"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.))