Screwed the Pooch
“Alright, fists high.” Steve pulled his shoulders back tautly, his forearms up and guarding his face with steadfast precision. “There you go, just like that.”
Peter tried to shake out the jitters in his muscles before mimicking Steve’s moves, hesitant once he did, double-checking himself to make sure he and his trainer looked the same. They stood less than a few feet apart yet managed to be close enough that the smell of overpowering mint was clear as day, wafting from Steve’s breath like a gum factory had just exploded.
Or — wait, crap. Was that coming from him?
Peter sealed his mouth shut until his lips disappeared completely. He hadn’t meant to sleep through his alarm...or the six others he set just in case. Had it not been for the SHIELD soldiers whizzing by his quarters like Gorillas on crack, there was no chance he’d be standing in the gym right now.
He made it here just in time, devouring an entire thing of Tic-Tacs on the way to cover up his morning-slash-afternoon breath.
Another whiff of Polar Ice mint and Peter realized he may have overdone it on the Tic-Tacs.
“Okay, let’s get started. I want today’s time to be spent reviewing and correcting what few things I was able to notice last session. And, uh...what I could feel.” Steve smiled. His white teeth gleamed in a way that bled the tension away from the whole unspoken ‘you really beat me up good for a second, punk.’
“First and foremost — Peter, you need to stop pulling your punches,” he instructed, chin low, face serious. “There’s only one way we can teach you how to fight, and that’s to fight.”
Standing off to the side at the bleachers, Natasha smirked. “Those are some wise words, colossal fossil.”
Steve gave her a half-amused look, acknowledging her remark with only a glance and nothing more. He turned back to Peter, readjusting his guard.
“Your strength is safe here. Don’t hesitate. You dodge well — you dodge great, actually. But you can’t avoid everything in the midst of combat.”
“Yes, sir.” Peter gave a wobbly nod, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He dropped his arms for a moment, pushing back his hair and sweeping it from his eyes.
He didn't even bother with the sweatband this time. God knows it wasn't useful the last.
“Second, and this one’s important.” Steve gripped his hands, clenching and unclenching the hold on his fists. “Too often, you went for the instinct to repeat the same attack. More than once, more than what you should.”
Peter tried — and failed — not to feel insanely intimidated by the flex in Steve’s arms. His muscles looked bigger than his own head, every single one coming out to say good morning, how you do? The longer Peter stared, the more he realized Steve would make a great diagram for anatomy class. Much better than the decade-old dummy Midtown had, the one missing a leg and half of its abdominal muscles.
Jeeze, the man was ripped. Not new knowledge, of course. After all, he did have to watch Captain America during every single detention session he managed to get himself into. Everyone and their mother knew he had muscles that made bodybuilders jealous. But Peter had to admit, it was way more noticeable when so close to him.
It was also impossible to not suddenly feel very self-conscious in his size medium, ratty and worn out t-shirt.
“I just figured...if it works once, ya know?” Peter chuckled, swinging his fists about like a boxer. “Go at ‘em again!”
His own nervous laughter was like nails against a chalkboard to his ears. Peter wanted to rip out his vocal cords and let Steve crumble them in his big-goofy-massively flexed arms. Or hand them off to Midtown, give them to Dave the Anatomy Dummy.
Now that he was thinking about it, Peter was pretty sure the mannequin was missing part of his throat too.
Sometimes he wondered where the school spent most of their budget.
“Fair enough,” Steve spoke up, shifting slightly on his feet. “But if you’re defending yourself from an attack, and that assailant is going in for the same hit, you won’t need your spider-sense to know what’s coming. It’s predictable. Predictable is dangerous. You gotta keep them on their toes.”
“Like I am right now, pauk-rebenok."
Natasha drew their attention to the bleachers, where she stood high on the front end of her flats, a skill only an experienced ballerina could achieve.
“On their toes.”
She grinned, even when Steve threw her an exasperated glare.
Peter laughed. Not even a second later, he was quick to stifle the noise behind one of his closed fists, stuffing the sounds deep into his fingers.
Steve sighed and shook his head. His impatience when wasting time during training was commonly known — or at least it was made very known to Peter today before their session started. They already wasted time last week, what with the whole blood sugar passing out incident.
The last thing Peter wanted was to get on the Captain’s bad side. He swallowed his laughter down, clearing his throat to rid any remaining chuckles.
Still, Natasha heard him, stifled laughs and all. She shot him a wink that cooled him down better than any of the ceiling fans from above.
It was weird — awesomely weird, anyhow. There was something about Natasha’s ability to put him at ease that made him drop his guard. Made him feel a lot more comfortable than the butterflies that wreaked havoc on his nerves, knotting his insides into a bundled mess.
Those nerves only got more tangled and messy when seeing Steve and the physique he was up against.
Not that Peter was up against anything. He knew that. In his head, he really knew that it wasn’t a competition, wasn’t a comparison.
But he was still a teenage boy. And perhaps he’d gotten a little used to being the most swole in the locker room.
“If you go for the eye—”
A tight knot grew at the base of his skull. A ringing that screamed DANGER.
Steve swung straight at his head, stopping short of making actual contact.
“Then swing next for the knee.”
Not an eyelash could bat before he crouched down low.
Peter jolted back, ready to dodge attacks that weren’t ever planned to land.
Steve stood up straight. There was a look in his eyes, silently asking Peter if he understood.
Three training sessions in now — and Peter really hoped three times would be the charm — and he was starting to learn more than he ever thought possible.
At least for him, Peter Parker of all people.
Before this — before Mr. Stark, and the suit, and The Avengers — all Peter ever did was rely on his newfound powers to get him through his patrol’s robberies and muggings. Basic friendly neighborhood stuff, crazy Vulture guy aside.
Though Steve’s jacked physique easily intimidated him, he was overwhelmingly happy with the tips and tricks they were teaching him.
Watch out, criminals of New York City. A new and trained Spider-Man was on the way.
“Yeah, yeah, I think I got it,” Peter ratted off, “but, uhm...should I...always do that? Or should I rotate out? Or should I —”
“You play video games, right, Pete?” Natasha called out, voicing echoing slightly from a distance. “Just think of it as up, down, left, left, down, up, right.”
Peter couldn’t help but bark out a laugh this time, the dorky sound widening the smirk on Natasha’s face. He lost his stance, turning to shoot her a look of disbelief and bewilderment, but mostly amusement.
She waggled her eyebrows at him, so comically that Peter couldn’t resist sticking his tongue out at her.
Awesomely weird or not, it was nice. For being someone who could turn an entire room ice cold upon entrance, it was starting to feel like Natasha didn’t try so hard with him. Like she didn’t have to try.
Peter liked that.
