Gym Rats
Ding.
Peter’s vision snapped back into focus as the group filed out of the elevator. He tried to shove Clint’s foreboding existence to the back of his mind, then promptly remembered there was still Flash to deal with.
Really, staying in the elevator and riding back down to the lobby was the only logical option left.
”Peter, move,” MJ hissed, nudging him from behind, and he stumbled out of the elevator—
—only to freeze in his tracks again as the smell of disinfectant hit him like a truck.
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
He knew this room: padded walls and floors, joists running low across the ceiling, giant cylindrical punching bags strung up on racks like leather cocoons. More punching bags were stacked in the corner.
In the very center of the room stood a roped-off, elevated platform. A few pairs of bulbous boxing gloves were nestled along the edges of the ring.
They’d brought him to the gym.
Just kill me, Peter thought as everyone started babbling loudly. Seymour was actually bouncing like a Jack Russell Terrier. This literally cannot get any worse—
Like a divine sign, the universe answered his call, and Clint freaking Barton walked in, all smooth and suave, a neon duffel slung over one shoulder and two pairs of martial arts gloves tucked in the other.
Everyone screamed, and he flashed them a movie star smile.
Any other time, Peter might've laughed in his face. In reality, Clint Barton was the cheesiest, most awkward flirt out there.
Now, Peter’s only paranoid thought was, Why would he need two pairs?
About five seconds later, Natasha Romanov answered his question by stalking through like a tigress on the prowl, all noir in a dark tank top and pitch black workout tights. The only pops of color came from her bright blue sneakers and her hair, and Peter knew that the only reason she wore the sneakers was because Clint bought them for her on a dare and she had a not-so-secret Achilles heel for Barton shenanigans.
As she set down the strike pads, the clamor grew to a roar. Charles’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. Cindy had her hand over her mouth. Abe was jumping up and down with Seymour. MJ was, well, MJ. And Flash...
Flash was gaping like a fish. “Hot” Black Widow was in the same room as he was and she hadn’t even spared him a glance.
Please don’t say anything stupid, Peter begged him. For your own good. As much as I don’t like you, I don’t want to see you get assassined by the most bad-ass assassin.
The babble only got louder as the two Avengers began warming up: stretching, doing some lunges and light footwork. It was fluid and casual, like they weren't responsible for the clump of nerds having a group medical emergency in the corner.
Finally, Clint grabbed the strike pads from where they lay on the floor and ducked under the ring’s ropes. Natasha was right behind him.
Clint pulled on the strike pads, and a hush fell over the group as the two Avengers got into stance.
Everyone held their collective breath, Peter included.
Natasha struck like a snake, her jabs and kicks so fast that even Peter’s semi-trained eyes could barely keep up.
But Clint didn't miss a beat, blocking each blow with unbothered ease, like every-day was super-ninja-fight-club hours.
But this was not how most of the sessions went, Peter knew. They usually tried new moves, learning from falls and doing things slowly, then building up. So, what the hell were they doing?
They were showing off, Peter realized, and a grin broke across his face. The great Avengers were showing off.
The two spies went at it for a long time, uninterrupted by the starstruck silence. Then, without warning, Natasha landed a solid kick to Clint's unpadded chest, and Timed Out for a water break.
Clint proved to be just impressive, throwing around his heavier weight to his advantage, but she remained unfazed, wielding the pads with a seasoned air of expertise.
A few minutes later, they stopped again. Nat stripped off the pads, Clint retied his loose laces, and the real show began.
Only on two previous occasions had Peter had seen them make a real effort to defeat each other. Mostly, they stuck to building the fundamentals when he was there. Regardless, nothing could have prepared him for the speed and ferocity with which they attacked.
They moved like djembe drums, rapid-fire and tantalizing. She was lightning over open water, spinning and kicking, impulse swift, like gravity was a mere wish that never applied to her. He was the waves crashing to shore, driving, sweeping through concussive bursts, falling back only to rise relentless again.
