Peter's training was going well. After two weeks of working with the medicine ball and learning good fighting form, he had graduated to real dummies, and he was working on kicking without destroying things. It was harder for him than controlling his punches, but he was working on it. He was warming up to her quickly, and seemed marginally less afraid of the rest of the base. He didn't stick to her like a little shadow anymore, but he did still insist on taking meals in her room. He wasn't required to like anyone else at the Red Room as long as he didn't impede operations, so Grigori didn't care about Peter's shyness.

The other agents were not as indifferent. They mocked the scared little boy who clung to the coattails of the Black Widow. They might have tried to mock the wounded Widow who let a scared child follow her like a lost puppy— if they hadn't known that she'd make them suffer if they said a word about it. The only reason they'd made the mistake of mocking Peter was because they didn't know that they would be made to regret it. Nair in the shampoo works just as well on vain special operatives as it does on the nasty girl from cheer camp. There was also some minor psychological torment because Natasha didn't mess around when it came to her reputation or her young charge. It wasn't like she had any friends to lose anyway.

Peter's growing confidence in his own control made him open up more around her. He was more talkative, telling her stories and science facts. He smiled more. Thanks to the amount of snacks Natasha had secured for him, he was healthier, too. He was moving around more freely and breathing easier. The bags under his eyes had vanished with the ample sleep he was finally getting, still curled into her side every night.

Natasha was healing, too. The pain in her leg was all but gone unless she walked on it much. She hated the cast and crutches with a vengeance, but she was now a quarter of the way through her recovery time. She just had to be patient. Somehow, it was easier than she'd imagined it would be.

"What are you reading?" Peter asked one day, taking a break from the book on espionage she'd put in front of him. He was having a hard time because it was in Spanish, and he was still clumsy with the language, but translating it was part of the learning process.

She looked over the top of her book and then turned it around to show him. "It's a book of poetry and short stories by Anton Chekhov. It's an indulgence of mine."

"You just read it for fun?" he clarified as his eyes scanned the pages.

"Yes. Would you like to read with me?" she offered, noting how he looked like he wanted to flip the page and see more.

"Could I?" he asked, and it was progress from a week ago when he would have backed off and apologized for wanting something.

"Of course," she told him with a smile, patting the bed next to her.

He hopped up and scooted next to her, tucking himself under her arm and holding up the right side of the book while she held the left. He read just a little slower than her, so she would watch him consume the words with fascination until he turned the page. Eventually, it was time for a snack break, so she gently recommended that he go back to his less fun book after he ate, while she filled out some paperwork. He huffed a bit, but went without complaint, and she ruffled his hair fondly as he passed her.

It was high time she admitted to herself that she had a soft spot for this kid like an overripe plum. He was just too damn endearing. How was she supposed to remain cold and detached when he sleepily mumbled "night, Ms. Natasha" as he snuggled into her side at night? Maybe she was breaking the cardinal spy rule about getting attached, but the Red Room had made the mistake of making him her responsibility and telling her that he had her serum. She felt a connection, and she felt responsible for him. She wanted to see him do well at this, in spite of the ugliness of the business. It would at least mean he was safe.

When Peter snuck into an auxiliary lab and made her better crutch cushions and a sticky stabilizing sole for her cast, she finally had to admit to herself that she was starting to think of him as her kid. Not like a son, or anything. Just hers. Her little spider. Around the one month mark, that's what she started calling him. It was an accident— it was supposed to remain part of her internal monologue and not be voiced into reality.

"Well done, malenkiy pauk," she told him as he demonstrated a spinning kick he'd been working hard on for a week.

He grinned at her, and she was so taken aback at the brightest smile she'd ever seen on him that she blurted, "What?"

"You called me your little spider," he informed her smugly. "It was cute."

"We're both spiders," she muttered. "That's why they put us together in the first place."

"Spider solidarity," he giggled, peering at her sideways.

She glared with a playful gleam in the corner of her eye. "When this cast is off, I'm looking forward to pinning you to that mat to wipe the smug look off your face."

"You're welcome to try," he teased, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

He was more okay with the idea of fighting her than anyone else because he knew she was just as durable as him, but he'd still never seemed this eager to spar with her. She played it cool, not wanting to spook him by reacting to it.

"That's a confidence you've yet to earn. You only say that because you've never seen me in action. And don't call me cute. I have a reputation to maintain, and the harder I have to work at it, the more blood the cleaners have to scrub out of the floor."

