier cousin, he always said (not really, but he could always say it if he wanted to), and yet an abnormally large crab wouldn’t be able to keep him in place the way his mom was with this awful conversation. Mom apparently could not shut up about his grades and school and marching band—which he hadn’t been a part of for a year! By the way! And he guessed it didn’t matter that he was going to pass out with all the blood rushing to his face as he watched Mrs. Iolani’s face slowly morph from absolute bewilderment to unbridled mirth.

And she just let him stand there. To suffer.

He should’ve let Mom convince him that this whole exhibit opening would be a bust.

But she started to take pity on him about five full minutes into the one-sided dialogue when she offhandedly mentioned that they had a table of refreshments on the other side of the partition wall. 

Peter had never left a conversation faster in his life.

As he paced towards the promised land of free snacks that did in fact include cubed cheese, he took note of the wood paneled floors and the priceless artifacts artfully set across it. It was nowhere near as opulent as a palace and the halls weren't filled with watchful servants or royal threats, but somehow he felt just as small. He was the youngest person in the room by far and unlike in Asgard, no whispers followed and no ravens traced his footsteps, and if he was able to play his cards right they’d be in and out and eating Thai faster than—

“Didn’t I tell you that shirt makes you look like you own your first tech start up?”

Peter whipped around so fast he almost flung the paper plate he just picked up.

“May!” He exclaimed, not squeaked. Squeaking was for mice, not ferrets. “Wha-What are you doing here?”

::

May raised a single brow.

He really did look a lot more polished today which was a lot easier to notice when all he ever wore were baggy hoodies and too-big flannels and jeans so worn down that she had to make a rule that if he had to mend the same hole more than five times, it was probably time to chuck it in the trash. But now his shoes were unscuffed and his hair was styled with a pinch of product—no doubt Lora’s influence—and his eyes were so wide that she might as well be glowing like car brights on a midnight highway.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Peter’s fingers curled tighter around his empty plate. “... I asked you first.”

“Uh-huh.” She narrowed her eyes; this was about to be a fun conversation. “You remember Tammy?”

“Tammy who makes that awful green bean casserole?”

“Tammy who would’ve heard you say that if she wasn’t looking for her daughter right now,” she replied pointedly but was unable to fully straighten out the quirk at the corner of her mouth. Peter raised a hand in defense. “But yeah, that Tammy. Her daughter’s a curator here so she invited the floor to come see the new exhibit. I’m the first one here, but the others’ll show up later.” She crossed her arms. “Your turn.”

And that was when she knew he started to sweat. He was supposed to be with his mom tonight, and she would guess this place would be something of her style. She’d gone to Stanford, hadn’t she? With a specific history degree she couldn’t recall at the moment?

After a few long beasts, her eyes narrowed further. 

“Peter,” she prompted warningly. He gave a winning smile that never would’ve worked on her in a million years. 

“Has anyone told you how pretty you look tonight?” He questioned.

“Peter Benjamin Parker—”

“Lost yourself in the charcuterie spread, did you?” Came the laughing voice of The Big Boss. Her head pulled in the direction of the voice and—May stopped. And stared. And took longer to realize that her body was starting to forget to tell her lungs to pull in deeper breaths. 

She’d already been introduced to The Big Boss and her even bigger personality when she got there earlier, but the man next to her…

She blinked, and squeezed her eyes, and stared again at The Stranger who donned a nearly identical look of panic to Peter when he met her eye, but it was quick to melt away when he quickly glanced away with pursed lips. 

“There’s a lot of cheese to choose from,” Peter responded weakly. May’s gaze drifted from the top of his head to The Stranger’s and, she noted faintly, she didn’t know why it felt so wrong that their hair was the exact same shade of brown. 

“I highly recommend the vegan cheese selection we got from a producer out in Long Island. Pairs the best with our top shelf Ritz crackers, haha!” She beamed. “You father was just telling me, and boy did he have all the words—” She paused and turned to May— “oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Do you two already know each other?”

But May couldn’t find the words. Father pinged relentlessly around her skull alongside what the fuck and there better be a good explanation for this because something about this felt off but Peter, always too smart for his own damn good, sidled up right beside her and bumped her shoulder with his. 

“May’s my aunt! Other side of the family,” he clarified. What the fuck.

“Really,” The Big Boss mused. She turned to The Stranger. “Had I known Loren was hiding so much family, I would have wrangled him into more events!”

Her booming laughter could’ve shaken the museum at its foundation, and in her good cheer she slapped Loren’s arm as she reached for one of the vegan cheeses. The grimace that twisted his face sparked an uncanny recognition that sent a shiver down from the base of her neck, and when he brushed his sleeve all haughty and pompous it was just like—but that—

May frowned and her wrong-footed feeling didn’t go away. Peter could have friends, could be helping out someone he knew because one of the best things about him was his ability to stretch out his hand to anyone who needed it, but something about this was different. Something about this person was different.

Loren. Lora. Those names were too close. But the person in front of her wasn’t…?

The Historical Society suddenly swelled in sound as all the guests began their slow move towards the newest exhibition.

The Big Boss checked her watch. “Oh, we’re just about to start the full announcement and reveal our newest pieces,” she informed them. “Jeannie really did such a wonderful job putting it all together. Loren even restored a few of the pieces on display!”

Jeannie. Tammy’s daughter. And she’d come here for Tammy, not because she knew jack shit about art or history but because Tammy really was so nice even when her green bean casserole belonged in a pig pen. 

Sorry, Tammy. She would stay longer if her kid stopped finding ways to give her a heart attack.

“We’ll be over in a second. Peter just reminded me that I have something to talk over with his Dad .”

She did feel a little bad when Peter bit his lip and looked down at his plate.

Unaware of the confusing tension or doing a very good job of ignoring it, The Big Boss waved a hand. “Of course, of course, I’ll see you over there. Make sure to leave some cheese for the rest of us!”

And she was gone in a flutter of pigeon-print, leaving behind a strained silence that May wouldn’t stand for.

She breathed in. Breathed out.

“I’m going to go over there, find Tammy, and tell her that something came up and I need to get back to Queens ASAP while you get us a ride back to the apartment because we are not having this conversation in public,” she told them firmly. “And when we get there, you’re going to explain how any of this,” she gestured vaguely to them, “is any part of a good idea. Got it?”

“Yes, May,” the two of them murmur in tandem, and that alone chills her spine like nothing else.

::

In a coarser turn of phrase, perhaps this was one of those moments where he ‘fucked up.’

The taxi to the Parker residence confined a frigidity he was not yet familiar—a novelty to both his years and his inherent nature. On the other end of the backseat May sat, arms folded as she watched the rolling scenery with a thoughtful frown. Beside her, Peter’s shoulders hunched to his ears and his fingers tapped nonsensical rhythms against themselves as he kept his silence. And there too he sat, the bridge between May and himself at no greater distance than this present moment. 

How strange to admit that this ate at him. That the unsurety in his stomach bore against the edge of smithed metal and the taste at the back of his tongue lay a bitterness he did not enjoy. May… Was. Was a presence in his life that did not haunt and just as much of an anomaly as his dear heart at his side. Someone—a Midgardian—he held close when he found none other in the place he used to call home.

May knew him, but did not know him. But with the knowledge she did possess, would it be enough?

(Will I be enough?)

His mind swirled in that same sort of storm until they arrived at their destination and May commandeered them both to the couch.

“Sit,” she ordered. 

They sat.

And then she paced before them like a general in a war room. This was her state for a long draw of time, still bundled in her peacoat as her boots trailed on the rug and her glasses glinted under the living room lights.

“First things first,” she eventually began, finger pads up to her temple as she gained the unusual view of towering over them. She looked at Loki first. “Who even are you?”

He glanced to the side, to the way Peter held himself so tightly that if he were any lesser being he would snap under the pressure.

He forced his attention back and kept his chin poised and raised.

“Loren Fjeld, as I appear to you now.”

Her mouth molded around the syllables of his other name.

“Loren Fjeld,” she repeated. “Alright. And am I supposed to know you from anywhere, Loren? I think I would remember someone who looks like Peter and would go around in public calling himself his dad.”

Yes, well. He could not combat such a fair assumption.

“May—”

She turned the imperious eye all mothers seemed to master on to Peter, to which he responded with a quickly shut mouth.

Loki internally detailed his options. Informing her of his true name had never been an active consideration, and he did not mean that with malicious intent. Lora was who she had always known and resented for a time with good reason, and Loren he had not expected to cross her path at his building of occupation. His own fault for not thinking so far ahead. 

Her eyes cut back to his. 

“Well?” She planted both hands on her hips. “Let’s hear it.”

A lie is a lie is a lie is a lie. It was what he did best, the most prevalent association to his name.

Yet he allowed the green glow of his seidr wash over him. Hair lengthened and darkened and she plucked the glasses off the bridge of her nose and tucked them into the pocket of her blazer as the cloth warped slightly to fit the changes of her shape. 

The frustrated confusion in May’s face tipped more in favor of the latter as she tried to reconcile her sight with her reality—even Peter took his surprise in widened eyes that eased a few layers of tension off his skin. 

“I do apologize for keeping this from you,” she said in the wake of May’s loosened jaw. “I did not tell you not because I did not trust you, no, never that. It is merely…”

She wished her tongue did not lack its usual silver rivers, but just as with Peter, May meant far more to her than the vermin that crawled these city streets and that in and of itself should have forewarned that she could not keep away all the facets of herself forever. Perhaps waiting until she had been back into a corner had been what she was waiting for.

“It, is it…” May paused for a moment, then pushed on hesitantly. “Do you have… magic?”

“Seidr is my branch of it, but yes. It is sorcery I perform.”

Loki carefully observed her from her perch on the couch. Her stomach had no need to act so unsettled, slowly churning this way and that. What need did royalty have for such anxiety? May would not turn him away for this nor would she bar her from Peter’s side, not even when her truth would reveal itself whole. 

The sigh that escaped May’s chest dropped her shoulders, and she brushed stray locks behind her ear. “Peter, if you’ve had magic this entire time so help me god—”

“You think I could get away with that if I did?”

“You got away with being Spider-Man way too long until you left the door open while changing out of your costume.”

Peter flushed. “It was a long day.”

She sighed again and looked at Loki, wearier.  “You know, if you told me sooner I wouldn’t have dragged us all out of the museum so early. The Big Boss was really talking up those vegan cheeses.”

And when she smiled, it was warm. Welcome. Kind.

The pit in Loki’s stomach yawned and stretched its greater maw.

“Mom didn’t want to go anyways,” Peter quipped. “Loren works there, so we went, and we were going to get Thai after.”

May reached over and straightened his crisp, ironed collar. “You weren’t going to stay long? You even wore your nice pants!”

The smug grin Peter turned her way warmed her as it always did, but only this time it did not inspire her quick-wit. Loki could let this lie and take the victory for what it was; her power did not allow her future sight and she could not say how long it would be from now to then that May would stumble upon the god she did not know she knew, but she could bide her time. Sow compelling thoughts that perhaps some events did not cause as much harm as they appeared to, or it was perhaps that people were more than their actions and evidence of destruction was not evidence of poor character. Two thousand twelve was a long time ago, was May remembering correctly? The media had such a way of mincing and exaggerating the facts that they themselves carefully selected.

And suddenly her musings of manipulation were interrupted by a vision of Peter’s imminent disappointment. Then May’s face, angry, terrified, soaked in betrayal.

That was something, even with all her wealth, that she could not bear to afford.

Loki stood. “There is… something more you should know.”

Peter stood too, his cheer once more overshadowed by how his gaze flickered between her and May. Eventually they came to land on his mother, his mouth pressed flat in understanding as he stayed unwaveringly at her side. Oh, her dear heart. Her love. Her boy who deserved the worlds and more.

“Another bomb to drop, huh?” May said as her brows dipped in mild concern. “I don’t know how you can top telling me there’s a sorcerer in the family—and I do have a million questions about that.”

“I will answer all of them to the best of my ability if it is that you decide to keep your association with me,” Loki promised. She clasped her hands behind her back. “All I ask is that you hear my words to the end.”

“And it’s really not that bad!” Peter piped in. The coolness of his skin permeated shirt and jacket in reaction to their shared curs— inheritance. “I mean, not that I’m excusing it because, uh, well, maybe it was really bad and a lot of people die—um!” He thrust both hands out and shook them frantically at May’s widening eyes. “Wait, wait, wait, it makes sense, I swear! Just—Just give Mom a chance, okay? I’ve known for a while and they’ve really just been here to be here and I know I’m biased but I trust them and you do too and that shouldn’t change, right? And yeah, okay, I’m not the most unbiased person and I’m not making a whole lot of sense, and you know what? I’ll shut up now. I’m not making any of this better.” He turned a small, sheepish smile up at her. “Sorry,” he whispered.

The fondness that welled in her chest could kill her if she allowed it so, and she squeezed his shoulder before the chill of her seidr washed her over. And so they became the most common version of themselves, how they mostly were on Asgard’s streets, Valaskjalf’s halls, Odin’s home. 

Green, leather, gold.

For a moment, there was nothing. Silence and bated breath overtook the air until recognition began its trickle through the haze, and they watched the exact point at which the one expression they never dared wish on May’s face bubbled to the surface.

Fear.

“Peter,” May said quietly.

“May, it’s fine! It’s—”

“Fine?!” She barked. “The alien god who tried to destroy New York is my baby’s mother and that’s just supposed to be fine?!”

Loki suppressed the urge to flinch.

She drew in a single, shaking breath and held clenched fists close at her sides as she kept her gaze solely on her nephew.

“You trust them, you said?”

Peter nodded frantically. “Completely. Always. They’d never hurt you or me.”

May looked like she either wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him senseless or take him and run despite the chances of making it out, but she could not because they both knew that this wasn’t his fault. He trusted, and he loved, and he hurt because of how hard he tried to. To May, they were another person that could take advantage of that. 

But they hoped she would listen. (And hoped she would stay.) 

“Then I want you to go to the Thai place with our favorite calamari,” she ordered, and they blinked in surprise. Like a beast drawn to protect her cubs, May held herself steady, planted herself firm despite the cracks in her bravado, stared into the eyes of a hunter who only ever wished to be half the mother this Midgardian time and time again proved herself to be. “You’re going to walk there, not jog, not run, not swing. You’re going to order when you get there, sit and wait for it to be done, and when you come back you’re not going to jog, or run, or swing, you understand? I know about how long it’s going to take you, and you’re not getting back any earlier than that.”

“What? But May—!”

“Go on, Peter.” Loki tilted their head toward the front door and donned a most assuring smile that charmed even the most stolid of warlords. Though in his current company, it only granted them a resigned nod and a deepening frown, respectively. “We will be here upon your return.”

But if the look on May’s face was indicative of their chances, they could only hope that would be the case.

::

What. The. Fuck.

No seriously. What the fuck.

She waited a few moments after Peter shut the door behind him before she focused on calming the trembling in her hands. Peter would be fine, he’d been fine the whole time he’d known Loki. Loki, a mythological god, Thor’s brother, the Avengers’ villain, standing in front of the couch while all the little things she knew about them started to make sense. Their posh attitude, their affluence, the weird way they talked about everyday things like it was the people part that confused them, and May always chalked it up to them being so rich that they might as well have been raised on another planet. 

Which. Well.

Turned out that all along it was a people thing—a human thing, because a literal alien god who could kill her in a split second was part of the family.

God. Or, should she start saying Gods now?

“Are you afraid?”

They were quiet when they asked, all soft words and nothing like she imagined a mass murderer would sound like.

“Am I supposed to be?” May countered. Her voice didn’t shake and when Loki looked at her, their eyes sloped down and she saw nothing of the rampage through the city almost five years ago. She remembered it clearly, the way the skies opened up and how after, any rerun of Independence Day had her changing the channel as the phantom taste of smoke and ozone hit her tongue.

“No, never. It is as Peter said—I would never cause you harm.”

They stepped forward and she stepped back, and their neck bobbed with the force of their swallow as they kept themselves back and held up two empty hands. Did empty hands matter if they could use magic?

Their mouth opened again. When nothing came out for a long few seconds, they closed it, and the prickling sensation at the back of her neck increased tenfold.

“Is Peter really yours?” She asked. “Was it really you back then with Richard, Mary, Ben…”

Loki inhaled through their nose and briefly shut their eyes. “Yes. Before I would often abscond from under Odin’s watchful gaze and spend time here on Midgard. It just so happened that I met Richard upon one such outing, and when I found myself with child I lived in a secluded area in the New York State until giving birth.” Their eyes opened, green irises shadowed and wistful. “I am lucky that my gestation period is comparable to Midgardians so there was no need to explain my true nature when I told Richard I had borne his son.”

May remembered that day, too. Her and Ben had been trying to salvage a particularly bad take on wild mushroom risotto when they’d gotten a frantic call from Richard. He’d just gotten back from his honeymoon when an old fling told him that he had a kid who was already old enough to crawl. 

“Nine months straight was my longest time on this planet, uninterrupted. I managed to host Peter on Asgard for a month after his birth, hidden from all with the help of Heimdall, before I returned to Midgard for another six months. But the Allfather’s suspicions continued to grow and I knew I could not maintain this routine. If I had continued my journeys to this city and tried to maintain my duties as a mother, he would have found out.” Rage, quick and electric, flashed through his gaze like lightning. “I did not exaggerate when I said that Odin would kill him. He was so small, then. It would have been more than easy.”

Yeah, well if they had the power to rip a portal into thin air for an alien army to come through, she couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of power Odin had. 

Power wasn’t something May would say she had right now. She was out of her league, overpowered, out her whole damn mind for letting anger build up in her bones. She was never known for keeping her mouth shut when it suited her, and she wouldn’t start now just because the odds were stacked a thousand percent against her favor.

“So you trusted Peter with Richard and Mary and were gone without a trace. Do you think your intent makes up for everything that you did? You were on Earth five years ago in the city you knew you left your son and you tried to raze it to the ground.” She bit out. “Peter was ten. He was small and scrawny and taped up his glasses because he was too clumsy to be trusted with new ones and he was tucked into my side for hours in that shelter when those aliens flooded the streets trying to kill anyone they saw!”

It was like Loki was rooted to the floor, stricken. What right did they have to look so surprised? 

“Did you even care that you could have killed him?”

“Of course I care!” They snapped. “Peter is everything to me! My mind was consumed by outside forces you could not begin to understand, warped by powers unmatched by any other in the universe and in their clouding I failed to consider—”

“You shouldn’t have failed to consider anything when it comes to him!” She surged towards them, toe to toe as she stared straight up into their face. “You think you could just waltz back into his life despite everything you’ve done, everyone that died? Peter’s probably forgiven you for all of that because he’s got a bigger heart than anyone else I’ve ever known, but who’s going to stop you from going out and breaking it? Huh?!”

“How many times must I reiterate that I would never hurt him?! That I would never hurt you?! Peter is my son, my flesh, my blood, my bone. He bears my curse—” Loki growled and physically shook their head, the intensity in their eyes bouncing the edges like electrons in their atom— “He is mine, and you are my—”

Her anger burned white hot. Theirs? She wasn’t anyones!

“I’m your what?!” She demanded. “Another human you can kill?! Another obstacle in your way?!”

“You are my May! ” Loki roared.

She stumbled half a step back.

They pressed a pale hand over their eyes and took in deep, measured breaths that she could barely hear over the thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump in her ears.

“I do not know what else you would like me to say,” they admit quietly, still turned just to the side with their head tipped down towards the floor. “I do not want to end Girls’ Nights. I do not want to have no one to share a bottle of expensive wine in the midst of laughter over the inanity of ‘reality TV shows.’ I do not want to stop teaching you how to make the foods I learned from the cooks at the Royal Palace. I do not want to lose you, not for anything, even when you and Peter are the very last people I deserve.” They paused, almost as if realizing what they said wasn’t what they meant, but were too far along to take any of it back. “I know I have done many deplorable things to you, your family, the people of this city, but with you and Peter I believe that the very least I can do is be there when I was not. Does that make me good? Certainly not; my tongue will never dull from its sharpness, I rage when I should calm, and trickery and cunning will always be woven through this crooked heart. I have killed, and I can assure that I will kill again.”

Loki finally looked at her, and she almost couldn’t reconcile the way their eyes shone with an unshed wetness.

“I would do anything for Peter, and I would do anything for you,” they said. They promised. “And I hope that will account for something.”

And all May could think of was how terrified she was. 

Here this otherworldly being stood, this deadly god… Her jaw tightened. She could keep standing here too, thinking the same things over and over and over again, but none of that changed anything. Alien. God. Deadly. Loki. 

Who was also Loren, who worked as a museum conservator.

Who was also Lora, who was a mother who was trying her best. 

May wound her arms around Loki’s middle and tugged them close, all of a sudden wrapped in the strange mixed scent of leather and early morning frost. She was losing it. She had to be if she was doing this, and wasn’t Loki known for being the God of Lies? If this was one gigantic manipulation they were doing it was flawlessly executed, because she also didn’t want to end Girls’ Nights or wanted to find another wine buddy and wanted to keep learning to cook and didn’t want to lose them either, dammit.

She felt their muscles tense through all their layers of clothes before a pair of arms envelope her tight, afraid to let her go.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” she said into the thick material of their shirt. “Don’t think I’ll forget the things you did so easily.”

“Who would you be if not endlessly upstanding of your beliefs?” They murmured, and she huffed and squeezed for a long moment.

First a superpowered kid, and now an in-law from space. She wished Ben was here to see just how crazy her life had become.

“Tonight was supposed to be mildly boring,” May said as she leaned back from their embrace. “I had a date with leftover bolognese—you know, Peter’s getting real good at cooking. If he’s never made pasta for you yet, you should try some.” As she peered at the clock, a different thought struck her head. “Does everyone really think you’re dead?”

They nodded. “My brother has recently discovered my whereabouts, however, but has sworn himself to secrecy. Next time the oaf decides to visit, I will have him meet you.”

Thor was lurking around here too?

“Did you know Thor is Peter’s favorite Avenger?”

Loki sniffed and made a motion of swiping their hair from their face, and she didn’t call out how close it looked to them wiping their eyes. “Yes, I have had a conversation or two on his substandard taste in heroes.”

And speak of the devil—the front door banged open and in a rustle of plastic, Peter slid into view with a take out bag in each hand. He was at no loss of breath but his hair was back to its untamed nest and the speed of him looking back and forth between his mom and aunt was going to put a crick in May’s neck.

“Speedwalking is walking!” He exclaimed. “And when I got there there was this huge line and by the time I was able to order the guy that has a crush on you was like ‘Oh, is May not here?’ and I was like ‘Nah, I’m just putting in an order but I’ll totally tell her you said hi’ so he threw in some shrimp rolls for free and—and—” He paused, went back to shut the front door, and reappeared in the living room. “Um. I’m guessing that since Mom’s still here we’re all good?”

May and Loki exchanged a glance.

“There’s still a lot for us to talk about, but we’re good. For now.” She pointed a finger at them both. “But no more big secrets like this, got it? Between the two of you, you’re going to give me indigestion.”

Peter laughed as turned to set the bags of Thai on the table, still-warm food filling the apartment with mouthwatering spice.

“Yeah, May,” he said. He bent over the knots he still had trouble untying to this day, his face shielded by nimble fingers and condensation-covered plastic. “No more big secrets.”

Chapter Text

“You’d look absolutely terrible in that hat.”

Peter turned to her, affronted. “I would rock the hell out of that hat!”

“You know yellow’s not your color, right?”

“My school blazer’s yellow and I think I look pretty snazzy in it.”

“They got you walkin’ ‘round like the king of Del Monte? What the hell are they doin’ to you kids these days?” Granny Sal smacked her lips as they wandered away from the store front window. “Reminds me of Al. You know my sister Al? She’s got this big ugly coat she got off this pimp lookin’ motherfucker years and years ago. Real fur that keeps you warm from the thick collar ‘round her neck all the way down to her knobbly-ass knees. She’ll wear that thing every day you can call winter even when she’s out and about in those velour tracksuits like they ain’t been out of fashion the last thirty years. That’s why we call her Blind Al.”

“I think Wade told me once that she’s like, actually blind.”

“Oh yeah. Couldn’t pick out a red sock out of a load of whites.” She nodded as she hiked her purse up on her shoulder. “But that ain’t no excuse to walk around like you are.”

bristle

Peter laughed, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets as they meandered down the street. The overcast skies made the day feel colder than it really was and they were on their way to work, really! But he’d stopped by Delmar’s for a snack before work and bumped into Granny Sal just as she was stepping out of the cleaner’s, and here they were. Looking at hats she didn’t believe he totally could pull off.

He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed. “Did you see that text Mr. Weasel sent out about the merc influx we’re going to get in the next few weeks?”

“I saw the order list. That’s a lot of boxes of chicken wings you’re gonna have to haul into the freezer.”

“And a lot of buffalo sauce you’re going to have to whip up for them.” They stopped at a crosswalk, and he subconsciously moved the old woman away from a puddle. “Any chance I’ll finally convince you to give me the recipe?”

“Do you see me in my Sunday best cozied up in the coffin of my dreams?”

He held out an elbow for her to take as the corner grouped up with more people. “I’ll wear you down before you’re dead. I can be particularly annoying if I want to be, five star guarantee.”

prickle

The orange hand dimmed for the walking guy to brighten, and Peter steered them away from the most obvious path to the bar. He kept count of how the bodies around them thinned out and just how much longer they had to walk, and a split second decision had him turning towards a system of darkened alleys. The sooner they got down to it, the better.

“Can’t be that annoying if you haven’t tasted the butt of my ladle,” she said. She lifted his hand to pat the back of it. “Who’s out there callin’ you annoying? Let me know ‘cause they won’t be ready for what I still got packin’.”

“An extra mean swing?”

“Well that too.”

PRICKLE

He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending he was massaging sore muscles. “Hey, actually, do you want to go on ahead? I think I left my wallet back at Delmar’s and I’ll need it before school tomorrow.”

“Sweet pea, you could lose an apple in an orchard.”

“Wow. Okay. Totally uncalled for—”

spike

Peter angled himself just to the front corner of Granny Sal and took the full brunt of a sideways strike. A grunt burst from his lips as cold metal rang against his shoulder blade and he braced an arm over his head as a second something careened down against it, aiming for his head. 

“Shit!” He heard Granny Sal shout from behind him. A third blow was about to rain down—he could see it, smell it, taste the iron in his mouth long before he let it crack across his cheek. It brought him down to one knee, and the hands that landed on his shoulders were the perfect cover in keeping his balance before they were ripped off not a second later. Behind him, he watched a cloth sack drop over Granny Sal’s head and his vision went dark almost immediately after. His arms pulled behind him, ziptied, and the sound of a van door sliding open echoed in his ears before he was thrown in first. Granny Sal followed, landing on his legs with an out of breath oomph as the door slammed shut.

“Ms. Granny—”

“I’m fine, sugar. Just fine.”

At the sound of rustling a dull few scrapes of slip-on shoes on the van floor when the van lurched forward and jerked them to the side, Peter leaned forward until his shoulder pressed against one of Granny Sal’s and pushed her all the way up until she was in a proper sitting position.

“Goddamn,” she murmured under her breath. “What about you? You good?”

