"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.