First Contact
Adidas pants — check.
Tennis shoes — double check.
Sweat band —
Peter ran a hand through his hair.
No sweat band.
Crap, he didn’t have a sweatband.
Did he need one? He probably needed one. Who was he kidding, he definitely needed one. What was he thinking coming here without a sweatband? Maybe if he left now, he could run to his room and grab it — wait, did he even own a sweatband?
Oh god, he didn’t have a sweatband, of course he didn’t own a sweatband, why would he even own a sweatband? Maybe he should just reschedule — yeah, rescheduling sounded good, really good, he should definitely reschedule and —
Peter shook his head — hard, looking like a wet dog trying to shake its fur dry.
This was nothing. This was a breeze. He’d fought a crazy man with mechanical wings, a rock android wreaking havoc on the Hudson River, a maniac wearing a fishbowl tank — this would be like a walk in a park compared to all that!
“I’m ready." He took a deep breath in, hands clapping together, feet jumping from one foot to the other. “I can totally do this. I’m ready.”
Yet again, the plane he stopped from being hijacked did ultimately crash on the beach…
And that rock android threw him into a lake…
And Mysterio pretty much kidnapped him —
Okay, he totally kidnapped him, like one-hundred percent kidnapped him —
“I’m so not ready for this.” Peter spun around, fast, heading straight for the exit.
“Oh pauk-rebenok," the slightest hint of a sing-song echoed through the gymnasium, followed by the lightest of footsteps making their way across the glossy maple floors.
The double doors behind him swung shut with gentle ease. There was another pair straight ahead, leading out the opposite way. Peter wondered if he made a run for it now, if she’d have ever noticed he was here. Maybe there was a ceiling vent he could jump into — he’d been getting really lucky with ceiling vents lately.
He rolled his eyes at the thought. Of course she’d know he was here. She was, after all, the –
“The Black Widow is here for training.”
Peter turned around, forcing a grin much less genuine than Natasha’s.
She was all smiles as she presented herself. One hand rested casually on the hip that was popped out, legs clad in simple black leggings with an over-sized SHIELD t-shirt tied in a bunch at her waist. It was a simple, carefree workout attire. And yet somehow it still managed to put his worn out and ripped-at the-collar ‘Coney Island 2008’ t-shirt to shame.
“Right,” Peter gulped, feeling his heart hammering a little too hard beneath his rib-cage.
There was no amount of psyching himself up that could have prepared him for the real deal. Here she was, Natasha-Friggin-Romanoff, the Black Widow. Not here for lunch, or his birthday party, or a casual chitchat — she was here to train him — lousy, dorky, Peter Parker of all people.
Just as a bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead and into his eyelash, Peter decided that yep — he should have brought a sweatband.
He so wasn’t ready for this.
“Can we...maybe do this another day?” Peter stammered, fingers fiddling with the drawstring to his sweatpants. “I’m actually feeling a bit...gassy?”
Oh my god, did he just — it left his mouth before he knew it. Peter’s eyes shot wide open, large enough that if his eyeballs weren’t connected to tissue inside his skull, they’d surely have popped right out. It wouldn’t make a difference if they had; his eyeballs could roll directly next to Natasha’s feet, clad in ballerina slippers, and he’d have already reached maxed levels of embarrassment.
Natasha raised her eyebrow, just slightly.
“No, you’re not,” she deadpanned. “You’re nervous.”
Peter shook his head. “I’m not —”
“It’s okay.” Natasha’s lips pulled weakly into a lop-sided smile. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
His shoulders dropped and relaxed, falling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Now that the elephant in the room had been addressed, it was almost like he could breathe a little easier. Like the unmentionable had finally been mentioned.
“Yeah...” Peter rubbed shyly at the nape of his neck. “Just a little bit...”
A lot — a whole lot, actually. But that part could remain unmentioned.
Natasha’s barely-there smile grew into a tightly contained smirk.
“Lucky for you, the agenda for your training sessions begins with a set of preliminaries. The basics,” she explained, her arms folding neatly over her chest. “For right now, we’re just going to see how well you fight.”
She shot him a wink that bled the stress out from the room.
Peter must have looked as dumbstruck as he felt, because he could have sworn he heard a small chuckle come from Natasha. It probably had something to do with his jaw being so open that his chin was practically cleaning the gym floors.
“That’s it?” he asked, perking up.
Natasha nodded, her eyes scanning Peter top-to-bottom. Slowly but surely beginning to walk a studious circle around him.
Peter remained absolutely still, going only so far as to arch a curious eyebrow.
“FRIDAY will be taking notes along the way, scanning your body figure and rendering it onto a program that will manipulate your stance, flexibility, range, balance — all things that I’m sure Roger’s will be studying like a hawk once he gets his hands on the tapes.” Natasha stopped, leaning heavily onto one foot. “But for today, we spar.”
If someone had asked him what exactly he was expecting from these ‘training sessions’, Peter honestly couldn’t have given a straight answer. After all, he had never trained in his entire young life. Not unless he counted all the times after school when he’d hit up abandoned warehouses in Queens, screwing around on planks and roofs until the sun began to set.
And even then, it wasn’t so much training as it was falling flat on his face repeatedly until he got the hang of his new abilities.
“Oh, that’s...” Peter chuckled under his breath, fingers falling away from the seams of his worn-out t-shirt. “That’s not bad at all.”
“Boot camp is next week.”
“What?”
The strong Whoosh! of air practically knocked Peter off his feet.
Oh, wait, no. That was Natasha trying to sucker-punch him in the head.
Peter looked up, eyes wide and full of shock from his grounded stance on the floor. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to realize those dexterity skills of his had kicked in — he had moved out of the way before he realized it.
Natasha looked down on him. She was definitely smirking now.
“Lesson number one,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just tried to knock out his wisdom teeth. “Never let your opponent distract you.”