Was he becoming friends with the Black Widow?
Holy cow, Ned had to know about this, asap.
“Alright, bring it back in.” Steve waved his hand at Peter, motioning inwards. “You have a lot of untapped potential, son. I have a good feeling that once we —”
“Underoo’s!”
The shout burst through the gym, almost as loudly as the doors that flew right open.
Peter whizzed his head around, catching an object mid-air and inches before it could smack him in the face.
What the —?
He looked down at his hand, confused even as he opened his clenched fist to examine the object squeezed between his palm.
It was a calorie bar.
The nasty kind, wrapped in nothing but plain silver packaging. The one difference that stood out were the words Spider-boy written in Sharpie across it.
Peter looked back up, his face immediately dropping.
“What are you doing here?” he practically hissed, voice so high pitched it gave cartoon characters a run for their money.
He didn’t care. It was hard to be bothered, what with his stomach doing that flip-flop thing that made him incredibly sticky with sweat, the back of his shirt already dampening in wetness. A sudden bout of rough seesawing to his head nearly stole his balance, his knees buckling and wobbling briefly.
“And good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Tony stopped a few feet short of closing the distance between them, the double-doors far behind still swinging back and forth from his grand and unexpected entrance.
Bruce was on his tail, walking a lot slower while juggling a laptop in his hands. He barely gave a wave to the others; his reluctant presence clearer than the squeaky clean windows lining the gym walls.
Peter fought to find his voice again. “Mr. Stark —”
“You look tired.” Tony cocked his head to the side, giving Peter a long once-over. “You sleep at all last night?”
Peter knew his eyes were as wide as saucers — but he couldn’t shake the shock long enough to fix them.
“I slept – I slept fine, I —” he stammered, unable to pull the words from his brain long enough to string together something that sounded remotely coherent.
Mr. Stark was here. In front of him. When he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be.
They had agreed training sessions were Steve’s thing. Lab nights were Tony’s.
Was this because they didn’t even see each other last night? It had been lab night — their night — and Peter was clearly avoiding him, and they both knew it, and he really didn’t want to deal with this right now but Mr. Stark was here.
And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“I was up for a while, had homework. I’m fine,” Peter rushed out, so fast he could barely even understand himself.
Tony met his eyes. Peter forced himself to look away.
It wasn’t a lie. He was up for a while, and he did have homework. It just so happened that Peter chose to hang out with Bucky instead, at least until he felt good enough to sleep. Which wasn’t until close to two in the morning, when he didn't wake back up until far past his alarm had gone off.
But none of what he said was a lie.
“Up late, then?” Tony raised his eyebrows, high enough that they peaked over his fancy sunglasses. “I don’t believe I caught the aftermath of your usual ravaging in the kitchen. You eat at all?”
From across the way, Natasha coughed — loudly. “Mother hen!”
Everyone but Peter looked towards her; Peter was sure Tony gave himself whiplash from how quickly his head spun around, faster than a rocket.
He barely paid attention, definitely didn’t care. His grip on the calorie bar tightened, clamping down on it hard enough for the nasty granola pieces to crumble and break. Opening it now would only be a mess.
“Mr. Stark...” Peter bit his tongue — literally, the force of his teeth puncturing the soft tissue inside his mouth. His voice was low, irritated, and under his breath. “I’m good. I ate.”
“Yeah?” Tony gestured an open palm his way. “What’d you have?”
Steve took a few steps to the side, closer to where Tony stood, making a noise that sounded oddly close to clearing his throat.
Tony noticed.
He glanced at Steve. Glanced at Peter. Gave Natasha a look that appeared to be more of a heated glare.
Finally, he turned back to Peter with a snap of his fingers.
“No need to answer. That’s only something I would ask if I didn’t have complete, absolute, endless faith in your capabilities to take care of yourself like the responsible, young adult you are.” Tony walked ahead, giving a firm pat on Peter’s shoulder. “My favorite young adult, at that. One of the best.”
Peter looked down at his shoulder, staring at where Tony’s hand rested.
“Uh...that’s...thank you?” He shook his head and the daze that clouded it. “Why exactly are you and Doctor B here?”
The question came so suddenly that there was no hiding his objection at Tony’s presence. Even Bruce gave him an odd look, mostly hidden by his laptop, but still there to be seen.
“This is my building, in case you’ve forgotten.” Tony pointed his thumb towards Bruce, already across the gym and sitting on the bleachers. “And Bruce lives here, so I can’t help where he goes. It’s open terrain.”
For possibly the first time since entering the gym, Bruce looked up from his laptop with a look so aggravated the others worried it might turn green.
“Yeah, but like...” Peter kept his voice hushed, moving closer to Tony to keep the others from hearing. “Do you have to be here...now?”
Tony took off his sunglasses with one hand, pocketing them into his blazer with ease.
“I like to check in on my investments from time to time. See what progress is being made, how the horizon is looking, all that good stuff. Besides, don’t forget who’s suggestion it was to arrange these little kumbaya’s. You wouldn’t have a Captain America’s Training Tips notebook if it weren’t for moi.”
The self-pointed gesture Tony gave was enough to make the paparazzi jealous they weren’t there to capture it.
Peter made a face. “You said this was my aunt’s idea.”
“I freed up some time this afternoon,” Tony continued on without missing a beat, “decided to see what the hoopla is about with this...what are you calling it, Cap? Spider Boot Camp? Tactical Webinars?”
“Training, Tony.” Steve sighed, shaking his head. “No clever names. We’re just training.”
Tony looked at them with a studious glare, lips pursed tightly, head to the side in a way showed he had five million different thoughts running through his mind.
Peter rolled his eyes, staring up at the gym ceiling for what felt like an eternity. This was exactly why he’d been avoiding Mr. Stark for nearly two weeks now. One moment everything was cool, everything was alright, he was having fun. Now it was tense and weird and —
“Well!” Tony clapped his hands together, the sound ripping Peter straight out of his thoughts. “Training, then. Right. I thought it was about time I checked out this little training rendezvous. And, preventive measures after last week’s ruckus, I came by to provide a healthy snack for the growing spiderling. You’re welcome.”
Peter’s eyebrows knitted tightly. A snack?
He looked down at his hand, suddenly remembering the calorie bar he’d been holding.
A snack.
A snack.
Even after all he said, after everything they fought about, even as he trained with the-freaking-Avengers — Mr. Stark was still treating him like a kid.
Peter handed it over to him, jaw set. “I said I already ate. I’m good.”
The granola bar split the distance between them, hanging in the air where Peter refused to take it back, no matter how long he had to wait. He’d throw it across the gym before eating it. Hell, even if he was hungry, the things tasted like both dirt and chalk gave birth to a baby covered in mud.
