Peter wasn't sure, but he thinks he's tired.

Not physically tired because he was lucky he didn't need to sleep as long as a regular human—but a sentence like that being normal just added another reason for the tiredness. The super tiredness. The almost-can't-deal-with-it tiredness. And he wasn't saying that he couldn't deal with it, hence the almost, but he used to be just Peter and Spider-Man and he could barely remember thinking just those two things were too much.

Strange how life worked that he ended up getting bit by the spider; he was one punk kid in a city of other punk kids, going to school and getting pushed around and doing homework and being able to lift a car with one hand. Puny Parker, leaping off street lights. May's kid, getting thrown into buildings. Queens, drowning in river water and concrete.

But that was fine. He'd gotten used to it.

Except then he was the new dish boy.

No one looked at Ferret the first week, and when they did it was always pitying or mocking and not one dang thing in between. Ambrose never met his eyes when his nachos got served with no guac and Mox would shake his head whenever he walked past with a stack of dirty plates in his hands. But that was okay because being alone was already kind of his thing; at school because he flakes, on the phone when another voicemail hits and he can talk about whatever because he knew no one was really listening, in the skyline because there was only one Spider-Man to do what he could do.

Some days were a little harder than others, though. With no one who got it and not wanting anyone to worry, it kind of sucked. So sometimes when he dropped from a web he fell, and fell, and there was a last second where the ground came at him so—

But the longer he stayed, the warmer it got. His jokes started getting chuckles and thanks were grumbled whenever he stopped by a table. "That dead kid, Ferret or whatever" turned into "Weasel's dish boy, Ferret" or "Wade's kid, can you fucking believe that" or "I'm good, Ferret. How many people died last week? I've got fifty on the dead pool and I think it's finally my day."

Still... that shouldn't be right. Right? That he felt right at a place that Spider-Man wouldn't hesitate busting. It brought up a lot of questions he wasn't answering anytime soon, but yeah, why not just throw in a bigger headache in there?

Peter Parker, Midtown High student. Spider-Man, suped up vigilante. Ferret, Mr. Weasel's assistant.

That math didn't add up. That math was three different formulas!

But he still juggled STEM student and freak and criminal and it was the most messed up act he ever played. One second he was memorizing Keith Douglas' key poems—Vergissmeinnicht, How to Kill, Desert Flowers—then there was a bat in his gut and now he was printing cards and updating hit lists and he was spending time with May and Ned and now Neena at June's and Wade at the gym and both of them at the bar and Flash shoved him again, Mr. Harrington lectured him again, Happy didn't answer again.

The night usually ended with Spider-Man or Dish Boy-Man and both of them perfected the art of evenly spaced sutures.

And that—that wasn't even mentioning the mom thing.

Mom. Where was he even going to start with that?

Maybe from when he saw the sky tear open and he thought the world was going to end.

... No, that was too much trauma. He was probably better off starting from Wade's apartment instead.

So Wade's apartment had been a safe-haven ever since Wade himself brought him by and explained how to lockpick every lock after all the keys were forgotten in the other Deadpool suit, and not twenty-four hours later he found a new keyring on his carabiner with ten different lock keys, two hours keys, and a fat Pikachu keychain.

No—wait, this wasn't about Wade. Wade was super cool. This was about Mom. Not to say they weren't also super cool, but it was their genetics that made him part Yo-ton? Or whatever they'd said to Thor when they thought he was snuggled in bed fast asleep. And he was snug as a bug in a rug, by the way. It was just hard to sleep when all you could think about were all the wrong decisions you've made and how they haunted and held you by the throat so you couldn't get a good night's sleep.

But the first time he really met Mom had to be at Wade's. There was at least one melee weapon within any two foot radius you stood in and a loaded gun within every four; evens were Stevens, Wade always said, and odds made him itch. Either way there were a ton of things he could use if things went south, but his mom wouldn't do anything he needed to worry about, right? Between rice bowls and mismatched dining chairs and Harold the Stuffed-Rainbow-Sea-Turtle-Won-At-A-Bottle-Toss-Before-Being-Banned-From-That-Carnival-Game-For-The-Rest-Of-The-Day, he was going to walk out with Lora or Loren and no matter who Mom turned out to be he'd understand, he was so sure of it.

Then—there was always a then nowadays—a golden glittery glow filled the apartment that could rival a weapon's store unit and in Lora-Loren's place sat Loki, Prince of Asgard, a villain in every history book by the end of twenty-twelve, and that was it. He was going to die. The leader of the Battle of New York bought him lunch and was going to kill him by the end of it.