“Yeah, all good. I’ve had worse.”

Peter strained his ears to listen to the outside as it passed them by.

If he was alone, this would be easier. He didn’t get jumped much as Puny Peter Parker, but he did get mugged once before the bite. He definitely didn’t get whacked with a tire iron three times before getting nabbed, though, so unless the game severely changed since then—which it didn’t because he would’ve seen that out on patrols—then this was targeted against him and Granny specifically.

Which meant that this was probably Sister Margaret’s business and he needed to be Ferret, not Peter, and definitely not Spider-Man. He couldn’t out himself as enhanced without drawing attention to everyone associated with him, and things would get complicated if someone took that extra leap in thinking of putting him in as the other half of Dead and Blue. What would happen after that? Would they get extra hands to deal with the mutate, tail him back to not only Wade and Neena, but to Mom? To Ned? To May?

There was too much at stake to get found out now.

Damn, what a time to run into Granny Sal on the way here. But if it was the two of them that were getting chased after, he was glad she wasn’t caught on her own.

And hey, look at the bright side. He was always talking about how he’d never been kidnapped before, and if the blood in his mouth was anything to go by, it was going to shape up to be a real solid one.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispered as he settled his back against one of the van walls and stayed close to Granny Sal just in case she lost her balance in all this shitty driving.

“‘Course we’ll be fine,” she whispered back. He flexed his hands behind his back, careful not to snap the zip ties with the slightest movement. “Ain’t no other way to be.”

Man, Granny Sal was so cool.

::

The creak of the door hinge and the subsequent smack of it bouncing against the wall wasn’t enough to pull him away from the breaking his score in Candy Crush, except the fucking cold in this warehouse fucking might. But in his last four lined up orange cough drops or whatever the fuck and the victory screen popped up congratulating him on completing the level, he blacked his screen, slid it in his back pocket, and set his hands in his Givenchy hoodie pockets as he strode forward to greet their new guests.

“Where’d you find them?” He asked. Jonny With The Gold Chain unraveled a length of rope and started tying down someone in the first chair. 

“On the way to the bar comin’ from Queens. Not too many routes out from there, easy to spot.”

“When’s the bar open?”

“Couple hours,” Jonny With The Silver Chain responded from his side.

“Then we’ve got a couple hours to get our point across.” The second someone was pushed into the second seat, and the second rope hadn’t even been fully unraveled yet. “How fuckin’ long does it take to tie up two motherfuckers in two motherfuckin’ chairs?!”

“Sorry, K,” came the resounding chorus of the five other members of his crew. After the last knot tied down on the second chair, he jerked up his chin.

“Aright, let’s see what you got me.”

The bags tore off their guests’ heads, and a short laugh escaped out his mouth without a second thought. 

“These two? It’s these two motherfuckers who’re the regular employees at that shit ass bar?” He gestured incredulously to the first chair, some Ned’s Declassified dish boy,” and then the second, “and Aunt Jemima the cook?”

“Whoa, man! Not cool!”

“So you’re just gonna stand there and not have any manners? Alright, I see how it is.”

He raised a hand, and two guns cocked and aimed, and he’d admit he was impressed when neither one of them cowed. When he read up on New York’s infamous Jack Hammer—right, whatever, fucking Weasel —he didn’t know how some rat-fuck that had less spine than a slug could run that many mercs in a single city. It had to be a joke. Fuckin’ had to be, especially with this sorry excuse of a crew he was running.

“You know who I am?” He asked.

“Uh, probably the guy who ordered us to get kidnapped,” Dish Boy answered plainly. “Two out of five stars. Getting jumped like that was pretty spot on but the hospitality could use some improve—”

Jonny Gold backhanded him.

“Do you know,” he started again when he got a good look at the kid. Dark red stretched across one cheek in a thick strip and he spat to the side, a viscous blob on the ground, “who I am ?”

Cook raised a single eyebrow as Dish Boy answered for the both of them. “No, not really.”

These motherfuckers.

He stepped closer, but not close enough to be in kicking range if they managed to pull their shins away from the chair legs.

“Kairo Green. Remember it.” He bared his teeth, flashing the three of them that’d been replaced with gold. “You know me now?”

And they should. They’d be living under a whole goddamn boulder if they didn’t realize the empire he was starting to build under these streets. 

“Kairo Green,” Cook repeated. She furrowed her brow and turned her head. “No, he’s right. Swear I heard that name somewhere before.”

Dish Boy was… thoughtful, and Kairo thought he had a massive set for being daycare-aged. The sack had fucked up his hair, frizzing it and splaying it over dark brown eyes way too sharp for his fucking face. 

Kairo frowned. He didn’t like that look.

“Yeah, this guy put a barrel to Mr. Weasel’s head.”

He didn’t like the way the anklebiter said that either.

“Long list of those types.”

“Uh, maybe the most recent one? From a few months ago. He was LA-based, moved over and didn’t like some of the products Mr. Weasel was middle-manning—”

“Ah, right, right, right. Don’t put me in an old home yet.” She sniffed and looked forward. “So you weren’t happy and got your ass kicked to the curb for your troubles—what’s that got to do with us?”

Kairo held out a hand for Tallboy to drop the bags skimmed off them in the van and filled with any other things found on their person. He opened up the purse first and rooted around until he found a micro pistol, Kimber, stainless, pink pearl grips. Cute. He shoved it back into the purse and tossed the whole thing to the side. 

Cook huffed, but said nothing. Smart choice for an old waste of space.

Next, the backpack. An honest to god fucking school backpack, and he had to rifle through folders and loose papers and a dog-eared book to reach—

Dish Boy narrowed his eyes when he pulled out a long, glimmering dagger engraved with writhing snakes. The hilt, dark and smooth, sat unblemished in his palms as he turned it around.

“Kids shouldn’t be playing with knives,” Kairo tsked. “‘Specially not with ones that cost more than you’re worth. Who the fuck are you skinning with this?”

He threw the backpack to the side and tossed Jonny Silver the blade.

“Happy early birthday,” he bid dismissively. Jonny Silver grinned as she twirled it between her fingers and wandered off to the side, busy admiring the shine through her choppy layers of faded green hair. “Now you know who I am and you’ve got an idea of what I do. Wanna take a wild guess as to why?”

“Uh.” Dish Boy jut out his chin in a mockery of thought that was steadily stoking a fire on him getting pissed the fuck off. “Because you need to find something to fill up the day?”

Kairo jerked his head. Jonny Gold curled in his fingers of the hand with the biggest rings and socked him in the middle of his gut.

“Any real guesses?” He paused, waiting for another tired quip or snide comment, maybe a real fucking answer if he wasn’t talking to the class clowns on each end of the age pool. “No? Shit, I don’t know how Weasel runs his shit when he’s got you two deadweights sinking the boat, but fine. I’ll spell it out so it gets through your thick fuckin’ heads.”

He waved off Three-Bit and Spanner, the two pocketing their guns as they went to collect the tools from the side room. Kairo took another step forward, his kangaroo skin boots new, impeccable, and wouldn’t be caught dead in that shithold they called a bar.

“You kick my ass to the curb—” he started. Tallboy tipped Cook’s chair and held it in place on its back two legs and as Kairo leaned over her, he looked for any trace of apprehension. For worry. For fear.

But she took her time to look him up and down and hmphed before she turned up her nose.

This geriatric ass bitch.

“—and I’ll show you what happens when your dumbfuck boss sends me out AND gets Spider-Cunt to do his dirty work for him!”

Spanner came back with a pair of wooden baseball bats speckled with dried blood and handed one over with a small upturn of her lips. It wasn’t the best bat in the world and they had to replenish their stock more often than not but hey, he was pretty hot shit back when he still played baseball and anyone who knew him then could attest to his mean fucking swing.

Kairo set the end of it against Cook’s chin.

“And I’m gonna start by making a fucking example out of you first.”

He pulled the bat back and—

“Real classy,” Dish Boy drawled, and how the fuck was this shithead still TALKING. “Dude, who even raised you? Respect your elders, especially the ones who put up with your lame BS.”

He growled and slammed Cook’s chair back onto all four legs and slowly turned to the side. This fucking kid wasn’t old enough to drink, and he’d bet anything he wasn’t even mucking up to the siren call of senioritis—shit, he kept a knife in a Thor-themed backpack.

“Is there anything else you can do besides run your fucking mouth?!”

Fingernails dug into the cold skin of the boy’s cheeks as he grabbed his chin and forced him to look up. Eyes like ice and blood running slow droplets out of shallow cuts, where the fuck did he find the guts to yap and yap and fucking yap ?

“You know what happens to brats who don’t keep their heads down and worry ‘bout themselves?”

Dish Boy rolled his eyes, and he’d yank them out of his head if he were a lesser merc. “What about you? I know you can’t figure out how things work around here, but I don’t think you’ll get brownie points for beating up the older folks.”

The side of the bat squeezed up against his jugular until he choked and wheezed, and he only eased fractionally when his face started to go a little blue just as out came Three-Bit with a chain, a crow bar, and a tire iron, the indecisive fuck. 

“Wanna puff out your chest and save the day for the little old lady?”

But an indecisive fuck with great timing.

“Wanna sit there and mouth off and act like everything’s gonna end up fine and dandy at the end of the day?”

He pointed at Cook and swept his hand to the side, signalling to Tallboy to drag her out of the way. So he wanted to play this like it was some big fucking game? Yeah, sure, they could play the best one out there.

He tapped his bat against the side of his boot and rolled his shoulders. “Wanna be a hero, kid?”

And Dish Boy only lolled his head back, his smirk boxed in by blood and growing bruises. “I don’t need to be a hero to deal with a loser like you.”

Famous. Last. Words.

Kairo grit his teeth, raised the bat, and swung to knock it out the fucking park.

::

The playing cards collapsed into a sad heap on the bar top.

Weasel sighed. “God fucking dammit.”

“My tent folded like that when I spent two weeks in the Alaskan wilderness. The one I got from that guy who huffed Elmer’s glue on his smoke breaks, not the one who made me put a pillow over my jeans when I talked about the Michelin Man.” Wade took a swig of his beer. “I appreciated the extra layers; it made me feel like the world’s biggest burrito.”

“Your toes didn’t turn blue?”

“Nah, but a bear tried to make me breakfast. Chicks dig the burrito.”

“Burrito, clump of unwashed meat. Yeah man, totally synonymous.”

Weasel slid the cards into his hands and tapped them against the wood to smooth the deck’s edges. He usually wasn’t one to pull out the old Vegas souvenir deck from under the register to run his rounds of stacks or solitaire or poker squares right before bartending, but it was thirty minutes ‘til doors and both Ferret and Sal had yet to make an appearance. It wasn’t too worrying for the kid—as prompt as he was, a lot of the time it was only by the skin of his pearly whites and he spent the last five minutes before they opened trying to catch his breath while tying on his apron with lopsided knots. But Sal? Sal who needed to prep the kitchen her way by her rules or else it was a ladle to his ass as she chased him back out into the bar?

He split the deck. Bent them. Shuffled. 

A couple stray cards spat out of his grip. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

“Mr. Ham Hands,” his best idiot started to sing to the tune of Mr. Sandman , “hand me a ham—”

The back door slammed open.

“ Jack! ” came a raspy shout from the back, and Weasel didn’t realize how fast he could maneuver through his own bar until he burst through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Wade hot on his heels.

Jack. 

Sal never called him Jack .

And as he wrapped around the end of the shelf stacked with boxes of spare plates and half-off utensils, he nearly tripped over his own feet and grabbed onto the metal brackets to catch himself. 

“Oh god.” Smudged lenses sat between his eyes and the rest of the world, but it didn’t distort the worry in the face of one of his oldest employees. Clear as day, against his will, he saw her take ragged breaths, saw the light bruises on her face, saw the tears on the sleeves of her coat, saw her hands covered in wet red as she held close— “Jesus fuck. Holy shit.”

There were two people spilled across the floor of the back entrance of the bar. One of them was a battered Salfia Sarah Sanderson. The other could have been a corpse, hair soaked crimson, face utterly unrecognizable under all the black and red and swollen purple—

Weasel swallowed, and turned, and dove for the first aid kit they kept with the pots and pans. 

“He needs a hospital,” she demanded. 

“No hospitals,” he answered. “He can’t—They won’t—” He slammed the cabinet door with the flat of his foot and yanked open the top of the box. Wait, did he need towels? He needed to clean up the blood first and he could use the gauze but there was just so much— “No hospitals.” He repeated firmly.

“We can’t help him here!”

“I’ll call his Mom and— shit . I’ll have to call his Mom and she’ll flip the fuck—”

“Look at him!” Sal snapped. “Look at him, goddammit! We can’t help him here! ”

Weasel stared down into the first aid kit, one of the few splurges he knew were necessary to keep at the bar. He didn’t want to look again.

Not at a should-be corpse.

Not at the frighteningly still body of one Peter Benjamin Parker.

“Who did this?”

Weasel flinched and looked up. Here he was worrying the hell out of himself about the corporate cut-throat that was the mother like Peter’s pigeon-figure wasn’t standing right there as God’s own witness. His mask wasn’t out to cover his fuck-ugly mug and through the rough and ragged scars that the cancer morphed his skin into, his boiling anger bled. Wade was… Just like any other merc with standards higher than lake scum, he didn’t deal in any business that hurt kids. Weasel himself kept that shit far away from his bar and adjacent working circles and in turn the mercs who frequented had a moral line he was willing to deal with.

Sal’s mouth pinched and curled down, her dark eyes tired but pissed all the same. “Kairo Green and his lackeys.”

Weasel groaned and rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead and probably smudging them even more as he knelt down on the tile floor. The Kairo Green who got the shit kicked out of him by Spider-Man and starred in the incident that led him to finding out Spider-Man’s identity against his will in the first place? 

That Kairo Green was stupid enough to mess with his people? With the cook he’s had since he opened this damn bar? With Wade’s kid ?

What a true blue fucking idiot. 

He reached for the disinfectant a couple gauze pads to at least wipe off the blood—as much as he could wipe off before he ran out because it was only a matter of when, not if, but barely got the cap off the disinfectant spray when Wade reached down and scooped the kid into his arms like he was an empty cardboard box. Peter didn’t move—Weasel wasn’t even completely sure that he was breathing—and Wade cradled him close to his chest like he was something precious, a careful hand on his back to keep his head pressed to a leather-clad shoulder and the other wrapped under his knees to hold him in place. 

“Take Sal to Al’s place. Help her out,” Wade said to him, never once taking his eyes off the kid in his arms. God, that really was just a kid. “Then meet me at Olstad’s.”

“Olstad’s?! I can’t just fucking roll up to Olstad’s —!”

And he swept off out towards the front of the bar without another word.

Weasel sat there, dumbstruck, before Sal clicked her tongue and brought him back to the open back door of Sister Margaret’s.

“Yeah, I’d kill the bastard too if I was twenty years younger and didn’t have arthritis eating up my knees,” she huffed. She moved to get up back onto her feet and Weasel was quick to reach out, offering his arms as an aid and throwing one of hers over his shoulders when she slowly began to find her balance. “Thanks, boss man.”

“Can’t have you getting more hurt on my watch. I’m gonna have to close the bar until I can get you back in the kitchen—you know how much business I’m gonna lose ‘cause you two decided to get your asses in trouble?”

A hand smacked the side of his face and jolted his glasses.

“Ow!”

“Dumbass. You’re the one he got mad at, especially since you’ve apparently got Spider-Man helpin’ toss out the trash.” Her cracked lips pressed together as they slowly hobbled towards the Subaru parked on the other side of the building. “Spider-Man. Didn’t know he got into the messes ‘round these streets.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Mhm.”

“No, seriously. I don’t condone any Spider-Manning within a three-mile radius.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he listens to you real well.”

Weasel’s brow twitched. “... I literally don’t know how I’m not being sent into cardiac arrest because of all the stress he gives me.”

“Kids these days,” Sal said as he popped open the passenger side door and slowly eased her into the seat. “They don’t stay down when they should and get hurt ‘cause they didn’t. They get back up every time to keep people safe when they should be worryin’ bout themselves too.” Her fingers curled in her lap. “These stupid, stupid kids. Don’t they know all they’re supposed to worry about’s getting back home safe and sound and not worrying about cranky grandmas old enough to go back to the dirt?”

Weasel sighed and tilted his head back to gaze up at the growing March evening. “That’s what we get for liking the one kid that turned out to be better than the rest of us.”

“... Yeah.” She swiped at her eyes, and he had enough tact not to call out the single tear that escaped out the corner of her eye. “Don’t I know it.”

::

Before, nothing sounded sweeter than his head finally shutting the fuck up.

Forcefully becoming a mutant was one thing with all the pitfalls of his cancer and the unending cycle of deterioration and regenerations in a circle of life that Rafiki would never be proud of, but the appearance of White and Yellow had been something else. It wasn’t just him in his head anymore, and as someone who didn’t have any voices before the landslide of his psyche, he could admit that he could’ve handled the revelation in a classier way.

Bullets, blades, blunt force objects. Regardless of the poison, it all ended up in him scrubbing off his own brain matter off the walls and calling up Stanley Steemer because you know what? They did make his home cleaner. 

At least it wasn’t all in vain. When his Deadpool career first took off he had a suicide list and checked it off more than twice before he settled down with the fact White and Yellow were never going to leave. But in that low down year he did find out he’d lose them whenever rage boiled so scaldingly against the corners of his skull that there simply wasn’t any room for them to yap. Those came few and far between, though. He was at that ripe old age that living in anger wouldn’t do more than give him a migraine that choo-chooed ahead of the chronic pain train.

But now? Actually alone with his own thought because a couple of assholes couldn’t keep their hands to themselves?

Bummer.

Wade checked the chamber of one of his Desert Eagles for the third time.

And the longer he was left to think, the more the red grew at the edge of his vision.

Kids. Seemed like an appropriate topic to stew on tonight. Good kids, bad kids, whatever the descriptor and its connotation—when did people stop giving a shit when it came to kids? They were next in line for a future the adults before them couldn’t properly build and were fucked before they were old enough to be able to do anything about it. And if that was the sort of care and consideration they were giving to future generations, the least anyone could do was not beat one of them so bruised and bloody that they’d be dead ten times over if they weren’t lucky enough to be Spider-Man . 

The cold white gaze of his mask cut down to the network of warehouses below and to the insects that crawled between mislabeled boxes and vans marked as near perfect duplicates for some local home cleaning service.

He thought about having kids for a fleeting moment once upon a time. When he had hope, when hope’s other name was Vanessa. 

Wade swung his gun around faster than his head could follow and when his gaze caught up and his finger primed on the trigger, he leveled the barrel mere inches away from the center of a very familiar forehead. 

“Olstad! Baby!” He chirped. “We gotta meet on prettier rooftops.”

And the barrel remained unwaveringly between hard cut jewel eyes. 

There was something that burned so sweet in the middle of his chest the way she always looked at him like he was lower than dirt. Lora Olstad, corporate queen, all sharp angles and sharper words as she stood four inches over him in her four inch heels. He was nothing but a wiggling invertebrate she could quash between her fingers, that he’d beg for her to do on any other calendar day, but he couldn’t let all that distract him. Not today.

“And I do wish we would not meet at all. But alas, tonight we both still will not get what we want.” A cold gaze flickered from his head to his toes in unguarded distaste, and he barely contained his full-body shiver. “You left.”

Wade nearly swooned.

“Usually when I hit it I don’t want to quit it so say the word and next time I wind up a next-day delivery on your doorstep—”

“I would not have thought you one to leave Peter’s side before he has woken,” she said. “You spoke none of your particularly inane chatter as you helped dress his wounds with the care I did not think you capable of, and then you had spirited away when my back had turned after that trembling leaf of a Weasel appeared in front of my accommodation.” His lips pressed together beneath his mask. He didn’t think she’d be interested in any of that. “For what reason did you leave that you did not want Peter to wake up and see?”

Y’know, if Olstad appeared earlier and without any attachment to his taco buddy, there might’ve been an instance where he would’ve been paid to separate her body from her head. With powers he didn’t understand and the confidence to back her you’re-nothing-compared-to-me attitude, there were a hell of a lot of people in New York alone that’d want her one of two ways: on their side or dead.

He shrugged as he finally lifted the gun away, twirling it by the trigger guard around one finger. “Don’t tell me you came all this way to watch a guy put in work for a job that should’ve been done yesterday.” He paused. “Unless watching’s your thing and if you’re into it, I’m definitely into it—”

She turned her head to gaze over the ledge at the warehouses and marked vans and the little specks that trooped around unaware of the axe hanging precariously above their heads. When she looked back at him, eyes dark and shadowed in a way that Peter’s could never be. Bolts of ice froze around emerald irises, rage heavy in her piercing glare. “And do not tell me that you have found the worthless scraps of flesh who harmed my son and resolved to keep it to yourself.”

Well. Point.

“They’re dead either way and I work alone.” Mostly. “Now as fun as this has been—and I’m tellin’ ya, prettier rooftops will really make the mood—but like I said. I’ve got a job to do.” He tapped the gun against her shoulder and slid the barrel on its side to rest against her smoke gray coat; one pull and he’d catch her pale jaw, splattering red against white and ink black. What was it they said about the fairest of them all? “Your boy doesn’t kill. You gonna tell me the same?”

His back hit the rooftop in the middle of his next blink.

A crack of bone followed almost immediately after and his Desert Eagle twisted out of his snapped wrist. Fingers locked around his neck like a carved marble collar and the thrill of a broken distal radius nearly delayed the swing of his free arm towards her head, the serrated blade he pulled from his thigh cutting through the air like room temperature butter. The momentum carried him back up and over, but her own blade materialized out of nowhere to drive through the back of his hand to pin through the palm of his already broken hand, both driven to one side of his body in a bloodied meat-concrete sandwich.

Her knee pressed into the center of his torso to hold him down regardless of his ribs creaking inwards as she bent down, nose to mask covered nose, her fingers cold and tight against his jugular as he was engulfed in the scent of fresh water, leather, unripened berries. 

“I have ripped away more lives than you can ever fathom in your pathetic waste of a lifetime,” she hissed. She twisted her blade further into his hand and warped the stringing skin of his palms, and Wade bit his lip to hold back a moan. “All of them writhing in their viscera, begging for mercy as I cut them down one after the other and their fate shall be yours if you continue down the path you tread. Will you keep running your incessant mouth, you brain dead cur, and fall to me next?”

He was falling so fast he was going to be the next most beautiful suicide off the edge of the Empire State.

“If running my mouth keeps your hands on me, you’ll have to rip out my tongue yourself,” he purred back. 

Olstad eyed him for a long moment before she scoffed and shoved his head back as she stood. “Tempting, but Peter will not be pleased if I return with you in pieces.” Her hands brush off the invisible specs of dust on her coat. “Now tell me what you know before we make the discovery of how quickly you will end up at the bottom of this building.”

Wade pulled up three times before he managed to free his pierced hands out of the rooftop. “Not gonna argue with a babe who hates the absolute shit out of my guts. Whatever you say, beautiful.”

::

Checking the door every few seconds was only going to amp up his paranoia until it got him tweaking like a rich asshole snorting lines on unmopped bathroom floors, but he blamed Wade. And Olstad. But mostly Wade, but that wasn’t fucking new.

Weasel shifted in his seat, hoping his work boots didn’t muddy up the area rug. Just sitting in this room made ants march under his skin. Everything was too big, too proper, too… The desk in the corner of the room was heavy wood and antique, strewn with random pictures and old homework assignments and there were too many drawers where things were shoved in to be forgotten. A matching dark wood built up the drawer chest, an unfolded sweater sticking out of one, a couple shirts stuffed too tightly in another that the cotton wouldn’t let it close. Socks littered the floor and classic literature novels he could remember reading when he was in high school stacked at the foot of the nightstand with honest to god snake heads carved into the handles. And the bed. The bed was big, a full on king draped in navy blue sheets that probably cost more than any mercenary would spend on it with how often theirs came out bloodstained. 

The kid looked so small tucked in the middle of it. 

Not that he wasn’t already daycare-sized, but the bandages swamped him. Apparently most of the blood had come from the blows to his head, which got him five hells of a concussion but nothing bad enough to cause permanent brain damage. Most of his injuries came from impact forces, blunt force trauma, and a fair number was done on his ribs and arms and his right shin where it had shattered into a million pieces. But no gaping wounds. Nothing that needed to be sewn up aside from the shallow gashes on his head that were already healing into swollen purplish ridges all through his matted hair. 

Weasel’s head fell into his hands, a shaky sigh spilling from his lips as he rubbed his eyes and smudged up his glasses. 

Was it too late to return the kid? Could they set him up miles away from Sister Margaret’s where he’d hang out with other kids and not adults who killed for money where he’d be safe and happy and live a goddamned fulfilling life away from the street grime?

Then he’d just keep getting hurt as Spider-Man.

He sighed again. “Fuck.”

He already knows too much. You couldn’t let him go even if you wanted to.

“Fuck.”

And you don’t want to, because the kid’s burrowed his little ferret self into his deflated bag of a heart and made it his personal mission to see how many times he could jumpstart stress-induced bowel movements.

“Shit, fuck, goddamn, motherfucking dickhole.”

Yeah, that ship has long since sailed. The kidnapping was more or less inevitable, and the kid didn’t even think twice about jumping into the fire if that meant keeping Sal out of it.

He leaned back in the way-too plush armchair Olstad let him haul in from the living room, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. 

“Wake up soon, Boy-Wonder,” he said, his head thumping against the wall behind him, “‘cause if Olstad gets back before that, she might bungee me off the Brooklyn Bridge until I shit my pants and I’m telling you right now it’s over for my boxers before my feet are off the railing.”

::

Jonny Silver tasted it before she saw it before she heard it before it hit her from under her chin through the top of her head. 

But first, she tasted it. Iron and copper.

Her and Jonny Gold and Three-Bit were holding the fort down pretty good, she thought. It was a smaller job but a job nonetheless, and K couldn’t afford any fuck-ups when he was so close to running these rat-filled streets. So Three-Bit was going over the routes with the drivers, Gold was walking laps in the warehouse to make sure they didn’t forget anything—she never did, but Gold’s always been a stickler for that sort of shit—and she was out manning the transports. Making sure no one dropped anything or jostled any of the cargo inside. 

She twirled her brand new dagger and switched which hand held it for about the fifth time that hour. It wasn’t even that cold outside, it was like the handle was going to give her freezer-burn if she held onto it for too long. So it stayed in her left hand for as long as she could hold it as her boots carried her down to the south end of the lot where there was less traffic this fuck-all early in the morning. 

This side was mostly packed up with just some trash here and there they’d have to sweep up because littering was a crime or something. But as she rounded a line of parked cars and walked down their fronts like she’d done a million times since they started the job, it hit her. 

A familiar metallic tang. 

The dagger switched hands again and she flipped the hilt so the blade ran parallel to her forearm and her freed hand latched onto the gun at her side. Jonny crouched down low, faded green hair strands brushing the sides of her face as she crept towards the stench. Nothing moved in her peripheral but at the next streetlight about halfway down the line of cars, she stopped at the sight of a steady stream of red leaking out from underneath one of the cars.

What the fuck kind of horror movie ass—?

bang. bang. bang. bang.

“Shit!”

