Frostbite

Rime

May ran a finger over the waxy patch of skin on her nephew's cheek. She poked and prodded and when he only beamed under all her fussing, she sighed and pinched his cheek until he whined for her to let go.

"See, May?" He said when both her hands were back on her hips. "Almost fully healed!"

"After two weeks," she stressed. May sighed again and went back to stir the pot of instant ramen at the stove. "I don't know all the details about your spider abilities, but I know that's much longer than what it usually takes to heal. Is something going on?" She slid some chopped tomatoes and sliced ham into the pot. "Or is it something like, you're more flammable because you're a bug?"

He leveled her with a look. She flapped a hand.

"You know what I mean."

And, well, he guessed he did know what she meant. But he didn't know what he was supposed to say to that; Mom and May had Girls' Nights every other Friday and sometimes Tuesdays and Mom always came over for Sunday night dinners, and as far as he knew there was no alien talk. Nothing about blue skin or ice or even as a squeak about the frostiness of it all, so he knew better than to bring it up on his own. There was a lot of Spider-Man talk, though, from May ranting about Triple J to Mom smirking as she pulled up a video of a dumpster lid whapping shut on its own after he took a swan dive into it which only happened twice and he swore he was going to find whoever—

Peter swiped his hair out of his face before picking up both ramen bowls to move them out to the coffee table and placing the significantly larger one in front of his seat. "I'm not really sure what's happening," which wasn't a lie, "but I'm definitely going to keep my distance from now on." He took the chopsticks May handed him and grabbed the blanket on the couch arm when she took her seat next to him. "Do you think I should invest in a fire-proof jacket?"

"I'll get you one as a late Christmas present or ridiculously super-duper early sixteenth birthday present."

He choked halfway through shoveling the first bite of ramen into his mouth.

"Your teeth are used for chewing, baby."

"Thanks, May," he replied dryly as he scooped up more ramen, not even finished with his initial bite. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

She settled into her own spot on the couch, fuzzy socks tucked under the other half of the fuzzy blanket as the sleeves of her fuzzy sweatshirt pooled around her wrists. "I think the usual response is to make a crack about cooking, but all I've got for you is crispy meatloaf and too-salty spaghetti." Peter nodded absentmindedly at that, and he got a flick to his ear for the trouble. "Hey! You're supposed to say Nooo, May, your cooking whips and slays."

"What voice—I don't sound like that!" His face scrunched up. "And I know you know that's not how you use those words. Who taught you that? Who's making you embarrass me?"

"What makes you think I need someone to tell me how to embarrass you? I'm a strong independent woman who knows you tried to wash your sheets behind my back when you accidentally peed the bed in fourth grade—"

"May!"

She tousled his hair, and he could feel her gaze linger on his cheek before she looked back at her bowl.

"Besides, you don't need to worry about cooking." Peter donned his best grin for her, the one he knew she couldn't see through and the one he could use when he had enough in him to pretend it was actually real. "I swear I've perfected the un-soggy nacho and a variety of other pub foods and I know what you're thinking: Peter, that's unhealthy! Where's all the green?" He stuck his tongue out at his aunt's protest that she sounded nothing like that. "But I think my meal prep speaks for itself. How was the pesto chicken yesterday?"