Peter slowly stood from the floor, cautiously, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. “Wait, what if I hit you?”
WHOOSH!Peter hadn’t been expecting a second punch. He dodged it nonetheless.
“Then you hit me.” Natasha guarded her face with both her fists, each tightly closed with knuckles prominent in view.
“I can’t — I can’t hit you.” Peter never thought he’d have to say those words out loud, and to the Black Widow — what had his life become? “I mean, even without my strength, I was sorta raised not to hit a girl — woman! You’re a woman. Not a girl, woman—OW!”
That punch landed squarely on his jaw.
When he looked back over at Natasha, she was smiling at him.
Peter frowned, rubbing at his face. That was mean. And...totally awesome.
“I hit you. Now you have to hit me.” Natasha bounced from foot to foot, her stance rigid and tense. “We have to be even, right?”
“Is that how this works? Is there a point system? No one’s ever really explained to me how sparring works. Do I have to—OW, sheesh!"
The bruise on the left side of his face now had a matching friend on the right side. Peter gripped his mouth loosely, working his jaw to ease the ache. Of course, his pride was hurting much more at the moment, but that didn’t need stated.
He was pretty sure Natasha could tell, anyway.
“Lesson number two.” Natasha moved quickly around him, her body movements eloquent and sharp, both precise and fluid — steadfast like a deadly dancer. “Less talking, more moving.”
The heels of her feet pranced on the floor. Her arms stayed stiff at her chest, and her fists were so tightly clutched, Peter could practically hear the muscles within her skin aching for release. Sparring or not, her aura was dense, harsh. Determined.
Peter took a deep breath in, closing his eyes long enough to feel the air fill the capacity of his lungs.
He could do this.
He was Spider-Man.
With the faintest whisper under his breath, he exhaled, “You can do this...”
And threw his first punch.
It was like instinct after that. One after another they came, each punch without thought, each side-step without question. Time moved in such a blur, right alongside his body. The recycled air of the gym hit harshly against his skin as he moved quickly, his small frame moving at a speed beyond what his mind could process.
Natasha’s aim was impeccable, but so was his evading. With each punch, each kick, with every hit she targeted towards him, he was dodging her attacks before they could ever land.
Just then, just when he thought he was ahead of the game —
Natasha grabbed his arm, yanking him towards her, trapping the back of his body against her front.
“You’re holding back.”
Peter gulped. The pressure stinging along his shoulder was sharp, and his breaths were coming in quick, dangerously close to panting. His chest suddenly felt heavy, too tight and constricted. Rapid, uneven puffs of air blew out from his mouth.
“I...I kinda have to.”
A knee jabbed into the small of his back, not a second after he got the words out. Peter stumbled forward, caught off guard.
“Not as much as you think you do.”
He spun around, just in time to dodge a high kick from Natasha’s foot. The ballerina slipper whizzed past his eyes like a fly buzzing in the air, the silk from the side of her toes brushing against his nose on the way down.
Holy crap.
The Black Widow was going to kick his ass.
Peter ducked down to the side, only to immediately swing to his left. Her moves were coming in faster than he could dodge them.
He had to do something. He couldn’t keep up at this pace, not for much longer. His lungs were burning with the need for air, for a break, for anything.
Dodging another punch, Peter cursed —
Desperation flooded him. His insides swelled with panic — another fist swung at his jaw — hands shaking with adrenaline — another kick almost landed on his chest.
Against all instincts, against everything he was raised to believe in, everything he was taught growing up, he did the only thing he could think of.
Peter punched Natasha.
The silence that came afterward was deafening.
“Did you just...” Natasha froze, her face wet with a sheen of sweat underneath the skylight of the gymnasium. “Did you just...tap me?”
Okay, so punch was a strong word.
But he was strong!
Peter shrugged sheepishly, his chest heaving harder than his mind worked to come up with a response.
“I...I sorta —”
No time.
Natasha swung her fists like a madwoman, one after another, left and right, right and left —
She wasn’t going easy on him, not anymore. Not now that he was failing to live up to the standards of an Avenger — or so he was telling himself. Now not only was the Black Widow was going to kick his ass, she was going to do it while pissed off.
Super strength or not, he had a feeling this was going to hurt.
He had to keep dodging, keep evading. While Peter certainly didn’t trust himself to fight back, he could at least avoid the fight. He had been good at that since middle school — he almost laughed at himself, only to tumble on his backside from another attack.
Basic techniques he could fend off, the simple throws and kicks he could sidestep. Problem was, Natasha didn’t fight basic. No, not a skilled assassin like her.
The longer this went on, the fancier she got. And Peter’s spider-sense could only get him so far.
Natasha lunged forward, leaping off the floor with impressive agility. Two fully extended legs soared through the air, mere inches from wrapping around his neck before Peter swerved out of the way.
She landed on her backside with a thud so loud it muffled her grunt.
Peter rolled onto his backside with an emerging grin.
“Oh!” He knew he shouldn’t sound so excited, but it was hard not to be. “I remembered that one!”
It was like deja vu.
Really, really badly timed deja vu.
Climbing back to his feet, Peter shrugged it off – whatever worked, right?
Natasha was already running towards him by the time he regained his balance.
Definitely time to use whatever worked.
She bent low, going straight for his legs, her head tucked low to her chin. A cold chill slithered up his spine just as the memory can rushing back to him. He jumped high in the air – higher than any average person – and she slipped right on past him.
“Holy cow!” Peter landed on one knee with a palm firm to the floor, and he couldn’t help but laugh now, all effort in hiding his joy a lost cause. “I remember that one, too!”
Natasha spun around, her eyebrows knitted tightly together. “How do you —?”
High off the adrenaline and full of excitement, Peter sprinted towards her, falling to his knees just as he came in contact with Natasha’s leg. He pulled one foot out from the other, another thud vibrating against the gym floors.
