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!