They kicked and parried and spun with each other. Both gasped for air, clearly strained as sweat trickled down their faces, and Peter got a wild chill down the back of his spine. This was the real deal. Somehow, that made it all the more impressive.
Their limbs smeared into a single whirring motion until, between one second and the next, Natasha flipped Clint onto his stomach and pinned him down with one knee between his shoulder blades.
"Uncle, uncle," he called, and she released her hold, yanking him back up.
Emmet broke out of his trance.
”So,” he said, sounding shocked. “You guys were very lucky to have just witnessed that. Uh–most tours, the Avengers don’t show up at all.” He glanced at Peter. “I’m not sure what exact form of martial arts that is, but—“
”Savate.”
Emmet startled so badly he almost dropped his clipboard. Natasha was facing the group, looking majestic and terrifying despite the flush of exertion crawling up her neck.
She stalked over, causing Emmet to trip over his own feet. Her eyes scanned the class, skipping over Peter like he wasn’t even there.
She turned back to Emmet. “It was Savate.”
”With a little Muay Thai mixed in,” Clint called, still in the process of pulling off his gloves.
Natasha nodded, then turned back to the group and—
“That was really awesome.”
Flash. Natasha only nodded politely.
”I’ve really been wanting to meet you. I’m, like, your Number One Fan, Miss Black Widow,” Flash declared confidently. He practically shone in the awkward spotlight. “I’ve really wanted to fight like you since I was little.”
”Really?” Natasha said, dry as a bone.
Clint joined her side, and the two exchanged a look in that secret assassin language only they could understand.
“Yeah, and—“
”Hey, Pete!” Clint interruped Flash, giving Peter a wave.
”Oh my God,” Peter mumbled under his breath. Clint, the little shit, just grinned.
The effect was horrendous and immediate. Everyone simultaneously swiveled around to stare, eyes flitting back and forth between Clint’s impish grin and Peter, flushed with misery.
”But you were lying!” Flash said in horror. Natasha’s eyes honed in on Flash, who, for all his talk about the “Hot Black Widow”, flinched like she was brandishing a knife in his face.
“Lying about what?”
“Knowing the Avengers,” Flash mumbled.
”Why would we not know Peter?” Clint’s friendly grin faded to genuine confusion. Natasha’s eyes had narrowed to slits.
Now, Peter had never specifically told them about Flash. He’d dropped bits and pieces about a recurring bully, though he left out any details as to why. They didn’t need to know that.
His secrecy was for nothing, it seemed, as he could see Natasha’s expert brain piecing together all the bits of the puzzle. They didn't add up to a nice picture.
”Uh,” Flash said.
”Go on,” Natasha said, her polite tone suddenly cool. The whole team parted around Flash, leaving him standing in his own little island.
Finally, he looked properly mortified to be the center of attention.
”’Cause he’s just a normal kid, and you’re the Avengers,” Flash mumbled. He should’ve left it there. It actually sounded human, and Natasha’s gaze had softened from broadsword to vegetable knife.
Naturally, Flash had to ruin it by saying, “And he sucks.”
Welcome to sub-zero Natashaland. Eff up, get iced out.
”Do explain,” she said coldly. Flash, instead of saying ‘never mind’ like a normal, sane human would, decided to continue the verbal trainwreck.
”I mean—like—just. He quits everything and makes up excuses.” Flash was spluttering by now, and everyone edged back a few more centimeters.
This was so, so much worse than the gate. So much worse. It was one thing to do it in front of a tour guide, and another thing entirely to fly off the handle in front of his mentors, his heroes. Knowing his stellar filter, it was only a matter of time before—
“And it’s not like Emily—I mean, Peter, helps the team or anything.”
Whoomp, there it is!
Holy shit, lads, he’s done it. He’s gone where nobody’s gone before.
Peter wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Instead, he blinked away the hot, unreasonable burning in his eyes and slouched as low as he could go. Seriously, Flash?! Grow up.
