Work Text:
Peter had been counting the days since he woke up in the MedBay room, making internal bets on who would be the first to disturb his peace and drag him down to the Tower’s gym.
Of the options, his guesses narrowed down to three team members:
1) Tony— likely eager to test new burn-proof gear or other protective tech on him.
2) Steve— always needing to understand every team member’s particular skill sets and likely curious about the drastic changes Peter had undergone in the last nine months.
3) Natasha— ready to introduce his face to a gym floor mat in the name of training.
Peter's bet was on Natasha being the first.
So it didn’t come as much surprise when she showed up at the threshold of his bedroom doorway less than two days after he’d first gone out as Spider-Man. (Frankly, he was impressed that she held out past day one).
He took one look at her, dressed in gym clothes with a wordless order on her face, and threw an arm over his eyes.
“Ugh. Did Fury put you up to this? He did.” Peter decided, despite knowing that she was perfectly inclined to torture him just because she could. (In fact, she’d probably be less inclined to do anything that Fury ordered her to do). Natasha looked amused.
“Hardly.”
Peter groaned at the one-word response and flopped back on his bed, mentally preparing himself for the hellscape to come and trying one last argument before he resigned himself to his fate. “Come on, I almost died two weeks ago and you’re already back on me about training?” It was good-natured, not a true complaint, and she knew it. She arched a single, perfect eyebrow. (Seriously, why were her eyebrows always so perfectly shaped? It felt unfair. Peter’s eyebrows didn’t obey him like that.)
“If you can patrol, you can spar.” she responded smoothly, and— yeah, okay, he didn’t have much of an argument to that. He could lie, he supposed, and she wouldn’t be able to truly call him out on it— but that would only be delaying the inevitable. So, he dragged himself to his feet and watched the devious glint in her eye grow.
“Fine, I’ll be down there in five minutes.” he grumbled. The corners of her mouth curled into a smirk as she turned away from his door.
“Make it two.”
—
Peter made it one minute and forty-nine seconds, because he was an overachiever. And because he didn’t have a death wish. Natasha was waiting, impeccable as usual, arms crossed and standing on one of the mats in the center of the gym.
“Fury has been on my ass about training for eight months.” Peter grumped, in lieu of a proper greeting. “I passed all his little tests.” Natasha tilted her head.
“Well, I currently have him beat in our sparring matches, so you haven’t passed me or my tests yet.” she said smoothly. Peter squinted at her.
“Do I even want to know how many matches you two have had?” he asked, not daring to ask what kind of horrifying “tests” she could have cooked up for him.
“No.” she responded in a tone that was cheerful compared to her usual countenance. He dragged a hand down his face with a sigh.
“I’d rather be back in the bunker.” he proclaimed.
“No you wouldn’t.”
No, I wouldn’t , Peter thought, but he just raised his eyebrows in silent challenge. “Wouldn’t I?” he responded smoothly. He saw her lips twitch in a smile as she scanned his perfectly schooled expression.
“You’re more fun this way.” she said, and Peter wrinkled his nose, breaking the neutrality.
“I don’t know whether to be insulted by that or not.” he said, even though he knew she didn’t truly mean it. She shrugged.
“Enough chit-chat, ребенок-паук (spider-kid). I know your deflection tricks.”
Oh, trust me, you don’t know all of them. Peter thought with faint amusement. Living with Fury for almost a year had forced him to come up with some… creative new ones.
Natasha backed into a defensive stance, arms aligned in almost the exact same pose Fury had assumed when he’d first taught Peter. Frankly, if the walls had been cold slate gray instead of glass and silver chrome, he might have thought he was actually back in the bunker. (Well, if Fury also had a mop of red hair instead of being bald.) He shook the thoughts into the corners of his mind as he settled into his own stance, and Natasha shot him a grin.
“So. Training. Show me what you’ve got.”
~ ~ ~
“Wake up.” A voice jolted him out of his (peaceful, for once) sleep and he groaned, turning to the side and throwing an arm over his eyes in protest of the assault on his eyeballs.
“Ugh. Depriving the teenager of his precious beauty sleep. Who are you— Nick Fury?” he grumbled, bringing a pillow up to his eyes for optimal light-blocking.
“It’s noon already.” replied the voice, and Peter buried his head into the pillow and debated letting out a muffled scream.
“Liar.” he replied, before his brain caught up to the fact that the voice was Natasha’s, and that he’d just called the Black Widow a liar. He lifted the pillow, half-expecting a knife hurdling in his direction, to find her staring at him with an arched eyebrow. “I mean— uh. Lire?” he corrected sheepishly. “You know, like the plural form of the word lira, the basic monetary unit of Italy until it was replaced by the Euro in 2002—” he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Decathlon?” he offered. Natasha let out a disbelieving humming sound.