The confused shock that washed across her face was enough to have Peter grinning each to ear.
“Lesson number one, right?” Peter slowly stood up, offering her a hand as he did.
There was a pause, the briefest moment of stillness that lingered between them. Natasha eyed him carefully, almost cautiously.
Peter’s grin didn’t dim a watt.
A least not until Natasha flipped up from the floor, quick to latch onto Peter’s open and exposed hand.
It was like second nature that Peter ducked to the side, Natasha’s fingernails just barely scraping against the skin of his arm.
“Ha-ha! Yes!” He shouted, the words bouncing off the walls. “Thank you incredibly selective and totally inconvenient memory! Man, if only I could remember World History as easily as this.”
“Remember — hold up,” Natasha panted for breath, signaling a time out motion with both her hands. “How are you blocking these moves? Is this your freaky sixth-sense thing or something?”
Peter’s grin lessened a fraction. “Yeah...something...”
“No,” Natasha insisted, slapping away the dust on her legs with aggressive force. “Not something. How?”
A harsh feeling grabbed at his gut, twisting it tightly into a ball that made him dizzy with nausea. The way Natasha was staring at him, eyes narrowed, green pupils piercingly sharp with the need for an answer — he didn’t like it.
He especially didn’t like remembering the other set of green eyes that drilled a hole in his memory, just as Russian, just as stern.
“Uh, well, you know,” Peter stammered, the back of his hand wiping away dripping sweat from his forehead. “I’ve...I’ve seen you fight before.”
Natasha curtly shook her head. “Not like this.”
Peter opened his mouth to respond.
Nothing.
He had nothing.
The best he could do was suck in air that he so badly needed, more and more by the second. Whatever was twisting his stomach into a pretzel only got worse, an inescapable feeling of something he couldn’t describe growing bigger than what his small frame could handle.
Natasha stared at him, confused eyes directly meeting his.
“You’ve never seen these moves before.” She paused, head tilting slightly to the side. “Have you?”
The tension of two people sparring together had quickly been replaced with a different kind of atmosphere. A buzzing electricity that hung in the air, so intense it that could be felt down into their fingertips.
Peter fidgeted with those fingertips, fighting off that feeling of discomfort. His nails dug deep into the center of his palm. “It’s, uh, it’s similar...to someone else. That I fought. Before.”
“Who?” She didn’t waste a beat.
Peter’s eyes wandered everywhere in the gym — ceiling, walls, basketball hoops — everywhere but where Natasha stood, merely a few feet away from him. He was sure she noticed. It was hard not to, her focus unbreakable.
“Well, you know...” Peter trailed off.
Natasha lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t make assumptions based on insinuations.”
Her voice was firm, unwavering and full of authority.
Peter let out the smallest puff of air, a weak sigh at best. His eyes closed briefly and he bit on his lower lip.
Crap.
He really didn’t sign up for this today.
“Back when I, um...” Peter exhaled sharply, his foot tapping nervously on the gym floor. “In the creepy underwater bunker thing...when I fought...you know, that Dmitri guy. He kind of...sort of...fought the same way?”
Peter wasn’t sure why he phrased it as a question, especially when it was a bona fide fact. The real question was why his brain was plucking out this information when clearly he didn’t want to be thinking about it, remembering it — and especially talking about it.
He looked down to his feet, the toe of his shoe leaving scuff marks on the floors.
“Kinda kicked my ass, too. And you’d totally be doing the same right now if I wasn’t remembering some of this. I don’t even know why I’m remembering this? It’s just kinda coming back to me and – it doesn’t matter, stupid stuff, we can keep spar —”
Peter looked up, seeing only empty space in front of him.
“Natasha?” His solitary voice bounced off the walls of the empty gym. “Hello?”
Peter looked around, left and right, front and back.
Nothing, no one.
The only sign of Natasha’s departure were the double doors far ahead, gently swinging back and forth.
“I’m not too sure I understand the...point to all of this.”
The many gray Lego pieces scattered along Peter’s bed nearly matched the same gray that lined Vision’s synthetic, vibranium head. He held one piece in particular, holding it close to his eyes, the plastic squeezed tightly between his finger and thumb.
Peter arched an eyebrow at the same time that he snapped two Lego’s together.
“There is no point,” he backtracked as quickly as the words came out. “I mean, there is a point. It’s to finish the set.”
The empty Lego box sat near the top of his bed by his pillows. Vision stood idly at the footrest, the very same spot he had been standing at for nearly thirty minutes now — Peter’s invitation for him to sit was dismissed on the notion that he preferred to stand. He always did.
The wall between their rooms may very well be a curtain.
Slowly, Vision turned away from the small piece of plastic and looked over where the box sat, discarded. The cardboard was worn-down and weakened, ripped in many places, held together by multiple pieces of duct tape. The design printed on the front was faded, a clear indication of age and use. It told him nothing.
“And what exactly is this...set?” Vision tilted his head to the side, perplexed.
Peter didn’t look away from the task at hand. Two more pieces snapped together. “It’s a ship.”
“A ship?” Vision still held the single Lego piece between his fingers, studying it as if it held all the answers to the universe.
“Yeah, a ship. Like a boat.” Peter wasn’t fazed by the questions, continuing to assemble plastic pieces like it was second nature. “Well, you can’t tell it’s a ship right now. It’s like, uh...like those coastguard boats? The ones that go out to sea. You’ll be able to tell once it’s finished.”
His hands blindly rummaged around for more pieces, almost pulling at his bed comforter until he found the pile he was looking for. Six-by-four plates, right next to the pile of two-by-three bricks. Everything was sorted exactly how he needed it to be.
He had been at this for a while now.
He had no clue where Natasha ran off too.
“Then what?”
Peter blinked at that. He paused for the first time since he had started his impromptu Lego distraction, looking up at Vision with furrowed brows.