But Loki was kind.

But Loki cared.

But Loki loved him.

Ferret-Man, Spider-Parker, Peter Lokison.

He was all of them in all their mish-mashes and a couple months in he thought finally, this is where I start. This is where it all goes right because I've got a place that likes me, a family that wants me, and I can go out there and help people with everything I am.

Then… Eli died, and maybe Dr. Strange was right.

What else could he do besides getting cats down from trees?

"You look like shit."

Peter looked up from his spot half-sunken in one of the most comfortable couches he'd ever crashed in. His blue suit and its charred upper body lay across the ottoman and he was left in yesterday's jeans; at least his backpack came out unharmed because if he had to replace one more bag in the span of three weeks—not to mention a bag Thor got him—he might already be sobbing into a cup of Swiss Miss.

But not today. Or at least for the next few hours. That'd be totally uncool.

"Still feel like it, too," he answered with a self-deprecating quirk of his lips. Neena plopped onto the couch space by his feet, propped an elbow on the back pillow, and dropped her cheek into her hand.

"How are your burns?"

He glanced down at his arms and torso and at the bandages swathed around them. They throbbed dully even when he just spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, and only winced when he pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Healing, I think?" He flexed an arm. "It's not going as fast as it usually does but, um, turns out I'm kind of less fireproof than I thought. I guess being a firefighter isn't a great future job prospect."

"Something from your spider side?"

"Actually, I think it's something from my mom's."

And how could he forget about this other Mom thing, just another tab with thousands of other subsections. Mom-Loren-Lora-Loki was alien, literally otherworldly, even older than the written manuscripts of the first time Earth documented the myth of the Norse Trickster God. Peter had never seen them turn all the way blue, but the same day in Wade's apartment when they took his hand in theirs and his skin melted away to icy blue, raised patterned ridges molding into symmetrical patterns all over his body. Ice powers, cold resistance, an extraterrestrial healing factor added on top of his mutated one and his sudden tanked vulnerability to fire...

What did it all mean? Why didn't Mom talk about it?

And why did it make Mom hate themselves so much?

Neena waved a hand, snapping his gaze back to her.

"Hey, lost you for a sec. You okay?"

"Yeah." He blinked and glanced down to poke at the bandages around his wrist. "Yeah." He repeated. "I'm just a little tired."

Something he didn't recognize crossed her face, but it left as quickly as it came as she downed half a glass of her vodka orange juice. "You looked halfway to hell last night, so don't beat yourself up while you're healing up." A loud series of knocks rang out at the front door, and she patted his ankle a couple times before she stood. "You're also off the rest of the week; I already told Weasel not to let you clock in any hours."

"Wait—you—you snitched?"

"Hell yeah I snitched. Half the time you come into work looking like a Jackson Pollock and half of those halves you shouldn't have even been on your feet, so think of this as a long time coming."

"But—"

"Butts are for flicking into sewer grates, kiddo."

Neena stayed to the side of the door when she reached over and pulled it open, Wade strode right in shaking the snow off his outer jacket and stamping out the ice bits from his boots.

"Jesus FUCK it's like Jack Frost's wet dream out there, swear to god I've got fifteen bagillion snowflakes shoved so far up my ass I can build Elsa a ten foot tall snowman."

He spun around with a flourish and flashed his widest grin—

Peter blanked.

This was the first time since knowing Wade that he showed up without his Deadpool mask. He didn't know what to think when he'd literally given Peter his full name, phone number, home address, and all the fake social security numbers he'd collected over the years. Wade had never been a self-conscious sort of guy, but seeing that his skin being angry and wrinkled and stretched with thick layers of scar tissue didn't stay on the bottom half of his face, he felt bad that he hadn't gotten Wade to feel more comfortable with him a lot sooner.

"Oh shit." Wade stopped dead in his tracks when he turned towards the couch. "You look like shit."

A short laugh puffed out of Peter. "Good morning, Wade."

And out from behind him stepped out Mom.

Since she was with Wade she was Lora, her lips curled in a small sneer as she glared at the other's back. Her deep green silk button up tucked into a pair of black slacks and her heels made her almost as tall as Wade, but as soon as Peter was within her sights her brow furrowed and she was immediately at his side.

"Lora? What're you and Wade—"

"You did not text, and you are burned," she murmured. She held two fingers to Peter's chin and moved his head to the side to get a better look at the bandage on his face and the shiny red skin poking out from under it. "I should have cautioned you against fire. The fault is mine, and I must apologize."