“I suggest that you’re in the gym for training in three minutes.” she replied coolly. (It was not a suggestion.)
And, because Peter was apparently an idiot with no self-preservation skills, he responded: “Or what?”
She arched an eyebrow even higher. “Two minutes.” she revised, and then she was gone.
Peter dropped the pillow back on his head and contemplated the merits of suffocation.
—
It had been well over a few months since Peter’s return from the HYDRA expedition, and he had settled into a rhythm: school on weekdays, Spider-Man in the evenings, and training at the Tower on weekends. Most of his training was handled by Natasha; sometimes Steve joined in, but his reliance on blunt force was something Peter was still hesitant to emulate, even now.
Though he’d had some training from Fury in regards to controlling his strength, it was still useful to spar with Natasha; she usually trained with Steve and knew exactly how to instruct Peter on punching with the right amount of force. She ran him through the same drills Fury had taught, over and over and over until Peter damn near wanted to melt into the floor. (Afterwards, when he was sprawled on the mats, she’d sit next to him and tell him about her own experiences with SHIELD, or about Avengers missions. He wasn’t stupid, he knew it was mostly reserved to only the good or funny stories. But he found he didn’t mind; he liked the sound of her voice anyways.) She spoke Russian most of the time during their matches— she claimed it was to keep him fresh, but secretly Peter thought she just liked having someone else to share her language with.
Natasha was, in some ways, even more ruthless than she’d been when training him before the whole HYDRA incident— despite the fact that he was more skilled now. His improvement was evident— so obvious, in fact, that people had noticed online, reposting videos of Spider-Man with comments about his new abilities. (Part of him knew it was because Natasha thought she’d failed to train him well enough once before, and she wasn’t in the business of making the same mistake twice.)
She was different from Fury, too, in her teachings— far more hands-on. Peter still hadn’t decided whether that was a good thing. He had a solid base from months of training in the bunker, but working with Natasha allowed him to practice on a moving, highly trained target in a way that dummies could never replicate.
He was experiencing one such occurrence right now: the dummies, quite notably, had never tried to choke him out.
Natasha reached for him, and though Peter saw the move coming, he allowed her to wrap one slender arm around his throat. Her arms were deceptively strong, and he knew as much from their prior training sessions, but he was hoping to use the psychological advantage to catch her off-guard. Even Natasha— as good as she was— wasn’t immune to the split-second thought of “I’ve got him,” and that moment was all he needed. Just as her elbow locked into place, he slammed his palm flat against the crease of the joint, and her arm released him involuntarily. Peter used her proximity to his advantage, grabbing her arm and flipping her over his back in one swift move. She recovered quickly, landing on her feet and skidding slightly across the mat before looking up at him with a grin.
“неплохо (Not bad).”
Peter shot his own grin back at her, falling into the relaxed position he’d learned with Fury. “пылкая похвала (Glowing praise).” he drawled.
The door to the gym slid open, and Clint poked his head inside, raising his eyebrows as he saw the scene. A devious grin slid across his face, and whatever he’d come in here to do or say was clearly pushed to the side in favor of watching the match. Peter spared half a thought to the fact that Clint’s I’m-planning-things grin never meant good things, before Natasha moved again and his focus shifted back to her.
Peter made a quick jab towards her face, and she grabbed his arm, twisting it. He felt the tug from her body weight and saw her legs coming up in his peripheral vision. He could have slipped out of her grasp in the milliseconds between, but he didn’t want her to land on her face. Instead, he allowed her ankles to wrap around his neck and rolled forward with the motion. Using the momentum, he launched out of her grip and landed on his feet after a neat backflip. She landed on her back but was on her feet again within half a second of him regaining his balance, and they settled into position wordlessly once more.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Peter crouched, rocking back and forth on his heels, and watched as she did the same, shifting her stance to balance on the balls of her feet. He was vaguely aware of the gym door opening and the sound of more Avengers interrupting them (Clint’s fault, no doubt), but he didn’t dare remove his focus from Natasha. He knew she was perfectly willing to play dirty and use his momentary distraction to her advantage.
When she saw that he didn’t take his eyes off her, the corners of her mouth tilted into a pleased grin. Peter didn’t have time to revel in it before she was moving again. As she darted towards him, he could see her quad muscles twitch, and knew that meant she was about to fall into a crouch. He jumped up and over her, just as she slid on her knees past the spot where he’d just been standing, arm extended to strike the weak spot just behind his knees. He landed on his toes a few feet away and didn’t wait for her to recover from the slide before he was going on the offensive. She was still taking precious seconds to get back to her feet, and Peter knew she would be off-balance, so he went into his own slide, knocking one of her ankles out from under her.
