Frostbite

Because of You

For the inevitable warzone the bar would soon turn into, it looked spic and snazzy if he did say so himself.

Peter thought it would be funny if he wore eye-black like a football player if he was going to be tackling patrons all night. Weasel shot that right down because apparently Sister Margaret's always has and always will be anti-jock, and now that he thought about it, it made sense as to why he never saw any sort of sport playing on the TV. If there was a city-destroying event it was news, once a year it was Shark Week, sometimes Wade successfully pilfered the remote from its hiding-spot-of-the-day and flipped between Robot Chicken and Rachael Ray re-runs.

He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the empty space. Doors would open in fifteen and then they'd be filled with little to none of their regulars—he didn't think it was common courtesy for a biker gang to call ahead with a time and date they were showing up, but it was super nice of them. He'd make sure the ice pitchers were ice cold and none of the tables ran out of napkins.

"Excuse me," someone said right outside the door in a voice so familiar that if Peter was holding a glass, he would've dropped it because what was he doing here how did he even know about this place oh gods he was going to get him killed— "Is this—Does Peter work here? He's, like, a dish boy and I-I'm a friend from school and I swear I'm not a stalker or anything, I was just wondering if I could talk to him for a seco—and—wait what are you—UM—"

Peter sunk into a defeated crouch on the squeaky clean floors he bombed with an entire bottle of Fabuloso a couple hours ago. They were so shiny. Perfect to pass away on.

But he stretched back up into a full stand just as Manuel stepped past the red-lit entrance, stringing along a terrified Ned by the back of his shirt.

"Yo, this kid's saying that he's lookin' for his friend Peter, the dish boy."

Said Peter—yes, that was him, sorry for the spoiler, everyone, he really couldn't help himself this time—walked over to them.

"I can't. Believe. You used my real name," he grumbled.

"I can't believe you don't?!" Ned hissed. He tried to move, but got extremely still when he realized he was still being held in place by a very tall, very buff bouncer.

Peter grabbed his friend's collar, pulled him to the side, and turned back to Manuel as he fished for his wallet. "You never heard the name Peter and Ned was never here."

He passed over a folded hundred.

"I've never heard the name Peter."

He rolled his eyes and added a hundred-fifty on top of it.

"Ned? I don't know no Ned." Manuel saluted him with two fingers and pocketed the money. "You best figure that one out before the Road Reapers flood in, mini-boss. Last time they rolled in right at open."

"Polite and punctual. I might be excited to meet them," Peter said. If they appreciated the cold water pitchers maybe he'd juggled a few empty baskets when he cleaned up tables. The last call crowd always loved that bit. But this was no time for jester things. "Thanks, man. Come get me if any more Not-Neds show up."

And he was shoving Ned across the empty bar and into the break room where he shut the door with the flat of his foot.

"Dude!"

"Dude!"

"Dude!!"

"Dude!!"

"What the hell, Ned?!" Peter threw his hands up. "You can't just show up to my job like this! Do you know what could've happened to you if you showed up while we had customers in here?! Your ass would've been grass!"