"Ominous," he remarked cheerfully. "Love it."

She actually laughed at that, and he looked so proud of himself that she couldn't help but keep her smile. She got him back on task and started to teach him about combo moves, not letting up until he could execute at least three on command by dinner. He was a fast learner, coming along well. She could only hope that he'd be ready to fight actual opponents soon.

The moment she finished eating dinner with Peter, there was a knock on the door. An agent let himself in and announced that Grigori had requested her presence. He left without more than a nod, and she stood to follow. Peter handed her the crutches with a worried look, and she shot him a reassuring smile.

"I'm sure it's just a routine report," she lied. "Nothing to worry about."

The dramatic bastard was standing with his back to her when she entered his office, and she rolled her eyes at his pretentious attempt at intimidation.

"Sir," she greeted dryly. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Widow. Please, have a seat."

She sat, and only then did he turn to face her, leaning both hands on the desk.

"I'll skip to the point, agent. I've been observing your behavior around the asset, and it seems obvious that you've developed... affection for him. That wasn't part of your directive."

She shrugged, unintimidated. "You said to bond with him. That only works if it goes both ways. He isn't going to trust someone who doesn't care about him."

He lost his temper, snapping, "It wasn't supposed to be real!"

"So I happen to like spending time with a boy who may be one of my future coworkers— and according to the superiors, my full time pupil. What of it?" she asked archly.

"You know that love is for children," he hissed, knuckles tightening on the desk.

"Peter is a child," she countered. "You got to him too late to make him a perfect psychopath. If you want loyalty, that's going to come from emotional connection to someone here. You made that someone me. I don't see what the problem is."

"The problem is that you were supposed to make him into a fighter, not your pet!" he finally yelled, pounding a fist on the desk in a way that was clearly meant to make her flinch.

She wasn't impressed.

"I still have three months to get him ready for field work, if you recall. You thought I was the best for the job, and you ought to trust my process."

He forcibly cooled down and walked around the desk to loom over her. She still wasn't impressed.

"And if I told you tomorrow that the superiors have decided that the asset is no longer valuable?"

She met his gaze levelly and informed him crisply, "Then I suppose you'd lose two valuable assets due to poor judgment. I am a woman, and we are prone to hysterics, according to you— yes, I've seen your social media posts. If something happened to my only pupil, I simply don't know what I might do while distraught."

He turned an alarming shade of purple. "Don't be foolish, Natalia. Don't throw away your career for an experiment gone wrong."

"Hmm, I don't suppose I'll have to if you behave sensibly, will I?" she hummed, cocking her head at him. "You can't assess that anything has gone wrong without giving me time, either."

He leaned into her space and growled, "Get results. Now. Or else you'll both be sent to reprogramming and rewritten into something more convenient."

"Certainly, sir. I'll see myself out," she told him calmly, rising in a way that forced him back a step.

She made it around the corner before she let the snarl curl onto her lip. A couple of frightened agents took one look at her expression and darted down a different corridor. Smart move on their part. How dare that utterly replaceable man threaten Peter? She already had two plans threading through her mind to have him disgraced before she glanced up and saw Peter standing at the end of the hall. Her expression melted into concern when she saw that he looked as if he'd been crying. He waited for her to hobble to him before turning away and walking to their room. Hell, now she was thinking of it as theirs and not just hers.

She sat beside him on the bed with a sigh. "How much did you hear?"

"Everything," he mumbled guiltily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just followed you to make sure you'd be okay."

"That's very sweet, Peter. I'm not angry, I promise. I'm just sorry you heard something that upset you."

"You didn't have to do that!" he burst out suddenly, eyes desperate. "You didn't have to put yourself in danger to protect me. I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

"Oh, malenkiy pauk," she cooed, stroking his hair, "they're the ones in danger if they ever threaten you like that again."

"But I heard him say they'd mess with our heads if I don't get good at this by the time your leg is better," he protested. "I'm not gonna let them wash your brain, Ms. Natasha. Starting tomorrow, I'll fight real people. I promise to be good."

"Peter, you don't have to—"

"But I do," he insisted. "That's why they brought me to you. I'm gonna follow the orders so that we're safe and nobody takes you away."

Her heart clenched and she swallowed her protests to say, "Okay. We'll get you sparring with some agents first thing tomorrow. I'm proud of you."