MJ strangled her pencil and looked like she was seriously contemplating which organ Flash could live without.
”I don’t know any Emily,” Natasha spoke slowly, and Flash shrank back again, suddenly silent.
”It’s–It’s what he calls Peter,” Cindy called out, and Peter’s blood went ice cold. "Um, n-none of us really know w-why."
No, ice cold imply it was still flowing through his veins. He was fairly sure it wasn’t. Was it possible for blood to be frozen rock solid?
To the casual observer, Natasha’s expression would appear blank. But Peter had trained with this woman every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for over a year, and he knew a dormant volcano when he saw one.
Fury, simmering, calculating fury, iced over with extreme malintent. Then she blinked, and it was gone. She just looked...blank.
Clint shot her a look, then cleared his throat, diverting the attention.
He clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “Well, guys, I think today would be a great day to actually show you guys some moves.”
People erupted immediately. The awkward damp didn’t go away, but it was overshadowed for the time being.
The team split into lines, one with Natasha and one with Clint. One by one, people took turns hitting the strike pads that the Avengers held in front of them.
Cindy was surprisingly good, hitting the pad harder than Clint was prepared for. He stumbled a little and gave her a fist bump. Then he corrected her form.
”Strike from the shoulder,” he encouraged. “Bend your knees. No, don’t tuck your thumb. That could break it if you were ever actually punching. There you go! Throw your weight behind it. Pretend like the pad’s your sibling. Nice!”
Natasha rolled her eyes fondly. It always went like this for Peter. He was the soccer Dad, and she was the tough sensei, analytical, technical, handing out compliments less frequently.
She threw scenarios at each student.
”If you can master your strength, you are much more effective. Intention is control, and control is the difference between stunning an opponent and knocking them out. In a op, this is the difference between killing a target and dying and killing a target and getting away with it.”
Whew, that was intense. But Peter was used to it. He waited at the back of the line again. What would he see when he faced them? Clearly they already knew at least a little, but he couldn’t deal with a confrontation, not here with everyone watching.
Maybe not ever.
But when it was his turn, Natasha only winked at him, saying nothing, and relief flooded him. He sent her a silent thank you for letting him stay under the radar.
When Flash punched the pad, Natasha gave the slightest twitch, invisible to the untrained eye, and he went toppling to the floor.
By the end, he was a nervous wreck because everyone was finishing up, and Natasha was taking off her gear, Clint still hadn’t done anything horrible. That worried him. Clint could be counted on to do something horrible.
”Yo, Pete!”
The archer stood at the edge of the ring, strapping on a different pair of gloves, light-weight and fingerless.
Oh shit.
SHIT!
”No,” he told Clint. “No way, dude. I am not doing that.”
”Mr. Hawkeye,” Mr. Harrington spoke up, sounding very timid. “I can’t allow that. On the waiver—“
”It placed all the responsibility on the people on the top,” Clint said cheerfully, leaning on the ropes. “And I’m a higher level here than any of you.”
”Except me,” Natasha muttered. “And Peter.”
”So,” Clint continued, an impish grin on his face. “I can technically leave it up to Peter. And Peter loves me.”
”No I don’t,” Peter muttered. This was a nightmare.
”Kid, you still owe me for skipping last week.”
Unfair. ”I didn’t skip, Clint, I got held up by an unavoidable …thing.”
”Still skipping.” Clint tossed a pair of the same fingerless gloves.
”But why here?” Peter asked plaintitively.
”Like I said, you love me. Plus, sounds like you got something to prove to a few people here.” He glanced at Flash.
”Clint...”
”Come on, Pete. How about if I promise I’ll only do jiu-jitsu.”
”Clint...why?”
Clint’s expression got serious while his tone remained cheerful. “You know why.”
Flash. This was all about Flash. This was Clint’s version of Natasha shoving Flash to the ground. It only helped that it embarrassed Peter in the process.
And it would only be more embarrassing to turn him down, now.
”Fine.”
Why was his life like this?