Chapter Text
Peter had a secret. No, not that secret. That one, everyone at the Tower already knew. Web-slinging, wall-crawling, vigilante crime-fighting old news.
No, this was something he actually tried to keep on the down-low: Peter Parker did gymnastics. Officially. Competitively. With a school-issued leotard and everything.
He didn’t do it for attention or trophies (though he had a few). He did it because it felt good to move like that when he wasn’t in the suit. The balance beam, the parallel bars, the floor routines—it was all a kind of focused chaos, and for a kid whose brain never shut off, it was blessed silence.
Unfortunately, blessed silence was shattered the moment Aunt May said, “You should invite your friends.” Peter groaned. “May. No.” “Oh, come on. You’ve got all these adult superhero friends, and not one of them’s seen you vault? What kind of godmother figure would I be if I didn’t force a little support into your life?”
That’s how, three days later, Peter found himself backstage at the New York State High School Gymnastics Finals, stretching in warmups, while he tried not to think about the fact that The Actual Avengers were in the audience.
“Hey, Pete!” came a shout from the bleachers. Peter flinched. He peeked past the curtain to see Tony Stark in aviator sunglasses and a black hoodie that said “#1 Science Dad.” Next to him, Clint Barton already had nachos. Sam Wilson had two signs: one said STICK IT SPIDEY, the other just had Peter’s face photoshopped onto a flying squirrel.
Natasha Romanoff, somehow, looked both disinterested and like she was analyzing every movement for weak points. Steve Rogers stood beside her with the proud-dad stance of a man who had no idea what gymnastics was but was ready to love it anyway. Bruce Banner looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else, but he clapped politely.
Peter facepalmed.
This was fine. He was fine. He would simply perform his routine, not fall on his face, and then escape through a vent.
The event began. Names were called. Kids in sparkly leos and school colors performed flips, twists, and tumbles. Then: “Peter Parker, Midtown High.” He jogged onto the mat. A roar erupted. “GO PETEY!” Sam yelled, loud enough to rattle the windows. “BE THE SPIDER YOU WERE BORN TO BE!” Tony shouted. “Do a backflip!” Clint added, as if that weren’t the entire point.
Peter took a deep breath, blocked them all out, and began. His floor routine started with simple cartwheels, roundoffs, and front flips. The real crowd-pleaser came in the second half: a clean back handspring into a double twist, landed solidly. Applause. Then a split-second pause before he sprang into a no-handed aerial, stuck the landing, and raised his arms like a champ. And there it was: the cheer.
The Avengers, yes, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, were losing their minds.
Tony leapt to his feet like he was watching a sports final. Natasha gave the smallest nod of approval. Sam yelled, “YOU DIDN’T EVEN USE YOUR HANDS, WHAT THE HELL?” Clint dropped his nachos. Steve clapped like it was 1940 and he’d just seen jazz for the first time. Peter flushed red. Oh god. They were still cheering.
After the meeting, Peter trudged out to find the group gathered around the concession stand like they hadn’t just caused a minor scene. “You crushed it, kid,” Tony said, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “You didn’t even fall! You’re more stable on a beam than I am in life.” “I wasn’t even sure what a ‘pommel horse’ was,” Steve admitted, “but you made it look easy.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You show more control in a floor routine than half of SHIELD’s tactical unit.” Peter blinked. “...Thank you?” “You were like a little spider ninja,” Clint said, still eating soggy nachos. “I have no notes. Except: can you teach me that spinny flip thing?”
Bruce smiled. “It was good. A lot less stressful than your usual activities.” “Y’all are weirdly supportive,” Peter muttered, shoving his gym bag higher on his shoulder. Tony grinned. “Well, we are your unofficial family-slash-trauma support network.”
“Besides,” said Sam, slinging an arm around Peter, “you invited us to your thing. We show up. That’s what family does.” Peter looked at all of them, chaotic, embarrassing, loud, and sighed. “You’re never coming to one of these again.”
“Too late,” Natasha said. “A video.” Peter groaned. Tony pulled out his phone and hit play.
There it was, Peter flipping midair, perfectly in frame, followed by a zoom onto Sam holding the squirrel sign and screaming. Peter buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.” They laughed. And Peter, despite himself, smiled.