This was what she'd wanted from the beginning, the only thing that would keep him safe from the harsh pragmatism of the Red Room. So why did it make her sick to her stomach? Oh, right— this was step one in turning him into a killer like her. They'd never settle for anything less.

There was a long silence before Peter spoke again, "Hey, Ms. Natasha?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"The mean man said love is for children," he began slowly, "and you said I'm a child."

"You are," she told him, poking him in the side playfully.

"Yes, but—" he cut himself off and shook his head. Then he mumbled, "Does that mean you love me?"

Thoughts warred in her brain. Everything she'd been taught versus the way she felt about making sure this kid stayed safe and happy. She knew what she was supposed to be, but she knew that what she'd become was something else. Something softer. Someone that cared about more than herself and the mission. She wrapped her arms around Peter and took a shuddering breath, pressing her lips to the top of his head.

"Yeah, Peter," she confessed to his hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he mumbled into her sternum.

She was shaking, unable to believe in something so simple. In loving and being loved. It was more terrifying than rappelling off a skyscraper, more nerve-wracking than defusing a bomb, more heart-stopping than taking out a whole gang with two handguns and a throwing knife. Letting herself love anyone was the scariest thing she'd ever done, but it was too late to get out now.

~0~

Natasha was washed in pride as opponent after opponent fell to Peter's attacks. He'd struggled at first because she hadn't taught him much defense. No point with a dummy that couldn't hit back. But once he'd had time to get used to blocking and dodging, he was a natural. He took on each fight with focused determination, and she got distracted by his serious little face instead of paying attention to his moves sometimes. It made him look older, and she had a sudden terrible surety that he'd be fighting this hard for a long time.

It was good that he was doing so well, though. She had to remind herself of that, but it was good. It had taken him about a week to really get into the swing of things, but he was making it. Only three more weeks until she got the blasted cast off and she could do more personal training. This was great practice for him, but he needed experience fighting other enhanced people in case he ran into that on missions. She was impatient to get back on her feet so she could stop feeling helpless and start Peter's training in earnest.

After Peter stood up victorious from his sixth sparring match in a row, she signaled the agents to disperse. She strolled up to him and congratulated, "Good job, little spider. Tomorrow, we will take a break from combat and I'll teach you some spy tricks."

"Like how to go undercover and stuff?" he asked, seeming truly excited about learning these things for the first time.

"Yes, and how to read body language, and how to bypass encryptions. Among other things," she informed him with a smile. "We started with combat because you feared it, and because it's what the superiors wanted to see the most improvement in. But there's more to being a spy than fighting."

He tilted his head at her. "Like the languages?"

"Like the languages," she confirmed. "I think you'll really like the lessons about gadgets."

His eyes lit up, and she could tell she'd read the situation right. Cool science was cool science, no matter if it took place on a field trip or a secret Russian intelligence base.

That night, he asked shyly if she would read one of the stories to him out loud, and she agreed, but not without asking why.

Blushing, he mumbled, "I'm still not good at pronouncing things, so I could learn by listening? Um, also I like your voice. It's nice."

She smiled fondly and opened the book without further comment— though a different book than the Chekhov stories. She'd managed to find a book of fairytales, thinking them suitable reading for a child. She spun the tale of the Snow Queen to a wide-eyed Peter, and found herself doing different voices for the characters. It struck her that she'd never once imagined what it would be like to read a bedtime story to a child, but here she was doing just that. Despite the swell of conflicting emotions that did battle in her chest, her reading rhythm didn't falter until after Peter had drifted off to sleep, his head lolling against her shoulder.

She pressed a kiss to his temple and couldn't bring herself to curse how soft she'd gotten.

The following weeks, she spent the majority of her time with Peter working on the finer points of espionage. She still took him to the training room at the time when the most superiors and handlers would be watching, to make sure they could have a visual demonstration of his progress. So far, it seemed to be placating them.

As predicted, Peter took to gadgets like a fish to water, and even designed some of his own: a pair of wrist-mounted firing devices for lines of sticky, web-like fibers. He seemed very proud of making something spider-themed, and it was honestly a brilliant invention. She was shocked that a ten year old had made it. Sure, she had known Peter was smart, but not quite at this level. They were still crude, yes, but she had no doubt that he'd keep improving them until they were perfect. On a hunch, she asked him to hide these from command. She could think of dozens of less friendly uses for it than what Peter had in mind, and she could be sure that he'd despise it if his invention was used to hurt people.