She bolted back into the lot as quick as her legs could carry her—Three-Bit and the drivers were closer and they would’ve already loaded up and readied themselves against the stupid asshole who thought they could get the jump on a group as big as theirs—

She slid to a stop, catching herself on the hood of one of the vans when the sudden stop in her momentum threatened to trip her.

The drivers, dead by slit throats or detached limbs or gunshots to the head and the chest and the gut. 

Three-Bit. Face down. The top of his head sliced clean off. 

More gunshots rang from inside the warehouse and she primed herself in that direction, but a glint pulled her gaze to the light of the loading bay where a woman stood. She stood tall, six feet easy, and looked like she’d just walked out of some board meeting after verbally tearing down everyone’s projects and presentations. Jonny raised her gun and fired. 

And the bullet sailed right towards the center of her smug fucking face before plowing through her and pinging off the metal garage doors behind her. 

“You and your associates do not possess much in the way of thought, do you?”

She slashed the space behind her—or tried to, at the very least. But the woman who was just over there was over here now and caught her right wrist without much effort at all, glaring down at Jonny—no. She glared down at the dagger in her hand and her grip cinched like a vice, and Jonny aimed her gun. 

The woman still didn’t spare her a single glance, the rage clouding her sharp, elegant features. “That does not belong to you.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny bit out. 

bang.

And it was Jonny who collapsed to the ground with a scream. 

The dagger clattered to the ground, the eyes of the snakes carved on its hilt suddenly glowing red and the blade itself somehow sharper, and frosted over. Her right wrist—her whole arm—it—it fucking—She grabbed ahold of its sleeve and slowly peeled it up, and she couldn’t control the quick, sharp breaths that shot out of her throat. There had been a lightning sharp pain like some wild animal latched down to the bone and ripped before she felt nothing but a numbing cold and now her skin, her entire forearm, burned a steady pitch black. 

She slowly raised her head and whispered, “What the fuck are you?”

The woman’s perfect burgundy lips curled into an ugly sneer. 

“Is that—Oh, you did not fucking steal my kid’s knife. He got that for Christmas, fuckwad!”

Deadpool strolled up to them with a severed head in one hand and a dripping katana in the other. It barely registered in Jonny’s fuzzied brain that it was Gold’s head swinging there, crimson smeared on his jawline and his mouth slack like he’d been cut off before he could shout or scream. 

“How indelicate,” the woman said after a cursory glance at his haul. “You are not bringing that back to my dwelling.”

“So no head?” Deadpool chucked it to the side. “Boo. Fine.” He kicked Jonny’s abandoned gun across the asphalt and crouched down next to the blade. “Seriously, I can’t believe you fucking stole from my kid. The fucking kidnapping wasn’t enough? And kidnapping an elderly while you’re at it? She has arthritis. I bet you didn’t even cushion your cheap-ass hostage chairs.”

Jonny bit the inside of her cheek as her heartbeat quickened, trapped in her ribcage. “Deadpool doesn’t—doesn’t have any kids.”

“Correct,” the woman drawled. 

“I didn’t go through twelve hours of labor to be disrespected at two in the morning with a thirty-four degree high and a wind speed of eight miles per hour,” he retorted, reaching for the blade. “Stealing from children, fucking ridiculous, next you’re gonna tell me you take the whole bowl when you’re out trick-or-treat—FUCK, OW, JACK OFF MY FROST. THAT’S TWICE NOW.”

And the blade clattered back down as the mercenary tore off his glove and shook his hand like he could fling the pain away. He was lucky, though. Jonny and everyone else who didn’t live with their thumbs up their asses knew that nothing short of an apocalyptic event would put Deadpool down once and for all.

She held back her gag as the black on his fingertips practically curdled before it ate itself away, its edges gnawing smaller and smaller until there was only the pocked puckering pink of his diseased skin.

“Interesting,” the woman murmured. She only tilted her head at the display and took a step closer to see it better. “That is not a typical reaction of the mortals on this plane.”

“You gotta add the eye-em to the beginning of that when referring to me. Death doesn’t call me that, but she doesn’t call me a lot of things that are true.”

“So you are acquainted. How does the Lady fair? Still startlingly unpredictable, if I must wager a guess.”

“And as beautiful as she is detached. And that’s to say, very, very, very.” Deadpool sighed and kicked at Gold’s head like it was a pebble down the street. “And what’s a baby girl like me to do about that?”

God, what the fuck was their problem.

Jonny glanced to the side and weighed her options. She wouldn’t kid herself, she had no chance of getting out of here alive. In less than ten minutes they’d gutted Three-Bit, Gold, all the transports in the lot all because of some kid who wanted to play hero who wasn’t only Weasel’s assistant, but Deadpool’s kid . How’d they miss intel as important as that? Fuck, they were dead the second they painted that target on that toddler’s back.

She looked back ahead of her, and jumped at the sight of green eyes and the tendrils of red curling through them.

“Do whatever vulgarity you please,” the woman tells him. “We are finished here.”

Jonny Silver tasted it before she saw it before she heard it before it hit her from under her chin through the top of her head.

How fucking ironic that the only thing K’s ever given her was the thing that would’ve killed her, too.

::

It wasn’t quite Deadpool and Lora that stood side by side in front of the bodies that pooled blood at their feet, but Wade and Loki who stood until the heat of a burning building were close to their backs. Only then did they walk away from the warehouse at a sedate pace, leaving behind red footprints that would soon be masked by ash.

squish.

squish.

squish.

(What Peter didn’t know would never hurt him again.)

::

Man, getting hit with a baseball bat hurt like a bitch.

Peter groaned as he pried open his good eye, and he was glad that there was no light for them to adjust to aside from the faint glow of his desk light on the other side of the room. If he wasn’t in the hospital then Ms. Granny made a good choice in taking him to the bar first, and if he got to the bar then Mom and Wade and Mr. Weasel knew what happened, and if Neena was back from her job, they would’ve updated her on it too. Mom was good at lying, so whatever they told May was probably rock solid if she had yet to burst in with a vengeance. 

He really hoped Ms. Granny was okay, and if she had to haul him somewhere all on her own, he hoped her arthritis didn’t flare up because of it.

A light snore jolted him into further wakefulness, and he only winced a little bit at the effort it took for him to move his head to the side. 

Mr. Weasel slouched in a chair by his bed, his arms crossed and his chin dropped against his chest. A thin line of drool dribbled down his flannel shirt. Huh. The beat down must’ve been pretty bad if Mom let him in her apartment. 

He blinked and lugged his gaze over to his nightstand.

His dagger was right where he left it every night, sitting perfectly still in the custom display stand he built out of legos in colors as close to Spider-Man’s theme as he could get them. It was polished the exact way Mom taught him, but that wasn’t right. It wasn’t this clean the day he lost it.

There must’ve been a lot of blood. From how many people, he couldn’t really say. But he didn’t want to think about it. And he wouldn’t. Not right now.

So Peter breathed in and let his eye fall shut. 

(He hoped he dreamt of flying between buildings and his webs pulling him up.)

((But he dreamt of falling instead and figured that nowadays, that suited him more.))

Chapter Text

“Hey, Dr. Strange!” Peter greeted him from behind a mask that was mostly blue than red. “Hope you’ve been having a paw-sitively great morning.”

Stephen blinked. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”

“It’s Sunday.”

Ah. “Then shouldn’t you be in bed instead of having an ungodly amount of energy at—” he leaned back to check the grandfather clock on the other side of the door— “four thirty-eight in the morning?”

He looked back forward and finally took note of the wriggling void black mass in spandexed arms. A complete absence of light the size of a shoebox nestled in his hold with eight eye-like structures on what he assumed to be its face, constantly shifting depth and color as the pinpoint pitch blackness in each of them rolled and roved to absorb all the available information in its three-dimensional space.

Ah.

“Fine. Come in,” he sighed, stepping to the side, “and tell me how it is you managed to cross paths with an interdimensional being that you’re treating like a stray.”

“I mean, it’s pretty much dog-shaped, isn’t it? A certified good creature. Isn’t that right you funky little oddball?” Peter cooed at it. The thing undulated, its mass not quite contained in a rigid solid as he patted its head? Back? His hand glided on its surface, the black warping around it as the rest of form vibrated. Like it was. Purring? “But I was on my way home from my shift when I saw this dog—or at least what I thought was a dog—just wandering around and it’s still pretty cold in the mornings and if it wasn’t aggressive I was going to let it hang out until I could find its owner or take it to a shelter so I went towards it all ‘Hey, dude! Do you want me to throw you a bone?’ Because I was taking some leftover wings back home with me. And dogs like bones.”

Stephen looked at the clock again. Four forty-three.

“... Right.”

“Right! So I went up to it, no sudden moves, footsteps loud enough that it could hear me. And then it like, completely one-eightied its head like The Exorcist and elongated its jaw like a surrealist 3D PC game and at the whole take out box while my hand was still holding it. But it didn’t eat my hand! Which you can probably see, I guess, but it was kind of tingly for a few minutes after munching all that garlic parmesan. It was probably just hungry after being lost for who knows how long and I figured yeah, this was probably an alien or something adjacent and Mom doesn’t like animals at her place unless they’re snakes or sometimes my boss, so you were the next best thing!”

Wong made his way down the grand staircase. “Is your boss a snake?”

“Nah, he’s a weasel.”

He nodded like that was supposed to mean anything at all. “Cool new suit, by the way. Nice shade of blue—really makes that red spider pop.”

“Aw, thanks man!” Peter beamed, or at least Stephen was sure he was beaming beneath that mask. At four forty-seven. “Your robe looks super comfy! One of my friend’s favorite color’s puce.”

Wong puffed out his chest and cast an uppity, victorious look at there being someone else in the world who didn’t look at that specific color and immediately call it a dull pink. It was four fifty-two in the morning and Stephen rubbed his temple with both hands, steadily gaining in losing his grip on his sanity.

“Thank you,” he cut in loudly, “for bringing it to the Sanctum. We’ll make sure that it returns to its proper dimension.”

Peter held the dog-thing in front of him, gently gripping it under a set of its reality-glitching appendages. “You hear that, Eldritch? You’re going to be safe and sound at home in The Backrooms!”

Its approximation of a tail phased through several states of physical matter as it wagged in and out of the visible human spectrum. Not the worst name, all things considered. 

“The beings in The Backrooms don’t look like that,” Wong said.

“... What.”

But despite his startled confusion, Peter handed off the creature with the same care as one would give any other sort of uncanny puppy.

“Get home safe, bud! No more dimension hopping when you’re not supposed to, okay?” He bid as he petted through and into the vaguely circular mass that Stephen was this time positive was its head. 

But it wasn’t long until his attention was pulled back to the blue suit that was vastly different than the one he seemed to frequent. This one was of thicker, rougher make with black padding over his joints and outer extremities. He couldn’t tell if the red spider splayed across his neck and chest had any of that padding, but he supposed Wong was right in the sense that it popped almost warningly against the rest of his suit, four legs stretching around his neck and disappearing down his back, two legs that reached down his arms to his elbows, and the last two crawling down his sides to end at his waist where a utility belt sat, the buckle engulfed in red, black, and white. He wasn’t sure what symbol it was supposed to be, but it was someone’s. Not Loki’s. Not Spider-Man’s.

“And I’m super sorry about dropping by so early; I’ll try to find lost little dudes at a more reasonable hour. I’ll even bring you guys coffee next time.”

“Let’s hope there aren’t too many ‘next times’.”

“Anything lavender with oat milk, please. And pick hot or iced based on the weather.”

Stephen cast a tired glare over his shoulder before he turned back to the vigilante on his foyer who’d put both thumbs up as he made his way backwards out the front door.

“Got it!” Spider-Man stepped out into the cold and Stephen idly wondered if he needed the suit to keep him warm, or if his Jotunn side canceled out any need to be. “Bye Mr. Wong! Bye Dr. Strange! Bye Eldritch! When I go to bed later I’m totally not going to think about how people have actually managed to no-clip out of this specific reality and found themselves trapped in a haunted hellscape outside of their own making!”

A web shot out of his wrist and attached itself somewhere down the street, and he waved as it whisked him far and out of sight.

Stephen stared at the empty space for a long few seconds before pushing the door shut with a soft clunk. His eyes met the clock. Four fifty-nine.

“I don’t know why it is you dislike the boy so much,” Wong said as he hoisted the creature higher and walked further into the Sanctum. Three multi-colored eyes peered over his shoulder to gaze longingly at the closed door. “He’s done nothing to show he’ll be anything like his mother. Much of the opposite, if you’re willing to acknowledge that.”

“Yes. Fine. He’s your typical gold star student with a spotless record.” He could admit to that at the very least. He knew the kid cleaned up Queens and had the heart of the neighborhood alongside the disdain of the media, and as much as it beat down any person with a celebrity status like that, it was obvious that he didn’t let it get to him. “He’s young.”

“He’ll grow.”

“He’ll change.”

“We all change, Stephen.”

“And wouldn’t that be our problem next if he changes for the worse?” He stressed. “He’s good now, but the longer Loki stays and the longer his ideals take root in an impressionable mind, his son’s mind, it’s another gear in a grander scheme.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Doesn’t that worry you? We already let Loki go and that could’ve been our first mistake—what if this is the second?”

Eldritch sagged in Wong’s arms like melting ice cream, except upwards, and curled around the man’s bicep like a clingy vine.

“I see a good heart in him,” Wong said simply. “So it’s simple; have faith.”

“And what good is faith?”

“We had faith in you when your own heart was aligned in a far different position than it is now.”

Stephen’s jaw clacked shut as the scars on his hands prickled with phantom tremors. He was a different man then, he could admit to that too. Lost (and scared) and scouring a world of possibility to try and find his way back to a life he’d already known he couldn’t stuff himself back into. But that was different—he’d had a life before it all went down the drain, and it was that first life he lived that helped him live his second.

Spider-Man hadn’t even begun to live his yet.

He glanced at the clock one last time. Five-oh-four.

But he knew what Wong sounded like when he’d had enough of one conversation and quickly followed after to fix this dimensional anomaly before going back to bed. “Do you think there are actually jobs that let a highschooler off after midnight or do you think he’s on his way back from a party?”

“Oh, definitely a party. You could smell that liquor on him from a mile away.”

::

He was never going to stop smelling like whiskey and smoke.

Peter hauled this week’s laundry into the hallway and slid open the white wooden doors that kept the washing machine out of sight and out of mind—as long as he ignored the fact it rattled around like it wanted his lunch money. Sometimes he had to stop by the laundromat after their downstairs neighbor knocked on their floor after one too many four-in-the-morning wash cycles, but it was either that or let his work clothes stink up his room; hazard of the job, Weasel warned him when he first started out. 

“And you better not go around like it’s your new cologne unless you want to get jumped by CPS or juvenile corrections or sleazy up-and-coming rock bands who think you’d be the perfect roadie.”

“Uh, do I even look like a roadie?”

“Switch out your proton shirt for a HIM one and I’d have you doing mic checks for less than minimum wage.”

He never really believed the third thing but twice now he’d been asked about sourcing high-hat stands and kick pedals when he took his breathers in the back alley.

He shut the lid on the washer, turned the dial, and shuttered the wooden doors to its starting kick. 

May’s shift would take her through the afternoon where he was supposed to meet her at Mom’s for their usual family dinner. Great timing, too; she’d tried to make a mean chicken parm yesterday, emphasis on mean, and no one had to know that when he would tell her he finished it up for lunch, it was actually the perfect weight to weigh down the new bag in the trash can.

But that was fine. Totally. That just meant there was more space in the fridge for him to meal prep for the week.

So Peter slung on an apron, tied it behind his waist with the same ease he did when he was at Sister Margaret’s, and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge and set a pot of water on the stove to boil.

The bruises were mostly faded now, only patches of yellowed-brown stretching across his torso and a vague discolored smear halfway down the left side of his face. He never got beat half that bad when he was out in the suit on the usual day, but to be fair he guessed Green would’ve been unconscious and webbed up on the nearest fire escape if he decided to break the restraints and let loose on the group—and they would’ve deserved every second of it. Only an asshole jumped an old woman who made good food and smacked around idiots with a steel ladle.

Out came the cutting board, onions, tomatoes, and the chicken breasts he cooked up before heading to work last night. He slid a knife out of the holder by the stove and held it up to the sunlight.

Yeah, it could use an edge.

And his hand began to tremble as he reached for the sharpening steel.

He’d gotten home maybe half past five, quarter ‘til six, and fully shucked off his suit the same second his head hit his pillow. Snap, out like a light. His eyes fluttered briefly when May poked her head in before she left, making sure he was home and whole and that she wouldn’t have to call Mom again and ask if he was safe.

(He still wasn’t really sure what excuse Mom used after the incident with Green, but when he saw May a few days later his ribs didn’t creak when he moved and his cuts were completely scarred over.)

((They got his face. He hated when he couldn’t hide the bruises on his face from May.))

The sharpening steel pointed down, its tip firmly pressed atop the cutting board. He threaded the knife handle through his fingers and twirled it once before setting it crossways to the rod, the back of the blade against steel and pulled back and down the rod, one side of the dulled edge at a twenty-two and a half degree angle. 

sching.

One of the first things Mom taught him about blades was that a person who didn’t maintain their blades didn’t deserve to use them.

sching.

And the more it was used, of course, the more it dulled. The constant rubbing of leather sheathing and unsheathing added to it, though moisture damage when not in use wasn’t much of a problem when it came to his own dagger. Not when it was made to channel frost giant ice. 

sching. sching. sching. 

It pressed against his calf right now. The dagger. Cold alien steel. Snakes with red eyes.

sching.

Since Christmas, his dagger had made its home in more than a few designated spots in his life—a lego stand, underneath his pillow, a hidden pouch in his backpack. And boy, did he choose a day to not store it in the pouch he’d sewn in for it.

sching. sching.

But it ended up stolen instead, and now look at what he’d done.

sching. sching.

Switch.

Mom should’ve been upset he lost it.

sching.

He should’ve gotten in so much trouble for losing something so important. 

sching.

Not only that, but Ms. Granny got caught up in it all.

sching.

And she still got hurt.

sching.

Her cuts only now scabbed over and her bruises were still purple and it was still going to take her weeks to heal. She was older. She was human.

sching.

Who was Spider-Man if he couldn’t keep his friends safe?

sching.

Some of those kidnappers were dead now.

sching.

How many people did Peter Parker let die this time?

schingschingschingCRACK.

The knife drove down into the cutting board and splintered it into two near-even chunks.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the now-boiling pot and moved to grab a box of rotini. As he upended it into the water, he plucked his buzzing phone from his pants pocket and sucked in a shaky breath before answering on the third ring.

“Y’ello?”

“Hey, Pete. You answer the phone like a midwestern house mom.”

He grinned. “And the only people who call before they text saw Korn in concert in 2000.”

“I was born to witness a Wall of Death at the ripe old age of nine years and change,” came Neena’s dry voice at the other end of the line. “What’re you up to?”

“Just meal-prepping some stuff for my aunt. Pasta salad! Want me to save you some?”

“Thanks, but I’m good. You lost me at salad.” A beat. “And don’t forget to salt the pasta water.”

“As if I would,” he scoffed as he very quietly reached for the salt shaker. “But otherwise I’ve got nothing going on. What’s up?”

“I’m heading to June’s in a couple hours. Getting antsy. You in?”

He peered at the oven clock. It was only late morning and he didn’t tend to Spider-Man much on Sundays unless he ran into something on the way. Not that he really wanted to, but May said it was good to rest up. Mom said it was the least he could do if he wasn’t “getting fairly compensated for his time and effort.”

“Sure! I’ll text you when I’m done cooking and out the door?”

“Sounds good to me. Catch you in a bit, Pete.”

“Later, Neena!”

After hanging up he set a timer on his phone for seven minutes—that was probably enough time if he factored in his dilly-dallying at the start—and slid it onto the counter space next to the stove. Then he spun around, toward the island, and used a rage to wipe any wood bits into the trash can before he rinsed off the largest chunk of cutting board and held aloft his newly sharpened kitchen knife.

He’d get another one sometime during the week. He’d been meaning to look for a new one anyway.

::

Neena unloaded her mag and freed her left ear as she watched her paper target slowly make its way back to her shooting lane. The closer it got, the better she saw her first name spelled out in forty separate bullet holes, all caps, perfectly spaced. She glanced to the lane immediately to her left and the paper target riding down in tandem with hers. The P wrote out with seven bullets in perfect form and the following E and T followed suit, but the E sat a little high and the T hung a little low. The second E scrunched up skinny, its three prongs more like three nubs to try and make space for the R that ended up a vague hole at the edge of the sheet, like someone took a bite out of the paper.

Peter slipped the ear muffs onto his neck. “Where—how do you even know where to start on the page? I swear I didn’t even leave that much blank space at the start! And if I moved even the teensiest bit to the left, I’d have a gap at the end the size of the Hudson.”

“At least ‘Pete’ is legible,” she said.

“That says Peteo.”

She glanced at his target sheet again. Yeah, that sure as hell did.

“How about we see who can make the best smiley face next?”

“Winner pays for lunch!”

“Bet.”

They popped open their bullet boxes and pulled fresh target sheets from the roll between their lanes, and Neena chanced a sidelong look at her favorite dish boy.

Of course she heard about that incident from a little over a week back. She’d been uptown when it happened and got the news when her usual trek to Sister Margaret’s ended in a locked graffitied door and a sign that read CLOSED TIL NEXT WEEK - STAFFING ISSUES, which any regular knew meant someone was dumb enough to go after Weasel or Peter or Sal or any combination of the three and that hadn’t happened since the opening year of twenty-one year old Weasel’s grand shithole. But since then, no one got East Coast Immunity on a whim and any idiot who went after neutral parties on the mercenary circuit was only asking to eat a bullet at their earliest convenience.

The morning after the sign was posted, news broke about a blown up warehouse. The South End Slaughter, one of the articles called it, with twenty bodies gunned down or hacked up or both and the surrounding vehicles had been doused in gasoline and fried to unrecognizable crisps.

And as much as it made her sound like a dickhead, it was a long time coming. 

Peter was young, a perceived easy target, a rookie in a business that rotted fresh meat from the inside out. That target would shrink as time went on, and if he kept to the Gold Card machine and stayed out the way, it was his safest bet in making it out of his teens. But Neena knew better than to hope for that.

Between the missions with Wade and the hours spent swinging through the city because he never could stay in the background and never could stay out of the way, he was only ever going to end up one way.

“I wanted to ask—” Peter slotted bullets into his mag with quick, nimble accuracy— “When I’m out with Wade I throw a black hoodie over my blue suit and hope that no one realizes I’m, y’know, the other guy.”

“Dead and Blue,” she supplied. “There’s a bet on who Pool’s new partner is—”

“Whoa, I got upgraded to partner?”

“—yeah. Congrats on your promotion. A third of the betters would congratulate you too, since they’re convinced it can’t be anyone else.”

“There’s no way it’s only a third of the bar.”

“Everyone else wants to hold onto that hope that you’re a good noodle who’ll graduate from scrubbing chipped plates and get a degree in literally anything else.”

They fastened new targets onto the carriers and sent them backwards to the farthest position at the range.

“Well, that third’s going to get a decent payout when Parker Luck jumps me and mugs me for all the dollar bills in my wallet,” he said. She snorted. “But the suit! I’m kind of—I want to start going out in my blue suit, like, exclusively. For real this time.” The kid muttered that last part, and something like loss swam in the murky browns of his irises. It was strange now that she was looking straight at them again—she never noticed the ring of green around them before. “So I’ve been looking for some alternative gear—light, breathable, protective padding, preferably no armor. Got any recommendations?”

And Peter grinned at her the same way he did every other day she’d known him. The almost-gone bruises took nothing away from the irrefutable youngness in his face, framed by brown curls that had gotten long enough to hang over his eyes. He should get it cut soon.

“Let me make a few calls,” she answered. “When our schedules line up next, I’ll introduce you to my girl Ana and she’ll hook you up.”

“Is Ana short for something or is it just Ana?”

“Ana, short for Anaconda,” she mused as she lifted her gun. “She won’t bite if you dodge fast enough.”

“I don’t know what that means but I hope she has a super illegal pet snake she’ll let me hang out with. I mean, I’ll totally hang out with her too if she’s cool. But if she’s your friend, she’s already cool in my book.” He slipped the muffs back over his ears, picked up his gun, and flipped off the safety. “Hope you’re ready to eat my gunpowder.”

The corner of her mouth tugged up as she readjusted her own muffs. “You won’t be paying for my lunch anytime soon,” she said, knowing full well he had no problem hearing her through thick acoustic foam. “But let’s see what you’ve got, Peteo .”

He stuck out his tongue and turned to take his first shot.

Neena flipped off the safety and raised one hand to aim and leveled her finger against the trigger. 

This life was going to kill him one day.

She just hoped he went down with blood on his knuckles and bullet casings around his feet.

bang.

::

“That guy’s been straight up watching us for the last ten minutes.”

As Peter struggled to draw up his Captain Crunch milkshake through his straw, he followed his friend’s gaze across the street where a hulking form of a man was doing an extraordinarily bad job at simultaneously hiding behind the sports section of yesterday’s newspaper and trying to peek over their direction. The layers of a gray jean jacket and a black hoodie only made him seem bulkier and while his hood pulled firmly over his head, a braided golden blonde strand escaped to lay across the side of the large white sunglasses that pasted over the top half of his face. The pink-yellow polarized lenses flashed them even at this distance, and the pair of unamused stares he got for his troubles prompted him to duck back behind his grayish-paper shield.

Peter scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, that’s uh… that might be my uncle. Mom’s brother. She says she hates him but if she did she’d throw him out the window every time he shows up. I mean, not for the lack of trying, but I think it’s mostly on principle nowadays.”

Neena sucked up some more of her own Fruity Pebbles shake before answering. “So what’s his deal?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

“You need him taken care of?”

“Nah. He’s a pretty chill dude and we get along great, but he’s in and out of town a lot and we never really know when he’s back until he’s back. Um, him and Mom talking is super on the down low, though. He’s still close to family, she’s, you know how it is,” he shrugged. She nodded—she told him once that she’d been raised in the now-defunct Essex House for Mutant Rehabilitation after her parents had given her up thinking she was a witch. They were still alive somewhere in the state, but she had no interest in rekindling that connection. “Those sunglasses are so bad, though.”

“I once dated a guy who wore sunglasses like those. Looked stupid then, looks stupid now.”

“So why’d you date him?”

“Ask me that again when you do your own dating around,” she said. Her free hand came up to tousle his hair. “When’s your next shift? Tomorrow?”

“Yup! I’m on every day except Wednesday and Thursday this week. The week after I’m slated for a thing with Wade so if everything goes good I should be on that Wednesday, if not I’ll probably show face Friday or Saturday just to prove that I’ve still got all my fingers and toes.”

She chuckled and held up a fist. “Call me if you end up face first in a ditch.”

“You’re on my speed dial.” He tapped his knuckles against hers and started off towards the crosswalk. “Bye, Neena! Thanks again for lunch!”

“Later, Pete. Say hi to your weird uncle for me.”

