Frostbite

Kid

Peter moved the pan above the fire, swirling the eggs in it until they loosened and, in what might be the most controversial decision of his career, angled the opposite side downwards and flicked his wrist with just enough strength to send four separate eggs half a foot in the air and caught them gently in the pan. All flipped and no leaky yolk to be seen.

"I am the master chef," he whispered. Loki, brown-haired and brown-eyed for the day, placed a piled-high bowl of bread on the dining table with an amused quirk of his lips.

"You are quite the accomplished cook," he mused. "I must admit that Midgardian cuisine is much more diverse and palatable than I had previously come to believe."

"And there's still a whole world out there you have to try! Today, eggs and biscuits and homefries. Tomorrow, brunch and mimosas by the Pacific."

"Please," Loki said, a pained pinch in his brow. "Do not remind me."

"Aw, come on, Mom. Aren't you a little bit excited?"

"To be in poor company for the better of five days with those whose definition of 'fun' is to board a large wheel on a pier? Yes," he deadpanned as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. "I am. Ecstatic."

Peter slid the eggs onto the plate by the stove to total a healthy serving of a dozen eggs. Well if he was in his position, he'd be a thousand times more stoked. A work trip in California? He'd never been anywhere but the East Coast!

But a bunch of historical museums were descending upon Los Angeles for the weekend for some exclusive convention to talk shop and art preservation, and more than just Loki's museum were jumping in on the fun. If he could only convince his mom that it was actually fun.

"Neena might know some cool places for you to check out. I know she's at least been to LA if she's punching people in the face about it." The brawl had rolled all over the floor to raucous whoops and cheers and ended with two bloody noses and a round of shots for the whole bar. That was a better outcome than he could ever hope for even if he had to wrestle an empty tequila bottle out of Weasel's hands before he could throw it across the room. "And the flight's not too bad—it's only, like, six and a half hours non-stop, right?"

"Six and a half hours for a mere three thousand miles," Loki drawled, distaste on more than just the tip of his tongue. "Midgardians have made grand statements with their cuisine, yet their modes of travel are much to be desired. These aeroplanes operate in the exact manner as they did in the seventies. Should there not have been notable undertakings in their improvement?"

"You flew on a plane in the seventies?"

"Once."

Peter carried over the eggs and a mountain of homefries and they settled at the table. Two gold-gilded plates already laid on dark placemats held down with matching gold utensils. It was a lot more, well, more than he was used to, but the less he thought about it, the less it bothered him, and he immediately reached for a bottle of ketchup.

"I had lost a bet to my idiot of a brother," Loki continued with a roll of his eyes. "I can scarcely remember the reason for it now, but I boarded a plane in the city of Portland, Oregon, ransomed the airlines for, oh, two-hundred thousand American dollars? Then leapt out of the plane mid-air where Heimdall caught me in the Bifrost before I landed. Punitive things. I do not believe either of our parents found out."

He plucked a biscuit from the top of the pile and began to delicately saw it in half. Peter stared, open-mouthed, the ketchup bottle upturned over his plate and dribbling sad red droplets all over his eggs.

"... What."

"It barely took up a few hours of my time," Loki dismissed with an elegant flick of his hand.