“What?”
Vision slowly and gently handed the single Lego piece back over to Peter, who took claim of it with the same sluggish speed. “Then what?”
The piece was discarded in the pile of other Lego’s, and Peter could only shrug. “It’ll be finished.”
Vision intense stare told Peter that unlike his Lego pieces, what he said hadn’t clicked.
Sheesh, where was Wanda when he needed her? She seemed to get through to Vision better than all of them combined.
“That’s it,” he needlessly added. “That’s...the point.”
Vision continued to eye him warily. Peter matched the stare, unsure of what else to say or do. He never exactly had to explain the art of Lego’s to anyone before. This was...well, this was new.
“You spend hours of your time, of which is considered limited for your species...” Vision paused, head craning further to the side, “...putting together pieces of plastic in such a mundane manner. And this is what you consider...fun?”
Well, jeeze, like that didn’t sting a little bit.
“Yeah?” Peter shrugged, sheepishly grabbing a handful of pieces from his large dump pile. He kept his head low, hoping that the redness tinting his cheeks would go unseen — he knew it wouldn’t. “It’s — you know, it’s more than that...too. It’s kinda, like, mentally stimulating. Gives me a task to focus on. Stuff like that?”
The bottom of his ship was finally starting to look like a ship. Or at least slightly recognizable as a boat-like-figure. Vision seemed to notice it as well, a difference in his oddly-sentient expression unfolding across his features.
“Hm.”
The hum echoed the bedroom.
Slowly, Vision leaned forward, reaching for the smallest piece in one of the many piles. With the gentleness one might have in handling a newborn, he snapped the piece along the foundation of Lego’s already assembled. It made a click as it took its place alongside the others.
“I may need to study this activity further before I can fully understand it.”
There was another hum, this one somehow more contemplative than the last.
Peter cautiously picked up another Lego piece, pausing just briefly before handing it over to Vision. He eyed it with intense concentration before slowly, gently, he grabbed it between two fingers. And the process repeated itself.
KNOCK
KNOCK
Peter shot his head over to the entrance of the bedroom.
“Am I interrupting something?” Natasha’s knuckles still pressed firmly against the door-frame, as if she planned to knock again if needed.
“God, no.” The words fell right out of Peter’s mouth. For a brief second he felt a sting of remorse, only to realize Vision hadn’t caught onto his relief. In fact, he was still preoccupied studying the Lego pieces, even as Natasha entered the room.
A beat of silence followed as she subtly walked closer to them, her ballerina slippers quiet against the padding of carpet below her feet. Peter noticed that she hadn’t even changed since earlier this afternoon — what had it been, five some hours ago?
She let Vision assemble one more piece before audibly clearing her throat.
“Vis,” Natasha spoke up, “can I have a second with Peter?”
Vision straightened his back, posture somehow sharper than either of theirs combined.
“Of course. I’ll just be...” His thumb pointed awkwardly to the right, his head twitching slightly as he contemplated saying more. Ultimately, it was left at that. He phased through the wall like he was never there to begin with.
Natasha arched an eyebrow high. “Is he still —?”
"Yes," Peter answered a little too quickly. “All the time. I have no privacy here.”
Natasha chuckled faintly, her eyes fixated down below where Peter sat crossed-legged on his bed.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, a simple head nod gesturing to the general vicinity of the mattress.
“Yeah! Of-of course, here, I just...” Peter stammered as he looked over the Lego’s covering his sheets. No doubt Natasha was eyeing the same thing. Ugh, of course she’d walk in to see this. Earlier today she was training him as a soon-to-be-Avenger, and now she caught him playing with Lego’s —
With one panicked move, his arm swept everything into a giant pile, organization lost in the moment. It took three more quick sweeps of his open palm to gather what few stubborn pieces remained. He smoothed out the wrinkles from the comforter and gave it one quick pat.
When Peter looked up, she was already sitting on the other side of the bed.
Huh.
It turned out he could reach new levels of embarrassment. He was learning all sorts of things today.
A moment of silence stretched between them. Peter gripped idly at his sweatpants near his ankle while Natasha sat quietly towards the edge of the bed, staring off at the wall that Vision has phased through. Peter had a feeling that the vanishing act from their common household sentient being wasn’t what lingered on her mind.
“You’re a smart kid, Peter.”
The sudden observation all but verified his hunch.
“Thanks.” Peter suddenly frowned. “I think?”
Natasha adjusted herself slightly on the bed so that her one leg was tucked tightly underneath herself. “I’m sure you read up on all the declassified documents that were leaked online after SHIELD’s initial collapse.”
Peter’s brow creased deeply with confusion. Things were taking an odd turn — how did a training session lead to this conversation?
“I may have...skimmed them...or something.”
That was a lie. He and Ned practically studied them when they first came out. But c’mon, who didn’t want to know all about what SHIELD actually did? Not to mention details about the aliens from The Battle of New York, all things the media kept hush-hush; something that not even Mr. Stark would ever talk about.
It just so happened that information on who The Black Widow really was ended up in that bunch of declassified documents.
Ned’s response was, of course, ‘That is so badass!’
Peter wasn’t too sure what to think, not at first, not for a while.
In the end, his opinion of her didn’t change. She was still an Avenger in his books, someone who helped save not only the city but the whole world multiple times. That more than earned his respect.
Peter swallowed past the dryness that coated his throat. “Listen, about early...I didn’t mean to upset —”
“Back when I worked for the KGB, I made connections with a lot of different people,” Natasha seamlessly interrupted. “People I didn’t like, not even then, especially not now. People I would have happily shot dead if they wouldn’t have shot me first.”
The air in the room had somehow grown thicker while Natasha spoke, her words eerily quiet while still remaining strong. For the first time since she had sat down, her head dipped low and her gaze wandered away.