It’d be just his luck to throw up all over Captain America’s shoes. He wasn’t taking the chance.
For the longest time, Tony stared at it. Not Peter, not Steve or Natasha or even Bruce clicking away at his laptop. He stared directly at the calorie bar, Peter’s hand covering up the Spider in Spider-boy.
“Then I will just...keep this for after the show.” Tony snatched it from his hand, tapping it against Peter’s shoulder with a forced grin. “That’s what they say, right? Protein after a hard work-out?”
“Tony,” Steve firmly said, his eyes directing Tony over to the bleachers. “We were about to start.”
Peter wanted to point out that Tony was walking in the wrong direction to be leaving, only to come to the painful realization that he had no plans to head towards the exit. He was already at the bleachers by the time Peter wanted to scream into a pillow.
Or punch it.
Or both.
“Don’t let me stop you gentlemen.” Tony smirked, pointing towards Natasha. “And gentle-spy. I’ll just be observing, doing my own thing. Oh, and if anyone decides to give the floor a little smooch and kiss, the doctor is in the house this time.”
Natasha arched an eyebrow as Tony brushed past her. “What did he bribe you with, Bruce?”
Peering up from his laptop, Bruce gave her a scolding look. “I’d like to keep my dignity intact and not answer that.”
As much as he would have loved to, Peter couldn’t make light of the situation. Every organ inside of him was still twisting into knots and to make matters worse, he swore he felt dizzy — the kind of dizzy where he knew sitting down was a good idea, but he was too proud to look weak in the moment. Not with Mr. Stark watching him, eyeing him, judging his every move.
The last thing he wanted right now was an audience.
Why couldn’t Tony leave him be? Why couldn’t this just be a thing for him and only him?
“Peter,” Steve quietly asked. “You good?”
Absolutely not.
“Great,” Peter answered, adjusting his stance with his arms held high and fist clenched tightly. “Let’s do this.”
Peter couldn’t blame Steve for his hesitance, or the once-over he proceeded to give. What could he say, his lying had gotten rusty lately — the downside to both his aunt and closest friends discovering his most closely hidden secrets.
Still, he must have retained some ability to fudge the truth, because ultimately Steve backed away with a nod.
“Natasha, you’re up,” he called out, passing her by as she approached the center of the gym.
Natasha stretched her neck and pulled at her arms, warming up her muscles while Peter felt his harden up like raw meat thrown in a freezer.
“Remember,” Natasha gently said. “Like a video game.”
Peter took a steadying breath and nodded. He could do this.
And hey, maybe now that she was showing signs of liking him, perhaps she’d take it easy on him this time around.
Before Peter could even blink, Natasha’s gaze hardened — all signs of humor gone.
It was fascinating, downright terrifying how she could turn a switch so quickly. One moment he saw her smiling, and the next —
Oh crap, was she running?
Peter threw up his arms, clenched fist protecting his face in a steadfast panic.
It was Ned who liked to remind him, on the daily, that The Black Widow was a trained killer. An assassin. She probably knew five hundred ways to kill him with one single touch and the most Peter could do?
He could dodge.
“Hold steady, Parker!” Steve called out, his voice thundering over Natasha’s pounding footsteps. And holy cow did they pound, stomping on the ground like a bull. “She can take you on. You do not hold back!”
Peter gulped. Tunnel vision blurred his eyes at the edges, the figure speeding towards him getting closer, closer, closer —
“Gotcha!” Peter snagged Natasha’s forearm, gripping it with both his hands.
Her full-force momentum was just the advantage he needed, her pace giving him just the right amount of force to swing her around. Disorienting her, dizzying her. A Spider-Carousal for all to see — all inclusive, free ticket to the ride.
“Off you go!” Peter released his grip, fully expecting to see a blur of red hair soar across the gym, for her to land clumsily on her butt and give him the ultimate upper-hand.
It was only at that moment that he realized why Natasha wore ballerina slippers when training.
Her feet skidded along the smooth gym floor, her body gliding back gracefully as if she were on ice.
Peter cocked his head to the side.
Huh. Go figure.
Not even half-way into the drift and she crouched low, fingertips scratching along the glossy, maple tiles, veering her into a complete stop.
Natasha looked up, her hair whipping back in a red blur – just not the type he was expecting. Her eyes were dead-locked on him.
Peter gulped. Again.
“Sorry, Uncle Ben,” he muttered under his breath. Two closed fits blocked his face, and he peaked through them slightly, watching as Natasha came sprinting full-speed back towards him. “I know you insisted I shouldn’t hit girls, but...”
His punch landed with a C R A C K.
The hollers from the bleachers were mixed.
“That’s it, Spider-Man!” Steve chanted.
“Oh!” Bruce winced in sympathy. “That can’t feel good.”
“Where the hell did you learn to fight, kid?” Tony was the last to holler.
Peter grimaced, shooting him a look and a dramatic shrug. “I learned a lot from movies, okay?”
Peter couldn’t keep the conversation going had he wanted to — something hard collided in the middle of his chest, stealing the wind right out of his lungs.
He swung his head around, Natasha’s fist long gone from contact on the science pun ‘Cell-fie’ printed across his t-shirt.
She wasn’t in front of him. She had been right in front of him, where did she —
Fast reflexes and the piercing hum of his spider-sense had his feet swiveling around before the kick could land across his back.
Peter grabbed her leg mid-assault, yanking her close. She escaped in milliseconds, somersaulting backward, her other leg swinging high in the air.
THUNK.
The heel of her foot knocked into his chin. His jaw cracked, his teeth bounced against themselves at impact.
Peter rubbed gingerly at his mouth, his look turning sour.
“Not cool, man,” he teased, adopting a light tone. “I got school pictures next week.”
Standing by the bleachers, his arms folded tightly across his chest, Steve turned to look at Tony with an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
“Does he always talk this much when fighting?”
Tony adjusted himself, his eyes set straight ahead as he watched the sparring unfold.
“I considered adding a mute function to his suit and permanently enabling it,” he dryly mentioned. “Shoulda seen him —”
“Ack!”
In the middle of the gym, Peter barely dashed away before Natasha could strangle him with her legs. They both landed bottom-down on the floors, their grunts and groans louder than the smack of their own bodies.
Peter blinked, hard, before scrambling to his feet. It was official — fighting Natasha was the hardest he’d fought in months, possibly the hardest he’d fought ever.
One time excluded. Of course. And they were both Russian’s.
Just his luck.
He shook his head of the thought, brushing off his pants as he eyed Natasha across the way, struggling to stand up. A clear opening — Peter shot his head over to Steve, the uncertainty of his next moves radiating off him.
Steve merely nodded.