And so he fully turned around and shoved his hand in the pocket of his maroon hoodie as he tried to mentally will his dessert to thaw faster. He took all the time in the world making his way to the bench where the open newspaper hadn’t shifted or flipped a page a single time since their stalker first took a seat about midway through his third burger maybe half an hour ago. His spidey sense hadn’t made a single peep about it so neither did he, so now as he made his way over, he plopped into the space right beside him as he chewed on crunchy cereal bits.

“Have you ever had a milkshake before?” He asked. The newspaper stayed still for a grand three seconds before the corner pulled down and Thor slowly emerged from it.

“... Is it too apparent that it is me beneath these layers of disguise?”

“I think calling it a disguise is kind of a stretch,” Peter told him apologetically. He tried not to laugh when the demi-god slumped in his seat. “I’m guessing Mom did all the reconnaissance stuff back then.”

“Your mother has long since mastered the art of concealment. Her seidr, of course, lent its greatest aid in her tricks and schemes, but a weapon is only as measured a threat as the hand behind it.” Thor kept the paper aloft but held out the sides so that Peter at the very least had a full view of him. “I thought it to be a waste in my youth, and subsequently I have no such foundation to cultivate in my skill set to this day. I have my trustworthy extension, of course.” He gestured to the umbrella leaned against his knee. “My presence is much more suited to the battlefield, of course. I am a mighty warrior! Though here…”

“Creeping on sidewalk benches?” Peter offered. 

“It is a finesse I lack,” he readily admitted. “Heimdall directed me in the direction of your locality, and when I observed you on an outing with an associate I had no wish to interrupt lest my true identity poured from behind a dark hood and I incur your mother’s ire.”

“Neena would’ve been cool with it. She knows Mom but doesn’t know Mom, but knows enough to know that she’s got some things to hide, you know?” Thor nodded along. “She says hi, by the way.”

“She too noticed my poor attempt at camouflage?”

“She probably clocked you as fast as I did, if not faster. Sorry, man.”

Thor sighed, but he didn’t seem the most put out about it. Like he said, he was—in the most succinct terms—pretty shit at all that stealth stuff. But hey! Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses and this ranked pretty high up on the Things Even The God of Thunder Can’t Do List.

Peter leaned back against slatted wood and turned his eyes up at white-blotted skies, his lungs expanding with lightly chilled air. He wondered if Thor was here on his usual whim or if Heimdall had something up his armored sleeves. Visiting him out in the open in a bad disguise? If he was looking to get caught with the coolest Avenger, this was definitely one of the worst ways to do it. He could see the article now:

SPACE GOD SEEN WITH POOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT; ILLEGITIMATE CHILD OR HEART-WARMING MAKE A WISH?

“We’ll get you a hat to hide all your hair under. You’ll wear the hood over that, and it’ll give you good coverage from the back and the sides,” he said. “The glasses are a good idea to hide your eyes, but they’re pretty noticeable, like, we-saw-you-across-the-street-and-made-fun-of-them noticeable. Stick to the dark no-brand ones, or ones that match with your outfit. If you want to hide the bottom half of your face too, you can pick up some disposable masks at a CVS or a Walgreens. Those are drug stores, by the way! Not stores that sell drugs—I mean, they do, just the legal ones. They’re all over the city and open either 24/7 or until real late, but you’ll need some cash on you to get them. Earth cash. Midgardian cash. The US Dollar, specifically. Or the cashiers will ask for a selfie but that’s not too bad. I got free pretzels that way when I felt snacky on patrol once.”

Thor patiently sat through his spiel, his lips slowly stretching up as he spoke, and Peter took that as a sign he hadn’t annoyed him to death yet. 

“I should have contacted you before appearing on my own in a place I have yet to familiarize myself with. That is a lesson to remember for next time.” Thor clasped a large hand over his shoulder, palms warm with the light jolt of static. “These Ceveses and Walls of Greens—have you the time to show me their operations or have I already taken too much out of your day?”

Thor? In a CVS? No way he was passing up introducing a mythical figure to the ins and outs of the USAmerican pharmacy.

“We can totally hang out at the nearest one! I’ll get you a Hershey’s bar and a can of Pringles. It’ll be awesome.” Peter popped back up onto his feet, worn shoelaces flapping against equally worn soles, and pulled up his phone GPS to find the nearest store. “What about you? Did you come by for something specific or just ‘cause?”

Thor followed suit and lugged himself up onto heavy leather boots as he held onto the edge of his hood to keep it from shifting, his umbrella drawn up in one hand.

“I intend to rest and recuperate for the next few days before I resume my search through the star systems.”

“What are you looking for?”

The demi-god smiled down at him, tired and old and wary. “Answers.”

Oh. Sounded heavy.

His gaze shifted around the busy streets. The few trees planted in this part of town were slowly flushing back to brighter greens and soon enough, he’d either be ducking under them or overhangs or buildings angled just right for shade when the summer sun came to turn New York into a toaster oven. Summer meant the bar would be back to full capacity and that, according to Wade, meant that they were packing up for a day trip to a Massachusetts beach for an “obligatory beach episode,” whatever that meant. 

But going to a beach sounded nice. The only one he’d ever been to was Coney Island, and he didn’t think he could go back anytime soon.

April, May, June. Three months until summer. Life never moved so fast for him before.

“Tell me, Nephew.”

The new, serious tone swung back his attention.

“Have you any notion of such relics referred to as The Infinity Stones?”

There it was. Those words again.

The first time he heard it, Mom and Dr. Strange verbally sniped at each other in a way that shot at his anxiety and made him physically unable to keep any part of himself still. But it was a phrase that went over his head; he was too busy figuring out if they’d be able to make it out of there without any consequences. 

The second time was from Odin.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “I’ve heard of them.”

Thor looked him in the eye, quick to assure, “I am not after their power.”

“Okay.”

“Truly!” He swore. His feet came to an abrupt halt and it was only Peter’s spidey-sense that kept his own from tripping over themselves. “I have no desire for such immutable power. On their own they are already forces that should not be toyed with and should be kept far, far away from the reaches of those who wish to wield them for their wicked game!”

Peter bobbed his head. “Sure.”

Blue eyes narrowed, maybe a touch offended. “You seem very accepting of my intentions.”

“If you could believe it, I don’t think you’re the type of guy who’d want to rule the universe with an iron fist.”

“You do not think me capable of macrocosmic domination?”

“You don’t even want your own throne,” he deadpanned. Thor winced.

“... Then I also was obvious in my refusal of such a grand responsibility?”

“Dude. Come on. You and Lady Sif arguing might as well have been broadcasted on the jumbotron with how the whole palace heard it.” Peter gently grasped his wrist and turned it over to plant his extra large cup in his hand. “Here. Not only do milkshakes make everything better, but they’ll also bring all the boys to the yard.”

“I do not possess a ‘yard.’”

“In this economy I wouldn’t be able to afford one until I’m fifty.”

Thor raised the styrofoam until it was at his eye-level and slightly squished it at the middle. When he deemed it an appropriate container, he flipped the top off and took one very long, very cold swig. Sip? Bite? 

“It is sweet!” Was his surprised declaration. “A cold cream consistency that would be apt to partake in hot weather. Though the small sugar morsels are inclined to stick to the back of my teeth, it is a small sacrifice for taste!” He handed back the milkshake noticeably lighter than it was given. “Will we be able to acquire these at the Walls of Greens?”

“No, but you’re going to love the single-serve cereal cups. Trust me.” Peter spied their destination about a couple blocks down and stuck the straw in his mouth to see if he could finish the drink before they got there. “But uh. Is it—Is it alright if I ask, um, why you’re going after them? Is something going to happen?”

“I will not allow anything to come to fruition,” Thor promised, but no matter how sincere it sounded, it didn’t stop the anxious pit slowly opening up in Peter’s gut. People always said they wouldn’t let things happen—Spider-Man said that too despite failing over and over and over again. “But I had a vision: a whirlpool of dust and extinction and at its center, four glowing Stones.”

“Aren’t there six?” Peter asked before he could stop himself. His teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek as he found himself pinned under Thor’s unreadable stare. But he kept his eyes open and clear, his posture lax and his free hand balled up and hidden in his hoodie pocket. What felt like years, maybe centuries the way the back of neck began to sweat then freeze over then thaw and repeat must have only been seconds, because Thor nodded in the next beat and continued like there wasn’t any pause to begin with. 

“Yes, but it is currently the four that I have more than passing knowledge of, including their vague locations. Asgard is honored and appropriately wary of housing one of such power.”

The Tesseract. The Space Stone.

Asgard was a flat planar body no bigger than the entirety of the Rhode Island state—he knew that for sure, he asked, Heimdall told him—and if Thanos was really after it and didn’t care about what it took for it to be his, wouldn’t that mean that all of those people were in danger with nowhere to run?

“Is that the safest place for it? I mean, not to say that your warriors would do a bad job keeping an eye on it but if someone’s after it—”

A hand fell on top of his head and roughly mussed it.

“This is not for your shoulders to carry,” he said, “and when I am successful in my ventures, you will realize your worry would have been for naught.”

“But—”

“Nephew,” Thor intoned, slowing them both to a stop. “Do you trust me?”

He did. Of course he did. This was the God of Thunder, an original Avenger, heir to the Asgardian throne, and above all else his mother’s brother who mourned and missed and loved them through it all.

But trust wasn’t enough.

“Yeah,” Peter still said with a small smile. The pit in his stomach gnawed itself a little wider. He ignored it.

“Then onwards!” Thor boomed as he slung an arm over the teen’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Now, tell me more about these cereal cups. Are they a drinkable desert as well?”

And when Peter grinned and answered under the weight of another uncle he could lose, all he could taste was the slurried mix of copper and sugar on his tongue. 

::

The exhaust churned at full blast, eating away at all the smoke that didn’t trail out the kitchen window in a trail of faint green light.

May threw her hands up. “I didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“When you intend to cook something until it is golden brown, perhaps avoid utilizing the highest possible flame.” Loki gently pried the spatula from her grip and placed it far out of her reach. They learned that particular lesson the hard way. “There is rarely an opportunity where it will grant you the desired outcome.”

“Then why give me the option in the first place?”

“To goad unsuspecting users into casting their stoves aflame so you will need to invest in a newer, more expensive replacement,” they answered dryly. She huffed and picked up her now-empty wine glass to hold out and Loki, the ever-pleasant host they were, responded by pouring in so much pinot noir that she had to shuffle forward to sip from the top.

“I’ll have you know that I made a mean chicken parm the other night.”

“And how aggressive did it end up becoming?”

She smacked their arm in the midst of their laughter and hefted herself up onto the polished island with a small oomph beside the bottle. Those bones weren’t what they used to be, but she’d be damned if she still couldn’t lounge around in a kitchen like a tipsy ornament. Especially now as she openly watched Loki’s magic—seidr—at work, the burnt pan lifting itself up in a sheen of wispy emerald as it went to soak itself in the sink. Luckily she only tried to prepare one filet of white fish and the rest remained in a neat pyramid, perfectly seasoned and ready to pan-sear.

“You were royalty up on Asgard, right? With servants and everything?” She questioned. They hummed in assent. “So how’d you end up learning to cook so well?”

“Through time, mostly.” They pulled out a fresh pan to set on the stove and turned the dial to medium-high, not nuke-city. “In our youth, my brother and I spent much of our time in the kitchens either snatching still-warm treats from their trays or serving punishment by preparing ingredients until our fingers went numb.”

She could imagine it clearly: a little black-haired kid and a blond-haired boy sitting shoulder to shoulder, angrily peeling potatoes as they insulted each other under their breaths. 

“When we grew too old for such disciplinary action, the kitchen remained a mainstay for the passing treat. But it was also a place one could find themselves undisturbed while the sounds and smells of every meal coalesced in the background. If I could not find solace in the library nor the gardens nor my own rooms, I would sequester myself upon the high rafters, hidden in the shadows as I watched them stir pots and knead dough. For all I have done so, it was only natural to pick up more tricks for my trades.”

“Oh.” May frowned, some strands of hair pulling from its claw clip as she took another long sip of wine. “Sounds lonely.”

Green eyes flickered to the small pot on one of the back burners simmering a butter-lemon sauce. “It was not so bad,” they lied. It must’ve been a lie no matter how much they didn’t make it sound like one, she thought. She’d be lonely too if that were her. “And,” they continued, “it proved itself fruitful in my later years. I have not lived on Asgard proper for… Well. It has been some time aside from my imprisonment. From then, I traveled from realm to realm to planet to planetoid to all where I could not be found. I was dead. I was free.”

They smiled like it was their own little joke as they added the first batch of fish into the pan.

“Though how inconvenient that I still had the need to eat. I should consider it a boon how I lived in those kitchens; perhaps by now I should have passed from a tasteless palette.”

When they turned around, a glass of wine was thrust into their face.

“The prison thing I can’t help with because if we’re being honest, that’s the sort of thing that happens when you kill eighty people in two days,” May said with one raised brow. “But you’re back in the Big Apple now. Land of the free if you’re in the right tax bracket and access to all the wine you can buy for fifteen bucks a pop.”

Loki accepted the proffered glass and drew in half in one fell swoop. “A fair exchange for attempting to teach a friend the fine art of not burning seafood so thoroughly that not even the gulls will stake their claim?”

“A fair exchange for attempting to teach your best friend how to conquer an obviously broken stove, you bastard .”

They smothered their laugh behind the rest of their wine and turned back towards the pan.

(It wasn’t quick enough to hide the shy, budding smile that wormed its way onto their face.)

The quiet schick of a key twisting the front door lock echoed through the apartment followed by a faint shimmer only known to Loki’s ears. It was simple practice to spell all accessible openings with a basic alarm from the basic entry and exit past a runic anchor point.

“I’m here! I’m early!” Came the voice of their dearest heart. “I should get a prize for that!”

“In the kitchen!” May called.

A rustle of plastic bags grew louder as it approached, and brown hair and baggy flannel popped through the doorway first. Loki flipped the filets before they turned back around. 

“Hey Mom! Hey May!” Peter beamed. 

“Hello Peter, how was your—”

“Brother!”

thunk

Thor dropped into a crouch to avoid the dagger aimed at his head, his own few plastic bags looped around his forearms with distinct red lettering printed on the sides. It wasn’t enough to knock the grin though, the same one perfected over thousands of years of currying favor and coasting through punishments from the Allfather and the Queen Mother alike. 

“You’re never going to get your deposit back if you’re throwing knives around like that,” May commented as she stared at the blade half-embedded into the wall. 

“I own, not rent.”

“Oh, you rich bitch.”

She slid herself off the counter top—Peter cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to make sure she landed on both feet before setting down his bags and rummaging to unpack them—and approached the blond demi-god with a polite smile as he straightened himself out.

“Hi, I’m May Parker,” she introduced with an outstretched hand. “Peter’s aunt. From his dad’s side, which you definitely probably already know.”

Thor immediately turned that grin onto her and softened it into something more boyish as he took her hand and dropped his lips onto her knuckles. “Well met, Lady Parker. I am Thor Odinson of Asgard, brother of Loki, which you perhaps definitely probably already know.”

Loki rolled their eyes.

“Wow. Um, you’re a lot handsomer in person.”

Peter fumbled a stack of cereal cups. “Oh my gods. May .”

Laughter erupted from Thor in good cheer as he stepped back and flexed his arms. “And my muscles have a greater circumference from what your news stations and whatnot have deigned to show you!”

“Oh. My gods. THOR.”

Loki transferred the fish onto a serving plate and laid the next batch onto the pan before they drifted towards their son lost in a midst of drug store purchases and secondhand embarrassment. They chuckled under their breath and brushed some of those curls away from his eyes before their hand came down to the side of his face, pale fingers against the fading mark of bruised skin. 

His jaw had been broken and his cheekbone had multiple fractures, and once they got their hands on that filth Kairo Green—

“I don’t even feel it anymore,” Peter told them. “It’s okay.”

“It is not,” Loki refuted just as quietly. “You may be capable, but you are still my child—”

“And you’re my mom, and it’s part of the job description for you to worry.” He smiled. “Come on, it’s family time. No use in dwelling on it now when I’ll be all better by the time I go to school tomorrow, right?” 

Loki exhaled through their nose. “It is as you say.” Their head tipped towards the teen’s haul and they gestured to the sugary spread. “Why have you brought these breakfast confectioneries? I am well aware you are not partial to over half of these.”

“Thor wanted to try them!”

“Did he.”

“We kind of raided a Walgreens before we got here. One of each candy bar, a bunch of drinks, he even got like, a pack of Poptarts of each flavor—”

“Norns.”

“Do Asgardians get hyperglycemia?”

“He will have to absorb a cartful of plain sugar in one sitting before we begin to have that conversation.”

Peter laughed, and Loki allowed the sound to soothe their nerves as they planted a kiss atop his head before turning back to the stove to flip this batch over. 

“Did he ever tell you that you’re his favorite Avenger?” May said from the other side of the island as she handed Thor a full glass of wine. “He used to do the cutest impression of you and your hammer—what was it called—mol—myol—”

Peter ran over with flailing arms. “May you can’t tell him that oh my gods don’t listen to her she’s lying—Thor stop laughing this isn’t funny she’s lying I swear—!”

In the comfort of their turned back and the crackle of oil, Loki allowed a wider smile to grow on their face as they tended to the main course of this night’s dinner. An assortment of vegetables roasted in the oven and the smoke had finally cleared in the light of the setting sun, and as shouting and laughter and drinks were shared under a roof they never conceived they could call their own…

Maybe it was here they understood what they had taken away from those who perished under the invasion. Maybe it was here that warmth buzzed under ice blue skin that they had not felt in a long, long while. 

Clamor like this had never sounded so soft. Company like this had never felt so kind. 

It had never felt like love, like this. It had never felt like home, like this. Perhaps all there ever was to conquer was this microscopic part of the world; an apartment in Queens filled with those who would ever mean everything to them.

(Loki once fell off the Bifröst because they had nothing left to lose.)

((To this, they would hold on to, and never ever let it go.))

Chapter Text

Warning: This chapter contains Minor Character Death.

::

“Are your bones hollow?”

Peter looked up from his second check of his rubber bullets as the elevator they rode rose up another level. “Why would my bones be hollow?”

“Don’t spiders have hollow bones?”

“... No. But I hate to say I know where you’re coming from.”

“Boo,” Wade booed.

“You boo. Spiders have exoskeletons and despite ‘skeleton’ being in the name, it’s still an outer shell. Like with crabs and stuff. You should’ve asked me if my skin was crunchy instead.”

Wade slowly reached out to poke at a part of his face that wasn’t covered by a mask and goggles. Peter slapped his hand away.

“Dude, you think I could’ve hidden the fact that I’ve had an exoskeleton this whole time? I’ve literally bled out on Dom’s couch!”

“You can be a slippery, slimery, wriggly worm when you want to be, living your life composting like you’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Worms are non-arthropod invertebrates.”

“Gesundheit.”

“They’ve got no exoskeletons or bones.”

“Pick a fucking struggle.”

The red, pixelated number above the sleek panel of buttons steadily climbed higher. It wasn’t often he saw missions where contractors waltzed into high-rises in the daytime, but this building had recently sold under bankruptcy with floors barren from the probable liquidation of all their tech—

“But you’re so light and flippy,” Wade told him, the tinted windows at their backs shining with the early afternoon sun. “Are you sure you aren’t built like a bendy straw?”

“The way my bones break? Full of marrow.”

A thirty-seven lit up as their elevator slowed to a stop on their floor. Except the stop was more like a pause and after a moment it shook back to life; the digital screen sputtered and glitched, and the elevator continued to rise.

Peter stared. “Pool?”

“Yeah?”

“That was our floor.”

“Yeah.” Wade smacked his lips, which was pretty impressive under his mask, and planted both hands on his hips. “Is it just me or—”

“No, the elevator’s definitely going faster.”

“Goodie! I’ve always wanted to be shot out through a roof in a contraption built by a man who’s obsessed with chocolate and has dentist daddy issues.”

Peter scoured around the floor first at all the corners, any divots, maybe cracks anyone wouldn’t care to miss. There was no carpeting to lift up or any strange marks in plain gray epoxy and his eyes raked up the walls—forty-one, forty-two, forty-three—and checked the walling, maybe cracks, any divots, all the corners, here.

A lens bubble the size of a dime.

Two things happened at once.

As he reached for one of his friend’s guns to nail the back right corner with a metal bullet, a katana tore into the panel and jolted the elevator to a screeching stop on the fifty-sixth floor.

They whipped around in tandem and pointed at each other with twin shouts— “What did you do?!”

“I shot a camera,” Peter said as he moved his finger towards the new hole in the ominously still death box. “What did you do?”

Dorothy remained in the steel guts of the inner elevator wiring and Zbornak was halfway out her sheath, just in case. Wade clapped his hands together and positioned himself beside the carnage like it was his turn to present at the Annual Mercenary Symposium with his katanas being the highlight of the event.

“First of all, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to attend this humble meeting—”

“Last time I was stuck in an elevator like this I was on a field trip in DC and my friends almost died.”

A beat.

“Wild.”

“So wild.”

“Who the fuck takes America’s youth to DC? To show them monuments built by slaves?”

“Y’know if you put aside the whole killing thing, you’d get along great with this girl I know.”

Electricity sparked from the panel and the sound of creaking metal signalled the end of their usual chatter. Their eyes met from behind their respective lenses for no more than a second before Wade ripped Dorothy out of the wall and planted himself under the locked hatch on the ceiling just as Peter used him as a springboard and hefted up, boots landing on black-padded shoulders in one smooth jump. As much as he wanted to web himself up and dangle upside down by just his soles, Blue and Spider-Man couldn’t be in the same sentence unless the word “wasn’t” stuck between them. Or “totally thought he was a cool guy but he had no relation to.”

But him and Wade knew the drill. This wasn’t their first rodeo, and every assignment he hoped that it wouldn’t be their last. 

Red gloves locked themselves over double knotted shoelaces as Peter punched the door clean off its hinges—

prickle

“Hold on!”

He grabbed the edge of the opening and used the leverage to propel himself towards the mass of thick cables, grasping and hoisting them until both his and Wade’s bodies were clear of the box. In those few feet the screeching only grew louder until whatever brakes it had cut loose and dropped, swooping past all fifty-six floors before it crashed in a heap of scrap and dust.

Wade, dangling from around his ankles, blew a raspberry down at the carnage.

Peter started their descent back to floor thirty-seven. “You totally said we’d be done before my shift.”

“And I was supposed to live in a house in a factory while sugar-shaker snow fell into my gumdrop yard that violates the HOA guidelines I didn’t sign up for, so we’re both not getting what we want today.”

::

Peter burst through the back door that led straight into the kitchen, hopping on one foot as he tried to undo the double knot on the other.

“Hi Ms. Granny!”

“Evenin’, sweet pea. Got some dishes piled up when you get the chance,” she replied as she puttered around the fryer.

“Yes, ma’am!”

He switched boots as he pushed through the swinging doors where Weasel and a couple of mercs at the end of the bar turned to the noise with unbridled amusement. The latter more so than the former. 

“Ten minutes late,” his boss drawled as he poured a line of shots.

“Only ten minutes late,” Peter corrected as he elbowed his way into the break room. After fighting his shoelaces for another solid five seconds the boots came off first, then his hoodie, then his jeans, and with his ear to the growing hubbub and his spidey-sense perked at the ready like a deer on the look-out, he slipped out of his Nu-Suit, turned it inside out, and jumped back into his jeans as he shoved the suit into his backpack in exchange for a plain brown shirt to toss a flannel over. 

The dagger came out of its hidden pouch like butter and he set the hilt between his teeth as he tugged up his left pant leg to buckle its holster around his calf. The blade strapped in easy, an action done a hundred times before, and he let blue denim curtain it from view as out came the scratched up Desert Eagle with the Hello Kitty sticker he’d have to get replaced soon. Cleaned, safety flipped, loaded with rubber bullets, it slipped into the back of his waistband, another puzzle piece slotted in the picture that was Ferret: Dish Boy Extraordinaire.

It was an easier name to live up to than all his other ones.

He tucked his backpack into its usual cubby and plucked his waist apron from the hook by the couch and as he tied it, he took one last look at himself in the half-length mirror by the door. It cracked at the edges and smudged with notes and phone numbers collected over the years and still, it was a teenager who stared back. And unlike when he started out months ago—it had been just over six months now—he melded in with cheap wallpaper and the retirement home couch and the stains on the floor that not even bleach could scrub out.

He leaned forward at the sight of a green gem sitting innocently on his chest and tugged at the thin gold chain and dropped it through the collar of his thin cotton shirt. When it settled against his skin and left no obvious bumps, he bounded into the bar just as some of the girls hauled off trays full of drinks. 

“Reporting for duty, Mr. Weasel!” He chirped.

“Every time you open your mouth another gray hair sprouts on my head.”

“At least you’re not going bald.”

“God fucking forbid,” Weasel muttered as he slid out a box from one of the shelves beneath the back bar and tossed it beside the Gold Card machine where Peter promptly took out a pair of disposable gloves, clorox wipes, and untaped the pocket knife stuck on the side of the machine. “Weren’t you just out with Dickpool? I thought he’d show up with you.”

“He would’ve but we got back way later than we thought and I bolted the second I could. He should be in later.” The disposable gloves—the cool ones that came in black—snapped onto his hands in a perfect fit and he reached into the box to pull out the first turned in Gold Card. Amelia Aertzsen, pristine condition. Like with all the other turned in cards, he wiped it down to remove any traces of fingerprints and assorted viscera. “It wasn’t a bust, though. They knew we were coming and tried some weird Home Alone-Sawish traps on us and when we got past them all they pissed their pants while begging not to get shot.”

“And you didn’t let him get shot.”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Hey, one day your High School Musical ass might roll up with a bag full of heads and a bag full of related trauma, and all I ask is that you tell me beforehand so I can physically prepare myself to not drop a fat one when you do.”

The used wipe dropped into the small trash can at his feet and the knife popped to scratch off the printed name until it was nothing but peeled paint and metallic dust. Then he snapped it into as many pieces as he could before his fingers lost purchase on the itty bitty sizes, and tossed it down into the can too. 

“Never going to happen.”

He knocked on the bar wood just in case.

“Yeah, I know,” Weasel sighed. “And my pants are saved for another fucking day.”

Peter grinned and pulled another card from the box. Lev Despotovic, smeared in rust.

As much as he enjoyed the juggling act that was his life, the downtimes spent in the gaps were almost re-energizing enough to make him taunt life for more. Almost. Because he knew better than to actually do it because life would probably turn around and kick his ass so hard he’d be in a different area code. But the idle chatter while he wiped Gold Cards, the stories he got to listen to while he washed dishes in the back, the muted shots at shooting ranges, the fresh air he breathed when he hauled trash bags to the dumpster at the end of the alley…

They were small things. Passing moments. 

He wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Weasel sidled back over. “Does mohawk look like he wants to sell me something?”

Peter tossed bits of Lev into the can and ran a cursory look around the bar. “Oh, definitely. And I don’t think it’s Girl Scout Cookies.”

“Dammit.”

“But if it is, can you get me Tagalongs?”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Two boxes, please!”