“Dmitri Smerdyakov was one of those people.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide. He perked up instantly, nearly knocking a few Lego’s off the bed in the process. “Whoa…you knew him? Like, knew him knew him? How? When —?”
Natasha shook her head. “The minor details aren’t necessary. You’re still young, you deserve to have some of your innocence persevered.”
Slowly and with a sense of uncertainty, Peter slumped back down, hands folding neatly in the space between his crossed legs.
Natasha had barely moved an inch, chin so low it nearly met with her SHIELD t-shirt. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked...well, she looked something.
Peter had quickly learned that with Natasha, she almost never showed emotion. Always a blank canvas, always neutral.
This wasn’t neutral.
“Is that why...” he trailed off, unsure of what exactly to say. “Did it bother you when I mentioned him?”
They had never really talked about it — Peter and Natasha, anyway, one on one. The undersea thing, the whole his-death-was-faked-by-a-crazy-Russian-psychopath thing. He knew she was there, that she was a part of the team that came to save him.
Yet when it came to the actual rescue part of it all, Mr. Stark made sure that the details were kept short and sweet.
The more Peter thought about it, the more he began to realize how little he actually knew. His paranoid side felt like they were hiding something from him, especially with the sudden investigation into OsCorp. Which he also knew nothing about.
It just felt like something wasn’t right, like things wasn’t officially done and over with. At least not for him.
But maybe that was because he had been thinking about it so much lately. Or more accurately, trying not to think about it.
“We trained together,” she quietly answered, just loud enough to break him out of his thoughts. “The KGB taught him most of what he knew. I taught him the rest. We’ll leave it at that.”
It had been months now since the whole ordeal, and Peter had absolutely no idea that The Chameleon was anything more than a spy with enhanced powers who had snuck into Stark Industries, as per what Tony told him. If Natasha knew Dmitri, maybe he wasn’t being so paranoid after all.
Maybe there was more to it.
But if that were the case, why weren’t they telling him?
Peter shifted his weight slightly, the Lego’s nearby rustling at the movement.
The toys on his bed practically answered the question for him.
At the same time, Natasha let out a short, sharp sigh. “Dmitri was an...evil person. And I don’t ever use that word lightly. He always had been. He was never crafted into who he became, he was simply just that. Born it. Died it.” She looked up, her eyes locking onto Peter’s so suddenly it took him aback. “So I want you to know, if you have any shred of guilt for what happened in that bunker...don’t.”
Peter had never seen Natasha look so...intense. At least not at him, not directly in his eyes. It was enough to get his heart racing and his palms sweaty, and he was sure if he looked in a mirror, his skin would be flushed pink. He knew her intensity wasn’t directed at him — no, he knew it was directed at someone else entirely. But that didn’t stop the rage of anxious emotions from swimming wildly through him.
Honestly, the entire conversation was starting to bother him. He wasn’t too sure why.
Natasha drew her gaze away, looking at the wall ahead once more. “The bastard deserved to die. It should have happened much sooner.”
Peter could tell there was more story behind her words. He waited to see if it would come, only to receive silence instead.
Slightly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, unable to swallow enough to rid the itchy dryness that coated his tongue.
“You don’t think...I mean, you don’t think there was a chance he could become...good again?” The way his voice squeaked towards the end had Peter cringing, wanting nothing more than to hide in his closet, run out of the room, or just time-travel back where this conversation hadn’t started in the first place. He wiped his hands against his pants, hoping to dry the sudden bout of profuse sweating that he couldn’t explain.
Natasha’s lips tugged slightly upward.
“It’s really great that you see such good potential in everyone. Really, it is. I wish I could still see people the same way.” For someone who always remained so neutral, Peter swore he heard a hint of sadness in Natasha’s tone. “In my line of work, we’ve been trained for the opposite. To see any inkling of a chance someone could have a dark side.”
Peter wasn’t sure how to respond.
Natasha saved him from having to.
“There’s a saying we have in Russia. V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa... it means — in a quiet lagoon, devils dwell.” Her weight shifted noticeably on the bed, and the brief moment of silence broke with her deep, pressed exhale. “Sometimes, even those who smile the brightest may have the darkest intent.”
Peter’s eyes fell to his lap around the same time Natasha had turned to look at him. He couldn’t be bothered to hold her gaze, not as his heart continued to beat like a drum beneath his rib-cage, or as all the saliva seemingly left his mouth only to perspire through his skin.
He knew at this point she was talking about other things, yet he couldn’t let go of what he heard — Dmitri, bunker, death.
It rang in his ears like a loud, shrill bomb. Death. Death. Death.
“I found that out the hard way, Peter,” Natasha’s voice muffled underneath his pulse, pounding laboriously in his ears. “I don’t want you to have to do the same.”
The vibrations buzzing against his thigh quickly tore him from his sunken thoughts. Peter fumbled for his cell phone, swiping through his password to open his text messages.
“Right. Uh, right, totally,” Peter said thinly, barely looking up from his cell phone. “I’ll...I’ll keep that in mind.”
There was a lot Peter didn’t understand. Politics was a big one, how to talk to girls was an issue he felt would never go away. But lately, he was overwhelmed with confusion on why the smallest things were making him feel so uncomfortable.
More than uncomfortable — downright panicked. Anxious. Totally not himself. A hurricane of discomfort trapped him in a place he really, really didn’t want to be.
He was good if he stepped away. This same thing happened before, at OsCorp, when he was with Harry. He was good once he got some space.
He just needed some space.
“I actually got a...thing, I need to do,” Peter stammered, quickly getting up from the bed in a way that split many Lego’s on the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up. “But uh, thanks...for the talk. I think.”
He was already halfway to the door when Natasha spoke up.
“Peter.”
Peter fought the urge to make a run for it, bolt out the door, claim he never heard her when approached about his hasty departure.
He respected her too much to do that.