Permission to beat up an Avenger would remain the weirdest thing of his entire life.
Still, Peter took a deep breath in, running towards Natasha with sneakers skidding to a stop short of where she laid.
“Hit me.”
Natasha’s eyebrows rocketed to her hairline. She rolled onto her knees, her eyes never leaving him for a second.
“Never tell your attacker to —”
“I can’t just swing at you. Not without you going first, not without — I can’t, okay?” Peter was breathing heavy; he wasn't sure if it was from exertion or nerves. “I can do this. I can spar or fight or whatever, but it really, really helps if you throw the first punch and I think that’s because — ack!”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut before Natasha’s foot ever made contact on his chest. He fell to one knee, grabbing his side with a few choice swear words restrained tightly in his mouth.
By the time he cracked one eye open, Natasha was standing over him.
“Didn’t Han shoot first, Peter?” she asked, a smirk gleaming on her lips. “Don’t you wanna be like Han Solo?”
Peter arched an eyebrow, forcing himself onto his feet.
“I see myself more like Luke, to be honest, but — opmfh!” Peter bit back a shout, the heel of Natasha’s foot having made what felt like a permanent dent in his chest. “Pretty sure I just heard a rib break. Or maybe a spleen. Do spleens break?”
Any concern for his internal organs was dismissed in one swift tug. Natasha clenched tightly onto the collar of his t-shirt, yanking him forward until there wasn’t any space remaining between them.
“Drop the doubt,” her voice was bone-chillingly soft, spoken so quietly only he could hear it. Her breath was hot on his cheeks, already flushed red. “You’re a fighter. You’re capable of this. We know it, we’ve seen it.”
Peter gulped. “Yeah, but —”
“Why are you so unsure of yourself?” Natasha cocked her head to the side, loosening the grip on his collar by a smidgen. “Why now?”
Peter’s throat bobbed as he fought for the air to speak, his chest quaking in ways that made it hard to concentrate. None of the words in his head felt right, nothing seemed like the right thing to say.
He didn’t know how to respond to something that he hadn’t realized before.
She was right. This wasn’t because she was the Black Widow. It wasn’t because she was an Avenger.
He was capable of this. And he was unsure of himself.
“I could hurt you,” his mouth spoke before he could wrap his mind around it.
Natasha stared for a moment, her look solidifying into something cold, hard and consuming.
“Like you hurt him?”
Peter’s fingers clenched together even tighter, hands wrapped into fists, nails digging into the tissues of his palms.
His head felt five times heavier as he nodded, like cement pouring into the holes of his skull.
“That feeling you have right now?” Natasha released the hold on his collar, tossing him back as he stumbled on the balls of his feet. “Use it.”
Peter caught his balance, just barely. Natasha had separated them by a good few feet, enough running space for a head-start.
Or so it seemed. His vision grew fuzzy, creating a duplicate Natasha that he knew wasn’t really there.
With a hard swallow, Peter took a deep breath. There was no running away this time, no distractions to end things early — nothing that would grant his wish of doing anything but this.
It was the time to prove himself, with the eyes of Captain America and Iron Man locked straight on him, and the Black Widow ahead taunting him on.
Peter pushed onto his feet, sprinting the distance between them. He charged Natasha, fist flailing, muscles tense and locked.
He could do this.
He could prove his worth.
He could fight.
Natasha was ready. One fast straight punch and she caught his fist, soft hands wrapping around his with surprisingly strength. Peter whipped around his body around, arching sideways, all his momentum thrown towards a distraction punch – thrown lower, hitting harder.
Everything Cap told him to do.
She lunged, he dodged. She’d punch, he’d throw it back.
For one long moment, there was no thinking. Their movements cut through the air like bullets — swift, harsh. The pace sped up as quickly as his breathing, each inhale out of his control, every choke for air a rapid, desperate need to fill his lungs.
Every punch hurt. Every kick was felt deep in his core. The sound of flesh-on-flesh, of tissue bruising and bones aching.
But he could do it.
He could fight.
Natasha was right. This wasn’t his first time in combat, this wasn’t the first time he’d fought. It wasn’t just about muggers and street criminals. He had his fair share of fighting under his belt.
Not just dodging, not avoiding every attack that came his way. He was skilled at this; if there was one thing Peter was confident in, it was just that.
He knew he could fight.
He knew it.
Spider-senses and fast reflexes granted him the upper hand against most of her assaults, but Natasha was undoubtedly more experienced. Laughably more experienced. Each assault she threw his way had static coursing through him, numbing his fingertips down into his toes.
Peter couldn’t catch his breath. It was too fast, their movements were too fast.
His knuckles screamed for reprieve, split skin underneath his jaw aching from where her nails caught his chin. How she wasn’t at her breaking point yet blew his mind.
Hearing was long gone, the praise and words of encouragement from the bleachers muted underneath the heavy pounding of his own pulse. Blood rushed through his ears, a broken damn deafening him to anything but his own heartbeat.
A brutal kick to his knee had him yelping. A sudden twist of Natasha’s arm had her cursing.
For once, his attacks weren’t sloppy. They weren’t panicked, they weren’t desperate. Each hit was precise, beyond his restraint, beyond his thinking.
It was seamless. Robotic.
Like he wasn’t in control.
Peter couldn’t think of anything. Just one word. A mantra, an occluded chorus repeating in his head.
Fight.
Fight.
Ǩ̴̼̯̜͒̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ
Fight.
Ǩ̴̛̼̯̜͒̇̀͂̓̓̊́̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ
Fight.
Ǩ̴̛̼̯̜͒̇̀͂̓̓̊́̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ
“Hey — HEY!”
Ǩ̴̛̼̯̜͒̇̀͂̓̓̊́̋̋͌̉̐̈́̕̚̚͝Ị̸̧̲̖͉̜̹͈̳͈̘͙̝̝͕͔͎̊̈̽̂͋̃͐̐̌̑̕L̵͎̤̜̫̮̗͍̰͉̍͋̊̿̌͛͌͂̆͋̽͝L̴̨̛̛̖̰̖̥̩͈̼͎͕͖͓̝͇͖̞͚̫̐̌̈́̓́̇͊̽̇̑͛̕͝ͅ
“What the hell — whoa, whoa —!”
Ķ̩̤͖̣̥̺͍̘͔͍̯ͅḬ̡̧̢̢̬͍̼̝̟̻͈͔̱̯̦̟͢L̨̦̻͕̻͇̣̞L̢̢̢̹͇͈̜̜̞̬̜̳͟͜
“Parker!”
“Somebody get Bruce out of here, quick!”