She let out a slight oomph at the impact, but her own arm shot out at the same time Peter was scrambling to his feet, and he just barely dodged the hit to his solar plexus. The same tactics he’d just used to unbalance her were now being used on him, and he was on the defensive once more.
Natasha used Peter’s half-crouched position to launch off of one of his bent legs, then to his chest, landing a solid kick to his jaw in the process. He felt the impact, but didn’t let his face move with it— instead, he used the opportunity to grab at Natasha’s ankles and yank her out of midair before she could land back on the mat. He tossed her (mostly gently) onto the mat, knowing that she would roll with the impact and give him a few seconds to recover.
As expected, she popped back up just as Peter was back on his own feet, and then she was rushing at him again. He extended his left arm in a punch, and she ducked under it, latching onto his shoulder and using it as a lever to swing herself up over his back. He felt her other hand grab onto his right shoulder blade, and her entire body swung around with the momentum until her legs were once more wrapped around his throat. He let himself roll with the move, not wanting to be stuck in some sort of convoluted position where she could potentially kick him in some very painful places.
They both popped up again at the same time, and Peter was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that all of the Avengers were— for some reason— in the training room, watching them. He didn’t have time to consider why the hell they were there, but the fact that he had an audience only fueled him. Technically, there were no stakes in this (certainly not like the HYDRA mission), but Peter was not about to lose and give Sam and Clint more teasing fodder than they already had. He narrowed his eyes at Natasha, truly sizing her up this time. Truly, nothing got Spider-Man more focused than petty bets. (And supervillains, of course.)
She sensed the slight shift in his countenance, and the corners of her mouth curled in a smirk, a delighted gleam in her eyes. She crouched even lower— a silent challenge, and Peter felt his own smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He had the advantage here, strength-wise, along with his Spidey-sense. Natasha undoubtedly had more moves under her belt, but Peter was a star pupil when he wanted to be, and his enhancements gave him an agility edge and a reaction time that even Natasha couldn’t match. Having years of experience was all well and good, but when Peter was truly fully attuned to his Spidey-sense, he had— well. A superhuman edge. Not to be cliché.
He wasn’t able to continue on that train of thought before Natasha was leaping at him again. Peter didn’t want to get caught in the same loop of “get caught, roll, get up,” so he dodged this time. Natasha knew his powers, and she knew that her usual tactics would not be particularly effective here. Usually, she could knock people down using their momentum against them, even if they were twice her size. Peter was roughly matched with her size-wize, but his enhanced strength and sticky powers meant that if he didn’t want to move with the momentum, he wouldn’t.
Unstoppable force, meet immovable object . He thought wryly.
Up until this point, he’d been playing along, but she knew him well enough to know that that was no longer the case. So, she was adapting— or trying to. She (and Peter) knew that her only shot at beating him was to catch him off-guard with one of her many stored moves. Easier said than done when the person you’re fighting has a sixth sense. Though, in all fairness, Peter’s Spidey-sense only warned him that a hit was coming — it didn’t specify whether it was going to be a left jab or a hit to the solar plexus. He had to figure that part out on his own, through his training and his knowledge of Natasha. And— given that she had hundreds of moves under her belt and years of experience allowing her to switch tactics within milliseconds— this was also easier said than done.
Natasha went for his left knee, and he dodged. Jab, dodge, flip, hit, dodge— they continued as such for a few long, drawn-out minutes.
But Peter knew he couldn’t stay on the defensive forever. Natasha had to catch him off-guard to beat him; in the same vein, he had to catch her by surprise to win. His enhanced senses and strength gave him the clear advantage on the defensive, but he was at a disadvantage on the offensive. He wasn’t using his full strength, after all, and wasn’t actually aiming to hurt. As such, all he had was his training— which was minimal in comparison to Natasha. This was her strategy, as it had always been before— she couldn’t beat his defense, so she waited for him to slip up on the offense, or to get worn out and sloppy.
Peter wasn’t about to let this play out in the same way, but he knew that if he continued defending as he had been, he would mess up somewhere. Eight months of training was no match for a lifetime’s worth. So that meant he had to do something surprising— something on the offensive, something that would beat her at her own game. He narrowed his eyes slightly as a thought occurred to him, and he had to keep his face controlled so that Natasha wouldn’t suspect that he was planning something. He had a plan. A risky one, sure— he’d never tried to do the move himself. But he’d seen it executed countless times by Nat, and it sure as hell would come as a surprise, which was exactly what he needed here.