He dodged the rag half-heartedly chucked at his face and watched his boss slink over to the group hanging out behind the pool tables. It was kind of wild thinking about it—everyone always talked about how, well, Weasel-y he was. Anxious, over-caffeinated, twitchy like a mule and nothing like the dealer he actually was. He couldn’t take pain like the rest of them and compacted into the smallest possible size in the furthest corner of the room the second things went off the rails which was admittedly, respectively, average.

But everyone moved their boots out of his path and broke to the sides like a parting sea that he navigated with sure steps and smudged glasses. Peter didn’t know what it was like at all the other places that ran their businesses under the table, but if it was like the movies where the only thing that got you anywhere was rough and tough machismo, he was glad he didn’t have to adapt to that. Mr. Weasel got respect by being fair and honest and strict as anything when it came to the handful of rules he drilled into every new face at the bar.

Respect demanded respect in return no matter the face it wore, he learned the very first day on the job. And when he tried his hand at it with bright smiles, his best jokes, and kindness (always kindness, May made sure to remind him), it got him something like that too.

Mercenaries respected Ferret more than the media respected Spider-Man. He didn’t like thinking about that for too long.

In the middle of scratching through the third card, one Thema Kubiak with a spider-web crack offset to the left, the front door swung open and Manuel’s voice carried on the first call-out of the night.

“Check in!”

“Man, you gotta announce me like that?” Replied the would be client, and Peter’s fingers paused their quick snapping of thin metal. He recognized that voice from a little while back and didn’t think he’d ever really hear it again, so he turned his back to the Gold Card machine and made a show of fiddling with some of the supplies stashed for new card prints. He focused on the wary footsteps that trailed from the entrance to the usual client seat until a weight settled at the machine’s front and center.

—

And when the dude turned around, he smiled that easy, polite smile that would get any granny to coo and pinch his cheeks.

“Hi, the name’s Ferret,” he said as a pocket knife slipped easily into his gloved hand. “Here to paint a name?”

Aaron Davis stared at him for all of three seconds before he pushed himself out of his seat. “Uh-uh. No way.”

The kid blinked. “No way what?”

“What are you even doing here? How old are you?”

“What are you, a cop?”

Aaron twitched and stared at him some more. No fake ID in the world would get this kid a bottle of alcohol unless he was at the seediest place alive and well, Sister Margaret’s was in the running no contest. If he walked past him in the street he’d think he was on his way to study in a library, not do whatever the hell it was he was doing here.

But he lowered himself back onto the stool against his better judgment. “Fine,” he bit out. “But just ‘cause I’m here doesn't mean I’m okay with it.”

“Got it.”

“I mean it.”

“Crystal clear.”

Christ.

Listen, Aaron was trying to get back on the straight and narrow. Sort of. Kind of. Getting busted trying to get some of that Chitauri tech was bad enough and Spider-Man getting thrown into the mix was a shit cherry on a shit sundae, but better to get caught by a spider than the devil; he’d saw the kind of things that happened to the ones who fucked around in Hell’s Kitchen and fuck, did they find out. 

But he wasn’t up to that type of shit anymore. Swear. Yeah, the weapons were a low point after his ten month stint for larceny but he was trying, alright? Not so much then, a little bit more now. It should count for something.

“So if you’re not here to make a card, what can I do for you?”

Aaron refocused on the kid, another wave of unease hitting the back of his shoulders. At least he didn’t look kidnapped, but maybe that was just Stockholm Syndrome.

snap snap snap

Whatever he was breaking behind that machine came apart quick and clean.

“I’m here to talk to someone named Weasel ‘bout some things.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and glanced around. Guess every type of bar was full on a Saturday night. “He your boss or something?”

“Yeah! He’s a bit busy right now, but I’ve got general run on the every day when he’s not around. You don’t mind, do you?”

Aaron didn’t really think he had a choice, and Ferret probably knew that too the way he smiled and peeled off his gloves, pulling them inside out from the wrist and wiped his hands with some green-tinted sanitizer.

“Purchase, deal, or trade?”

“Uh, purchase?”

“Fits in a folder, duffle, or car?”

“Folder. Wait. What the hell you got that you need a ca—”

Ferret crouched down and out of sight, ignoring him completely. “Initials used, date of purchase, and proof of purchase, please.”

“A.D. and… the twenty-fifth? Of March.” Aaron pulled out the card his contact handed off for this identification assurance thing. He’d thought this was organized when he first went through this channel, but he didn’t think they had their entire shit together. “Or whatever two weeks ago from today was.”

The rustling of papers was faint, and he had to strain to hear it through booming conversations, a low-singing radio, and the clack of pool balls every which way he turned. Was everyone else here cool with a kid getting wrapped up in all of this? If they were, the least they could’ve done was hire one that didn’t look like he had a curfew.

Ferret popped back up—actually popped like he moonlighted as a whack-a-mole—his floppy brown hair bouncing against his forehead that he tried to blow away from the corner of his mouth, and handed over a folder he dug up from somewhere under there. The little tab highlighted in orange with his given initials and the purchase date, and after a quick scan of the paper card handed over to him, he handed it over in turn.

“Tell me if everything looks good and it’ll be the straight eight-fifty you signed off on.”

Aaron laid it out in front of him.

Three handwritten letters of recommendation in three obviously different forms of handwriting, and a sticky-note stuck on the top of each with the ‘employers’ they were attached to along with phone numbers and emails that would reach real people and would trace back to legal businesses. The sticky-notes were in thick-line graphite, messy and pointy and couldn’t quite keep a straight line on unlined sheets. His record he wouldn’t be able to scrub, not with his cop brother knowing each and every infraction he’d had since he was sixteen, but his own employment record was now filled in with short stretches of work he could pad into a new resume, and paperclipped to a brand new passport was a brand new official ID that he couldn’t get renewed fresh out of the box.

But behind all of that, there were other sheets with sticky-notes written in a lighter, neater hand. A list of places he could apply for. Rehab services. Food banks. A quick checklist of what he could do to get back on his feet if he was off them.

“I can’t let you see Miles anymore.”

A bucket of ice water dunks down his spine, or close to it. “You’re not fuckin’ serious. You can’t just—I—J, he’s my fuckin’ nephew—”

“And you’re a criminal!” His brother snaps. “A long. Running. Career. Criminal.” He’s still got on his stupid uniform and that stupid badge and he takes off his stupid hat, running a hand over his head. “Look, get your shit straight. Get a job, then keep that job because I’m not going to keep telling my son that the reason why his Uncle couldn’t make it dinner was because he won’t stop getting locked up.”

Aaron keeps his mouth shut, his trembling hands flush against his sides.

“I love you, A.” J says with those damn, stupid, sad eyes. “But we both know that it can’t keep going like this.”

“Yeah.” Aaron cleared his throat and closed the folder shut on the bar top. “It’s all good.”

As he reached for the money, Ferret spun towards one of the clear fridges behind him—

“You a beer guy?”

“I mean, I’ll drink a Miller.”

—and plucked a bottle from one of the upper shelves. He popped off the cap with the flick of his thumb and set it on the bar in the center of a little square napkin.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Aaron pointed at the offending bottle. “How you gonna explain this one? You work the accounts and now you’re gonna tell me you work the bar too? I know that shit’s mad illegal.”

“Work the bar? I’m not sure what you mean.” Ferret’s face split into a pearly white grin too bright in the dim and neon where all around them, mercenaries lurked with their loaded guns. “You had a beer you couldn’t open and the dish boy helped you out. That’s all.”

This kid couldn’t be more than a few years older than Miles. Probably in high school, maybe did some sports, could be in an after-school club. But he stood in the middle of this bar like he belonged here—and he did. On liquor-sticky floors, in smoke-filled air, around people who could kill him; somehow, he did. 

Ain’t that fucking spooky.

A mousey-looking guy walked around to the back of the bar and slammed down two boxes of Girl Scout Cookies by the register. Tagalongs.

Ferret’s mouth dropped in ecstatic disbelief.

“Mohawk’s name is Sovann and he told the Girl Scouts in his building he’d peddle at bars and dispos.”

“That’s so smart.”

“Still coming out of your paycheck.” The man jerked his head somewhere towards the back. “Tad’s bitching about putting more stock on the pool.”

“On it. After though, I’m getting through a load of dishes before I get back to cards.”

“Then you better double it before rush in a couple hours,” he said as he shooed Ferret away with the flap of his hand. When he disappeared through the swinging doors, the newcomer looked at Aaron through thick-rimmed glasses. “Weasel.”

“Davis,” Aaron returned. His gaze trailed down to his bottle and the drops of condensation that ran down the sides. “Uh, so that kid.”

Weasel huffed and started thumbing through the cash. “Fought that battle, lost that battle. Just a fact of life at this rate.” At the end of the stack, he squinted. “You know that beer isn’t free.”

Aaron tossed over another five.

Ferret swung back into visibility with a beat up ladder under his arm that he maneuvered with a surprising amount of agility, dodging server girls and the odd body as he kicked it up behind the stools and began scaling it before all four of its feet even hit the ground. The mercs around him scooted out of his way to make more room.

“Hey, Tad!” He called as he swung a leg over the top step and sat, the movement jostling the uneven metal legs. “What’s that new bet you got?”

Aaron turned to the bar owner. “Is that safe?”

“Are you OSHA?”

“Two-hundred on Betty White!” The Guy Who Was Probably Tad shouted. A resounding groan circled the bar. 

“You’re so fucking lucky Wade ain’t here to kick your ass.”

“Only reason why he’s doing it now’s ‘cause Wade ain’t here to kick his ass.”

Ferret caught the clanky tin box Weasel chucked up at him and used the chalk inside to lean over and write on the board.

TAD - 200 - WHITE, B - 95 YEARS OLD

He turned back to the rest of the room. “Who else? I know some of you have that gambling itch you won’t go to therapy for!”

A woman with blue hair and a chicken bone hanging out of her mouth snorted and raised a hand. “Fifty on the guy with the hair from Big Time Rush.”

“What the fuck is a Big Time Rush?”

BRIE - 50 - MASLOW, J - 26 YEARS OLD

“Any takers for the undertaking of other potential life un… takers?” Ferret pointed at one of the tables. “I recognize that thinking face, Ambrose! Are those betting thoughts?”

The merc in question sipped at his glass of neat dark liquor. Fingerless gloves wrapped around his knuckles and he sat back in his skin-tight tank and light wash jeans. 

“Yeah, I got a bet,” he said. “No one’s gonna be happy ‘bout it, though.”

“Insider trading,” someone muttered.

“Your info that good?” Weasel piped up as he went to fix a tray of shots.

“Depends. I heard a fire’s gonna get set under someone’s ass and it’s not gonna stop even if the city burns down with it. ‘Course, it’s usually bullshit posturing, y’know. All talk, no dick. But I’m hearin’ it more an’ more, so I’ll see if I can make chump change on a pipe dream.” Ambrose lazily raised his glass. “One hundred on Spider-Man.”

snap.

Aaron looked up at the sound and saw the chalk in Ferret’s hand in two pieces.

“That’s fucked up,” said someone with a mohawk. “The Girl Scouts love Spider-Man.”

“It ain’t me that wants the little bastard dead. I saw him haul a hotdog stand down near mine when one of the wheels broke and then fixed the wheel right after. He’s alright.”

Weasel used a rag to mop up one of the shot glasses he overfilled, his head down and oily blonde hair swinging over his face at the motion. “And you don’t know who’s after him?”

“Nah, everyone knows not to fuck around with that supe shit.” The merc shrugged and downed the rest of his drink. “But all I heard was that Spider-Man pissed off someone heavy at Ryker’s and we’re all ‘bout to find out what that means.”

Ferret’s lips thinned. His face had lost all of its cheer and shadowed over, not just because it was under harsh colored lights, and Aaron probably would be upset too if he was a Spider-Man fan; a lot of the kids in the neighborhood adored him, Miles included. It sucked to hear that someone was after his ass, but that was the kind of thing you sign up for when you run the chance of having every criminal you web up your own personal enemy.

But still Ferret leaned over, knuckles as white as the chalk dust across them, and wrote.

AMBROSE - 100 - SPIDER-MAN - ? YEARS OLD

::

Peter woke up warm.

“What time is it?” He mumbled into the fin of an IKEA shark.

“Time for you to get a watch.”

“Have a watch.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?! Sometimes I think you start arguments just to talk to me and it’s just not a way to keep this relationship sustainable. It’s every day with this: I go to the office, I hate my boss, I punch in the numbers—there’s so many numbers. They should make a place to keep all of them.”

“Spreadsheets.”

“Excel or Google?”

He groaned and lifted his head just enough to blink against the sunlight, the bottom half of his face still smooshed into blue fuzz. The scent of pancakes fully hit his still-groggy brain as he dragged up his arm to blink at the old, battered watch he forgot to slip off before crashing.

10:47 am.

“Excel.” He ignored the ‘Bill Gates fanboy’ muttered from the kitchen and wrapped his arms around the shark and squeezed its little polyester heart out. “I slept until brunch.”

“Like a caterpillar digesting in its cocoon. Melting into salsa.” Wade flipped a pancake on a tower already stacked ten high. “Bug soup.”

Peter sank further into the couch. Last night was fine. Really. Just another typical night at Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls where mercenaries ran free and rumors said that someone out there was making moves after Spider-Man’s head because they got locked up at Ryker’s where Adrian Toomes was serving a life sentence. 

Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool.

He rooted around for his phone when it buzzed from somewhere under his head. 

May: Can you pick up some eggs on your way home? [10:48 am]

Me: {salute emoji} [10:48 am]

May: {red heart emoji} [10:49 am]

He couldn’t just waltz up to Ryker’s and ask to see the guy who tried to hijack a Stark plane, they’d think he was crazy or worse—a true crime podcaster. Toomes knew who he was and had known for months now, but he guessed that Spider-Man being targeted didn’t mean Peter Parker was associated. He could’ve been biding his time, planning things out and gathering allies, but could it be one of the people who used to work with him? Most criminals he’d left to the police wouldn’t make it on the waiting list for a place like that; it was for high-ranking gangs and mobs, terrorist-adjacents, the mean street elites.

Now that he was thinking about it, wasn’t that guy trying for an arms deal on the ferry sentenced to Ryker’s too? What was his name again?

Wade traipsed over with two mismatched plates of steaming pancakes and kicked back on the already-occupied couch.

“Your butt’s going to bend my spine,” Peter grumbled.

“My ass might be fat but it’s also voluptuous and you should be honored.” 

Wade passed over the plate with the hyper-realistic painting of a pair of Ruddy Ducks. They were already smothered in butter and maple syrup imported straight from Quebec—the pancakes, not the ducks—and Peter’s mouth watered to the threat of drooling as he balanced it on the arm rest with one hand and snatched off the top of the stack with the other. 

“Hoe don’t do it.”

Bare-handed, Peter shoved the entire pancake into his mouth.

“Oh my god.”

“Dude, the Griddle King earns his crown yet again,” he said through bits of fluffy goodness and arguably the best syrup he’d ever had. “This is so much better than Bisquick.”

“The Griddle King will not hear the names of cheap rival kingdoms in his own domain.”

“Apologies, my liege.”

“The Griddle King accepts your apology and will look the other way from your besmirching of a pancake’s honor, so you better not wipe your grubby little hands all over my upholstery because you’ve forgotten the existence of forks. The utensil, not the place where vampires are born.” Wade dug into his own stack and cut his pancakes into perfect, spearable triangles because he was a civilized breakfast enjoyer. “Why were you so confused that you woke up for brunch? Don’t teenagers usually wake up around this time?”

“I guess, but I don’t usually sleep this long unless I’m dead tired or healing.”

“Are you dead tired?”

“Not really.”

“Healing?”

“Not this time.”

“So you’re spiraling because Spider-Man got put on the dead pool.”

Peter shoved another pancake and his mouth and tried not to pout. Wade was so annoying when he was right.

A hand came down and tousled his head, thick scars catching against his bedhead and turning it into a rat’s nest. “Don’t worry about it too much, Petey, the pool’s just some dumb fun. Wease had my name on it for years before I became Cancer McCancerface and he still paid up on the bi-annual dead pool flush.”

“Ambrose seemed pretty sure, and you know he’s not the type to listen to rumors.”

“Ambrose, shmambrose, unless he’s The Lunatic Fringe himself I’d let him do his own thing,” Wade waved off. “But if you’re still worrying about it, Dead and Blue can go out and poke around for some info. I’ve gotta restock on some stuff—you know when you lose your guns in the ocean and even though you remember the exact spot you dropped them there’s pretty much no shot of getting it back? So that’s on the list along with some minor suit repairs, but after that we’ll kick the shit out of anyone who’s even thinking about picking up the spiderswatter.”

And Peter was warm, again.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “But less shit-kicking, more info gathering.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re such a tent pole in a sinkhole.” Wade chewed. “Up to anything fun today? Study group? Tuba practice?”

“I’m not in band anymore but I used to play the trumpet, thank you very much. But I’m just going to hang out with my Aunt the rest of the day. I’ve been kind of busy lately, so it’ll be nice to chill before school tomorrow.”

Another buzz hit the couch and Peter dug for his phone between the couch cushions with his non-syrupy hand.

Ana {snake emoji}: Youre new gears reddy. Let me kno when you want it. [11:01 am]

Me: i can pick it up now if ur free! thank u ms. ana! [11:02 am]

“Actually, I’m going to pick up some new gear I got for Blue. Do you know Ms. Anaconda?”

“One time she bit me and tore off the muscles in my neck with her teeth. I’ve been in love with her ever since.”

::

Armed with his backpack and a heavy string bag that bounced against his hip with every step, Peter walked back to his apartment in the super early afternoon. Queens didn’t slow down in the middle of a Sunday, but there was something about the cool, pollen-filled air that made him want to lay down on a rooftop in the middle of the day and just. Photosynthesize. Maybe he’d do some homework on top of their apartment building one of these days with a blanket and everything.

He opened the door to his building and held it out for Mrs. Figueroa whose plants he managed to keep alive when she went to visit family for a month before he stepped through the threshold, but then it was like 

suddenly,

something’s 

w r o n g.

Peter’s breath shallowed in his chest. His heartbeat quickened in his ears. The world moved in slow motion, submerged in melding colors and softened edges and it dizzied him to move his head but he pushed through it, pulled his feet forward, ran, ran, ran past the elevator and up the stairs and leapt two, three, four steps at a time around and around, a square circle of stacked walkways in a building full of heartbeats and crying and laughter and people, people lived here, people grew here, people—

There was no one in his hallway. His apartment door was just barely cracked.

His mouth moved, one syllable, three letters, a question. His mouth moved, he knew it did. He can’t hear himself speak.

Then he was at the door and his eyes landed on the knob. The lock was broken. The frame had slivers of fractures.

Copper curled in his nose.

He pushed through the door, strung muscles on silent feet as he crammed through the smallest opening and shut it behind him with a sweating palm. The bags on his shoulders slipped down to the floor and it was a mess; May would tut at him to never clutter the entryway so their shoes stayed in neat lines, guests could come in and out without tripping over the stray heel and, and. And. 

The metal air settled on his tongue and he wanted to spit it out.

ba-bump… ba-bump… ba-bump…

He opened his mouth again as his body pulled itself to the sound—the kitchen, his voice squeezing out in a strangled croak.

“May?”

He loved their little kitchen. 

Ben was never much of a chef and ever since he was young, they both agreed to let May down gently whenever she tried to prove that there couldn’t be two culinarily-inept people in this household. And whenever she tried a new casserole or meatloaf or one-pot meal, he and Ben would stomach as much as they could until May herself couldn’t finish her own plate and when she stood defeated by the phone ordering take out, Ben would slip him a bit of candy with a wink and a small, secret smile. He never thought about cooking himself when he got older, probably operating on the assumption he’d be just as bad because who else would he have gotten the gene from? 

But now he was fifteen and meal-prepping and May would wrap an arm around his shoulders and laugh about how they’d had a chef in the family all along and he’d save their meals one properly roasted vegetable at a time.

He had so many memories here, most of them with May.

And it would be this one that would haunt him until he ended with a bullet in the middle of his chest.

“Hey, baby,” May smiled, pale-faced, blood in her teeth. She sat slumped against the dishwasher with a kitchen towel to her side, bright red seeping through her fingers and over each and every gold ring she put on for the day. “You’re…. You’re home.”

Knives scattered on the counter stop, appliances scattered, blood. So much blood. Around her, and around the body he stepped over to collapse at her side. 

“May? May, May, I’m here. I’m so—I’m—” Peter laid his hands over hers and applied the lightest pressure, and he flinched at the quick intake of breath she sucked in. “Your phone—did you already call—?”

“First… thing the asshole broke…”

“Then I’ll—!”

“Don’t bother, baby,” she murmured. “You know how… Y’know how expensive an ambulance gets.”

Peter sat, hypnotized by his hands soaking in dripping red that blurred more and more each passing second. He wanted to tell her that the first aid kit under his bed could fix her up, make her better. One of his first paychecks paid for the biggest one he could find that he kept stocked for every emergency from shots to stabs to slashes and he could sew her up—he would hate explaining how he got so good at it, but he could sew her up. He could put her back together. He could help her get better and she’d be alive and they’d put this all behind them tomorrow after she got help—

Stomach wounds could bleed out in as little as two minutes, but she’d been here longer. So much longer. 

Too long.

(Too late.)

He felt like his head dunked underwater, and every breath he took, he was drowning.

“We’ll get you help some oth-other way. I don’t know why that guy—”

“That guy? He was… He was nothing…” She tipped to the side and he caught her, slowly—so slowly—righting her back up again. “Sorry, didn’t… Sorry…”

“It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re okay.” He sniffed, and warmth seeped into his jeans. “Right, May?”

“Yeah. Knocked on my ass… that’s all.”

He fumbled for his phone and swiped the screen again, again, again, crimson smudged on AMOLED making it harder to tap any of the buttons. But he managed. He had to.

“Hello, heart. To what do I owe— ”

“It’s May,” he sniffed, a shaky breath rattling out of his lips. “Mom, it’s May, and she’s—she’s—”

The air shifted and crackled and split and he was nauseous. That made sense, seiðr always knocked him on the wrong side of the tightrope, but May stretched out a trembling hand with a cut on the palm and brushed his cheeks just under his eyes. When they came back wet and shiny, he scrubbed his face with his sleeve, and it was clear again. 

“Oh, May,” Loki breathed out. They crouched at Peter’s side, squished between the island and a cupboard door, their eyes quick lightning bolts as they took in all of the scene. They reached up, tucking a lock of tangled brown hair behind her ear as they tried for a teasing smile that was already crumbling at the edges. “In a spot of trouble, are we?”

“You know me, life… of the party.”

He couldn’t rip his eyes away, couldn’t stop his vision from tunneling. “Do you know any spells? Anything that could help? I have my first aid kid—there’s everything in there and I can, I’m sure we can find, I know we can—”

Loki squeezed his shoulder in the same instance May’s free hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, and he ground his teeth together to stifle the hiccups climbing up his throat. The vague awareness of the dead body behind him sat at the back of his head, one of the kitchen knives jutting out of his chest. He’d used it yesterday. To cut up some meat for a stir-fry.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter whispered. “This is all my…”

May shook her head, one grand heave of her head to tip to the other side. “No—”

“They came here for me. They came here for you because of me.”

“You do what you… have to. Out there. People don’t like that. ‘S not your fault.”

“If I had just— ”

“You don’t need to take care of me, baby.” She swallowed, and the grip on her side started to go slack. “Ben and I took you in, this little brown-haired boy with glasses too big for his face and his lungs full of asthma. You'd just lost your parents and you were so small I…” She drew in another long few breaths; the seconds went faster. Her heartbeat didn’t. “We didn’t know what we were doing, we didn’t know if we were going to do right by you, but we knew how much we love you and we couldn’t mess this up. You’re ours, always will be.” Cool fingers cupped the side of his face. “Look at you.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Ben would be so proud.”

Choked, cut-off sobs wracked Peter’s body as Loki took him into their arms. Their hands locked around slight shoulders, a grounding presence that weighed like heavy stone, ever the perfect poised prince that could not show weakness to the masses. They were a regal statue, a monolith of self-possession—

“What I wouldn’t kill for… a glass of good merlot right… right about now.”

—a god who couldn’t stop losing, and losing, and losing.

An abrupt laugh spilled out of their mouth, a small wet thing. “I would not prescribe that remedy for this particular occasion.”

May pouted, but it looked more like she was clenching her teeth. “You’re no fun.”

“I am plenty.” Their hand engulfed her smaller one, and for all the frigidity that wove through their skin, they hoped they were warm for her. “I will take care of him, I promise you that against all the stars in the universe.”

“You’ll take care of each other. You’ll, You’ll keep each other safe.” She coughed, spurts of blood dribbling down her chin. “Happy, healthy, home. What… What do you think, Lokes? New York isn’t so… so bad, is it?

Loki’s throat closed up. Patches of ice crystalized around their feet.

“Peter?” May said, her voice faint and feather-light. “Peter, baby, listen to me.”

Peter swiped his sleeve across his face again, smearing tear streaks and her blood on his cheek that began to dry into dark brown flakes. “Ye-Yeah, Ma-May?”

“You have a gift. You have power. And with great power… there must also come great responsibility.”

That was exactly what Ben said when he bled out, too.

“I know,” he rasped.

“And Loki, you’ll… stay? Won’t disappear again?”

“Of course, my dear,” they murmured. “You will always have my word.”

“I love you, May,” Peter told her through red-rimmed eyes and the quiet, constant shattering behind his ribs.

“I love you, too,” she grinned. “Just let me catch my… catch… my…”

And Peter could only watch as his world slowly stopped turning.

::

It was a sunny day in Queens when Maybelle Parker was lowered into loosened earth.

The air was only slightly chilly and the sun beat down rays soaked in by his black suit, new and neatly pressed with leather oxfords that were too stiff around his heels. Loki stood next to him with her chin held high and her hair combed slick into a tight knot at the base of her neck. Her dark leather coat hung down to her shins, shrouding her pitch black silhouette as she held on to her son’s shoulder and on his other side, Ned. His hand was tight in his, sweaty and shaky and constant. 

The only things keeping him from floating away.

Poor Peter. He can hear in pockets of conversations across the cemetery lot. His parents, his uncle, his aunt now, too. But he’s got his mom now. His real mom, didn’t you hear? Gone for most of his life, back fast enough to keep him out of foster care. I hope she loves him. I hope it’s real. He’s so young. He’s just a kid. He’s strong. He’ll make it.  

It must be so hard to keep having to live through this.

Peter bent his head and bit through his cheek to keep his tears all to himself.

He stood, unmoving like his soles were glued into the grass, until it was only him and Loki in front of her grave. The headstone would come in a few weeks down the line and he hoped it would be just what May wanted. She wouldn’t have liked anything fancy or frilly, but he didn’t know much about headstones. Ben took care of Richard’s and Mary’s, May took care of Ben’s, Loki took care of May’s.

One after another after another.

“We will find the one who dared to do this,” Loki swore as they continued to stare at the rectangle of upturned dirt. “And when we find them, they will grovel at our feet for such a foul, senseless murder of one who did nothing but live a good life.”

“It was Spanner.”

She jerked and looked to the side. “What?”