"S'okay," he tried to smile. "Ice, fire, basic Pokemon type match-ups. I should've known better anyway."

Loki frowned. Wade nodded sagely behind her.

"Before I forget, Pete's banned from working until next week, but only if he actually looks better." Neena shut the front door. "That means that's your job, Wade. I'm on west coast time starting tomorrow, and I know you don't have anything 'til next month because of the Ulaanbaatar job you're lined up for."

Wade clicked his heels together and delivered a perfect salute. "Aye aye, Captain!" His voice deepened. "I can't hear youuu!" Then he drew in a deep breath. "AYE AYE, CAPTAIN!"

Loki stared for a few seconds. Then looked at Peter. "If it were possible, this endears him to me even less."

Wade flapped a hand. "Petey gets it."

Peter shrugged, careful not to jostle his injuries. "I get it."

Neena snorted as she donned a friendly smile and approached the stranger in her living room. "Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Neena Thurman, one of the mercs that work through Weasel's bar."

Loki eyed her up and down once before she accepted the offered hand. She must've seen something she liked too when the disdain she usually showed Wade and Weasel was nowhere to be found. "I am Lora Olstad, Peter's mother."

"Huh. Nice to finally meet you, then."

She tipped her head slightly. "Likewise. It is agreeable to see that there are more sensible persons Peter has aligned himself with." She tried to pin another glare on Wade, but found that he'd migrated to the kitchen and was making a mess of the area with a pan heating on the stove and a spatula set on the counter top. "You allow this boor to prepare food in your home?"

"Wade's a lot of things, but he does make a mean pancake."

"Blueberries and apples and half a pack of bacon, oh my! Dom, it's like you've been waiting for the Griddle King to work his magic!"

A smaller, realer smile wormed its way onto Peter's face as he shifted and leaned heavier against one of the folded throw blankets on the couch. Warmth slowly spread over his skin, and it didn't feel like it came from the burns that would take too long to heal.

But the small pit of ice in his chest grew a touch bigger, a smidge colder, a little too close to everything he ever was, he let its edges press against his ribs and burrow closer to his heart.

::

Peter walked with a greater heaviness to his shoulders, and Loki knew he tires.

It was a beast that tormented warriors once fighting battles no longer just meant facing foes on the battlefield. Shadows followed even the strongest ones home, grief-filled fangs puncturing down to the marrow, melancholic whispers ringing soundly in the ears. She had seen some fighters give in to misery, seen others eaten away by guilt they could not pull out of their own skin. But such was a risk that many often took to join the ranks of the glorious, and she considered herself one with an abundance of luck to find herself without propensity to suffer as many do.

But it was with great tragedy that Peter had not come out so lucky.

Oh, but how could he? This child was not built for war. His heart was full and soft with the endless love it carried, and she wished nothing more but to bundle him in her arms and shield him from all the wrong of the blood he carried in his veins.

Ferret, Spider-Man, Peter Benjamin Parker Lokison.

How numerous these heavy titles were when the one burdened with them was but an infant in the eyes of the Æsir.

"I bet you twenty dollars that if I lick this pole my tongue won't get stuck."

Loki withheld a sigh at the ridiculous string of words that endlessly poured out of Wilson's mouth.

"You could just give me the twenty and save yourself the pain," Peter said.

"O ye of little faith." Wilson stuck his tongue out of his mouth and blew, echoing a sound not unlike flatulence. "I thought we've been taco buddies long enough that you know I'm totally able to do shit you wouldn't believe."

"But you're totally not above the science of phase transition."

"It is typical to let an idiot learn the hard way, Peter," Loki said as the three of them stopped at the next metal pole they came across. "It is the only thing with enough force to break through the build up around their skull. As you have seen, my brother endures the same condition."

Wilson slapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them, a truly impish expression crawling across his face under the shadow of what she heard was called a 'baseball cap.' "Okay, nonbelievers. Watch and learn from the Ice King."

Loki raised a brow. "Were you not already the Griddle King?"

"I've earned many crowns in my day. Most notably from Mr. The Burger King himself."

If she recalled correctly, that was the name of an eatery she had seen on many streets in this city. Even then she did not understand the reference, the smile on Peter's face grew despite his mounting worry and he still took a step forward for one more try in convincing him to choose quite literally any other option than this.

"Wait, I know you're just going to rip off a layer of your tongue because you're not patient enough to like, warm the air around the ice when you do get your tongue stuck so I really think you should get a popsicle from the store to save yourself the trouble—!"

"Nice try, Petey-Pie, but behold! The Ice King will strike where you least expect!"