He had a harder time learning how to lie. He was good at disguises, cover identities, and altering his body language and expressions, but the more direct forms of lying didn't come easy to him. It was something to work on. He enjoyed lessons on how to tail someone or lose a tail, but it frustrated her that she couldn't take him off base for some real world experience in it. There were only so many conditions of a busy street that she could duplicate in the base. A few other lessons had problems like that, but she'd do the best she could until she could get him some field experience. She was actually looking forward to wilderness survival because it would be almost like taking him camping, which was blessedly close to normal.

Four months had felt like an age to her before, but now Natasha was glad that they had as long as they did. It was a miracle that— as green as he still was— Peter was picking up on this stuff so quickly. Now, the remaining two months were closing around her throat like a noose, and she fretted over having him ready in time. Not that she let it show. Still, there were some good things about hitting the halfway mark of their allotted time. Namely, getting the blasted cast off her leg.

Peter insisted on accompanying her to get it sawed off, and he offered to hold her hand like his mom had done for him at the doctor's office. She accepted, partly to humor him and partly because of how green he went at the sound of the saw when it turned on.

There was scarce privacy in their quarters, and as much as she'd tried to avoid it, she'd glimpsed the myriad scars on his little body: precise, clean lines made by surgical tools. It seemed a fair guess that the Red Room had done that to him. She tried not to let the trembling stoicism on his face make her anger at her organization bleed into her expression. She merely squeezed his hand didn't wince when he squeezed back just a bit too hard.

Her leg came free of the cast and she flexed it, stretching every muscle. She rubbed some feeling back into it and let it bend for the first time in two months. It was sore, but it was a relief just to be able to move. She pushed herself off the examination table and stood, left leg buckling instantly. Peter swooped in and supported her on that side, helping her find her balance.

The doctor— the same one who had informed her about her assignment to train Peter— frowned and shook her head. "Black Widow, you must take things slowly at first. It will take at least two weeks of physical therapy before you can walk normally."

Grigori chose that moment to barge in. "Well, we cannot let the asset's training slide while you are recovering," he declared in falsely sympathetic tones. He curled his lip when Peter tucked himself behind Natasha and continued, "We're going to assign another agent to his training until you can walk, at least. We want you to focus on your recovery."

Through gritted teeth, she requested, "I'd like to vet whomever you pick and discuss technique with him."

"That won't be necessary—"

"Remind me who the superiors put in charge of Peter's training," she cut in coolly. "If I can't oversee it directly, I'm going to be part of the decisions made about it. I'm not going to have you undermining my work. And if your agent ignores my directions and screws this up— and he will screw it up if he doesn't listen to me— he's off the job immediately."

His jaw worked in frustration, but he eventually growled, "I accept your terms. You'll meet with the agent I had in mind this afternoon."

He stalked out, and Peter didn't let go of her the whole time that the doctor explained the physical therapy routine. He didn't let go of her until she sat down in their room, supporting her weight on the side of her bad leg until she was at the bed. He fidgeted with his hands and started pacing, glancing at the ceiling at intervals.

"It won't bother me if you want to be on the ceiling," she told him.

His head whipped toward her. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "I'm a spy. I notice things. If you'd be more comfortable up there, it won't bother me. I don't know why you'd think it would."

He hunched in on himself and kicked at the ground. "The guys who tried to make me fight before... they said it was creepy. They'd hit me harder if I tried to go on the ceiling."

"Idiots," she grumbled. "For one thing, if they're unsettled by a child on the ceiling, they're weak. For another, your ability to stick to surfaces is a tactical advantage, and discouraging it is stupid. I actually think you should get more practice being on the ceiling."

A relieved smile bloomed across his face and he leapt straight up, twisting midair so that he landed on the ceiling in a crouch. He grinned at her, upside down, and she smiled back. He shifted his weight until he was comfortable, dangling by his fingers and toes, but held close to the ceiling, body parallel to it. His eyes closed, his breathing deepened, and then he actually dozed off. Natasha shook her head in amazement at that, smirking to herself as she drafted a plan to tell the agent who would be borrowing Peter for two weeks. She had a bad feeling, and not just because it would be strange to be apart from Peter for so long.

She woke Peter long enough to tell him she was going to her meeting so he wouldn't freak out if he woke up alone. Then she made her way to the meeting room with the help of only a cane. A tall, blonde, musclebound agent was waiting for her, and she suppressed a frown. She knew this one, and she knew that he would be as likely to listen to her suggestions as jump out of a plane without a parachute.