Ķ̩̤͖̣̥̺͍̘͔͍̯ͅḬ̡̧̢̢̬͍̼̝̟̻͈͔̱̯̦̟͢L̨̦̻͕̻͇̣̞L̢̢̢̹͇͈̜̜̞̬̜̳͟͜
“Holy shit!”
“Peter, get the hell off —!”
Two hands clawed at the back of his shirt, yanking him away, ripping him from the captive control of belligerent chaos.
It was like a bad dream, seeing both his hands wrapped around Natasha’s throat.
Peter was tossed across the gym before he could realize what he was doing. Before he could see with clear eyes that those hands belonged to him, that the pressure in his grip seeped from his very muscles. His fingers were still tingling as he skidded across the gym, the skin of his elbows rubbing painfully against the floor.
Steve had thrown him like he would his shield, with such force that Peter didn’t come to a stop until his back hit squarely against the wall.
The THUNK! that resounded was enough to snap him back into the moment.
Peter never remembered leaving it.
“Tony, get Bruce out of here, now!” Steve was shouting, Peter could hear him.
A quick glance to the bleachers and he saw a spread of green creeping up along Doctor Banner’s neck, a sight that convulsed every muscle in his body with a fear strong enough he could throw up.
Tony was frantically trying to pull him away, guide him to the exit.
Steve was still yelling — loudly, in ways he’d never heard before.
And somebody was coughing.
His hearing was fuzzy, muted, like cotton balls stuffed into his brain. He could hear coughing — who was coughing?
Peter blinked, over and over. The black, mucky clouds covering his eyes were like smoke of ether, blinding him, stealing away from him every second he couldn’t see. Only with time did colors morph into objects, into forms, into tangible things.
Until finally, he saw the crisp, clear image of people.
Steve sat on his knees, hands placed gently on Natasha’s back.
“Deep breaths, Nat. Deep breaths...”
His heart skipped a beat at each wheeze that exhausted Natasha’s lungs, her raspy coughing a panic that marinated through him.
Peter’s eyes darted back and forth, unable to purge the sight of reality.
He did the only thing he could think of doing.
Peter scrambled to his feet and ran.
“Parker, get back here!” Steve thundered, voice booming through the gym. “Hey! That’s an order!”
Suddenly, his feet weren’t a thought he had to give, the panicked notion of where to go a contemplation far beyond where his mind was at.
He was dead.
He was so, so, so dead.
Peter’s entire body pushed against the door to the locker room, throwing it open like it weighed nothing. The impact smacked it to the nearest wall in a way that startled even himself.
Drywall came crumbling down, scattering to dust onto the clean, bathroom floor. He didn’t give it a second glance.
“Shit!”
No tricks this time, no hostage kidnapping, no deceit — Peter knew he was done for, as dead as they came, the only person in history to sign his own death warrant while still breathing.
“I can’t believe this is happening right now,” his voice echoed in the locker room, his feet scurrying with nowhere to go. “What did I do, what did I….shit! Shit! Shit!”
Peter paced the bench that sat in the middle of an array of metal lockers, circling it like a madman. His hands dug so deep into his hair that his nails began to scratch at his skull. “Oh shit, oh no, no no no no —!”
The SMACK of his palm whacked his forehead, hard. Again, and again, until he could see bright stars sparking like flares underneath his clenched eyelids.
He could still hear shouting from the gym. Angry yelling, no doubt all of it towards him.
On a scale of one to ten — ten being that he absolutely, positively, in no way on his life, on his parents grave, on his Uncle’s grave did he think through any of what just happened — Peter was beyond ten. Ten thousand, ten hundred million, ten billion trillion —
“What the hell,” he hissed, biting at his bottom lip, his breath shaky and his words hushed in a panic.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
That so wasn’t supposed to happen.
What the hell happened!?
Slowly, Peter opened his eyes, one at a time, staring at his hand in disbelief. “What the hell, Parker. What the fu—”
The locker room door was thrown open with a force that could have been a repulsor beam.
Tony closed in on him before Peter could even register that he was there.
“What the fu—!”
“I know what you’re going to say!” Peter whipped around, dizzily fast, his hands in the air and trembling beyond his control.
“Zip it!” Tony shouted.
Peter swallowed.
There wasn’t one ounce of Tony that didn’t radiate anger, a rage so fierce it sent shivers through Peter’s spine. The veins around his neck were prominent, bulging out almost as hard as his eyes. His skin was flushed so red it gave his Iron Man armor a run for its money.
No matter how hard Peter wanted to, there was no pulling away from Tony’s eyes. They locked on beyond his control. It was paralyzing, stripping his muscles of what ability they once contained.
To say ‘he fucked up’ would be the understatement of the year.
Suddenly, and with very little thought, Peter gestured a finger towards the door they both came through.
“She told me to do it!” he defended, the crack in his voice and quiver in his lip a break on his veneer of confidence. “She said she could handle it!”
“Like hell she can!” Tony roared, storming forward. “She’s not enhanced — you are!”
Each step he took had Peter taking two steps back, until finally his back hit the lockers with a thud.
Peter shook his head, frantically. “She told me not to pull my punches —”
“That doesn’t mean you goddamn choke her!”
“Steve said not to—”
“SHUT IT!” Tony surged ahead, pushing through any personal space between them. “This is where the adult talks!”
There was no getting any closer. Tony practically had him pinned to the locker, so close Peter could see every gray hair hiding in his goatee – the gray hairs he’d jokingly say Peter caused.
Peter fully believed that now.
There were very few times he’d had seen him so angry. This wasn’t even anger – no, anger was the Ferry, anger was Flash’s party. This was a raw fury, scorching so deep it left every inch of him burning and sweltering from the heat.
This was bad.
This was beyond bad.
What the hell did he do?
Peter’s eyes flittered back and forth, panicked, unable to look at anything for too long.
Why the hell did he do that?
Y͍͞ ̡̘̹̼̌̒̾͒o̡̤̖͊̀͞ ͔̝̘̲̪̉͌̎̉͌ů͇̥̻͇̋̾̊̂͢ ͍̥͈͊̀͞ ͚̮̆̐ṗ̬ ̧̫̤̮̯̪̠̿͑̽̀͗̉͡r̩̣̖̒͊̋ ̪͝ǫ̭̱̋͌͆ ̡̮͕̟̲̓̽͐̓t̡̖̖͐̑̈́ ̧̛͓͎͖̜̰̯̋̏̍̾̚e̡̻͔̒̈́͋͗͟͜ ͔̱͔̦̬̹̾̋͑̀̚͝c̨̢̳̭̃͛̑̐͑͟ ̠̼̎͡ţ͙̮͍͎̓̾̇̌͘͜͡ ̫̫̟̥̽̉͆̕͢͞ê̟͍̙̹̲̋̈̃̊ ̢̱͔͖̱̎̄̀̊͠d͓̰̀͝ ̭̺̻̆̚͞ ̧̹̊̆͜͞Ũ̘̎͜Ş̞̰̻͍̠̃̀͒̏̀͟͝͞
No, no, that didn’t make any sense. That didn’t —
“You trying to prove a point out there?”