How he and Peter managed to get along so well, she would never understand.

And as much joy it would bring her to see this lout injure himself for no other reason besides misplaced bluster, she did not know why he was leading them down these streets after their impromptu breakfast. Miss Thurman could not accompany them, citing her need to prepare to leave for assignment in the early afternoon, but all the same sent them off with a kind word and a mouth full of a fourth helping of pancakes. So, she grabbed the scruff of the man's jacket and yanked him back before the tip of his tongue could swipe the pole and dragged him forward.

"Allow yourself your lunacy another time," she hissed, pushing him forward with the barest flick of her fingers. Yet when he turned back around to face them, he batted his eyelashes as he deftly avoided any obstacles he encountered while walking backwards. He blew a kiss. She wanted to dissociate his lips from his face. "Mutilating yourself would extend this trip, and I would like to arrive at our destination in as little wasted time as possible."

"Trust me, I'm leading us to the holy grail. The promised land. Paradise." He clasped his hands together and drew in a shaky breath. "Margaritaville."

Loki massaged her forehead. Idiot.

"Dude, you're so old."

"I refuse to hear this Jimmy Buffett slander."

"Who's Jimmy Buffett?"

"SLANDER."

Unfortunately Wilson's pancakes had proved more than edible, especially the ones with apples that somehow managed a comparable crisped sweetness to those from Iðunn's garden on Asgard. She uttered no sweet words but cleaned her plate, and when Wilson saw his eyes blew wide as he sang a terribly off-key ballad that could have prompted her to reach across the table and shatter a ceramic dish over his skull. But it sent her dear heart into a fit of snorting laughter until his wounds flared and she turned to soothe them with a light burst of Jotunn frost, her annoyance turned down to only simmering.

Regardless of her lack of comprehension, she could not turn a blind eye to how important this Wade Wilson was to her son. She thought his humor crude, his voice raucous, his actions borderline deranged, but around Peter he was—dare she say it—good. His character stained with the filth of working as a hired hand and his lifestyle reflected the wealth of what must be years of the bodies he piled up in exchange for coin, but he mentored Peter in the arts of Midgardian combat. He taught the boy with care, trained him in non-lethal ways even when he himself never utilized such tactics.

Loki watched as he slung an arm over Peter's shoulders and pulled him close, whispering something that made the boy groan while he threw his head back in laughter.

And Wilson was, after all, the one who showed up unannounced on her doorstep earlier this morning to show her a video of a building engulfed in flame taken on shaky cell phone footage.

"Uh. Wade?" Peter turned towards his friend as they stopped in front of a building with tall glass windows and a black cloth overhang above the entrance displaying a single red square with a four-lettered word across its middle. "Why are we at the Lego store?"

Wilson grinned and pulled a yellow card from his back pocket. There was a little man made of blocks on the front.

"So there was this guy I murked the other day, blood everywhere, I had to pick up another Tide pen on my way home and everyone needs to start carrying those in their purses, it's like Gandalf and Mr. Clean made a real magic wand—"

Peter's face scrunched up, appearing far smaller under the bandage that covered nearly half his face.

"—but when I was going through his wallet he had this whole two-hundred dollar gift card for Legos and it's not like he's gonna use it when he's splattered all over Emmons Avenue—"

"Wade."

"—so ta-da! A second uber late Christmas present or ridiculously super-duper early sixteenth birthday present!" He exclaimed as he held out the plastic card.

Peter hesitantly took the card into his own hand and flipped it over to look at the back. "... A two-hundred dollar gift card? I don't know, that's a lot of money for Legos. What if—"

"Had no kids or family or whatever, so it would've gone to waste if no one else's using it."

Still, Peter ran a thumb down the edge of the card and peeked up at Loki in silent question. She was surprised that he always seemed so reluctant in matters that concerned himself. Legos were simple things, she learned from May, where small pieces were made to be put together either by planned model or by freehand, and she had seen some of the smaller plastic figures along the windowsill in his room.

Thor had never been that way. Neither had she.

Loki smiled. "For as empty of a head he balances between his shoulders, a fair thought or two appears like a worm in a rotten core." She gently urged him into the store, patting him past the entrance and further into the intensely yellow decoration. "Go, find what you wish. Wilson and I will be around."

Brown eyes twinkled the brightest they've shone this entire morning before he was off faster than a spooked stag towards the shelving in the back. She would not lose him as long as he wore his necklace, and she sensed that since their initial meeting it never strayed far from his person. She could live a thousand lives and never deserve him in either one, and—

"So you really would love me if I was a worm."