"Mikhail," she greeted crisply.

"Black Widow," he returned, blinking in surprise at the familiar address. "It is an honor to train your pupil."

"Manage your expectations," she advised. "He's young, yet. Still timid. He's a gifted fighter, but he's not anything like me. He requires a gentler hand for now."

Mikhail frowned in confusion. "I had heard rumors that you coddled him, but I thought they were wrong."

She glared. "He's a ten year old who didn't grow up like me, or even you. He didn't volunteer for this or get recruited young enough that this is the only thing he knows. He was taken from his family after the Red Room killed them. Then he was experimented on. He's being asked to fight and kill for a country he's never even been outside to see." she spat. "There is a difference between coddling and knowing that compassion is more likely to get through to him than force."

He was slightly cowed by her ferocity. "Forgive me for speaking in haste."

"Sure, if you can attempt to do things my way while you're responsible for Peter. He can handle tough exercises, but he responds well to positive reinforcement. He doesn't have any weapons training yet, so if you throw a knife at him, he will likely end up stabbed. He's fine with knocking an opponent out, but if you ask him to damage someone worse than that, he'll balk. If you have to punish him, give him more work instead of hurting him. He dissociates if you strike him outside a sparring situation, and then he'll be useless for the rest of the session."

"I will attempt to be... gentle," Mikhail said slowly. "I cannot promise I will be as adept at it as you."

"Please just try your best," she said tiredly, knowing that he was going to hate every second of it and would probably screw it up within the first week if not the first day.

For whatever godforsaken reason, Peter had to go sleep in the barracks with the others, as part of Mikhail's plan to get him more used to the rest of the agents. Natasha tried to reassure him when he hesitated to leave.

"Hey, I'm your teacher, but there will be times that you have to work with and follow orders from people who aren't me. This is good practice. You'll be back here before you know it."

Natasha kept her ears open for news on Peter's progress while she worked as hard as possible on getting better. She only had to intervene twice, thank god. Once when Mikhail was calling Peter 'asset' instead of his name, and once when he kept Peter in a choke hold for too long and he freaked out and broke Mikhail's arm because he was scared to die. Mikhail was delighted that he was finally 'showing some backbone' but Peter was nearly catatonic with shame. She had to come and borrow him from the barracks to talk him down. She held him in her arms and stroked his hair while he cried into her chest.

"Shh, shh, little spider," she soothed. "I know it's frightening, but losing control is easier when you're afraid. It's alright. Mikhail will heal."

"He wants me to fight like that more, though," he sniffled. "I don't like hurting people like that."

"I know, Peter. And most of the time, you won't have to." She bit her lip before proceeding, "But sometimes you will. Being a spy isn't just knocking people out. It involves interrogation techniques that use pain to force people to confess, and disabling opponents in ways that keep them conscious for whatever reason. Sometimes it involves killing them."

He whimpered and curled tighter around her. She sighed and hugged him closer. This was a band-aid they would have to rip off eventually. Might as well be now.

"Peter, you know my code name is one of the deadliest spiders on the planet. Why do you suppose that is?" She held his chin gently when he looked up at her. "I'm an assassin as well as a spy. I've killed. Numerous times."

He cringed backwards, and she let him retreat even though it hurt her. He regarded her with eyes that were as wary as they'd been the day they met. He was trembling, and shaking his head in denial. He kept backing away until there were five feet between them. He stood in front of her with a positively hopeless expression that broke her heart.

"But you're so nice," he said helplessly. "You can't be— you're not a bad person. You're here because they took you like they took me."

"Oh, Peter," she sighed, dragging a hand down her face, "I am worse than you know. I've done terrible things, only some of which I regret. I told the truth about how I got here, but I got here younger than you did. I always had the right instincts for this job, and I don't think that you do. I had nothing to do with bringing you here, but I'm sorry it happened. Everything I've done since I met you is an attempt to keep you alive in here. I became what I am to survive, and as much as I wish it weren't true, you'll have to do the same."

"No, no, no," he hiccupped, shaking his head violently. "I won't— I can't..."

"I don't want to ask this of you, but if you're going to get to keep your free will, you'll have to learn to be ruthless when they ask for ruthless." She was being as earnest as she knew how to be. "It's okay that you're scared; it's perfectly natural. It's wonderful that you don't want to hurt people, and that soft heart of yours is a good thing anywhere else, but it's a liability here. It will only get you hurt."

