Welcoming Committee
Clint ditched them on the next floor, saying he had to “go grab someone.” His toothy grin and parting wink definitely weren't helping Peter’s stress levels.
The rest of the ride up was itchy and full of questions he couldn't even begin to explain. Where'd you learn to fight like that? How do you even know the Avengers? What kind of internship goes to the gym every week? Peter did his best to answer them, and it was kinda awesome, but awkward to say the least.
He glared meaningfully at Natasha, as if to say, Is this normal for you? She merely dipped her head in assent, and he was suddenly achingly grateful for the privacy gig he had going with Mr. Stark.
Bang!
Everyone jumped as what sounded like a firework replaced the pleasant ding of the doors opening.
Bang!
Nat strode out confidently into the harsh, fluorescent lighting, not even flinching when a third ear-shattering bang! rang through the air.
When nobody moved to follow her, she looked over her shoulder at them. “It’s perfectly safe, guys.”
If anything, people huddled further back at that.
“W-what is that?” Seymour squeaked, asking everyone’s question, though Peter already knew. The few times he'd seen this room had been unforgettable, and not in a good way.
“It's a shooting range,” Tiny realized in awe. He stepped back as they all turned to him, looking a bit flustered at the attention. “I go with my brother sometimes. Only it's a lot smaller than this one.”
Now, Peter knew what shooting ranges looked like, but the Avengers shooting range looked like nothing he'd ever seen before simply due to its sheer scale. A few meters from them were the shooting stalls, perched side-by-side in a uniform line. Beyond the stalls lay the vast expanse of the range itself: great silver plains of shining, bulletproof steel, flanked by the stalls on one side and a row of tiny pinpricks on the other.
The pinpricks, Peter realized, were fist-sized targets.
“Mmm. Correct. James?”
The gunshots had ceased into silence, and a dark head with bright orange earmuffs popped out from the farthest stall.
“Приветик," said a familiar voice.
Natasha called. “Приветик. Какую модель вы используете?”
“Глок 17. Четвертое поколения,” the familiar voice replied. “Кто с тобой?”
“Школьная туристическая группа,” she replied. “Приходи сказать привет.”
Gasps erupted as the figure stepped into sight.
Dark hair pulled back in a bun, sharp jawline softened by a beard, and a silver arm that glinted from under his jacket sleeve.
Beside Peter, Ned stumbled and yanked on Peter’s elbow so hard he felt his circulation nearly stop.
“It’s the Winter Soldier!” Ned whisper-screamed.
”I know,” Peter whispered back. “Stop screaming.”
”Sorry.”
But Ned wasn’t the only one. The din had grown so much that Peter almost didn’t catch the “hey, Pete” Bucky threw his way. Peter, face flaming, gave him a little wave.
Bucky propped the lemon-yellow goggles onto his head and flicked the safety on his gun, before stuffing it into the holster strapped to his thigh.
”Does Clint know you’re here?” he asked, and Natasha snorted. “I take that as a yes. Please, don’t tell me what happened. I don’t want to know what nightmare he came up with.”
There was a reason Bucky was a badass. Most people thought it was because of his fighting skills, but no. It was because he wasn’t hellbent on embarrassing Peter.
”Does Sam know?”
Oh, shit, that’s who Clint probably went to go get. “Oh my god,” Peter said for what felt like the millionth time. “I am actually going to die today.”
Bucky clapped him on the shoulder, luckily not with his metal arm. “Nah. You’ll be fine. Maybe comatose by the time all's said and done, but mostly fine.”
”James,” Nat warned.
Bucky ignored her, turning instead to the team. “Which one of you wanted to know what gun it was?”
Charles squeaked as everyone pushed him forward. “Um, I-uh—“
Bucky grinned. “Here kid.” He held out his handgun to Charles, who recoiled like it was an exotic venomous snake of some sort.
”James,” Nat said in a long-suffering tone. “Don’t offer weapons to children.”
”But he asked what it was.”
”That doesn’t mean he wants to see it.” Nat rolled her eyes. “He just heard gunshots and wanted to know where they were coming from.”
”Well,” Buck said, sliding the gun back into his holster with a shfff sound. Charles immediately relaxed. “It’s never too late to learn.”
Poor Charles started tensing up again as Bucky reached for something in the opposite holster, but Nat put a hand on the other assassin’s arm. “James. We are not teaching children how to shoot each other today. I already had to beat up one child, and I don’t want to have to file an incident report labeled 'unsolicited gun activity.'”
”You beat up a student?” Bucky looked horrified. “Natasha, we don’t do that!”
”He was kind of asking for it.”
”Natasha, no. Why?”
She started arguing, but he held up his hand again. “Never mind. I really really don’t want to know this one. C’mon,” he told Peter’s group. “I’ve got someone I want you guys to say hi to.”
***
One floor up was an open common area with a TV, a ring of green, Italian leather sofas, and one Steve Rogers reclining with a cup of coffee and a thick, scholarly-looking volume.
The moment Steve saw the group, he stood up, putting down his book and squinting at the group. “Buck? What’s going on?”
”Hey Steve.”
Ned practically swooned, and MJ and Peter steadied him before he toppled onto his face in front of a national icon.
Cap glided over, all suave patriotism and bad-assery condensed in each step. Even in fuzzy weekend attire, he held an aura of quiet, powerful authority that made Peter want to follow him anywhere, trust his lead to do anything. Jump into a shark tank? No problem, Cap. Say the word.
And this was when he was wearing jeans and a bright red sweater. When he was wearing the uniform...well, Peter wasn’t sure anybody would have the willpower to disobey him at all.
Then,
”Pete?”
There it is.
”That you?”
No, it’s not. It’s a Life Model Decoy. “Hi, Steve.”
A genuinely perplexed expression came over Cap’s face as he made his way over. “Are you...touring?”
”My school—“
”Peter! Think fast!” A voice bellowed, and something barreled headlong into his side, knocking him stumbling and skidding away from the group. He rolled for a few dizzying seconds, elbows and knees, until he came to a stop a few meters away from the worn bootlaces of very smug looking Sam Wilson, gloating over him with arms crossed.
”Dude!” This was out of control. “Really?”
Clank.
Peter only had time to think oh, shit! before the ceiling vent cover above popped off and a flash of blonde, purple Barton dropped from above, and slammed Peter back down to the ground.
”Get ‘im!” he heard Clint shout, and suddenly two more bodies crashed on top of him. Then three. Then four. Then countless more, until Peter was squished under a mound of limbs, flailing and kicking and hollering.
It was getting hard to breathe. They were roaring with laughter, the bastards.
Finally, he found what looked like someone’s calf and slapped at it frantically in surrender.
Faintly, he heard, “He yields!” followed by another of burst of laughter, and the pile began to disperse. When the last person (Clint) rolled off, Peter began coughing for air.
All around him him, the “Welcoming Committee” got to their feet: Shuri, Wanda, Sam (naturally), Clint (all his fault), Scott (didn’t know he was going to be here), and Bucky (backstabbing traitor).
”All of you are terrible,” he managed between hacks. “And you.” He pointed at Bucky. “I trusted you!”
”Focus, kid,” Clint teased as Peter pushed himself up and brushed off his jeans. The field trip had officially transformed into a full-frontal “Kill Peter!” Expedition.
Then, like a brass cymbal in Swan Lake, or a humpback erupting in the middle of the harbor, a booming bass bellowed from the stairwell. ”YOUNG PETER!!!”
Several people screamed.
And there was Thor to deal with.