This time, Loki couldn't restrain a disgruntled sigh as she looked to her companion. The shade across his face darkened in the artificial light and with his hoodie pulled over his cap, he performed a fair job in minding his visage from the rest of the patrons.

"If you were a worm you would end up as nothing but squashed beneath my feet."

"Promise?"

She could strangle him. "You are simply impossible."

"I live to please," Wilson cooed through puckered lips before fluttering to the other side of the store where the Avengers had their own line of Lego sets, a sight that nearly made Loki gag. She followed him at her own sedate pace, her ponytail swinging slightly behind her as her heels barely clacked on the flooring.

The boxes boasted models from the Iron Man suit to the Captain's shield to Mjolnir itself, though the likeness could not be compared to its original grand design. Yellow minifigures of each hero were arranged in battle stances with a range of weapons that could each be bought in different packages.

"Captain America's always been my favorite." Wilson picked up a box for a Captain America minifigure outfitted in what appeared to be an older uniform. "I had a bunch of his comic books when I was a kid and wouldn't read anything else that didn't have good old Steven Grant Rogers on the cover. 'Course, that was all before he was found frozen in the middle of the butt-fuck arctic and turned into a war criminal, but it be what it be and it do what it don't."

"The soldier," she murmured, mostly to herself. The box made sure to note that the blue helmet was detachable. "And a man out of time."

"I wonder if smartphones freaked him out. You think he's got the hang of them now or do you think he's got a spot on his belt for his own personal rotary?"

"The Captain means nothing to me, so I hold no opinion."

"Oo, I get it. Team Iron Man, huh?"

"If Iron Man made himself known to me, may he suffer a worse fate than your worm-self at my heel." Loki clicked her tongue and spied a Hulk with both his fists up as he screamed toward the heavens. She drew a subconscious step to the side.

"Ding, ding, ding, that's the correct answer! I mean, after all the stuff I've heard about Stark? Especially when it comes to, you know." Wilson's hand twisted in vague motions behind him. "Dickhead's ego is the size of his bank account and he's got no business fucking around with a kid's life. 'Specially that kid? Does whatever a spider can? The mystery mustelid? And yeah, I can follow thematic repetition as a rhetorical device—that's not my main point, by the way. I'm just letting you know." He put the box back onto the shelf. "What I'm saying is, Stark fucked up and now he's losing out on one of the best kids he's ever met. Don't know what else he does besides jacking off in his Iron Giant cosplay, but jokes on him, I'm the one who's getting crunchy nachos under all that ooey-gooey cheese." He scoffed. "Douche."

The soft round lights boxed in yellow cubes along the ceiling filtered overhead like sunglow in a pocket of winter. Children of all ages and sizes wandered about, excitedly dragging their parents around in puffer jackets and knitted hats to warm their heads. There were multitudes on Midgard she had yet to fathom as well things she knew she did not have the capacity to grasp no matter how much seiðr she could conjure between her hands.

But she did not ever anticipate that she would be able to recognize love all the same across the galaxies she'd traveled.

"There was no dead man's gift card, was there?" She asked.

Wilson pulled down the front of his cap. "He wouldn't take it otherwise. He won't even take the taxi rides I cover for him—I'm always finding bills stuffed around my place 'cause he doesn't know I've even got all the change in my couch cataloged."

And suddenly that artificial light cast upon him much differently from when she first saw him.

"Thank you," Loki said before she could stop herself, "for taking care of him, Wilson."

"He's my taco buddy." He shrugged. "Not much I won't do for him."

Loki's eyes flickered around the rest of the store as her hand dipped under the collar of her shirt to clasp around the stone of her own necklace. With no one but Wilson at her side in this row of merchandise, green wisped along her palm and she pinpointed Peter drifting down one of the aisles, still within the confines of the store. Safe.

When she turned back to Wilson, his jaw unhinged in a most unsightly manner.

"You're—?" His hands pressed on either side of his face as his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper. "You're a wizard, Harry?!"

She blinked. "Olstad."

"Okay seriously, what rock are you living under? I don't think Patrick's got any more space and you really should start paying rent."

"What nonsense are you blathering on about now?"

"I've gotta get you to watch Spongebob. Peter's gotta get you to watch Spongebob. What planet are you from that you haven't watched Spongebob? He's been on cable since the early two-thousands—"

He went on and on in the same manner he'd been irritating her with since she threw him into a pool table, only this time she had enough sense to hide her small smile as she listened to his absurdity on their way to return to Peter.

(How Odin would turn on his throne if he could see the life she led now.)