So his bare feet spun around to face her, his cell phone still clutched tightly in his sweating hand — so, so sweaty.
Natasha sat still on the bed, her gaze steely towards him. “I knew Dmitri for a long time. I know how he can get inside your head. If you need someone to talk to —”
“I really gotta go,” Peter blurted out, pointing to the doorway behind him. “But seriously, thanks, Natasha. This was, uh — fun!”
Peter didn’t waste any time beating himself up over that one; there wasn’t a doubt he’d be cringing at it all night once his thoughts were free to himself again. And he certainly didn’t wait around for a response from Natasha. His feet were already pounding against the ground as he ran down the hallway, out of the room before she could even try to call him back.
It was for the best. The sooner he could get away from this, the better he’d feel. She’d understand, right?
Maybe had he explained that to her, he could have left a little less abruptly. Maybe had he stuck around, she’d be willing to talk about it with him.
But it didn’t matter. He was already gone.
And Natasha still sat in his room, eyeing the partially assembled Lego set with vague curiosity. Maybe had he stuck around, she would have asked him why he felt compelled to make, of all things, a lifeboat.
The blue glow of a splintered cellphone screen reflected across Harry’s face, almost as bright as the fire-pit that crackled behind him. Wooden logs burning and splitting apart had been the only noise to settle in the large, open-spaced den.
It had been quiet. Too quiet.
Peter fiddled with the pages to his textbooks, trying not to let his nerves show as he watched Harry scroll through the cell phone — his cell phone. Only half a minute could have passed by, a minute at most, and somehow it felt like thirty minutes — an hour, two hours — god it had been too long.
And just when he thought the silence would drive him insane,
“She likes you,” Harry finally said, a smile pulling tightly on his lips.
Peter laughed. “No, she doesn’t!”
“She totally likes you, man,” Harry insisted, his eyes never looking away from the phone. His thumb kept scrolling along the touch-screen, his back resting so casually against the armrest of the sofa that his textbooks, laid out on his lap, were dangerously close to falling on the floor.
Peter stammered for a response, adjusting himself on the opposite side of the couch. “How are you even getting that from —”
“Trust me,” Harry finally looked up, grin wide enough to show his gum-line. “MJ would not be texting you this much if she didn’t like you. And the smiley faces? Not to mention the winkey faces — chick digs you.”
Harry winked, charismatically enough that Peter felt a twitch of his own smile. He kept it at bay, reaching across the couch to snatch back his phone.
“C’mon, you can’t decipher emotion from emojis!”
“That’s literally what they are, Pete!” Harry laughed harder, holding the phone high above his head and away from Peter. “Why do you think they call them emojis? Emotion is literally part of the acronym!”
How they got on this topic was utterly beyond Peter, and he seriously thought showing Harry all of MJ’s texts would shut him up about it. With the amount of times she called him nerd, dweeb, loser — there was simply no way someone could see that as her liking him.
Admitting defeat, Peter slumped back down against his side of the couch, the armrest digging slightly into his back.
“Whatever. We’re just friends.” Peter’s dismissal was met with a look of such skepticism by Harry that if his eyebrows had arched any higher, they’d have reached the ceilings of the den. Peter rolled his eyes in return. “Seriously. She’s my friend. That’s it.”
Still holding Peter’s phone, Harry waved it around to make a point. “You say that like you might want things to change.”
The warmth spreading across his cheeks was enough for Peter to look away, giving a scoff so heavily coated with flustered uncertainty that not even he could tell what he felt anymore. Of course, that seemed to be the ongoing theme with his life lately. A certain socially distant, equally nerdy friend of his just so happened to be lumped into that ‘feelings unknown’ pile.
But wait — Peter shook his head — exactly how did they start talking about that? One moment they were writing the outline for his history class essay, and the next thing Peter knew, Harry had managed to convince him to look through his text history with MJ. 'Examination of evidence,’ as he put it.
Peter found his discarded highlighter underneath his leg and twiddled it between his fingers. It was moments like these that made him super grateful he started deleting any text messages that talked about his ‘night gig’, as May would call it.
“I dunno,” Peter finally shrugged, blowing out a sigh. “I mean, she’s super busy with school. And I’m swamped with all this superhe — uh...superconducting my...shop...class project. Really busy with that. And Decathlon and...and you know...junior year. Busy stuff.”
Harry closed his textbooks with a loud thump stretching his legs out so they nearly reached Peter’s side of the sofa.
“Yeah, man, it’s so busy. I mean, the only girlfriend I had was freshman year and things didn’t last, she said classes were stressing her out like whoa. I get it.” Harry tapped his sock-clad toes playfully against Peter’s hip. “But if you ever decide to take the leap…she digs you, too.”
Peter rolled his eyes for what felt like the tenth time tonight. “She does not, Harry.”
“Really?” Harry sat up straighter, his thumb swiping rapidly on the cracked screen of Peter’s phone. “Exhibit A, text message from last week.”
“Harry!” Peter jumped forward, the redness tinging his face now solely from aggravation.
Harry laughed smugly as he went on to read the text, dodging each of Peter’s attempts, going so far as to climb half-way off the sofa in the process. “Hey dweeb, if you’re going to ditch out on second period at least —”
A sudden string of multiple dings emitted from the same phone they were playing tug-of-war over.
“Aw damn,” Harry paused, his laughter dying off as he handed the cell back to Peter. “Wanda’s texting you. Says she’s outside with the car.”
Peter laughed softly, typing a quick response on his phone before pocketing it away. “Holy cow, has it really been three hours already?”
“I guess time flies when you’re studying up on Battle of Leyte Gulf.” Harry stacked his textbooks on the coffee table nearby, flashing a brief, halfhearted smile.