He sniffled, pausing at length before whispering, "You said you love me."

He looked at her with big, sad eyes that pierced her to her core. Her throat closed, but she spoke around the lump in it.

"I do. I'm sorry I'm not better at it."

"I need— I need to go back... I need some space," he stammered, avoiding her gaze.

"Okay," she rasped, trying to project calm understanding.

He ran away from her, and she didn't think she'd ever felt so alone.

~0~

She didn't see Peter until she'd been cleared to resume his training. He met her in the training room, walking with his back straight, stride steady. He didn't look at her with a trace of warmth, but there was no hatred in his voice when he spoke to her. There was nothing.

"I'm ready to resume my training, Black Widow."

Her heart clenched at the use of her codename, but she responded levelly. "Good. Take your ready stance. We'll be working on weapons training today, but you should warm up first."

He went through the motions, and followed her instructions obediently as she showed him how to hold a knife, how to defend against knife attacks both when you were armed and when you were not, and how to steal a knife from an opponent when you didn't have one. She wasn't as rusty as she'd feared, holding her own against Peter fairly easily.

When it was time to break for lunch, he walked to the mess hall without her, and it shouldn't have hurt as much as it did to have to reclaim her usual spot to the side of the room, where nobody would bother her. Peter was similarly alone on the opposite side of the room. They did more training, and the same thing happened at dinner, after which he went back to the barracks. Somehow, it was harder to sleep alone now than it had been during Peter's two week absence. She tried reading some Chekhov poems aloud to herself, but it just felt hollow to recite it to an empty room.

Two more weeks passed in this agonizing manner, and the only bright side was that the superiors were very pleased with Peter's progress. They praised his new, professional attitude and newfound independence. Peter was acting exactly how they wanted, and she should have been glad because it would keep him safe, but all she could feel was a yawning, pitch black empty space pulsing at her side where her little shadow used to walk.

Finally, one night, the loneliness got to her to the point that she gave up on sleep and got up to wander the halls, deftly avoiding the guard patrols she had long ago memorized. She found herself in an auxiliary training room, going at the punching bag with a vicious energy. She was dripping sweat and running out of frustration by the time she heard little footsteps padding towards the room, but she didn't turn around when the door creaked open softly. Instead, she kept relentlessly punishing the bag.

"Wow Natasha, what did that punching bag ever do to you?" Peter joked, and after the days of radio silence, she couldn't take the lightness in his tone.

"So we're doing first names, now, are we?" she snapped, not turning from her task of hammering fists and knees into the bag.

"Um," he faltered, "I just— I'm sorry for dropping the 'Ms.' but I kinda thought we were past that..."

She finally turned to pierce him with an incredulous look. "Peter, you've called me nothing but my codename for two weeks."

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. "Well, yeah, but that was just around the others. It's not like anyone's listening to us here... are they?"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, utterly baffled.

"The plan. You know, pretending to be all professional and assassin-y around the boss guys so we don't get in trouble?" He tilted his head at her. "Did I misunderstand?"

"Do you mean to tell me," she began woodenly, "that you have been avoiding me and acting like we barely know each other because you were trying to act how the superiors wanted?"

"Yeah, to protect you," he said like it was obvious. "So they don't wash your brain for not making me act like a real Red Room spy."

To her eternal embarrassment, Natasha actually shed a few tears before she wrestled her emotions under control, muffling her wrecked breathing with a tight grip. Peter looked alarmed and rushed to comfort her, hands hovering uncertainly.

"Natasha, what's wrong?"

She cut him off by pulling him to her chest and hugging him so tight he squirmed. When she finally pulled back, she had collected herself and Peter looked as confused as she had been.

"Peter, I thought—"

I thought you hated me. She swallowed her grief and continued on a slightly different track.

"I was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with me. The last time we spoke, you were so horrified at what I'd done that you ran away from me. Are you not still upset about my actions as an assassin?"

"I mean, I'm still kinda upset," he admitted, looking away. "But I'm not freaked out anymore, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that even though I don't know everything about you, I know you, and I trust you. So if you say that you did what you had to and you think that the only way we're going to make it is for me to get with the program, then I'm gonna try my best."

She sighed, letting the tension drop out of her body, and she'd never been possessed by so strong a desire to shake someone and hug them at the same time. This sweet boy had overestimated her ability to read his true intentions, which were noble, but he'd inadvertently caused her so much heartache.