“Spanner brought the bats. They had blood on them already; one of them broke on my shoulder. And May killed him with the knife he tried to use on her.” Peter looked up. His head was almost too heavy for his neck and his eyes stayed glassy, shadowed. Encased in puffy, swollen skin that had not gone down once in the last few days. “Spanner did it.”

Loki gently turned him towards her and held his face, her moon and her stars cautiously cradled between her two palms. “What else do you know of Spanner?”

And unbeknownst to her, unseen, unheard even in the planes of her years and crafted seiðr, the pit of ice that had been growing in Peter's chest—from the man at the docks to the goon's frostbite around his neck to the teenager in the burning building to May— finally reached what was left of his heart, and consumed.

“He worked for Kairo Green.”

::

Me: i forgot the eggs. [3:31 am]

Me: i’m sorry. [3:31 am]

Me: come ba

Me: dont g

Me: i can’t

Me: i’m so sorry. [3:34 am]

Me: i love you. [3:34 am]

Me: will you tell ben i love him too? [3:35 am]

Chapter Text

Loki stared at her broken reflection around the ice cube in her whiskey glass. Two small braids pulled against the scalp started from above either ear and roped down to her shoulders to be lost in the inky sea of the rest of her loose hair. Blue-black metal chains dangled from her lobes and sat stark against her neck and swept dark shadows across her eyelids. Most days on Midgard were not as long as they felt this last week, and not often did she feel the lead in her bones nor the drag in her steps, but it would not slow the beating of her heart and leave her for the hush. She would live.

Her dear heart, however.

“How’s he holding up?” Neena questioned from her left. She set her chin atop her knuckles which sat atop her full bottle of beer, lips twisted into a concerned frown. Her leather jacket was a loud assortment of black and white blocks, non-symmetrical but oddly flattering as it hung down to the middle of her waist. 

“Two days ago I managed to coax him out of his room for proper meals. Otherwise he is… enduring.”

She had not known what to do at the sight of a large bundle contained on one corner of his bedroom ceiling. Swathed in numerous blankets until he was nothing more than multicolored silk that never shifted a single thread. Prying him away would do no good, and who was she to lecture how he should and should not mourn?

She might be his mother by blood, but she was not the one who raised him.

Weasel clicked his tongue as he filled a couple pitchers of water. “Damn, that’s rough. Make sure you tell him he doesn’t have to worry about showing up as long as he needs to.”

“I will pass on the message.”

Wilson tipped back in the stool to her right and unhinged his maw to dump the rest of his ice-diluted drink into it. His hood hung low over his face as it always did, a darker red than his Deadpool suit. Worn, and wine. “We know who did it?”

Loki exhaled quietly and set her glass down onto the bar. “Kairo Green sent the perpetrator.”

Weasel’s mouth twisted like he partook in something unbearably sour and poured himself a shot.

“Wait, like the guy who kidnapped him and Granny?” Neena raised a brow. “No way he's that fucking stupid.”

“That’s… How sure are we that it was one of Green’s attack dogs?”

“My darling recognized his face and knew his name.” She deliberated the next fact for a moment. “And he ignored his cooling body without concern when he saw May.”

“Ah,” Neena acknowledged. “Shit.”

Weasel knocked back his shot and immediately began pouring himself another. 

“That’s on some other level. That’s so incredibly fucked up, actually, what the fuck. You’re just saying this now?” Wilson rapped his knuckles against the side of his head as if it were enough force to realign the rattled parts of his brain. “Okay. Okay. We can deal. He can stew for a couple more weeks if he needs it, but we have to get him out eventually. He needs fresh air and water and socialization—”

Neena snorted. “He’s not a Dobermann, Pool.”

“Woof,” he countered before shifting back towards Loki. “If he’s still not out of his room once the warranty expires, call me and be prepared to make your floors buffed after I bust out the crampons.” He waggled his empty glass in front of Weasel’s face until it was snatched out of his hand. “For traction.”

Loki rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

“He really grew on you, huh?” Neena asked her dryly.

“Like parasitic fungi.”

“Did you hear that, Wease? She called me fun!”

Loki allowed a brief upturn of glossy black lips before her mind wandered away from her once more.

As much as she loathed the idea of the idiot in her home, he did not shy away from how much he doted on her son. Wilson in all his many, many, many faults was, in some ludicrous way, not a figure she wanted to remove from Peter's life. Perhaps she would have to invite him along with Neena and Elder Sal. The Weasel too, if she must. Then there was also that boy at the funeral—Edward Leeds, was it? Peter’s best friend. She had only met him briefly, him too occupied in offering his comfort and her too gripped by the circumstance, but she had heard what could have been a hundred anecdotes of him. 

She should purchase one of those Lego sets for the both of them to build together; she would order Wilson to bring her to that store again so she could find something most suitable.

Jon Who Could Never Put His Foot In His Mouth held up a hand at the person who burst through the flow of the red entrance light. “Yo, Ferret! C’mere an’ settle this score real quick!”

Loki paused.

Peter, with a surprising liveliness and the skin around his eyes reduced from their swollen red, skidded up to the bar with lightly flushed cheeks. It was a common appearance on the nights he was late or nearly so to his shift due to having to run blocks at an acceptable Midgardian speed if he could not find an opportunity to swing.

“Give me a sec!” He called before turning to the four blank, wide-eyed faces around the Gold Card machine. “Hey guys! You won’t believe it but I almost got hit by a car like, twice, but it was the same car on two different streets and the driver felt so bad she gave me one of these protein bars from a box she keeps in that back seat pocket even though I was the one playing games at the crosswalk—not that I was jay-walking or anything! I totally follow pedestrian rules all the time.” He dropped his backpack in the free seat by Neena and rummaged through its contents. “And there was a dog I had to get out of the street and this old man wouldn’t stop hitting me with his fanny pack talking about calling an exterminator.” Gun, sheath, dagger. “Hold on, sorry! Let me put my stuff away and get my apron.”

And off he breezed towards the break room, the last glimpse of him the flash of his gun tucked into his waistband as he disappeared through the doorway.

As the rest of Sister Margaret’s drank and chatted and swelled the space typical of its heavyset presence, the four at the bar rattled into a stunned silence that kept until Peter returned with a trot in his step and quick fingers tying a freshly laundered apron around his waist.

“What was I saying?”

They all stared before Weasel took it upon himself to shake out of stupor first, coughing to clear his throat, “Uh,” and pushed up his glasses. “Hi, Ferret.”

Peter smiled a bit. “Hi, Mr. Weasel.”

“You, uh, you doing good?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Good. That’s good. It’s just… uh. I was going to give you some time off because. Um.”

“Because of May?” He offered. Just her name was enough to echo a dull pang through Loki’s heart. “I really appreciate that, but I think I've spent enough time holed up in my room.” His eyes met his mother’s, a dark riverbed ringed in waterthyme, and offered an apologetic smile that promised there would be time to talk, later. It drew out a small smile of her own, and she tipped her head. Of course, my love. “And she… Things are going to be pretty shit for a while and I can’t just, you know, keep living without putting another foot forward. I even got to tell her I love her before she… Not a lot of people get to do that. I was.” His lips pressed together. “Lucky.” And his eyes watered, but it did not reach tears. “Is it okay if I take the shift?”

“Uh.” Weasel blinked a few times. “Yeah, if you’re sure. Run the floor for a while, touch base with Sal, I’ll call you if we got anything coming in.”

“Cool! I’ll swing back there after I see what Jon wants.”

And then he could have practically skipped to Jon’s table as if it were really just another day at work.

Weasel slowly turned to the three arguably most dangerous people currently in the bar who had not spoken since the supposed brokenhearted Peter showed face.

Wilson scrunched his brow. “Well, that was emotionally well-adjusted.”

“He is a smart boy; he comes to realizations much quicker than others his age,” Loki tried, though it was still rather weak to her own ears. “His sense of loss is… more acute than others.”

Neena tapped her chin and looked down. “Hm.”

Another bout of silence.

“That was still fucking weird, right?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“I can’t believe you motherfuckers made me the spokesperson, I’m the worst at shit like that.”

“Yes, well.” Loki glanced over her shoulder and caught Peter in the midst of laughter. “This is quite an unprecedented turn of events.”

“His close friends are mercs and his mom’s half a psychopath—no offense! No offense!” Weasel scrambled back at the catches of silver Loki flashed from her sleeves. “But come on, that’s some crazy nature v. nurture type shit. Was his dad threatening innocent bartenders too?”

“No, but I did not know him well,” she admitted readily. “They passed when he was very young, and May and her husband took him in to love and raise.”

“She was married?”

Loki inclined her head. “But he too passed a year or so ago.”

The others winced. 

“The Price Is Right on a tragic ass backstory. Makes the media and all the fanfics that come out of it more compelling,” Wilson said as he drew in half a glass of gin and tonic.

“Let’s just be glad it’s this and take the win, alright?” Weasel waved his hands like he could waft away the confused air. “‘Cause I’m not equipped to handle anything else.”

Loki frowned. Was it really as easy at that? She might not have experience in the ways of childrearing but she remembered how her and Thor had been incessant thorns in the side of the Queen Mother, growing in more complicated twists and distortions as they aged. Peter did not share her same wars; a boon to his heart but a curse to her knowledge. Perhaps this was one of those moments she could not fathom herself, thus her confusion?

“Excuse me, everyone! Can I please have your attention real quick?”

The entire bar fell to a low hush as they all swiveled their attention to Peter standing atop Jon’s table. Even Elder Sal slid out from the back and crossed her arms as she took in the scene. 

“I know it’s early in the night so I’ll keep this short.” He cast about his ever-endearing smile. “If you hear anything of or related to a Kairo Green, send it my way? Even if it’s something you don’t think matters like what color shoes he was wearing.”

“Must’ve fucked up hella to end up on your radar,” Jay-Ar Who Will Not Stop Antagonizing The Shorter-Fused Mercenaries said. “This a kill-on-sight situation?”

“No way, I wouldn’t ask you guys to do a job for free,” Peter dismissed, and many of those in attendance outwardly expressed their approval of that. “This is just one of those see something, say something deals.”

“Casting an open net.” Ambrose Who Does Not Speak On Rumors Unless He Knows They Are Facts nodded, half-lidded eyes bubbling with curiosity as he ashed his own cigarette in his mostly-full drink. “Bold move, Ferret. You sure this ain’t you inciting a free for all, winner takes home the grand prize?”

“There’s no prize. I mean, not one that really manners. No money, no fame, no glory.”

“So what’s so worth your stake?”

Then a second, unpredicted thing.

Peter’s smile remained wide but his eyes, so usually bright and hopeful, were suddenly… not. They smoldered like burnt wood ringed with wilting weeds and so close to the overhead lights, it appeared he had not quite regained his full color. He was tired, undoubtedly, and so far and away from recovering the part that had been tucked into the soil alongside May.

“Dibs,” he said with an easy shrug. “Because that bastard’s mine.”

Wilson choked on his own saliva and spit up in his drink as the bar roared to life. Cheers erupted, hollering bounced off neon signage, hands exchanged betted bills and guns and strange, unique knives.

June Who Owned A Shooting Range wiped a stray tear from her eye, her face split into a grin in the aftermath of her laughter. “You got a message to put out there in case anyone lends an ear?”

“Sure.” Peter’s smile stretched, but his eyes did not change. “Tell them Kairo Green’s first mistake was leaving the dish boy alive.”

In the midst of another thunderous rally shrouded in shouts and wolf whistles, Loki, Neena, and Wilson slowly turned back around in their seats to face a frozen Weasel who made no move to pick up the stack of napkins that slipped from his fingers, and Elder Sal raised both her hands before retreating into the kitchen without a single word.

“That other shoe dropped so fucking hard it made its journey to the center of the earth,” Wilson finished the rest of his drink, spit and all, and reached over the bar for the bottle of gin, “and Josh Hutcherson wasn’t even there as a witness.”

Weasel did not even attempt to stop him as he usually would have and instead poured himself another shot, angry mutterings stewing beneath his breath. “I didn’t see shit, nothing’s happening, this is none of my goddamn shit business, Jesus fuck the bag of heads thing was a fucking joke can’t say a damn fuck thing in this economy—”

A laugh spouted from Neena only for as long as it took for her to slap a hand over her mouth. “It’s not funny,” she denied instantly. She squeezed Loki’s upper arm. “Lora, I swear it’s not funny. Whiplash makes me giddy.” A giggle crept out of her and she cleared her throat to push it away as she snapped at Weasel. “Hey. Hey! This is a universal crisis. Share!”

“Beatrice Arthur, my lord and grace.” Wilson pressed his hands together over the open top of the large bottle, circular glass denting his forehead as he bowed over it. “If I’m central to a villain origin story this is the meanest fucking thing you’ve ever done to me. Ten thousand dollars went to the rights to wear you on my shirt in the first Deadpool movie and now I’ve been forsaken—”

Loki stared back down into the shallow pool of her dark liquor. Unsurety made no common presence in her long life, not quite blooming until the aftermath of her fall, not quite as full petaled until Peter called her back into his life and smiled like she did not commit the sin of leaving.

And she was struck back to her thoughts upon one of their first meetings; it was after a shift here that she had walked him home, a boy with dried blood on his clothes and an earnest look in his eyes—a boy she did not know how to deal with because of his kindness, because of his heart.

Mercenaries laughed and clapped this boy’s shoulders as he leapt down from the table and began collecting empty plastic baskets and sticky glasses, ever diligent in his duties whether it be donning yellow rubber gloves at the sink in the back or lugging duffle bags full of weapons into paying hands. 

He had not changed, she believed.

But this boy as he was now… she could not say this development was as hapless as it seemed.

::

Clumps of soaked hair stuck to his face, long enough now to glue themselves to the skin below his cheekbones. 

Guy in the Chair: u left real arlt [2:36 pm]

Guy in the Chair: *early [2:36 pm]

Guy in the Chair: mj let u ditch prac??? [2:36 pm]

In. Out. In. Out.

There was no blood on his jeans.

Me: i barely left with my life but yea [2:38 pm]

Me: i’ll be out of town this weekend and i’m actualy leavin in like a few min [2:39 pm]

Guy in the Chair: and ur just tellin ne now??? [2:39 pm]

It was nice to wake up to a throat that wasn’t raw and to eyes that didn’t sting every time he blinked. He wasn’t as exhausted. Or dehydrated.

There was no blood in the kitchen. 

He glanced at the dagger poised on the towel rack and when he turned his head, brown strands dragged and strung, sticky claws across rapidly cooling skin. The shower had been at the coldest setting he could physically set it to and since Coney, it wasn’t a frozen shot to the system like it was for everyone else. 

He turned his head back forward. His hair raked a line against his neck, and he grit his teeth.

Me: kinda a last min thing [2:41 pm]

Me: thought it would be good to get away for a while [2:41 pm]

Guy in the Chair: oh thats cool! [2:42 pm]

Guy in the Chair: okay dont hate me for ask ing but i really have to ask so like [2:42 pm]

Guy in the Chair: how are u doing? [2:42 pm]

Guy in the Chair: cuz if u need anything u kno im there [2:42 pm]

The water dripped down his skin, reflecting razor thin layers of frost that still crumbled under the weight of gravity as they fell into the sink.

drip. drip. drip.

Warmth stirred in his chest. It sapped out a moment later.

Me: thanks man [2:43 pm]

Me: its [2:43 pm]

Me: yknow [2:43 pm]

Guy in the Chair: yeah i know [2:44 pm]

Guy in the Chair: text me soon k? [2:44 pm]

Guy in the Chair: love u, dude [2:44 pm]

His thumb hovered over the keyboard a long few seconds before he looked in the mirror where one of his cheeks was still bright pink from how hard he scrubbed.

There was blood on his face and he couldn’t get it off.

He caught the gleam of silver on the side of the mirror, wet curls matted to his eye lashes.

taco buddy: YOUR SHOWFUR HAS ARRIVED [2:47 pm]

taco buddy: shoferr [2:47 pm]

taco buddy: chaufuer [2:47 pm]

taco buddy: chowffeur [2:48 pm]

taco buddy: DRIBER [2:48 pm]

taco buddy: FUCJ [2:48 pm]

The corner of his mouth twitched up. It was too heavy to keep it there.

He turned again, hair scraping like nails on a chalkboard, and reached for his dagger.

::

Wade tipped his head down towards the center console and squinted at the weird jagged spot on the bottom of the windshield trying to decide if it was a chip, not the Lay’s kind, or an artfully crafted bird shit. It wasn’t like the car was his pride and joy the way Sleazy Eze pawned off these junkers to anyone who could slap 5k into his sweaty hands. His bathroom was where cheap hair gel bottles went to die and he wouldn’t button the fuck up his shit so his customers had to suffer the tundra of all chest fields. Swear to god a civilization thrived there. But the car would hold up for a couple jobs before it shit out and off to the yard it was. Salute. Braver than any US Marine.

He leaned forward to get a closer look and bounced back when his chest hit the steering wheel and the saddest, most deflated fart squeezed out the horn. 

Bean-coded. 

Whoopee cushion wannabe.

“Language,” he scolded. “This isn’t what Captain America would’ve wanted if he wasn’t bumming it in a secret multi-million dollar facility acting like it’s a hostel.”

taptap—tap.

He popped the trunk and started scrolling for his roadtrip playlist. The car shook as a heavy bag dropped in the back and the trunk slammed shut.

The passenger door swung open.

“How’d you find a car this shade of brown in twenty-seventeen?”

“Lesson one, young tarantula. The classics never go out of style.” Mariah Carey’s Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel started off with that sweet, sweet piano out of half dead speakers. He tossed his phone into one of the cupholders. “Two, style is—”

Wade turned his head and screamed. 

Peter jumped and latched both hands around the oh-shit handle, the plastic creaking under all his teen boy weight. “What? What?!”

“What happened to your hair?!” He wailed. “You look like you want to audition to be the friend who dies in a B-rated action flick!”

It just kept getting worse, didn’t it? First it was Dish Boy: The Heel Turn, and now this? The sides and the back shaved down to an almost buzz and the top was still longer—shorter than that—longshortish at best, now only curling down slightly against the top of his forehead. 

Wade lunged and roved his hands all over his head. 

“Dude!”

“Noooo…” He sniffed. “It’s like petting an overgrown hedgehog…”

Peter snorted and whapped the hands away as he settled into his seat. “It was getting long and it was kind of bothering me, so.” He shrugged a shoulder and made a snipping motion across his forehead. “Whoosh.”

No. No whoosh.

And he didn’t think he used scissors to get here, either. Scissors couldn’t get a shear that low and even when they opened up and could be used like a blade, the commercial ones wouldn’t cut that smooth so close to the skin. You remember what it’s like to shave? The top was sort of choppy, he guessed, as if he just grabbed clumps at a time and went to town just to get it out of his face, but…

“I’m distraught.” He crossed his arms and sunk down until the diagonal seat belt strap stretched over his face. “Petey, take the wheel.”

“I don’t even have my learner’s permit.”

“I know you don’t have to drive out here but it’s always good to know how to punch it on a getaway. You turn sixteen in about four months, right? We can spend your sweet sixteen at the DMV and take a shot every hour they make us wait!”

Peter clicked his own belt into place and picked at the white fuzz poking out from a rip in the seat. He was still a little pale, a little tired. A lot of tired. No, not our pookie! And our pookie should be bundled up in three separate throw blankets and rolled up in a comforter like a beefy five layer burrito and not on a Dead and Blue assignment so soon.

“I. I guess I wouldn’t mind learning to drive. May was going to try to teach me this summer.” The kid shrugged again, but his shoulders ended up a tad lower. “I think her car’s in storage somewhere. Mom doesn’t drive either but she didn’t want to get rid of it. It’s, uh. I’m lucky to have that too.”

Wade tried very hard to not blow out a heavy gust of air. Foot, meet mouth.

But it seemed he sweat in silence for a little too long when Peter exhaled harshly and hunched his shoulders to his ears. 

“Stop it. I don’t need your pity.”

“That’s not—It’s not pity.”

“Then what?”

He joked about the metaphorical bomb dropped in the middle of Wease’s bar on a random Friday night, but he felt the aftershocks in the dull throb of his constantly regenerating skin. Only Peter could worm his way under all these scars. Despite the fried nerves in our brain. Despite everything else that’s wrong with us. And he remembered how his chest tightened at the sight of him standing tall on that table, just another mercenary that commanded respect.

“I care about you,” he said plainly. “I care about what you do and what happens to you.” Peter flinched as all the fight bled out of his posture. “And losing someone like that feels like it’s… worse. For us.”

“... Us?”

Yeah. Us. People who blame themselves when the bad things happen, when you were there to stop it but couldn’t anyway because no matter what you did, it wasn’t enough. When she was right there in the living room and she was close enough to touch and if you were just fast enough, you could’ve been there. But they shot her in the chest anyway and she bled out in your arms, all your damn fucking fault.

The apartment exploded. She was ash. You don’t miss the place.

Ka-boom.

Wade shook his head. He was getting off track.

“I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay ‘cause that’s a stupid question. But are you okay for a Dead and Blue assignment right now? They’ll still be here if you take another week or two and it’s four hours to Massachusetts.”

“... I know.” Peter wrung his hands around his seat belt. “I just thought it would be good to get away for a while,” he admitted quietly. “Y’know?”

Wade’s lip quirked up humorlessly. “Yeah, I know.”

He tousled the kid’s head on instinct and couldn’t stop the disappointed grimace that spilled across his face. “You used to be a little shih tzu and now you’re just a noggin of five o’clock shadow.”

“Oh my gods, Wade, it’s going to grow back.”

“You don’t know that!”

::

Weasel sat at the empty bar, his laptop on the wiped countertop while The Chemical Brothers played on low from his bluetooth speaker. Inventory was all up to date and this week’s firearm orders had been pushed through and processed and every fucker should be able to start collecting come tomorrow night. People were starting to stock up for Spring Fever leading all the way up to the Summer… Well, even after ten years of managing the place, he still hadn’t thought up a good name for the all time high in jobs that part of the year saw.

The Summer Swell?

Eugh. Sounded contagious.

He opened up his encrypted programs for maintaining job postings and let the inquiries run. Assassinations, recon, muling, security—everyone was going to have a full plate this season. They might actually have some overflow and he’d have to refer them out to some other contractors. Maybe to Sable International; the last thing he needed was to step on their toes and hopefully they’d accept the friendly gesture.

His gaze flickered down to today’s date at the bottom corner of the screen. Wade had the kid for the weekend so he wouldn’t be in until his shift Monday night—which was great. Perfect, he could take all the time he needed and unions would eat Weasel sloppy the way he hocked up off-days like candy.

… Was what he wanted to say if these off-days weren’t technically still for work. The few no-shows the kid had were either because he was busy being abducted or actively dying or both and he only ever called-in once, and that was only because Spider-Man was after a weapons transport full of shoddy shit that jammed every other shot, the kid happily informed him the next time he’d come in. They had no ties to the bar, so their transport was hauled off to the nearest station with all the dealers webbed up in the back.

Weasel tapped through the new job submissions and started grouping them by skill requirement and offered pay—wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

His elbows dropped on the bar top and his face pressed flush against his hands, glasses and all.

“Oh my god,” he muttered pitifully. “Spider-Man’s a hitman for Sister Margaret’s.”

A non-lethal hitman, sure, but if he took down rival businesses and left all the ones related to the bar alone? And to make matters that much worse, Blue was slowly building his own mercenary resume despite only ever popping over Deadpool’s shoulder like a baby opossum and, shit, he should’ve never let the kid go on a single assignment in the first place. Now he was getting his gear from Anaconda who didn’t even like kids and true to his shit ability about keeping anything about his identity a secret, Weasel was pretty damn sure everyone clocked Ferret as Blue when he started going out more ‘cause really, who else could put up with Wade while maintaining a no-kill rule everywhere he went? With Wade actually fucking listening?

God that kid was so much trouble, and Weasel had a one-way ticket straight to hell for keeping him around. He just wondered what would get him there: a stress-induced heart attack or anxiety eating his mush until there was only gray matter left.

He slid out of his seat and walked around the bar to where they kept their in-house ammo stock. It was mostly for him and the kid; Sal had her own mixed in with the pots and pans and she’d rather smack around that ladle if she could get away with it. He spun in the code for the lock and popped open the door. He might have to order more rubber bullets pretty soon—this assignment should’ve taken nearly half the boxes and he didn’t like ordering too much of a bulk if they were only getting used by…

Weasel stared. And leaned forward. Then took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt before putting them back on, still streaked to hell but they were clear enough, and he registered that there were just as many rubber bullet boxes as there were three days ago.

Slowly, he turned to the stack of regular pistol bullets.

Five boxes were gone, and he wasn’t the one who took them.

Just as slow, he shut the door, spun the numbers on lock, and trooped back to his seat where he parked his ass right back in front of his laptop and refused to move until the rest of the admin work was done.

“I didn’t see shit,” he said to himself. “Nothing’s happening. This is none of my goddamn shit business.”

Should he tell Wade?

He thought back to the way he started sweating when the kid claimed a mark in front of the whole bar.

Yeah. No.

Wade could figure out that one on his own.

::

Peter threw his hands up, a handful of snacks in each, and gestured to the passenger seat now taken over by Wade’s undignified sprawl. 

“Dude, scoot your boot.”

“I genuinely can’t believe your mom lets you run around with a mouth like that.” Wade dropped his phone in his lap, his knees almost in his face with both feet propped up on the dash and made grabby hands. “Sour gummy worms?”

Peter presented the bag.

“Let’s fucking go—”

Only to whip it away and dangle it far out of immediate reach.

“—you don’t play with a man’s heart when it comes to his worms, you wall-crawling cretin .”

“Get out of my seat and I’ll give you the bag.”

“This isn’t even your seat!”

“That fresh lemonade stain on the floor from when you swerved to avoid a butterfly says otherwise.”

“I diagnose you with Hating Bugs Disease and it’s incurable, I can’t believe you. They’re your cousins.” Wade gestured to the vaguely lemon-scented seat. “This one’s mine.” He jerked his thumb over to the driver’s side. “And that one’s yours.”

Now Peter had a lot he wanted to say about that. He could bring up what he already said earlier and refuse on the fact that he didn’t have a learner’s permit, but driving without one was probably one of the least illegal things he’d done in the past year. He could say that he’d never even been in the driver’s seat of a go-kart and putting him behind the wheel of a real car was surely going to get them in a bush or through a tree or off a cliff that spontaneously manifested on the off-chance it wanted to send a teenager and his dumbass friend right off of it, but that probably was just going to be evidence of why he should drive the other two hours to Weymouth. He could also sit and protest, but two could play at that game and they had a pretty tight deadline to meet if they wanted to get back to New York in time for first period on Monday.

He sighed. “Fine.”

“Yes way and you can’t get my ass to move unless you—What? Really?”

“I figured I wasn’t going to move your ass physically or metaphorically so I just skipped ahead to the part where I give in.”

“You callin’ me fat?”

“I’m calling you pig-headed,” Peter responded dryly as he tossed over the bag of gummy worms. “If this car breaks down because of me I don't want to hear it on the bus ride back.”

He started to make his way around the front of the car, but made a quick look around for any curious eyes before he shot a web at the passenger seat adjuster and sent Wade flailing back. 

“Bitch!”

“Bless you!”