Tony’s coarse voice startled him, like hot coal thrown against his skin.
Peter choked on his next breath, stuttering for a response.
“I wasn’t—”
“You think upping your game a notch will impress them?” he went on, a perpetual ranting that failed to find an end. “You wanna be one of the big boys, a tough guy? You wanna go a few rounds with SHIELD’S black and blues next? Let’s see how easy it is for you to choke-out one of Fury’s trained lackeys. We’ll get them in here right now, they’d love to show you a lesson or two on dirty fighting. Fair warning, they won’t go easy on you like she did.”
The lump in Peter’s throat grew larger, tighter. If he didn’t know better, it was constricting his ability to breathe, every shaky inhale a wheeze that barely got passage into his lungs.
Tony slammed a hand against the locker he stood against.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Peter’s brain shuddered to a halt.
For a brief moment, he clenched his eyes shut. There was no hiding his shock, like electricity coiling deep through his bones. Vibrations rippled up his back, all from a sudden hand banging squarely against the metal of a gym locker.
Tony had never yelled at him like this before.
To be fair, he’d never given him a reason to yell like this either.
Peter flickered his eyes open, blinking rapidly. Tony’s glare was as hot as the tears that began to burn in his eyes.
“I didn’t...” his words were stolen by the swell in his chest, growing so painful he couldn’t swallow it away. With desperation, he pushed past Tony, brushing against his shoulder in a frenzied need to get away. “Mr. Stark, I swear—”
Tony spun around before Peter take even a step.
“Park your ass on that bench!”
Peter didn’t chance doing anything but.
“Yes, sir,” he forced out, sitting down so fast it made him lightheaded.
The simple act of getting off his feet had the room spinning in places that it surely wasn’t supposed to, lockers titling at the edges and the tiles on the wall blurred where he had lost focus in his eyes. The inertia was enough to boil nausea in his stomach.
The one thing that stood against everything was Mr. Stark, looming over him with an expression Peter was sure he had never seen in his entire life. Anger? Disappointment? Outrage? Horror?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Peter bowed his head, averting his eyes to the floor instead.
“You’ve had a stick up your ass for weeks now, kid,” Tony waved his hand angrily. “Your attitude has been shit. Here I was passing it off as whatever flood of hormones you teenagers deal with, turning you into little brat-monsters that scream about acne and curfews and whatever other goddamn nonsense that you feel is apocalyptic to your social life. But then you go and punch someone’s lights out — a classmate, of all goddamn people! One I continued to ask you about —!”
“Who told you about that?” Peter shot his head up so fast, the water that pooled in his eyes nearly evaporated.
Tony looked at him, eyes ablaze but mouth shut.
The realization of what Peter heard felt like a scolding knife sliced through his windpipe, driving a sound from his throat that not even he recognized.
May had promised that she wasn’t going to tell him.
May had broken her promise.
Peter’s forehead creased as he felt his jaw lock tensely, teeth grinding in ways that hurt his head.
She had promised.
“It doesn’t matter who told me,” Tony argued, defended — deflected. Peter’s hands clenched tightly into fists the longer he looked at him, practically lying straight to his face. “What matters is I know. And that’s just another important piece to this puzzle I like to call Peter Parker’s Pissy —”
“Why do you know?” Peter interrupted, a bite in his tone that sounded foreign to them both.
Tony gaped, his eyes narrowing until they were mere slits. “Because!"
“No,” Peter was quick to throw back. “No! That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair, Peter!” Tony matched his volume and then-some.
“But you don’t have to know that! You didn’t have to know about that fight — it was nothing, it didn’t mean anything and you didn’t have to know about it!” Peter raised his voice, feeling his throat dry up as he heard his words fracture at the sheer stress of it all.
“Tough shit!” Tony snapped. “I know all about it! I get to know all about it!”
“Why!?” Peter shot up from the bench, his arms gesturing wildly. “Why do you get to know, why do you have to know everything!?”
“Watch yourself, Parker,” Tony quietly warned, more intimidating than menacing and yet somehow still both to Peter.
Peter shook his head, disbelief blooming over him and swinging his world sickeningly sideways. Tony’s voice was the loudest between the two of them, always had been, a lion’s roar screeching over a mouse. Peter hated it. He hated how he couldn’t be heard, how he wouldn’t be heard, how no matter how many times he spoke nobody ever listened.
“I don’t need you knowing every single thing about my life! I don’t need you hovering behind me and constantly checking in, or spying on me, or whatever it is that you do!”
“I beg to differ,” Tony scoffed. “And I believe the last few weeks are on my side with that. If you really think —”
“You’re not my dad!” Peter blurted out. “You’re not! So will you stop acting like it?!”
The finality of his words didn’t escape his head like they did his mouth. They stayed there, a thought he didn’t feel was his, a feeling he didn’t own. He had no concept of even speaking, not until the words echoed in the room and bounced off lockers like thunder.
Only then did Peter realize what he had said.
And that there was no immediate come back to it.
For once, he kinda wished there was.
Instead of yelling, shouting or giving some smart-ass response, Tony stayed quiet. He stood tall, straightening his back as his lips pursed tightly.
Peter wanted desperately to take it back – ‘I didn’t mean it’ somehow refusing to leave his lips.
It didn’t matter. It had already latched onto Tony, holding him in place.
Peter could tell.
Tony nodded, and did nothing else but that.
“Right. Of course,” he gritted his teeth, noticeably, loudly. “Best to leave you unsupervised so you can go assault more of my team, no?”
Peter stammered to speak, his chest stuttering as he opened his mouth.
“You wanna give Cap a good strangle next?” Tony beat him to it, voice trampling over his like a bulldozer. “How about Bruce, I’m sure the big guy will love that —”
“It was an ACCIDENT!” Peter’s scream shattered them, an eroded static finally reaching its peak.
“Things like that are not accidents!” Tony roared in return. “You do not wrap your hands around somebody’s throat and —”
“I said it was an accident, okay!?” Peter fought to breathe each after shout, the air turning increasingly thin, each pull of oxygen diluting in ways that made his head spin. “What more do you want me to say!? I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry — how many times do I have to say that I’m sorry!?”
There was something stifling about Tony’s silence. Unnerving. Like Peter had angered the bear, poked him one time too many. It was more difficult to look him in the eye as he stayed close to his thoughts, muted, his lips pulled into a thin line with no words drawing close to an exit.