"Peter, if this happens again, I'm going to need you to explain a little better before you embark on a plan to pretend you can barely stand me. I had no idea what you were up to, and I was worried. When did you get that good at acting?"

"I learned from the best," he announced, puffing out his chest and winking at her.

She shook her head fondly and ruffled his hair. "Flattery doesn't work on me, but I can let it slide this once."

"I'm sorry for making you think I was mad at you. I didn't mean to. I guess I should have apologized for running out, huh?"

"You have nothing to apologize for, except perhaps for depriving me of my Chekhov buddy," she joked.

"Maybe I can come back now that they know I'm not dependent on you? They've seen that I'm not clinging to you like a little kid anymore. Maybe that means they won't get suspicious if I move back to your room?"

"You can claim that your sensitive senses let you sleep better with fewer bunkmates, or that I give you extra lessons in espionage theory at night, both of which are true," she suggested.

"We should still eat in the mess hall, though, so they don't think I'm retreating. We could sit at the same table, though," he offered shyly.

"I'd like that, little spider." She cupped his cheek and smiled at him. "I've missed you."

"Me too," he mumbled, nuzzling her palm before pulling away. "We should probably sleep, but I'll see you in the morning?"

"Bright and early. I'm gonna kick your ass," she teased.

"Not if I kick yours first!"

"We're going to have to work on your comebacks so you don't fail the banter portion of your assessment," she mused as she walked away.

"Pfft, there's no banter section!" He hesitated. "Right, Natasha? Right? Natasha!"

The final month was more specialized training for dealing with enhanced opponents and making use of his own special abilities, not including his web-shooters, because those were a secret. He and Natasha sparred a lot for this, though sometimes they brought in the Winter Soldier for variety. He somehow seemed endeared by Peter under the icy exterior. He didn't go easy on the kid, though, and never lost to him, but he was a good teacher through repetition and occasional tips, like he'd been for her. Peter was the only person aside from Natasha who liked the Soldier and regarded him with no fear. This impressed the superiors greatly, though not as much as the fact that he actually seemed to like Peter back.

When Peter knocked him to the ground with a leg sweep and a quick knee-first tackle, he said, "Good job," which startled everyone in earshot.

Peter beamed and stepped back, extending a hand to help him to his feet. The nearest agents lost their damn minds when the Winter Soldier accepted the child's hand and went so far as to pat his head. It was the closest thing to affection he'd displayed for anyone who wasn't Natasha in ten years.

"Thank you, Sir!" Peter chirped, oblivious to the momentousness of the action, sliding back into his ready stance immediately.

Peter performed exactly as he was supposed to, and the closer they got to the deadline, the less Natasha was nervous about his assessment. He seemed able to handle anything she threw at him. He was still not anywhere near her level yet, but he was as good as any first year agent.

On the day of the test, Natasha watched from the side with the Soldier as Peter stood across from a massive group of agents that would attack him in pairs and groups at random. He would be starting with no weapons, but was encouraged to steal some from his opponents. They were not Red Room agents. They were all prisoners who had been promised freedom if they killed the boy. If she could afford freer expression of her emotions, she would have been chewing on her thumb.

The Soldier rested his metal hand at the small of her back, briefly, and it comforted her more than it should for her handler to see her distress. When she called 'Start!' the combatants rushed her little spider, and he waited until the last possible second to spin aside and knock two of their heads together, incapacitating them. Red Room agents hovered to the side, darting in and dragging the injured men into a pile out of the way as soon as they were too hurt to continue, whether unconscious or not.

Peter stuck to his training, managing to take out everyone that came at him while taking on minimal damage. He discarded any guns he was confronted with quickly, but he stole every knife someone pointed at him and kept it, turning it back on the unfortunate souls who threatened him. He always cut tendons, in a way that wouldn't make them bleed out, just make them useless in a fight.

She couldn't help the pride that burned in her chest as she watched him use moves she and her handler taught him to survive the Red Room's particular brand of having to prove your worth. They couldn't just take her word that he was worth everything.

When no more enemies remained standing, he relaxed, panting, and looked to her with a hopeful smile. She gave the tiniest shake of her head, letting him know that it wasn't over yet. He resumed his serious, focused expression. Turning away, he cracked his neck and stretched, getting back in the mindset of the fight. The door at the end of the room opened and a hulking man with silvery skin stomped out. Her eyes widened minutely. She had been expecting an enhanced opponent for Peter's final test, but not the disgraced Russian supersoldier Omega Red.