“Something like that,” Peter muttered, gathering his books inside his backpack. Another highlighter rolled out from the sofa cushions and he quickly stuffed it with the others, looking around to make sure he hadn’t left anything else behind. “Thanks again, Harry. For helping me out with this.”
Harry dismissed him with a wave. “Hey, anytime, pal. Especially when it works out like this — didn’t know you were only forty minutes away from me on the weekends. Hell, I had no idea you scored room and board up at the friggin Avengers facility! What’s that like?”
Peter closed his book-bag so suddenly that the zipper broke right off. His eyes went wide, his fingers shaking slightly as he rushed to stuff the broken zipper into his jean pocket.
“Uh, you know...” he stammered, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "It’s...big. Lots of security. Kinda —”
“Harrison?” The sound of a heavy door shutting was drowned out by the voice that followed. “Is that you in the study?”
Peter quickly turned from the noise nearby over to Harry, who had easily turned five shades whiter than before. His suave composure all but seemed lost in the rush of the moment.
“Shit, dad’s home,” he muttered, shoveling his textbooks aside as he stumbled off from his kneeling position on the floor. “You might wanna —”
“Ah, we have guests,” Norman smiled from the doorway, taking in the room with slow, steady perception. “Harrison, you didn’t tell me we’d have a guest tonight.”
Peter looked between the two. A bout of nerves bundled uncomfortably in his stomach, both his hands clutching the strap to his backpack tighter than he knew the fabric could handle. For a moment, only the fireplace filled the space between them, crackling embers lighting up the room with diminishing soot.
“I was helping Pete study for a big project we have,” Harry finally managed, audibly clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be back by now.”
Norman let out a hum, deep and gruff within his throat. The sleeves to his white dress shirt were cuffed up to his forearms, and without ever breaking eye contact with Harry, he began to roll them down.
Naturally, Peter’s eyes followed the movement, unsure of where else to look or what else to say. He stayed quiet, even as he watched while Norman began to carefully, gingerly rub at the back of his hand.
Peter creased his brow — the skin looked burnt, hot pink, and blistered slightly around the edges. It looked fresh, skin tissue angry and sore, as if it had just happened. Peter titled his head to the side, eyes squinting slightly.
“My calendar cleared up for the evening. For the best,” Norman mentioned, rolling down his sleeve just far enough that it covered the back of his hand. He forced a tight smile, locking eyes with Peter across the room. “Mr. Parker, pleasure to see you again.”
The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck felt as if they were knives digging into his skin. He tensed up, doing everything he possibly could to ignore the twist of unease that constricted each and every one of his muscles.
There was nothing to be nervous about.
He swallowed, hard.
“Uh, you too...” Peter croaked, his voice trailing off into a quiet, “...sir.”
The inner reminder, chanted in his head like a prayer, did nothing for his faltering composure. No matter how many times he echoed the same thought over and over again —
There was no shaking the feeling of rising, bubbling, staggeringly strong anxiety. He couldn’t even blame it on first-impression jitters.
No, this was something more.
Something different.
And yet, he couldn’t pin it on anything other than the way Norman looked at him. Just like before in his office at OsCorp.
Straight in the eyes, unfaltering, unrelenting.
Peter looked away, even as Norman smiled and spoke.
“Please,” he chuckled lightly, shifting weight from one foot to the other. “You’re a friend of Harrison’s, you can call me Norman.”
“Sure thing...” Peter could hear the fabric to the strap of his bag splitting apart. “Mr. Osborn.”
Norman shook his head, the laughter from deep in his chest somehow not meeting the smile that pulled at his lips.
“Look at this kid,” he said to Harry. “So polite.”
Harry chuckled tensely, a bemused smile writing an expression on his face that could be read from miles away.
Peter dipped his head down low, avoiding direct eye contact with either of them.
There were few times in his life that a room had felt so weird, so off-putting. Like the air had grown so thick with tension he found it difficult to breathe.
For whatever reason, standing in a room with Harry and his dad was one of those moments.
Norman stuffed both hands inside his pockets, glancing at Harry, eyes landing on Peter. “Studying, you said?”
Peter nodded a little too vigorously. “Yeah, just, uh….yeah.”
God, it was his first Decathlon championship all over again. Suddenly unable to articulate even the most basic of words, forming a sentence a skill he seemed to have lost in the time it took to blink his eyes. He handled himself better around Liz’s dad, and that guy turned out to be a crazed super-villain for crying out loud!
“Good. Pleased to hear it,” Norman remarked. “A young intelligent as yourself needs to keep their brain sharp, crisp. We require all the underage interns at OsCorp to keep their grades high above average, or else lose their spot with the company. I would assume Stark Industries does the same, no?”
“That’s...why I’m here,” Peter choked out, nodding. “Gotta...focus on those grades.”
The look Harry gave him was enough to get Peter’s attention, a smirk so wide it could be seen even in his peripheral vision. Hey, it wasn’t a total lie. Peter’s lips tugged slightly at the corner and Harry rolled his eyes, his grin never breaking.
“Well, that settles it then.” Norman clapped his hands together abruptly, both their heads snapping over at the sound. “A hard night of studying merits a reward proper for growing teenage boys.” He briefly glanced at his wrist-watch. “Dinner for three. I’ll call the driver up and we can head to the steakhouse.”
Peter’s eyes widened, all amusement zapped within an instant.
“I’d-I’d love to, Mr. Osborn.” He shook his head quickly, and again a little too vigorously. “But my ride is actually waiting for me outside —”
“Well, invite them up too!” Norman had already turned around, wallet in hand and five steps closer to the doorway. “Have they ever had Kobe steak? They will tonight.”
“Uh, dad,” Harry spoke up, his voice quiet and dry. “Peter’s really gotta get back.”
There was a pause on Norman’s part. His legs remained still while his body twisted around, eyes only fixated on Harry in the same way they’d fixate on Peter, staring silently for what felt like an eternity.