By the time he sidled into the driver’s seat, the right side of the windshield smudged in bootprints and the passenger’s seat clickclickclicked back into an upright position, one of Wade’s hands on the adjuster and the other clutching the bag of gummy worms to his chest like it was a string of pearls.

“I have been violated.”

“And I have been forced to drive to a state I’ve never been to with a license I don’t have.” He slapped his hands on the steering wheel at the approximation of ten and two—that was what all the movies said to do, right? “How do I not crash this thing?”

—

“Two deals, right-side gas, left-side brake, right foot jumps between them. Don’t even think about using both feet to drive because no matter how efficient you think it’s gonna be you’re brain’ll get mad and you’re fucked no matter which foot is on which pedal and see, we’re already lost. Your left foot stays the passenger princess.”

—

“Park, reverse, neutral, drive, low—PRNDL like the great London Tipton so dubbed, and thank god this piece of shit’s an automatic because as cool as Fast and Furious made stick shifts I shouldn’t have to worry about grinding my literal gears when I’m trying to drive and shoot out the window at the same time. Not safe, not sane, but consensual. Consent’s the most important thing. Write that down.”

—

“Okay, when you’re actually pushing on the pedals, you’ve gotta do it with a lot less oomph than you think. When you start channeling Popeye, were you breaking a ton of shit trying to figure it out?”

“Yeah, I accidentally ripped my bathroom sink out of the wall.”

“You ripped the—Super-Boy, I don’t know how you get away with anything because you hiding your identity is like Captain America actually using his shield defensively. You know, because we can shoot him in ze legs because his shield is the size of a dinner plate, and he’s an idiot.”

“The shield’s not that small, I could hide behind it pretty well if I tried.”

“What.”

“Yeah, I got to hold his shield after I stole it in Germany.”

“YOU'VE BEEN TO GERMANY?! ”

—

“Not too shabby, Spider-Crabby! Looks like we’re off to polluted skies and shitty motel rooms. Any last words?”

“Just a last action,” Peter said as he dug Wade’s phone from under a growing amount of Starburst wrappers and changed the music from a Beyoncé mix to Fall Out Boy’s discography—one of those old bands Neena was getting him into and were still making music, apparently.

“Random acts of violence?! In my car?!” Wade tore a gummy worm right where pink met blue and threw a half into his mouth. “I’m filing a complaint with your manager and I know where he lives.”

“Everyone knows where he lives.”

“Well I knew first. Who do you think helped him move that frat boy couch all the way up the stairs?”

“Either way, you know what they say: driver picks the music.” He tucked the phone back on top of the great wrapper sea and grinned. “Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Wade fell sideways against the door like he’d taken a punch to the jaw. Peter leaned over to make sure his seat belt was properly clicked in before he shuffled back into his seat. The driver’s seat. Ugh. 

With his hands at nine and three—he was close—he gazed out the windshield to the thickets of full trees bathed in the afternoon’s setting rosé. The road was still long on the way to Weymouth and already this had been the longest drive he’d been on if he didn’t count the one time he was stuck in standstill traffic because a semi flipped over and blocked all directions on a four-way intersection. Him and May had been heading home from a long chain of errands and when it looked like they weren’t getting anywhere anytime soon, she shifted the car into park, dug their take-out from the back seat, and he hid his face in his chow mein as she jammed to ABBA until he went crazy enough to join her.

His grip tightened briefly around the steering wheel, frosty blotches of ice wisping out the pads of his fingers.

He checked his mirrors. Placed his foot on the brake as he shifted the gear into reverse. Very carefully lifted his foot up as he backed out of the parking space he pulled into just a little over one of the lines. Eased his way to the road entrance and looked both ways where there was no one around, just him and Wade and the attendant behind the cash register who watched them loop around the lot. 

May had been excited to teach him how to drive. Then she would’ve tried to bake him a cake when he got his real license and he would’ve spent all that time sneaking bites into napkins and refusing a second slice because he was way too full.

“Quoting fucking Supernatural. In MY car.”

He forced all thoughts of May to fade—bloodonhisjeansbloodinthekitchenbloodonhisface itwon’tcomeoff —and turned onto the road.

“If anything I would be Dean. Get a toupée, a leather jacket from a father who never really loved me, and if you get me to hit on a waitress in an implicitly misogynistic way, boom. I’d win every cosplay walkway you could throw at me.” Wade tossed up a gummy worm, watched it smack against the ceiling, and caught it in his mouth under a shower of sugar sprinkles. “I think you could be a pretty stand-up Sam. Would’ve been better if you weren't trying to channel your inner mole rat.”

Peter checked ahead and in the rearview for any cars, and where there weren’t any, swerved a little. As a treat.

“Bitch!” Wade shouted as he grabbed the oh-shit handle. 

“Sorry. Butterflies. I’m trying to cure my Hating Bugs Disease.” Peter donned an easy smile, a knee jerk reaction of muscle memory. “But I couldn’t be Sam. I’d be a shit lawyer.”

“Yeah, but you could make it into Stanford,” said Wade. “You’re college-bound with a brain people want to keep in jars, pickled for at least a week. What’s your dream school, anyway?”

“I just—I just wanted to be like you.”

“And I wanted you to be better.”

Peter’s vision funneled down the middle of the dimming street as his headlights flipped on. 

Oh. Wow. 

It had been a while since he'd thought about Tony.

“Um. MIT.”

“Big, big leagues. We’re not gonna be that far from Boston when we get there, either. You always wanted to go?”

The horizon was a thin line belted into the distance, burnt orange squeezing around the sky’s waist and folding creases and loose threads in draping darkness. He could smell polish and gunpowder from the trunk and a faint rattle in the undercarriage had been going since they left, an extra beat to bop along to Mariah Carey and Rihanna and Ariana Grande and Beyoncé.

“Someone I really admired went there and it’s… all I ever wanted, but I’ve always known how expensive schools like that are. Ben and May couldn’t afford that—they couldn’t really afford me, but they still took me in. Not that it made me think there was no path towards a big university; I just needed to work harder, study more, stand out in the millions of applications they get a year. By freshman year I thought I had it all figured out. Between all the scholarships I would apply for and the grades I knew I could keep up and all the extracurriculars I joined, I thought—I knew I had a good shot.”

A car overtook them but Peter kept right on the speed limit, not a single mph higher or lower. There was bound to be a cop or two on the route and there wasn’t going to be any time to deal with that on their itinerary.

“You dropped out of band,” Wade mentioned. 

“And robotics. And AcaDec for a little bit before I joined back up again. It’s been fine, I just don’t know if I’ll stay in it next year with—with everything.”

Spider-Man. Blue. Ferret. Lokison.

He didn’t know why his shoulders were so tense or why he kept readjusting his hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead. He could feel Wade’s gaze on him, right there on and through the side of his head. Was this where the reprimanding was supposed to start? The disappointment? The lecture that he was throwing his whole future away because he was so smart, too smart to go looking for trouble in the back alleys when his age still end in -teen? Wade might not be the most responsible person in the world, but he cared. He cared even when Peter never asked him to and it—it just—

“Things never really end up the way we want,” Wade said; not in a why-would-you way or a how-could-you way, but the same way that he always talked to him. “You’re one of the smartest people I know, Petey. You’re going to figure something out. You always do.”

The back of Peter’s eyes stung, but he shook it off. He was tired of crying.

I got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match, Patrick Stump crooned out of old beaten speakers. What a catch. What a catch.

“Hey, Wade?”

“What’s up, Bugaboo?”

“I’m… I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. You didn't deserve that.”

“I’m made of butter, slip n’ slide. You couldn’t gorilla glue shit on me.”

Peter snorted and rested back against the seat for the long haul. “Alright, Country Crock. I want you to bring that energy later and have those bullets slide off you too.”

“I don’t think you know how bullets work, but I appreciate the thought.”

::

Wade held his mask between his teeth as he tried to buff a scratch off the barrel of one of his pistols as Peter slipped around the back of the building they were about to storm, fully suited and oh-so snazzy.

“Baby’s first military-style gear,” he cooed. “Can we do one of those themed photoshoots? Because I think we could squeeze you into a jack-o-lantern.”

Blue’s old gear was a haphazard mess pulled together into bits that didn’t match and was about two degrees away from getting revealed as Spider-Man’s alter ego who was also Ferret’s alter ego who was also Peter’s—you get the point. And when you were that bad at keeping a secret identity, it was better to have all your eggs accounted for and in the basket. Soft-boiled. Poached. Yolky, either way.

But this gear was from Anaconda herself; she was one of the oldest mercs in the game and last he heard, she was enjoying early retirement by training up new names and making sure anyone who came to her was properly suited if she deemed them worthy. Like a reptilian Thor.

The pants were thick and dark gray, not as baggy as other tacticals and made of a stretchier material with just as many pockets and hidden pouches. The top was still a black hoodie, a thin strip of padding around the neck and down the sides with hood strings that were made of some type of lightweight metal, something to help keep the hood from falling off? Easy, simple, but still living up to his given name because his metal plated combat boots, the utility belt threaded through his pant loops, the fingerless gloves, the mask that covered the bottom half of his face, the goggles that ran a thick strap around his head—all were a uniform cobalt blue, deep, dark, made for blending into the backdrop of a smoggy night. And he would’ve been able to disappear fully in the shadow of a stack of crates if it weren’t for his holsters, lenses, the padding on his knuckles, his goddamn shoelaces—neon electric ice blue flashes on his person that signified another beast of prey the East Coast had to offer.

“Like a poison dart frog in a Tron movie,” Wade whispered.

“Thanks, I think,” came Peter’s crisp, modulated voice. He wondered how close that voice changer would be to his real voice in the next five years. A lot of growing up to be had on the farm. “Ms. Ana’s great. If I have to bring the gear around for repairs I can’t do myself, I’ll bake her some cookies. I wonder if Dom knows if she’s allergic to anything.”

“I knew you bribed people into liking you.”

“Excuse you, people like me because I’m the cutiest patootie.” Peter checked his gun before tucking it into his thigh holster and his serpentine dagger shone on his calf, sharp and gleaming. “Ready?”

Wade shoved on his mask and tucked the ends into the neck of his suit. “Freddy! Kruger or Fazbear, who’s to say.”

And he kicked the door open with the slam of a heavy boot.

Thirty heavies tops were routing drugs and lifted autoparts; not the biggest pin in the tomato cushion, but the money was funneling into running a trafficking ring that spanned across seven states. The client who commissioned the job had escaped the ring some few weeks ago, taking with them enough cash to fund a top tier mercenary duo to crash the party—Dead and Blue, at their humble service—and a protection detail to ride out the ensuing legal hell grinder they were going to push the organization through. 

We love an aggressive response to human trafficking. 

Wish it was grinder without the ‘e.’

By Taking Back Sunday!

Lots of emo references in this chapter. It was never just a phase.

“And will you tell all your friends,” he sang as he took aim, “you’ve got your gun to my head?”

bang

A bullet ripped through the shoulder of the first person unlucky enough to turn around, their own spray of blood hitting the underside of their chin and they stumbled back. Their left hand reached over to pull the gun out from their waist and bang, a second bullet through their other shoulder and sent them to their knees, twin wounds in perfect symmetry that rendered their arms limp. 

Wade blinked and pulled his gun back to look at the trigger he had yet to pull.

Well that was wei—

bang bang bang

A bullet in a shin to shatter bone, in a forearm to burst open veins, through a pair of hands to blast the gun clasped between them. 

Peter surged forward, a silent missile who descended upon Shin first with one, two, three solid punches to their face before he whirled around to catch Forearm's other forearm and snapsnap went the radius and the ulna, their scream muffled by the fingers that curled around their neck until their lids fluttered. Unconscious and slowly suffocating, he swung the body into Hands and let them both crash and topple into a beer covered table. Homerun.

He wasted no time in swinging his knee into the side of the head for the fifth cronie, dislocating their jaw and cracking their cheekbone in at least three pieces, even further when it was used as a launch pad to slam a fist into a sixth’s chest and crack them down onto the floor, splinters like wings sprouting across broken cement. Peter’s head dodged onetwothree shots, like a stop-motion, simultaneously too fast and too slow to comprehend as anything but uncanny before he crushed the barrel in one quick snap. A flash of blue and the seventh was yanked forward to crush their foreheads together and the whiplash made an ugly crick, and they collapsed into a heap like an unstrung marionette. 

In the next second his dagger sat in his palm and its blade expanded, ice clawing over itself until it doubled size and shone the exact same beacon of bright neon blue. 

Eight and Nine came after him from the front and the back, and under the fluorescent glare of warehouse lighting the lenses of his goggles flashed like a pair of shining eyes in the dark and the hilt of his dagger jabbed to catch Eight in the nose in a heavy spurt of red; in the immediate succeeding second it flicked back and over the back of his hand and grabbed it again so the blade stuck out from between his thumb and forefinger and sliced down. A perfectly straight cut caverned into Nine from left shoulder to right hip and bit through bulletproof vest, shirt, layers of skin and he let momentum carry him to catch their face with the back of his heel. Before their head made contact with the floor, Peter spun towards Eight and dragged them up by their collar with his free hand. 

“Is Thiago Patel in this building?” He questioned. The thing about Blue was while everyone knew he was Ferret who was Peter, they couldn’t quite believe it. Ferret smiled and yapped and laughed the nights away, Blue said nothing to be compared to him or worse, Spider-Man. Keeping quiet kept secrets, so he stayed even. Focused. One more mercenary.

Eight spat in his face. Peter moved his head and let it fly over his shoulder. 

“Fair enough.”

And he chucked them all the way across the bottom floor of the warehouse and sent them crashing through one of the windows. 

He turned as it grew louder above them. “Pool,” he sighed, “what the hell are you doing?”

Wade suddenly came back from his daze and found himself crouched at the entrance and holding hands in collective shock with—what?

He looked over and saw himself locked hand in hand with Cronie Ten. They had the audacity to wave. Wade grabbed the front of their face and slammed the back of their head against the metal doorframe. 

“They came at me out of nowhere.” He pulled himself up to his feet and gestured towards the stairs. “After you, my little betta fish.”

Peter huffed and went up first, his dagger back to normal and in its holster and his gun and its real bullets back in his right hand. He walked up the stairs with sure, reassured steps, his shoulders back, his head held high. Look at little boy blue, carrying his weight like a little green army man, marching into a battle they were paid to fight in. 

He shouldn't be marching. He should be in band. But he isn’t. Isn’t that crazy? He's lost it. Smacked the shovel. No hope for him now. Shut the fuck up, that’s Petey. You don’t talk about him like that. Look at him, what he's turned into. That’s completely unethical.

Bodies were strewn across the floor in little pools of blood that would make the dance floor just a little too sticky but somehow, someway they were alive. A worse fate, some would argue.

He trotted up the stairs, both Desert Eagles at the ready.

Blue’s gonna be a little killer!

They grow up so fast.

Deadpool always stuck a barrel in the mouth and pulled until the mug ran dry but of course he never did that when Peter was around, because he’d asked. Sweetie Petey-Pie, too small. Too scrunchy. Non-lethal missions dragged, but that was fine. Peter looked at the world the way he did because he really did believe in things like hope and help and second chances, and. Well. 

Wade didn't want him to lose all that. Wade didn’t want to be complicit in letting him lose all that.

As he cleared the top step, a body flew past him and over the railing, and he whistled long and slow until thump. Cronie Eleven’s body struck the landing, and then he had to wonder if this one was still alive too.

Regardless, he couldn't deny what just happened all the way over yonder miles and miles away from home.

Peter Parker stopped pulling his punches. Say that five times fast.

::

Peter jolted as the car sputtered to a slow stop. He groaned, the oversized I <3 NY hoodie Thor bought him at a souvenir shop pulled completely over his head and face. 

“There’s no way we’re back yet,” he said as he rubbed his eyes. “I fell asleep, like, two seconds ago and I already won rock-paper-scissors best two out of three to not have to drive again for the rest of the trip—”

He gazed out the passenger window and his breath tripped up. 

An expanse of green grass shot out in the distance where a few people lay around, sat under trees, basked in the sun. It was Sunday, there wouldn’t be too many people out anyway, and he focused—was drawn to—the huge white neoclassical building at the end of the stretch. The romanesque columns ran across the front in grand, equal spacing as the Great Dome sat above them, the watchful eye on the forefront of interdisciplinary innovation.

MASSACHVSETTS INSTITVTE OF TECHNOLOGY

He used to spend hours dreaming about this school.

“We were already in town so I figured we could stop by. Road trip field trip! Or just road trip pit stop? Road trip drive by, but no one’s getting shot… Then is it even a drive by? That’s a soulless adaptation.”

Peter stayed glued to the window, wide-eyed and mystified. “This was out of the way.”

“Half an hour tops.”

“We’ll be getting back late.”

“I’ll punch it. Vroom.”

“This hunk of junk can’t break seventy-five.”

“Don’t listen to him baby. He doesn’t mean it,” Wade murmured as he caressed the car’s wheel.

“Wade.”

“Please, Wade was my father. Call me Wadithan.”

“Why are we here?”

And when he looked back, his face was very carefully blank. He knew he was a little pale and he knew there was a little too heavy of a shadow around his eyes, but he’d sleep later. He didn’t need as much as he used to, hadn’t he already proven that? And it wasn’t hard to fix by factoring in more naps into the schedule that he didn’t have any more room in, and then doing something like this? Coming here? They didn’t have any time—

Wade leaned his head forward, not unlike when Josephine carefully inspected a new Dorito stash. “Shush.”

“I won’t—”

“Zip. Shush. We’re at your dream school, and we’re going to enjoy walking around your dream school because we don't always have to be out on a job. We can do fun things too.”

(And Peter’s chest hurt.)

He didn’t wait for a second response and shifted the car back to drive. “Let’s find a parking spot that won’t charge us all our job money and get some overpriced lobster rolls! I hope that’s not cannibalism for you. I heard that crustaceans are the spider’s cooler cousin and I know that’s heat you just can’t take right now.”

A small laugh forced its way out of Peter’s throat before anything else could catch it. But after it tumbled, he turned back to the window and watched the rest of the campus roll them by. He saw a brief flash of what it would be like to go to this school. It’d be him and Ned on that patch of grass, drowning in piles of papers and expensive textbooks as they started the first four years of the next chapter of his life. He could’ve been Spider-Man here. There was crime in Boston, wasn’t there?

But like Wade said. Things never really ended up the way you want, and he couldn’t leave New York now. Or soon. Or maybe ever, even.

Peter’s head dropped against the headrest and let it fill with thoughts of lobster rolls as Wade’s impressive rendition of Nicki Minaj’s Super Bass rang out from his left. 

This was nice, though. Hanging out with one of his best friends and seeing what his future could’ve looked like.

Chapter Text

Stephen sipped his mug of coffee as the four books laid open in front of him idly turned their pages. He’d been skimming through his library for that one tidbit he’d been hunting for over the last few days, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. The multiverse wasn’t going to collapse in the next forty-eight hours—probably—and if it was he at least needed to finish the rest of the coffee in the pot.

Cloak nudged him with its collar. 

“Yes, I know it’s boring, but until we find what we need we’re stuck here. You’ll live.”

He took another sip, nearly spilling when it nudged his cheek harder.

“Whining about it’s going to get you nowhere.”

poke

“Hey!”

Wong ambled into the library with a tick in his brow and a pointer finger to his phone, slowly scrolling and muttering to himself as his eyes darted left to right to left again.

“Which celebrity got a DUI this time?” Stephen asked as he brushed Cloak’s collar away.

The tick in Wong’s brow dove deeper. “Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man got a DUI?”

He supposed that shouldn’t be much of a surprise with how the kid apparently went to parties. Though he couldn’t recall Spider-Man having a vehicle associated with him—it was more his speed catching them in mid-air or pulling them up before they crashed off bridges. Or maybe it really was illegal to drink and swing and the police set up a sticky trap to catch him in the act.

But then Wong stepped up beside him and turned his phone around to show his far too bright screen.

… Ah.

So something objectively worse than a DUI.

TRAPPED IN A TREACHEROUS WEB:

SEVEN IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER BEING APPREHENDED BY SPIDER-MAN

::

The bar was in full swing and when the heat wave hit within the next month, they’ll have mercs packed wall to wall like they were a college bar even on days that weren’t the weekend. He’d have to try and bully his boss into investing in some fans they could mount high up on the walls. Nothing with exposed blades, though. That was just asking for people to get their fingertips hacked off. But it wasn’t so bad for now; it was packed, not stuffed, and he tuned up the AC last week so it wouldn’t break for another few weeks at least.

There were some new faces out in the crowd tonight too. Still mostly East Coasters, Weasel told him, but a couple even he hadn’t seen in the last year or two. Peter would definitely make sure to introduce himself to anyone who didn’t already know and recommend the tater tots they probably didn’t get to have the last time they were in because hey, there was no such thing as being too kind, May used to like reminding him.

Kind, kind, kind.

He tried so goddamn hard to be kind all the time regardless of the face he wore, but he guessed diving headfirst into trouble didn’t get him much of it in return.

Granny Sal tutted as she walked past him with a bowl full of seasoned wings. “Fix your face, sweet pea.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s crinkled up and thinkin’ too hard. You see this?” She jerked a thumb at the space between her eyebrows. “You keep that smooth ‘less you want it to stick like that forever.”

“People say that all the time, Ms. Granny. It’s advice that, like, no one listens to.”

“It ain’t advice, it’s a threat.” She popped his shoulder with her knobbly knuckles and he made a show of doubling over, clutching at his arm like he’d been stabbed repeatedly with a kitchen knife and he was bleeding out all over the— “Boy, if you don’t stop actin’ a fool…”

“Aw, come on, Ms. Granny,” he said as he straightened back up. “You love to put up with it.”

She raised a brow and clicked her tongs warningly in his direction. “Only if you unbox that flour on the top shelf.” 

Peter saluted her and spun around to snatch the stepstool from right beside the ladder he used to change the Dead Pool.

After the kidnapping and after both him and Granny Sal were back on shift for New York City’s finest mercenary bar, she accosted him in the break room and whacked him with her purse for a full five minutes berating him about taking the fall for old biddies and swinging around in a goddamn onesie and no goddamn jacket! Honestly, he was surprised it had taken her this long to find out his worst kept secret, but she still found out and the “secret” part of “secret identity” was better off as an optional adjective. So Granny Sal knew about him now, and that brought that number to a grand spanking total of fourteen.

Thirteen still alive to keep it. One who took it with her to the grave.

Peter tore the tape off the bulk box of flour in a single, practiced peel. 

At this rate he should do a challenge to see how many people he could accidentally leak his identity to within the next calendar year. He could double the number. Triple it. Hell, he could go crazy and unmask himself on a live stream for maximum secret identity leakage. That was just a joke, by the way. Hear that, universe? No offense. Please don’t go and do something like that. 

After he organized the flour into two neat rows, he shredded the box into more manageable pieces. With the cardboard tucked under one arm and a bag of flour in the other, he hopped off the stepstool and slid the latter on the prep counter, slid into line with all the other dry ingredients. 

“Thank you, sweet pea.”

“Anytime, Ms. Granny,” he chirped as he set the junk by the back door to take out later. He folded up the step stool and set it back in its place before he swung back over, subconsciously minding himself to keep out jabbing elbows and wielded utensils. “Is that Dom’s order?”

He pointed to the perfectly charred plain wings sitting crispy in their basket alongside brick-crunchy french fries already on his serving tray. 

“Who else?” Granny slid two more baskets onto the tray—one with just celery sticks and a ranch cup on the side and the other with cajun wings and a boatload of regularly fried fries. “These are for her friends. Celery for pink, cajun for cowboy.” 

And then she slid a basket of only tater tots absolutely powdered in garlic parmesan.

“For the third friend?”

“For your skinny ass.” She pinched his cheek and waved his face around. “When’s the last time you ate today?”

He stayed quiet a little too long. Granny was suitably unimpressed.

“Uh-huh. Now shoo, send those out and make sure you’re back here on your break so I can make sure you eat a basket of wings too.”

“You’re going to make me gain ten pounds by the end of the week.”

“You better, walkin’ ‘round here like the breeze is gonna blow you over.” 

Peter tossed a couple tater tots into his mouth, smiling through the cheesy garlicky goodness. “I’m a wind turbine in a fifty mile per hour gust.”

“The hell does that—you been hangin’ out with Wade too much.”

“You know he’s my taco buddy.” He picked up the tray, tossed another few tots into his mouth, and started making his way out the door. “You’re the best, Ms. Granny! I’ll be back when the dishes pile up.”

He pushed into the louder, smokier room, the grounding familiarity of Sister Margaret’s settling over his shoulders like a favorite jacket. When it got hotter it’d be better to work without one of his trusty flannels, but he liked how it wore around him loose and hid the gun on the back of his hip.

The thick soles of his brown work boots barely landed and lifted off the dark bar floors when Weasel waved him over.

“That for Dom’s table, Vin Diesel?”

“I’m not even fully bald! Come on, man,” Peter sighed. “And yeah, everything but the taters.”

“I could fucking guess. You could snort ten lines off all that powder.”

Peter held out the tray for Weasel to load two bottles, their caps freshly tabbed off, and a bubblegum pink cosmopolitan.

“If I ever get that much cheese up my nose you might have to take me to the hospital. Or sacrifice me to the mice we don’t have anymore.” He shook about half the tater tot basket into his mouth before he set it down on the bar. “Go’ a’ytin’ fun l’ned u’ fo’ u’ th’ res’ o’ th’nigh’?”

“Some turn ins, mostly send outs and stock piles so it’ll be a lot of trips to the storage next door,” Weasel said. “I’ve got a shit ton of numbers to run tonight before closing so my ass is locked down back here. We’re also down a server for about a week—Sunny’s got some travel hold up, nothing law-related—so you might be running the floor double time depending on how busy Stix gets tonight.” He swiped a hand through his greasy hair. “This might’ve been easier if you had six more arms.”

“Why would I need six more arms with guns like these?”

“If you fucking flex right now—”

Peter flexed, the tray still level and upright in his hand with absolutely none of his muscles visible through his sleeves. And he was quick to skitter out from behind the bar while he laughed and dodged the rag flung at his face.

It was so easy to step back into the current of his everyday. Wash the dishes, help Granny, run the Gold Card machine, clean the tables, mop the floors, run around as Ferret, run around as Blue, don’t think about anything else when you’ve got a lull in the day.

But fail at that just like you failed the man at the docks. Like you failed the goon with the frostbite around his neck. Like you failed Eli.

Like you failed May.

But what was new, right? He was just Spider-Man.

What else could he do besides getting cats down from trees?

Peter sidled up to one to one of the half-circle booths pushed up against the wall and greeted the group with a wide smile.

“Hi Dom and Dom’s friends!” He exclaimed as he passed out the baskets and set the drinks down on the center of thin square napkins. “If you haven’t heard, I’m Ferret, the Dish Boy. Two words, capitalized. Do I really wash dishes? Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how much soap we go through every week. Do I do other stuff around here? Of course! Bosses always lie about the scope of work on the hiring sheet to reel you in with the promise of good pay and benefits. Which I do get. Mr. Weasel’s great about that.” He twirled the now-empty tray between two fingers before he tucked it under his arm. “Hi, by the way. Or did I already lead with that?”

“You did,” Neena smiled as she crunched on her overdone fries. “Hi, Ferret.”