He looked the worse for wear: long blonde hair lank and matted, eyes sunken and cheeks hollow. He was still muscular, thanks to his serum and his mutation, but he wasn't well. His glowing red eyes landed on Peter and his lips curled into a smirk that looked... hungry. Peter sized him up, letting the man prowl closer. When he glanced at the man's empty hands not with relief, but wariness, she knew he must suspect something of Red's abilities.

"I am going to crush you and drink the marrow from your bones," he growled in a voice that snapped and crackled like a bonfire.

Peter only smirked, settling into a ready stance. "Actually, draining the juices from prey is a spider thing. Pick a better threat."

With a roar, he threw himself at Peter, who neatly leapt over him, slamming both feet into his back like a springboard, sending the man skidding to the ground as he landed lightly on the other end of the mat. Without waiting for Red to recover, he threw one of the knives he'd collected earlier, watching it skid off his skin.

The man laughed as Peter's eyes narrowed, looking for weaknesses. Red charged, flexible metal tentacles extending from his wrists. Peter didn't seem surprised, taking it in stride and rolling out of the way of a whiplike strike. He snatched up a baton that had been discarded earlier and used it to catch the next strike from a tentacle, wrapping it around the stick like a long noodle and then sharply yanking it to bend it faster than it could handle, making a sharp angle in it close to Red's arm. It could no longer retract, making it useless.

Red howled in rage and pain, lashing out and sending Peter flying back. Natasha heard ribs crack and only the Soldier's hand on her elbow kept her from shooting forward. She forced herself to relax her tense muscles. Peter had to do this himself or face eternal scrutiny. He could handle it; she'd taught him well.

Sure enough, he bounced right back, showing no sign of being in pain as he dodged another strike, this time jamming his knife in the little gap the tentacle emerged from, wedging it so deeply that the other tentacle was now useless as well. With both of his arms out of commission, Omega Red would not have lasted much longer anyway, but when Peter sent him to the ground on his back so hard that they all heard his breathing wheeze and rattle, it was clear it was over.

Red didn't seem to get that message, and he tried to struggle upwards only to find a knifepoint at his eye. He stilled, looking up at a stone-cold Peter as if seeing him for the first time. His expression was utterly blank, but his voice was nothing short of menacing.

"I'm guessing your eyes aren't as impenetrable as your skin, since they don't seem to be made of metal," he observed, leaning in close. His voice still carried as he threatened, "Are you going to yield, or do I have to blind you first, old man?"

Wisely, Red chose to tap out, and Peter climbed off of him gracefully, leaving the cleanup to the agents who collected all of his previous opponents. He turned to the superiors and bowed with a little smirk that was somehow dangerous. The old men all nodded their approval and withdrew to confer in whispers.

When they returned, Peter was given a passing grade, a uniform, and a new codename.

"Congratulations, Tarantula. You are the first successful graduate of the Wolf Spider program. You will continue your training under the Black Widow. Your first mission briefing is tomorrow."

"Thank you, sirs. I look forward to protecting the interests of the Red Room."

The superiors departed, pleased with that answer, and Peter took his new suit back to the room he shared with Natasha, accepting congratulations from all the agents he passed. None were quite as satisfying as the praise from the Winter Soldier, who was easily the second-nicest teacher after Natasha.

The second their door shut, she was fussing over his injuries. She wrapped his ribs, the only really bad hit, as she grilled him about his weird intensity in that last fight.

"You didn't sound like yourself," she worried, concerned that she was rubbing off on him in the worst way.

"Oh, I was just using the Scary Voice, like you," he explained proudly. "It made me seem all threatening and badass, but it also gave Mr. Rossovich an out to avoid worse injuries."

"How do you even know about him?"

"I, um, sometimes read files when I'm in the lab working on stuff," he admitted sheepishly. "I don't want them to be able to surprise us."

She kissed his temple and finished tending to his wounds. "You're very smart, little spider. You did very well today."

"I did, and I didn't have to kill anybody!" he whispered excitedly. "Plus! Now we get to go on missions together. I get to leave the compound with you!"

His excitement was catching and she smiled at him, stroking his hair. "That's right. I'm gonna show you the world, one mission at a time. We have a lot to catch you up on."

Peter couldn't stop smiling if he'd tried, and— well— she couldn't fault him for not trying too hard.