Frostbite

Worth

"I, um, oh my gosh Mr. Thor, uh, your royal highness? You probably don't go by that unless you do then, uh, wow. I'm a big fan!" Peter squeaked and really, under the circumstances, he'd like to see someone who didn't squeak after lighting came down from a clear sky to try and turn him into a fish stick like that messed up Spongebob episode with the fry cook games.

The God of Thunder smiled down at him, friendly and open, and this was simultaneously one of the best and worst days of his life.

"A lively lad you are! Thank you!" He spun his hammer with a quick flourish. "But 'Thor' alone is of appropriate address. It is the norm in Midgard's Northern Americas, is it not?" He shifted a foot and looked down when it nudged against singed papers and an ash-covered backpack. "Ah... I must apologize once more. I promise to offer recompense."

"Nah it's okay, I can take an L."

"Like the letter?"

"Yeah, kinda! But also it means no biggie, I only had half a rough draft and the papers I keep in my folder still look intact." Peter crouched down to shuffle what he could back into the bag, and did a double take when Thor knelt to help him out. "Oh, uh, thanks for the help, Mr. Thor. You don't have to worry about it."

"'Twas a mess of my own doing as my poor landing disturbed your belongings."

"But—"

Thor dropped a handful of stationery and a scorched pair of jeans into Peter's arms, and he fumbled them into his backpack. His sweatshirt was still balled at the bottom of the bag right on top of a scarf and beanie and the hidden pocket he made to keep his dagger. He hadn't needed to use it and he hoped he never had to, but it was a lot better than actively carrying a weapon on his person and no, his webshooters didn't count, but his mom could bypass his spidey-sense no problem now and if he didn't take the dagger himself, he'd find them on the inside of jacket sleeves or tucked in the waistband of his pants. The whole warrior thing was probably the usual, but he was pretty sure Asgard had actual sword classes.

Peter had PE. Those two were not interchangeable.

"Uh, is it okay if we talk in the stairwell?" He asked. The building was too high up for anyone to see, but they were in a residential area and the skies overhead only had a couple burnt orange splotches left in the growing dark. That lightning bolt would've been clear as day to anyone in the area, and #Thor would be trending if it wasn't already.

"Of course," Thor easily agreed. "Though we would have to take many of those stairs to reach the bottom."

"I think it'll be fine if we use their elevator? But we need to, I mean, I..." He sighed. "I'm way too bad at this, man."

Peter held open the door to the stairway for a bemused god and glanced around the rooftop one last time. Charred backpack straps and torn paper scraps on their way to ruin from old snow were all they were leaving, but it was his spidey-sense that eased his nerves as he shut the door behind him.

"I'm so sorry, but real quick let me just—" He pulled out the sweatshirt and held it between his teeth as he tapped along the thick black lines high up on the forearm of the suit, detaching them so he could peel off the material from there to his fingers like a glove. He dropped them in his backpack and yanked the sweatshirt over his head. It fell a bit loosely around the neck and his sleeves covered his hands completely—dang, did he take Ned's? "Is the red noticeable?"

Thor didn't hesitate in nodding from his spot a few steps down. "Red is quite a bright hue."

Peter dragged the scarf out and wrapped it twice around his shoulders, its lopsided snowman smiling at one end. "How about now?"