The blonde with the pinched-front cowboy hat tipped over her head narrowed her eyes and leaned forward from her spot across Neena. “Thought you’d look like a rat.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Ain’t no one told me you’d be a lil’ cutie.”

“The patootiest,” he agreed. “Old ladies love me, just ask Ms. Granny. But don’t go into the kitchen uninvited because you will get hit with a ladle and we’re not liable for that.”

The third and last person at the table gazed at him curiously, green eyes framed by a bob of red-violet hair and large pointed diamonds dangling from her ears. “So you run things when Weasel isn’t around?”

“I can, but I don’t unless he calls in sick. Far and few in between, honestly. I tend to do more of this, a little of that, help keep things organized.”

“Fingers in all the pies,” Red-Violet said.

“And the pies are mostly gun-shaped,” he replied. Gun-shaped pies would totally be a hit in the community. “Maybe if this bar thing takes a turn for the worst, Mr. Weasel should invest in a bakery: Sister Margaret’s Home for Wayward Snacks.”

Red-Violet chuckled under her breath and picked up the cosmo. “At least you have a sense of humor. Call me Diamondback, mini-Weasel.”

“Didn’t you hear me, Di? He’s a cutie. Weasel’s decidedly not .” Cowboy flipped her hair behind her shoulders and held her basket close to her face. “I’m Outlaw, nice meetin’ the sharpshooter Dom trained up bright as a new penny. Her mouth runs a million a minute when you get brought up, all cattle, no hat.”

Neena… talked about him? To her friends?

He turned to his friend, his smile widening as the warmth in his chest burned away the fog in his head, just for a second. “Am I your star student?”

“My only student, but yeah.”

“Does that mean I can get a gold star?”

“You know what? Sure. I’ll get you a sticker pack as a souvenir from our next job,” Neena said. She jutted her chin out at him. “Where’d all your hair go, by the way? I thought you’d get a trim at best, not get defluffed.”

“Aw, he used to be fluffy?” Outlaw pouted.

“What a loss,” Diamondback mused.

“It’ll grow back,” he grumbled. Why was everyone on his ass about that? It was just hair! “Pool bitched at me for hours this last weekend.”

“Saved me the trouble of doing it.”

He pouted.

Neena never really came by with anyone other than Wade, but she was high up on the food chain; if she didn’t already have tens of contacts in the city, she had even more around the world. While it turned out the mercenary density in New York City itself was, uh, startlingly concentrated, he could probably assume other super populous cities in the states showed similar trends. Internationally? He had no idea, but he knew Deadpool and Domino made it to the top of that ladder. Were Diamondback and Outlaw on those rungs too?

He turned back to the table at large. They seemed really nice and his spidey-sense didn’t go off past the initial ‘stranger who could kill him’ alert. He clocked the knives in Outlaw’s cowhide boots and Diamondback’s earrings were sharp and throwable and if they were real diamonds, would be very expensive projectiles to try and dig out of a living target.

“Anything else I can do for you?” He asked. “Need some metal polish? Reference contacts? Water?”

He made another mental note to replace the water filters soon.

“We should get our other order before we head out in an hour,” Diamondback mentioned. “It should be under Dom’s name.”

Peter bobbed his head. “I think I saw it on the pick-up list today. It’s like, six whole duffles. You guys throwing a party?”

“Just a boring old girl’s trip,” hummed Diamondback. 

“Where we might hit a bank on the round back,” Outlaw grinned. The admission didn’t jolt an anxious tremor through his nerves or send his foot tapping a mile a minute as he stood there. Over six months on the job and Spider-Man was a New-Type-of-Man, humbled to the ins and outs of, well, the outside of the law.

Don’t get him wrong, robbery was always going to be wrong. Stealing from people’s purses, local establishments, secured accounts—if Spider-Man saw something, he said something, and then he punched the lights out of the offender before he strung them up for the cops to find. But a bank robbery outside city limits on a day he had no clue on? Customer accounts weren’t getting touched anyway and banks had insurance, so.

“That sounds like it’ll be a hell of a payday,” he said. He knew Neena wasn’t about gunning down innocents in broad daylight; he could only hope her friends were the same. 

He watched as Neena dug into one of the deep pockets of her baggy leather pants to fish out a scratched up carabiner. A couple miscellaneous keys hung on the loop with one of those switchblade car fobs and a white domino piece, a chain screwed into one end. Snake eyes. 

She tossed it over along with a rubbedbanded roll of cash. He caught both in one hand.

“My car’s the red ‘70 Chevelle parked outside the storage.”

“You didn’t get rid of your Terminator Cobra did you? She was so yellow. And fast. Could be furious.”

“She’s just getting a well deserved break, don’t worry.”

Oh thank gods. That car was so much cooler than Wade’s shit-brown junker.

Peter twirled the carabiner on his finger. “I’ll pack everything in the trunk and park it out front when I’m done. But if I take too long just know I’m using all my tetris knowledge to try and get all the bags to fit.”

Diamondback quirked a brow and stared a little too intensely at his face. “You have a driver’s license?”

“I have a learner’s as of yesterday,” he grinned. “I think I’m pretty snappy at turning corners but if the car ends up with bumps and/or bruises, I’ll throw in any gun in your order free of charge.”

“Make it a rifle and we’ve got a deal.”

Peter nodded and excused himself with a wave as he went en route back to the bar, picking up glasses and baskets and plates along the way before stopping next to the bar to hand off the roll of cash.

“Dom’s order,” he told his boss as he reached for the tater tots and upended the rest into his mouth. “Gon’ loa’ up ‘er ca’. B-Ah-B.”

“Don’t text slang at me in real life, you fucking embryo.”

He set his now-empty basket on top of his dish pile before he slipped through the swinging doors, slid them into the sink for later, and shouldered out the back door that led into the alley.

Cars were pretty neat, he guessed. Driving wasn’t so bad either. Massachusetts was only a few days ago and he already had another event down on his schedule: driving down empty roads just outside the suburbs on his next off day and Wade said they could use May’s car, if he wanted. He’d said he’d ask Mom about it even if she would probably say yes even if she’d be scowling that it was Wade he was taking lessons from.

Just down the way, maybe a couple yards from the back of the bar, he stopped at the keypad box set up beside an enforced roll up door and punched in the six digit code that read his thumb prints as he did it, and hauled it open.

Right. Mom. Talking to them required being in each other’s company for longer than five minutes.

Guilt’s whetted teeth sunk deeper into his gut as he began sorting through the multicolored duffle bags and their equally mismatched tags.

Him and Mom hadn’t… they weren’t… He wasn’t trying to avoid them, okay? It was just that ever since the funeral things have… Been. He lost a lot of time in the week after—one minute he was in the dark, too warm, slowly suffocating, the light leaving May’s eyes on a constant loop in every synapse between every neuron and in the next, he was at the dinner table in front of a bowl of soup, Mom’s voice far and staticky telling him how it’d been days since he’d eaten. 

And you need to, love. Please. I know it is hard, but you must.

So he ate. Didn’t speak. And Mom didn’t force him to.

The first two duffles he found he pulled out of their stacks and dumped into the clear walkway.

He loved Mom. Appreciated that they didn’t crowd him. They didn’t ask questions, didn’t prod, didn’t push him into conversations he wasn’t ready to have. They just—They greeted him every morning with breakfast and he made himself sit down and eat because even when everything had an aftertaste of iron, he couldn’t scrub off and his tongue tied up but he wouldn’t let himself push them away. 

He couldn’t lose them too. Not when Mom was all he had left.

Peter wiped his cheek with the back of his hand when he felt something warm and tacky and wet smear across the skin from his nose to his ear. When he pulled his hand away, he expected to see red.

There was nothing.

bristle

“Need something else?” He asked as he spotted three more of the duffles he needed and added it to the growing pile on the walkway. He threw a smile over his shoulder. “If you already paid the extra to Mr. Weasel I can get you what you need.”

Outlaw leaned against the open frame, one hand on the hip of her micro shorts. The belt around them was thick tanned leather with a silver buckle the size of Texas and a matching holster on either side. Twin Smith and Wessons rested in each one; semi-automatic, custom, ten millimeter caliber. Her hand was close enough to one that she could lug a bullet or two in him if he was anyone else, and they were just far enough from the bar that any gunshots would be treated like the usual ambiance of the night.

“Ain’t really one of those transactions that go through ‘im unless his shit’s all up in your business. He might, now that I’ve met you, but ah well.” She shrugged and tipped her head back to gulp some of her beer. “You know, I’ve been Outlaw a real long time.”

He found the last two duffles and dropped them with the rest before he turned to give her his full attention. “Right…?”

“Cops gave me the nickname when I first started out. I was a real piece of work when I was a rookie with the hits I took and the businesses I rushed, and gettin’ a tail on me was easy as pissin’ up a rope. Even when the feds jumped on my case they couldn’t tell their head from their ass and well, I had the hat and the boots back then too. Guess they just couldn’t resist. Over time I kept seein’ the same suits and they started to hate me less an’ less, and it got kinda funny when you end up knowing as many uniforms as I do.”

“It’s handy to know a lot of cops when a good half of them are crooked.” He’d heard Ben talk about it a few times late at night when he was supposed to be asleep, about how helping out the community didn’t always make up for some of the things he heard in the bullpen. Ben was a good guy, but Peter never thought that he’d be the one of the leading voices of police reform. He understood that now when he was a little older. “Keeps you out from behind bars if the right one gets to your scene.”

She snapped her fingers into a point his way. “I’m glad Weasel didn’t raid a high school for easy pickings or one that calls ‘im mister .” She snorted. “Bet he gets off on that.”

Why did everyone always bag on the politeness thing?

“It ain’t only cops and suits I got in my pocket. Some paper pushers, security, even know a couple firefighters in West Brooklyn.” Her beer swirled in her hand, a small vortex contained in a tinted brown bottle. “I’ve got an ear with some guards in the bigger prisons too. Havenworth. Seagate.” The bottle tipped back slow and she smacked her lips at the end of it. “Ryker’s.”

Peter’s shoulders straightened and Outlaw tracked the movement like a hawk. 

“This old guy in there right now, did some shit that would’ve landed him in the Ice Box if he had the X-gene, but he’s lucky. Just a someone who fucked up enough to serve life in the dog pit, no hope of barkin’ his way out.” She clicked her teeth. “But I guess you just bark louder when you see firsthand it ain’t improbable.”

His heart thudded against his chest so forcefully it reverberated against head, every beat a chisel to his skull. “But it wasn’t the old guy who broke out.”

“Nah, but it set him off, tryna get the guards to pull in someone he’s gotta talk to.”

What the hell did that mean? The old guy had to be Toomes and while he didn’t exactly have a print out of who would be on his shit list, he was definitely on it and—

He tensed as he kept up eye-contact with Outlaw under the shadow of her cowboy hat. Spider-Man and Toomes had their history, and Ferret wasn’t supposed to be near that. And Outlaw must’ve had some idea of the wrongness there too the way her mouth climbed higher with each passing second.

“One of my contacts heard what he had to say,” she continued, and he had a faint awareness of his own gun tucked in the back of his waistband, its outline molding itself into his skin. “He’s looking for this kid, brown hair, big ol’ puppy eyes, yay high—” She waved the bottom of her bottle around where the top of his head would be if he was standing right next to her— “goes to this real smart school. I asked Cough Drop—that Ryker’s guard—what the chances were anyone ‘round here would run into this kid. I mean, why would they? Why would I? Ain’t got no reason to. But then,” she grinned, and his fingers twitched, “then I got out to see Anaconda, see if she’s got my vambraces fixed.” 

She wiggled one arm and his gaze drew to the wide metal plating wrapped around her wrists. Light. Form-fitting. Of course she saw Ms. Ana too. 

‘Just about my luck,’ he thought mirthlessly.

“Di came with ‘cause Ana’s her old teacher and they still get along like bees on sweet. So we’re talkin’, this and that, and I mention the kid that the old guy’s lookin’ for. Thought I’d do my one good deed and get the word out, brown hair, big o’ puppy eyes, yay high. Di didn’t know a lick and that’s fair, I just described ‘bout a hundred kids with that description in Manhattan alone. I’m ready for Ana to say the same, and you know what?”

“... What?”

“She said I should talk to Dom ‘cause there’s a boy workin’ at Sister Margaret’s who just might fit the bill.”

Shit.

“So tell me, cutie,” said Outlaw as she emptied her bottle and turned it upside down to let the few stray droplets splash beside her boots. “Do they call you Peter Parker when you’re not servin’ up smiles?”

Oh. Wow.

This was way worse.

“Yeah,” he sighed, rubbing at his forehead and at the crease he knew Granny would point out if he went back into the kitchen looking like this. “Any chance that old guy’s Adrian Toomes?”

“Either Dom’s luck’s been rubbin’ off on me or your brand’s the shittiest in the world,” Outlaw laughed and stepped forward to clap him on the shoulder with her free hand. “If there’d been a price on your head I woulda felt bad gunnin’ down one of Dom’s friends.”

A loud groan escaped his mouth as his identity fell to pieces all around him like it always seemed to do. “I don’t know what the hell Toomes was thinking asking for me like that, what an inconsiderate asshole, like—I—do you think he wants me to get in trouble? In this way, specifically, because yeah, sure, toss someone’s name randomly into the ether and hope you get a bite. Cool! Great! Fantastic!” He picked up two duffles in each hand and practically stomped towards the convertible. “This is ridiculous! Isn’t this ridiculous?!”

Outlaw blinked. “Depends. Whaddya do to piss ‘im off?”

He had a short but understandable list. 

“I took his daughter to homecoming last year,” he said, dumping the duffles at his feet as he unlocked the trunk and pushed it open. His face scrunched at the available space; organization skills, don’t fail him now. “I really liked her, too. But then I had to… ditch her. At the dance.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m a dick, I know. I apologized after and she wanted nothing to do with me—totally understandable. Then her dad turned out to be The Vulture and her and her mom moved across the country. It’s been a long time, though. No idea why Toomes wants to talk to me now.”

That part was almost true. Every night he went to work he saw Spider-Man on the Dead Pool, written in his own handwriting and a hundred dollars to his head. 

The other two duffles dropped down with the rest and he glanced to the side to see the one tanned open hand that let them both go.

“There’s your first mistake.” She poked his shoulder with an accusing finger that would’ve sent any normal person stumbling. Huh. That was probably going to bruise for all of half an hour. “Ditchin’ your partner at a dance gets you so low I can’t put a rug under ya’!”

“I know! … I think?”

“Hope karma kicked your ass about it.”

“I got smacked around a bunch for the trouble. Trust me.” A wall of fire. Ten ton concrete. He wondered if six feet of soil would feel the same. “You said that guard, Cough Drop? Heard about me from Toomes himself.” His lips pursed. It had been almost a year since he’d seen Toomes last, and if he would go through all the trouble to go through the crooked guards… “You think they could squeeze me in for a visit?”

A blue gaze looked him up and down, from the top of his cut-hair head to the steel toes of his work boots and back up to meet him eye to eye. 

“You’re a tough cookie, cutie. But people haven’t yet made deals with the Dish Boy himself the way they’ve been doin’ with the Bartender for years. What happens to me when you get your ass grilled well done and I get blamed for sendin’ you off to burn?”

Burning was a funny way of putting it.

“The only thing you gave me was info and if I get myself with that, that’s on me.” He smiled another one of his wide smiles. “I’m pretty sure everyone at the bar would agree with you.”

It was nice out tonight.

Starless, like it always was this deep into the city, smoggy, light polluted, cloying against the smoke and liquor tang stuck to him like a second layer of skin until he scrubbed it all off after his shift. Maybe he would come out more liquor-y than usual tonight depending on if he was going to cover the floor until Sunny made it back up to New York for the next few months until she was off to who-knows-where again.

Outlaw chucked her empty beer bottle down to the other end of the alley and into the open dumpster with the decisive clang . No one was out on the other street to jump at the noise, but it scared the living shit out of a couple sleeping pigeons.

Peter held up both hands and splayed out his fingers. “Ten out of ten,” he said. “Would give you a beer bottle again.”

Outlaw chuckled. “Workin’ at the Hellhouse got you two sandwiches short of a picnic, eh?”

“I guess I had to have a couple screws already loose when I found the job in the first place,” he said. “It’s got its perks. I get to keep any tips I get and Mr. Weasel buys me Arnold Palmers we keep in the mini-fridge.”

“Low bar.”

“I could be a barista with worse hours and worser pay,” he replied. He hefted one duffle over the lip of the trunk, chalk white already scuffed from the pavement, and stuffed it horizontally as far in as it could go. “And speaking of pay, I can’t imagine you’d give me info and a trip to Ryker’s for free.”

She watched him shove a forest green duffle on the far right side of the trunk and a grape-flavor purple one on the far left.

“I wanna favor, cashed in any time.”

Now they were in dangerous territory. Favors as payment were saved for people who knew for a fact they weren’t going to get screwed over—so few and far in between. Weasel never took it as proper payment, not even from Wade, and if any disputes about one broke out on the floor he tossed out everyone involved with a ban until they made nice and didn’t break another pool table because he was tired of hiring people to haul them in.

Peter set two more bags in the trunk—lime green and mustard yellow, respectively—and tried to smush them into the sides without breaking the guns lined inside them. Whenever he packed big purchases he tried to make it as neat as possible, but there was only so much he could do with fifteen guns and a dream.

“I don’t know how many favors a dish boy can pull for you, but I’ll let you know right now that my loyalty to Mr. Weasel isn’t because of the money,” he informed her lightly. The last duffle, padded to the brim with ammo in labeled baggies because it took up less space than the boxes they came in, dropped into the back with a steady clunk . The trunk door would close. Probably. “I won’t dig into anyone else at the bar, either. It doesn’t matter if they like me or not or if I’m the one with their name on my shit list and if that’s fine with you, I don’t know what kind of favor you’d be asking from me.”

“Aw,” she cooed as she leaned against one of the tail lights. “I’ll keep that in mind if it’s the Dish Boy I wanna run business with.”

“What, you want a favor from Peter Parker?” After smooshing the bullet duffle in as best he could, he slammed the trunk door as hard as he could without leaving a handprint in the metal. “I doubt he could do anything for you.”

Outlaw smiled, another laugh threatening to burst out of her chest as her cheeks dimpled. “I want to ask a favor from Deadpool’s partner, Blue. One mercenary to another.”

Pop went the trunk.

“Wh—I—Do you have my address too? My social security? Might as well take a copy of my real license while you’re at it because apparently I can’t keep a secret to save my life!”

“Deadpool might be a softie for kids, but he doesn’t fuck with ‘em. Suddenly there’s you at this job and he’s got a partner he’s okay with not killin’ for? Come on, now, don’t think that pulls the wool off anyone’s eyes. Ferret, the Dish Boy, Homegrown right in Sister Margaret’s alley way. That’s real sweet, y’know? You’re one organic, locally sourced cutie who's got our itty-bitty corner of the world on his serving tray.” She grabbed the trunk door and slammed it down, the convertible rattling at the force. As her hand came away, four imprints of her pointer to her pinky cast perfectly in hotrod red. “Can’t blame a girl’s piquing interest, can you?”

So. Here was the deal.

Outlaw put her enhanced strength out in the open, completely shot out from her bag of tricks. Was she as strong as Spider-Man? Was she as quick? As durable? His spidey-sense hadn’t flared again since she got here and there was no gun pointed at his forehead staring him down, single eye wide open.

Favors were killers but connections could save a life, but this would kill him too if he was wrong even if Outlaw didn’t seem like the worst of them. Not if she hadn’t yet pulled a weapon on him. Not if she was Neena’s friend.

“... Blue doesn’t kill,” he said. He didn’t know why it came out so slow.

“Won’t need ‘im to.”

“He doesn’t usually work alone, either. It’s more of a side gig—he’s available when Deadpool needs back-up and agrees to light maiming at worst. It’s pretty much the only reason he goes out for anything.”

“Tryna change my mind?”

“Trying to manage expectations,” he returned as he crossed his arms. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate a bad Yelp review if things don’t go the way you want.”

She stood a few inches taller than him, taller with her heels, even more with her hat, and her eyes shone as bright as her grin as she propped both hands on her hips. 

“Alright, how’s this. I got ‘til the year’s up to cash in, nothin’ that equates more than a 2k job. Not much 2k gets you, yeah?”

“A good chunk of doctored papers, a few days of light stalking, one high-end AR-15 with or without a full mag, depends on your specs,” he listed off the top of his head. “There’s an ‘or’ between each one of those. No way you’d get that bundle for just 2k.”

Outlaw held out her hand. “So that sounds like a swell deal don’t it, cutie?”

How bad can it be? Spider-Man thought.

Mr. Weasel would lose it if he found out, Ferret added.

But what do you have to lose? Lokison slithered in.

You already lost everything. You already lost May, Blue reminded him. 

And then four of them together, all of them him, pulled apart in different directions trying to be the one person he didn’t know how to be. This was the least we could do to be better because even now, after everything, how come we’re still not enough?

And Peter reached out to shake it, one corner of his lip quirked up in a humorless smile. “Yeah, why not. Hope I don’t let you down, Ms. Outlaw.”

“Who the hell you callin’ Miss ?”

pop.

They both turned to the now-open trunk.

“... That’s gonna be fuckin’ annoyin’.”

“Why don’t cool cars have any space in the back? Hold on, I think we have ropes or something to tie them down. Maybe some leftover chains from a month ago. Actually, there might be a bungee cord from another one of our bulk orders this week…”

His hand slipped out of her callused one as he dipped around her for a second round of digging through the storage garage. Him and Weasel organized their inventory to a T; this storage was only used for week-of pick-ups, anything outside the timeline stayed at the other storages on other streets—never keep your product all in one place unless you want to get caught, he was told. Though it sounded more applicable to drug dealers.

In the midst of nudging forward a pallet to see if any tie-able objects had slipped through the cracks of constantly rotating paraphernalia, his gaze caught on one of the crates that had come in for June. The outsides strung in strips of FRAGILE tape with extra stickers for glassware and fine china, and he cracked the lid to peer at the load inside. 

June loved her guns, only fitting for someone who ran the bar patrons’ most preferred shooting range. So when her monthly haul came in for her ever-growing collection, him and Weasel were left scratching their heads at being sent a double order. Manufacturer’s error, and a hell of a steep one. There’d be no use in sending it all back; once they put out the announcement of an overstock, they’d be cleaned out by Friday.

He picked up one of the short-barreled rifles and turned it over in his hands: 5.56 mm NATO caliber, almost 6 pounds, 11.5” length barrel molded in moly-vanadium steel. It was one of those sub-2k guns when stripped down to its base model and definitely wouldn’t have come with a round of ammo if someone wanted to stay under budget. He held it close, plucked the red bungee cord on an edge of the crate the rifle sat in, and dug out enough ammo for three full rounds before he stepped back out of the storage and dragged the door down until it locked up with a quiet buzz.

“We definitely won’t be able to put it in the trunk if you don’t mind keeping it with you in the front,” he said as he held out everything but the cord. “I can even scrounge up a dust cover if you want.”

Outlaw narrowed her eyes and slowly accepted the gun, running her hands over the black metal finish without tearing her gaze away from his.

“Bribery’ll get you everywhere, but it won’t get you outta that favor.”

“The favor I can’t do anything about now. We shook on it. That’s, like, legally binding.” He latched one end of the bungee to the trunk bottom and threaded it through a hook at the top. It was the exact same shade of bright, hotrod red. “But that’s just a thank you for keeping the name Peter Parker to yourself.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’ to shoot out the lights.” She glanced at the trunk. “And if this is just a convenient way to double up on payment for the dent in Dom’s car?”

His hand brushed the underside of the trunk door until his fingers caught against the caved-in metal and pushed until it clunked back into its rightful shape. 

“What dent?” Peter questioned innocently as he peered up at her with eyes as big as the heavy duty plates waiting for him in the sink.

She stared at him for a total of five full seconds before she exploded in laughter, throwing her head back as she clutched the gun to her middle. “Weasel’s a dickhole keepin’ you all to himself, but I guess I would too if I had you in my back pocket,” she said as he pulled the bungee taut and knotted it three times over so it wouldn’t spill all over the highways. “Smart, resourceful, neck deep in this shit business. You’ll wind up dead before you’re thirty.”

He twirled the carabiner around his finger and unlocked the doors to slide into the driver’s seat. The car jolted as Outlaw hopped over the door to land into the passenger’s.

“Same as everyone else who ends up in the business, right? And hey, if I make it to thirty we should throw a block party. All mercenaries welcome,” he deadpanned. He stuck a key into the engine. “What do you think will go over better with the crowd, Ms. Outlaw? Confetti poppers or temporary tattoos?”

A pair of boots kicked up on the dash. “Inez.”

“Is that another type of party favor?”

“Sure, if the favor’s beer bongin’ a keg like a salmon catchin’ death upstream,” she snorted. She tipped her hat, blonde spilling over her shoulders. “But that’s what they call me when Outlaw’s a mouthful and all the other guy’s got to curse me with the name my momma gave me.” She stuck her hand out again, reaching over the middle console. “Inez Temple. Call me crazy, and I’ll fuckin’ gut you.”

This time the hand that was offered wasn’t wrapped in old blood and gunpowder and for a second, Peter wondered about how well he’d taken to this life. One second he was making a deal that would cost his soul or a gun, one or the other, and in the next he’d probably wiping down a table covered in circles of dried tequila.

Just the day in the life of a dish boy who didn’t know if almost-mercenary was a title he was allowed to use.

He shook her hand again and flashed a blinding smile. “Nice to meet you, Inez Temple,” he chirped. “Peter Ferret-Blue Parker, at your service.”

Inex kicked her feet up on the dash. “Hurry up and round out front, cutie. My wings’re waiting and I’d like to get a couple more beers in me before the girls and I hit the road.” She tipped her head back and forth. “And temporary tats. Set off one popper in that bar and you’ll spend the rest of the night digging bullets out of the walls.”

::

The kettle whistled its high-pitched tune for all of a minute before it drew their hand to the stove and made them twist the knob from gentle flame to nothing but one quick lingering of propane.

Loki exhaled quietly through their nose as they rubbed the bridge of their nose with deft, nimble fingers. The low hum of the television drifted into the kitchen—a new installment to their home for Peter’s comfort. They had been introduced to the world of ‘streaming’ and they did not hold much interest, but they had enjoyed those moments with May as she shouted at the screen as they watched the likes of Love Island and Love Is Blind, though their enjoyment would have been more due to their company than the wiles of modern entertainment.

They pushed themselves away from the countertop and drifted into the living area, the tail-end of a dying whistle nipping at their heels.

There were now comics in line with the texts and tomes on the shelves, little trinkets of characters they were not aware of both in forms of to-scale action figures and miniature Lego figurines. The boots and sneakers lined in the doorway sat crooked and cramped, tossed in a careful rush that did not quite match the clean lines of various heels and dress shoes on the racks tucked into the entry wall. The other walls were not as barren as they had been a few weeks ago; what was once smooth planes of dark stone now dotted with prints of sunsets and skylines taken at dizzying, impossible angles.

They loved these photographs. That was the only and most important reason they were put up. Was Peter aware of this love, hung up and impossible for anyone to miss?