They both moved toward each other simultaneously, and Peter flicked his eyes ever so slightly to Natasha’s knees, bending his own as if he were ready to fall into a slide. The moment he saw her initiate a counter-move, he was already rocketing upwards toward her shoulders. (The benefit of super-strength was that he didn’t need momentum to jump into the air; a push off of only his toes was enough to launch him several feet.) She didn’t have time to adjust her trajectory, and before she could even lift her arms, his legs were wrapping around her neck. He used his full momentum to swing forward, bringing her body weight with him and slamming her down into the mat in a move he’d seen her use countless times. Rolling slightly, he popped up a mere foot away, ready for her to—
She was down. He’d won the round.
The gym was silent. Peter peered down at the red hair beneath him, a momentary flash of worry running through him as she just barely shifted.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I—” he started, before he was cut off by a sharp laugh, and Natasha lifted her head to grin at him. Her nose was slightly bloodied from where her face had hit the mat, and to be honest, the sight of her fully grinning with blood on her teeth was a little terrifying. Regardless, Peter relaxed slightly and offered his hand to pull her up.
“No, маленький паук (little spider). хорошо сражался (Well fought.)” she praised, and Peter grinned wide, feeling a burst of warmth expand in his chest. He certainly wouldn’t be able to pull that move on her again with the same level of success— but for now, he’d beat her for the first time. (He supposed he should thank Fury. A little bit.)
“I’m sorry, did Spider-twerp just actually wipe the floor with the Black Widow?” a voice interjected, and both of them turned their heads simultaneously. Right— the Avengers were watching. That was why he’d been so focused in the first place. It was Sam who had spoken, and his voice was distinctly… squeakier and more high-pitched than normal. Not to the point where an outsider would notice, but Peter did. He grinned at the man.
“What, you want to be next?” he asked, gesturing to the mat. Sam scoffed, crossing his arms.
“Please, you couldn’t—” he cut himself off as he remembered what had just transpired, and let out a half-cough. “—I mean, I wouldn't want to strain you or anything.”
Peter arched his eyebrows. “Oh, trust me, I wouldn’t be straining anything.” he said cheekily, and Sam let out an affronted “ HEY— ” before Clint shoved his shoulder.
“Give it up, man, you won’t win this one. Trust me.” he whispered loudly, patting him on the back. Bucky’s mouth twisted in a grin of agreement, and he patted Sam’s other shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m with your bird pal on this one.” he said, ignoring Sam’s betrayed gaze and tilting his head at Peter. “You and me. Sparring sometime.” he said, and Peter’s grin almost split across his entire face at the statement. He recognized it for what it was— Bucky never allowed anyone other than Steve and Natasha to spar with him, too afraid that he’d hurt the other partner. Inviting Peter for a match— a true sparring match— was a sign of the man’s trust in his capabilities. Not that Peter necessarily needed the confirmation, after everything he had gone through. But it was always nice to have it reaffirmed.
“Rogers owes me twenty bucks.” Tony proclaimed loudly, piping up for the first time since he’d been in the room; really, it was rather uncharacteristic of him to be so… non hyper-verbal. Peter arched his eyebrows at the same time Nat did.
“You’re a billionaire, Mr. Stark.” he pointed out, even as the man stuck his hand out and gestured in a ‘gimme’ motion towards Steve.
“It’s the concept , Pete, I have to keep the losers humble—”
“Tony.” Natasha interrupted, and her voice was sickly sweet. “You bet against me?”
Tony paled slightly, and he coughed, lowering his hand. “Hey— no—” he jabbed a finger at Steve, who raised his hands in the universal gesture of innocence. “—technically the bet was how long it would take before Peter could beat you in a match. So he bet against you too.”
Peter could see the moment Natasha reached towards her boot, where he was certain there was at least one knife hidden. Tony saw it too.
“Might want to start running, Mr. Stark.” Peter suggested, his own voice perfectly and innocently cheerful. His mentor shot him a betrayed glance.
“Hey, I bet for you and you don’t even stand up for me, what is this ungrateful behavior from my own—” Tony cut himself off as Natasha moved. “—yep, leaving now, work to do.” he said, before hurriedly backing out of the gym, running straight into Rhodey on the way out.
“Tones, what are you—” he began, before peering around the billionaire’s shoulder at the assembled team. With a long, drawn-out sigh, he pinched his brow with his hand, then turned away from the doorway, hands thrown up slightly in the air. “Actually, I don’t even want to know.”