Peter couldn’t stand how fast his heart was beating, pummeling, thrashing in his rib cage. Somehow, Tony’s silence was worse than his shouting.
And then he shook his head, sharply yet barely, minuscule enough that it could have been a twitch in his neck.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
Peter didn’t hear the self-deprecating sound that came deep from his throat. All he could feel was his stomach, sinking so far down with disbelief that it sent pain through his legs and toes.
It didn’t matter.
None of this mattered, there was nothing he could do. They could fight all day long, they could argue about everything twice over and Tony would still come out on top. So long as he was underage — a kid — his voice was just an illusion.
Nothing he said would ever be heard.
“What are you going to do?” Peter threw his hands into the air, exasperated, defeated. “Ground me again? Because —”
“You’re benched,” Tony firmly stated. “The Avengers, Spider-Man...all of it. Indefinitely.”
Peter’s eyes widened, his breath lost as he felt strangled on a paralyzed inhale.
“That’s not —” He nearly tripped on nothing, suddenly desperate to break the barrier of distance between them. “No!”
“Yes,” Tony curtly threw back, no hesitance, holding a tall and firm stance.
Peter freaked out, his hands grabbing a fist full of hair until his eyes burned lava hot liquid.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was his fault.
N͊̆ot͎ͨ͊̾͐ y͇ͩ̍̔͆̆ou̠̒ͭ̚r ̃f͂̓aũ̘͋̈́̚lt̞͇̥̞͗́
Peter choked as he tried to beg, his voice turbulent at the core. “Mr. Stark, please —”
“There’s no bargaining, there’s no decision making process here,” Tony coldly sneered. “Get your shit, get out. You’re leaving.”
Peter could feel his breath speed up, his chest expanding like a balloon that was about to burst.
He made a huge mistake. A huge, stupid mistake. He screwed up.
N͒o ̲͑yǒ̮ͥu ̞͍̿͊di̜̬͐̀͛dn̬̭̊͐ͧͣ'ṭ̔̊̾ͫ̚
“I swear, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean to —” Peter felt his head spin in a whirlwind, everything around him disoriented, his senses screaming at him. “I didn’t know I —”
“Now, Peter,” Tony’s voice faded a little, unparalleled to the razor-deep seething that surged from him. “We’ll discuss if you can return later.”
Peter couldn’t swallow past the golf-ball-size lump that invaded his throat, he couldn’t get a handle on his breathing long enough to feel like he wasn’t hyperventilating.
He was freaking out.
This couldn’t be happening, this absolutely could not be happening. This was everything he wanted — this was everything he dreamed of.
And it was gone. Because of him.
Why did he do that!?
Y͍͞ ̡̘̹̼̌̒̾͒o̡̤̖͊̀͞ ͔̝̘̲̪̉͌̎̉͌ů͇̥̻͇̋̾̊̂͢ ͍̥͈͊̀͞ ͚̮̆̐ṗ̬ ̧̫̤̮̯̪̠̿͑̽̀͗̉͡r̩̣̖̒͊̋ ̪͝ǫ̭̱̋͌͆ ̡̮͕̟̲̓̽͐̓t̡̖̖͐̑̈́ ̧̛͓͎͖̜̰̯̋̏̍̾̚e̡̻͔̒̈́͋͗͟͜ ͔̱͔̦̬̹̾̋͑̀̚͝c̨̢̳̭̃͛̑̐͑͟ ̠̼̎͡ţ͙̮͍͎̓̾̇̌͘͜͡ ̫̫̟̥̽̉͆̕͢͞ê̟͍̙̹̲̋̈̃̊ ̢̱͔͖̱̎̄̀̊͠d͓̰̀͝ ̭̺̻̆̚͞ ̧̹̊̆͜͞Ũ̘̎͜Ş̞̰̻͍̠̃̀͒̏̀͟͝͞
“Ga-AH!”
A feral noise tore through his teeth, a vicious animal clawing out of his throat.
Peter heard the metal crunching underneath his fist before he felt it. The sting from shards of metal slicing across the skin of his knuckles barely crossed his mind.
He never looked at the hole he left in the locker. A dent caved so inward that it the door itself had collapsed in, mangled and broken.
Peter had stormed out before Tony could process what had just happened.
To no surprise of Tony’s, everyone was still occupying the gym by the time he had mustered the willpower to leave the locker room.
Everyone but Peter, that was.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, less than eight — easily. Why it felt like a lifetime, that was beyond his comprehension. A part of him idly wondered if he needed the time to steer off his own emerging anxiety, ascending so close to the surface he could feel it on his skin.
Tony stuffed that deep down and far away for another time. He had other shit to deal with first.
The door to the locker room swung behind him, in and out in a way that sent a cool breeze up the back of his blazer. Tony wasn’t half-way to the bleachers when he noticed a disheveled Bruce jogging towards him.
“Did you hit him?” Bruce asked, so suddenly that Tony didn’t catch it at first.
“Huh?” He furrowed his brows, confused. “Who, the kid?”
Bruce eyed him over first, looking to be an odd mixture of concerned and pissed. The latter wasn’t a comfort to Tony, especially considering the scare of brewing green that nearly tore the compound into twenty different pieces.
For what it was worth, Bruce seemed to have gotten a handle on himself. Just enough to spit out, “He ran out of here with his nose bleeding like a faucet. Tell me you didn’t —”
“No!” Tony didn’t let him finish. Insulted didn’t even come close to the cards of emotions that doused through him. “Of course I didn’t! Why would I hit — I didn’t lay a hand on him!”
Jesus, did they really think he was that bad? Hard on the kid, sure, but never in a million years would he stoop to that level. To even think of it created a wave of sickness that quickly surged into his throat.
God, he needed a drink.
Bruce seemed to catch on quickly to his turmoil, a softness returning to his voice as he spoke.
“Alright, that’s fair. It’s just...you two were screaming like hyenas in there,” Bruce explained, shooting a brief glance behind him before continuing. “Pete came out and...the front of his shirt was soaked, his face was red. He wouldn’t stop to let me take a look —”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tony quickly plowed over him, his words catching Bruce off guard. “He’s out of this, all of it. The nose crap — probably allergies or some nonsense. He gets to come back once he coat checks his attitude at the front door. Until then, the school nurse can tend to him for all I care.”
Tony ignored the bewildered look from Bruce, brushing past him as he quickened his pace towards the bleachers. He was being honest with himself; it didn’t matter, not right now. Not when he had a mountain of problems to deal. One that felt large enough to avalanche ontop of him.
His feet came to a stop as he barely caught a glimpse of Natasha, sitting silently on the bottom bleacher.