Ultimately he relaxed, a disappointed smile stretching across his mouth.
“What a shame.” Norman held two placating hands in the air. “Okay, fair enough. I’ll try and prehend this brilliant mind another evening. Until then, Mr. Parker.”
Peter felt the hand reach out before he ever saw it. He wasn’t sure how that was possible — he couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. But he could have sworn he felt it, like a hot ether cutting through the space between them. It was stronger than the vibrations that tore up his neck, pulsating tingles boring up into his skull, distracting him from thinking the most basics of thoughts.
It felt palpable, flammable.
It felt wrong.
And yet how many other times could he say that? Why was he getting so upset about every little thing lately, why was he relying so much on trusting feelings that he couldn’t defend, couldn’t explain? Why was he running away from conversations with Avengers, people he considered to be his idols? People who did nothing but help him, hell, they saved him.
Natasha deserved better than that.
Norman stretched a wide smile, waiting patiently for him to shake his hand.
No, this had gotten way out of control. Peter looked down – it was only a hand, nothing special about it. Nothing to worry about.
Without thinking another thought, or wasting another second, Peter leaned forward.
“Good night, sir.” Peter shook his hand once, twice, three times in total before letting go.
The feeling of calefaction simmering in the air dissipated no more than a second after.
He practically sighed in relief.
Norman gave a sharp nod and faint smile, his goodbye spoken only in expression.
Only once he had turned around did Harry step forward. “Should I get ready to leave, dad, or…?”
“Another night, Harrison.” Norman had already stepped out of the den, his voice heard down from the hallway. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather right now.”
Far in the distance, a door closed shut. Its echo seemed to carry weight with it.
Peter looked over at Harry, the once tense expression of stress overtaken with a mixture of frustration and sadness.
“Right.” Harry rolled his eyes. Shaking his head, he leaned down to the coffee table, one by one picking up his textbooks and muttering tightly contained words underneath his breath. His attempt at being quiet was bested by his exasperation, nearly as hot as the fireplace still lit behind him.
Peter dropped his head low, the fancy rug underneath his feet easier to look at than the sullen face of disappointment next to him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why Harry was upset.
It had even become clear why Harry never wanted people around his father.
Peter vaguely shook his head. He had really hoped things would have gotten better since they were kids. It made no sense to him, how someone could treat their own child that way. It was as if Norman had become...well, it was like Norman was Harry’s boss.
It wasn’t right.
Mr. Stark was practically his boss and treated him with more respect than that. Not to mention —
His backpack nearly dropped to the ground, what little thread remaining finally torn under the pressure of his enhanced strength.
Shit.
Peter quickly caught the bag before it could fall, holding it close to his chest with both hands, eyes wider than saucers.
“Do you have a bathroom I could use real quick before I…?”
Harry looked up from the coffee table, clearing his throat with a weak smile.
“Yeah, it’s across the hall.” Standing tall with arms full of textbooks, Harry chuckled a thin laugh. “Take a left, and don’t go three stories up this time.”
Peter nodded, clutching his bag against his chest like a newborn baby, desperate to hide the seams of his strap that had all but exploded into pieces of fabric. The last thing he needed right now was for Harry to ask how a brand new backpack just ripped apart like cotton candy.
At this rate though, if he squeezed the damn thing any harder, pages of American Revolution were going to come flying out.
“Right, yeah, of course.” Peter flashed a hint of a smile, awkwardly carrying his broken book-bag to the bathroom.
He shut the door behind him with his backside — a little too loudly at that — and immediately dropped the bag into the bathroom sink.
"Crap!” Peter hissed, his hands frantically tugging into his hair. This was exactly why he didn’t like owning new things — he just got this backpack last week!
He quickly examined it, pulling away pieces of foam and fabric to better see the damage. The strap was obliterated, far beyond May’s sewing skills and whatever he could manage with hot glue in shop class. There was no beating around the bush; the bag was a goner.
“Ugh, Mr. Stark’s going to kill me,” Peter muttered, massaging the temples of his forehead with a groan.
There was no way Mr. Stark could find out that he broke his book-bag with his own hands. This was just humiliating; he’d have to come up with something better. It was so much easier when May was buying his backpacks, at least then he could just tell her he needed a new one and she’d go with it.
Ugh, this sucked.
Maybe there was a way he could fix this. Peter dug deep into the pockets of the bag, eventually finding what he was looking for — ah, his web-shooters. A little bit of good-’o-faithful web-fluid should do the trick.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Peter kept his eyes on the door the entire time he wrapped the strap in sticky fluid, careful not to be caught. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time someone barged in on him while he was in the bathroom. Or while doing Spider-Man related activities.
It’d be his luck the two would finally combine.
Quickly waving his hand like a fan to make sure it dried, Peter went to test the weight when —
“Oh, gross,” he quickly tossed the backpack into the sink with disgust. “What is that?”
Peter quickly grabbed a few wads of toilet paper, desperately smearing it against the side of the bag. It looked like some kind of oil had gotten onto it — or was that slime? Whatever it was, no matter how many times Peter rubbed and wiped, it wasn’t coming off.
Of course it wasn’t coming off.
“Oh come on!” Peter huffed, each crumbled wad of toilet paper coming back clean and dry. The black spot looked wet and shiny, almost saturating the pocket of his week-old Jansport.
Seriously, he just got this thing last week. Peter scrubbed frantically; Mr. Stark was going to kill him if he couldn’t last one week with a new backpack.
Just then, his phone pinged.
And pinged and pinged.
“Okay, Wanda, okay!” he tossed the clean toilet paper into the trash bin, leaving the oily mess on his bag. Maybe once he got home, some web dissolvent would lift the stain.
Peter grimaced, tossing the one good strap over his shoulder. From the looks of it, WD-40 was more likely to do the trick.
He’d take care of it later. For right now, he needed to get out of here.