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It's first thing in the morning. Natasha had woken up before the sun rose, as per usual, and has found herself in front of the door to Peter's room. The kid had gotten pretty seriously injured just the other day, and she can't help but feel concerned -- if not about his injuries, which she knows will be overcome quickly, then about his complete secrecy when it comes to anything that might worry his teammates.
Not that Natasha is the poster child for healthy communication, honesty, and reasonable coping methods. She can't, however, deny the degree of responsibility she feels the need to take on in the teenager's life, now that he knows. If she has to be a role model to him, she's going to be a damn good one. So, she pushes into the room, a small package in hand.
She knows Peter is awake the second she opens the door, can tell from the way his eyes move behind closed lids, the way his index and middle fingers subconsciously fidget against the bedsheets like he does with the sleeves of his hoodies. Saying nothing, Natasha leans back in the window seat. She kicks her legs up so they're almost vertical against the wall, peels the box open, and sticks an orange popsicle in her mouth.
Peter pretends to stir at the noise. He rubs his eyes, the fact that he's actually worn out making his performance more believable, and flops over to face her with a grunt that's half from pain and half from the effort of breaking his lethargic daze.
Without missing a beat, Natasha reaches into the box, tossing two popsicles at him (one cherry and one blue raspberry, the irony of that color scheme not lost on her), and Peter's arm shoots straight up on instinct to catch them both. He lets out a strangled gasp and Natasha realizes that he caught them with his right arm, the one that had taken the majority of the glass shards and had needed more attention.
She remains silent, but raises an eyebrow at Peter from where he peeks up at her, half of his face buried in the pillow. He groans, barely audible, and then:
"I think I popped a stitch."
"At least you have a popsicle," she shrugs. "Two, actually."
"Thanks?"
"Don’t thank me, I just stole these from Tony’s freezer.” It’s a blatant lie; they came from her personal stash. “Just get eating before they melt on your sheets. I'm not doing laundry for you."
"Well that's a false alarm on the popped stitch, so no worries there at least," Peter informs her after poking at his arm for a few moments.
She hums in acknowledgement, and then they sit in silence for a solid five minutes while Peter devours the cherry popsicle. If he's been awake for as long as Natasha thinks he has, it makes sense that he would be starving. She makes a mental note to have Steve bring him some real food when she sees him.
She doesn't speak up until he starts to open the wrapper of the blue popsicle.
"Sleeping well?" The tone of her voice makes it clear that she knows the answer already.
"Uh," Peter thinks briefly, then decides it would be useless to lie. "No, not really."
"You aren't the only one losing sleep, you know. Some of them are pretty worried." Her fingers idly rotate the popsicle stick in her hand as she tilts her head, watching Peter out of the corner of her eye. "Stark has spent hours redesigning the suit for you."
"What?"
"Extra padding in the shoulders and chest. Breathable, like there’s nothing there. Eliminates all the need for any risks you might have been taking to keep being Spider-Man to the public. It might be bulletproof, but that part wasn’t clear. Also, he's switching up the pattern."
Peter stops to process the information. "How do you--"
"I did some research. He wasn't going to say anything about it directly." She licks at the popsicle where neon orange liquid threatens to drip onto her outfit.
"Oh. Cool." He swallows. "That's... really cool." Natasha nods her agreement.
"How did it happen for you?" Peter asks, only glancing at her for a second before returning his gaze to the light reflecting against the wrappers in his lap.
Natasha grimaces internally; the answer to that question is not one she likes to think about. She's not sure it's fair of her to be bitter about it, considering. Her identity was permitted. Encouraged, even, but for the wrong reasons. Framed as generosity when she knows now it was just another tactic, both to make her more effective and to keep her under their influence. But she had been luckier than some, at least in this regard. She doesn't explain any of that.
"That's a long story, kiddo," she offers instead. "Do you think you could stay awake that long?"
Peter, bless his heart, sees through her teasing (only because she allows it; sincerity, even in the absence of total honesty, is prioritized over appearances when it comes to Peter) and does not press. Part of their unspoken, easy agreement.
Peter stretches his arms upwards, popsicle in hand, the lingering pain from his injury making itself known through his sharp intake of breath followed by a yawn. "Nah, you're right." His yawn extends through the statement. All dark circles and shaky hands, Peter flashes her a world-weary grin no seventeen year old boy should be physically capable of. He's been through so much, she realizes, even compared to some of their teammates. There's an eerie sense of kinship there, of shared experiences he should be too young to understand.
"How about you? Do you want to talk about it?"
Peter is quiet for a second, sucking the color out of a mouthful of cherry popsicle. His eyes are unfocused. Distant. She doesn't press, letting him think until he comes to an answer on his own several minutes later.
"I've never talked about it before. Not out loud, not with someone I, like... actually know. Well, I mean, I've talked to my aunt about it but that's a different kind of talking. That's the kind where I gotta explain a bunch of concepts and talk about clinical things, not like how I feel and stuff. The words are still hard for me to say, sometimes.” Natasha understands. She doesn't do the whole opening up to people thing, not really, not genuinely, and she isn't about to start. But that’s not how Peter works. He’s the kind of person who can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s trying to work something out. It’s hard for her to imagine him not talking someone’s ear off about everything he must have felt.
“I told her when I was seven,” Peter continues. “I didn't know any of the terminology, and she didn’t really get it at first, but I was pretty insistent, so she and my uncle bought me new clothes and got my hair cut and stuff. I was on hormones for a bit, but they don’t really do much since the bite, and we didn’t have the money to spare.” Natasha makes a second mental note: consult Bruce about more effective hormones for superhumans. She’s almost positive they exist somewhere -- maybe the X-Men would have something? It’s worth a shot, at least. “Aunt May tries her best, but it’s been harder with everything that’s happened in the past few years. I, uh, don’t really know what else there is to say?”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to say any more than you want.”
“No, I- I mean, I’m sure there is more stuff that would be good for me to talk about, it’s just that--” Peter cuts himself off with a huge yawn. “I can’t think of anything else right now. My brain is… tired.”
“Mhm,” she says, standing up and collecting the wrappers and popsicle sticks from his bed. “We’ll put some real food in you later, Spider-Boy. For now, get some rest. Don’t want to worry the others too much, or you’ll be drowning in superpowered mother hens for the rest of your life.”
“Just the others, huh?” Peter nudges her elbow teasingly.
“Of course,” she smiles slyly. “You know how they can be. Find me when you’re feeling better, if you ever need someone to listen.”
“You’ve got first dibs on listening me complain about literally everything now,” he says, watching Natasha walk away. Peter rolls over in bed and mutters, voice so quiet she almost doesn't catch it, “Thanks for the popsicles, Nat.”
She allows a smile to overtake her face as she closes the door behind her.