One thing at a time, and she was definitely first.
Most of her couldn’t be seen, covered by Steve’s figure, the man standing protectively in front of her like a guard. Her head rested low between her knees, red hair hiding her face from view. And while she didn’t give even the briefest of glances his way, Steve did, a glare so cold it might as well be the ice he was frozen in.
Shit. Just what he needed.
“Romanoff!” Tony called out, a deep breath barely putting a lid on the rising anxiety attack that threatened to laugh at his ‘126 days since a complete, total meltdown’ count.
Natasha didn’t bring her head up, preoccupied nursing the water bottle gripped in both her hands.
Steve blocked her before Tony could get any closer, holding out both his hands placaintingly.
“Tony —”
“You can lecture me all you want in a second, boy scout,” Tony barely held in a huff when Steve wouldn’t let him any closer to Natasha. Barely. “Alright, fine. Here it goes,” he turned his focus to Natasha, who still made little effort to acknowledge him. “On behalf of one reckless, irresponsible, in way over-his-head teenager with an attitude as sour as spoiled fruit, let me say sor—”
“Hold on, Tony —” Steve tried again, growing more stern the second time around.
“Will you wait your turn, Capsicle.” Tony cut him short, his agitation only getting worse as the dark bruising around Natasha’s neck became more obvious.
This was not how he expected his day to go.
“I don’t know what kung-fu, martial arts, military mumbo jumbo you’ve been trying to teach that kid, but I have no doubt that this little stunt he pulled was one-hundred percent on him. Not you.” Tony kept trying to side-step Steve, irritated as he failed to get a closer look at Natasha. “Whatever shit show just happened here, I can assure you it will never —”
“Stark!” Steve’s shout echoed the gym, startling even Bruce across the way. “Shut your mouth for one damn second —”
“What the hell!” Tony yelled right back. “Back off, Rogers! I’m trying to give a sincere, genuine apology here! What in God’s name is so important that you —”
Steve grabbed Tony’s forearm, a grip so tight that it startled Tony right out of his indigence. He shot a look down at Steve’s hand, then back up where the soldier stood, the blue eyes staring back at him suddenly softening.
“Listen to her.”
Steve took one step to the side, freeing Natasha from his cover.
Tony furrowed his brows, eyes bouncing between the two with cautious curiosity. He almost didn’t notice as Bruce came standing next to him, his arms wrapped closely around his body, his expression just as curious.
Natasha looked up, her hair no longer an ensconce to her face, her water bottle crinkling under the pressure of her hands.
There was a painful pause that followed. Every dry, harsh and gravelly sound that parted Natasha’s lips was enough to make Tony wish he had given Peter a good slap across the head.
So what he heard next didn’t fully compute in his already overly-fried brain.
“That wasn’t Peter.”
Her rasp was quiet, brittle and thick. But loud enough that they could hear.
Tony held onto her gaze, hoping that if he blinked enough times, he’d have understood what she said.
“Come again?” he finally managed.
Natasha took a sip of her water, her eyes never once leaving his.
“It wasn’t him,” she insisted, her voice stronger this time around. Confident and unwavering.
Tony could feel his eyelid twitching, the stress of it all finally reaching its breaking point. He looked to Bruce first, the man seemingly as lost as him. A quick glance to Steve showed little to nothing, the man still having the same stone-cold expression as when he tossed Peter across the gym like a basketball.
Tony shook his head free of the cobwebs. “Somebody take her to the medbay. Now.”
Before Bruce could even offer her a hand up, Natasha was shooing them all away.
“No — no!” She sat up straighter, pushing off Steve before he could take her arm. “Listen —”
“Oh, I’m listening, alright,” Tony tossed in, gesturing aimlessly in her direction. “And it sounds like you were deprived of oxygen a little too long for your noggin to —”
“I’ve had worse,” Natasha coldly stated. “Trust me.”
Bruce hummed lowly. “That I somehow believe.”
Natasha coughed hoarsely, breaking her stare with Tony only to shove a fist against her mouth and wrench up air through her frazzled lungs.
Tony ducked his head and looked away. Worse or not, her windpipe had seen much better days. Knowing the hands that did the deed belonged to Peter — it was enough to send him on a rampage.
What the hell. Of all stupid things the kid had done, this one took the cake.
“As much as I would love to believe that what we all saw was some sort of...clone, or doppelganger, or figment of our imaginations...I regret to inform you that was Peter. It was one daring little asswipe of a teenager who got the upper hand on you and decided to mimic a movie too far.” Tony bit back a sigh, the heaviness in his lungs nothing compared to that in his chest. “We were here. We saw it. And while I’m sure we all wish we could forget it...that’s what happened.”
“Tony...” Natasha shook her head, a hard swallow followed with a contorted grimace. “Listen to me. One second...he couldn’t dare the thought of punching me. He begged me to hit him first so he could feel okay about it. Then...”
There were few things Tony could say he knew about Natasha. Of all his team, she had kept herself the most recluse, private from everyone else. There were the dossiers, sure. There were the small things here and there that he had caught onto, built a personality through tough exterior she held onto. Yet at the end of the day, of all his team, he knew her the least.
But the one thing he did know, loud and clear, cut and dry — was how little emotion she let show on her face. A born spy, never to let a flicker of her feelings show in any physical proclamation.
So to see a flash of horror consume her every feature was enough to shake him to the core.
“His eyes,” Natasha said, a warble in his voice fracturing her fortitude. “They turned black.”
Tony stared at her, unable to look away, unable to examine the other two men even as they exchanged concerned and perplexed glances that held more doubt than belief.
There was something on her face, in her eyes that said more than her words ever could.
Fear.
Anxious was a look Tony wore, a coat hidden deep in his closet that liked to come out at the worst of times. It was something that he’d seen in Bruce often, for reasons that never needed stated. Clint, Sam, hell even America himself had all shown moments of weakness where distress and panic led their path in ways they weren’t proud of.
Not Natasha.
Tony titled his head to the side, wondering for a brief moment if he was finally going crazy or if this was something much, much bigger than him.
“Nat,” Steve spoke up, quietly, his tone troubled. “He had you in that chokehold for a good —”
“Black, Steve,” Natasha reiterated, a fierceness returning to her poise. “Pitch black.”
Despite the duress her vocal cords had gone through, her voice was still loud enough to echo in the large gymnasium. Enough that after a pause, the words circled back to them, hitting harder the second time around.
Tony stared on, long past examining Natasha’s unnerving fear. His eyes seemed to drift off elsewhere, lost somewhere far away with his mind.
Only once Natasha spoke again did reality come crashing down on him, harder than a mountain’s avalanche ever could.
“Something’s wrong with Peter.”