Not Strong Enough

one

There's silence save for the padding of their feet across the mats, the soft exhalation of breaths as they trade blows.

It's almost peaceful, almost relaxing, up until he's slammed down to the mats so hard the sound echoes off the walls.

It hurts, has his pride aching and his temper flaring, but he can't argue that he doesn't need this. His close combat is shoddy at best, his chosen style a variation of gymnastics and long range antagonism, and he isn't under any allusions that he could hold his own while in close range to a combatant. With his powers, maybe, but against someone with equal or more strength? No chance. He knows this, and so do the Avengers.

Natasha is barely sweating, circling him with easy confidence, lips twitching up in a small, barely there smile. "You're thinking too much."

I'm not, he wants to argue, but instead he groans and pulls himself to his feet. Something strains painfully in his chest.

"Am I?" In truth, he's exhausted. Keeping his powers controlled and trying to pull his punches has taken a toll. He has to evaluate every move he makes, every punch, every kick to try and gauge it's damage and how much strength it should pack. It's not easy, not in the slightest, and he's tired of holding back, of letting himself take hits he knows he can avoid, of being thrown around and pinned and beaten.

Puny Parker, he thinks, Looks like you haven't changed very much after all.

"Yes," She says, and doesn't give him any time to process, just lunges straight for him.

It has him jerking back in surprise, a brief flash of instinctual panic rising within him before he manages to think clearly enough to duck low so that she flies over his head.

You're a superhero, he reminds himself. Act like it.

He pivots to face her, hands raised in a mimic of her own form, and there's a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Good," She praises, standing fluidly from where she'd landed. She's like that, he's learned. Graceful, smooth, like every move is second nature. Maybe it is, maybe she's just that good, he doesn't know yet. "Were you using your sense?"

"No," He assures, a little perturbed that she would think he'd cheat, but brushes it off soon after. "Just reflexes."

Natasha hums, and they circle each other a moment longer, her sharp eyes studying his form and picking him apart, before she strikes.

It's over disappointingly fast, his right knee crumpling beneath him and her fist driving hard into his opposite shoulder, forcing him to bend in an uncomfortable arch. A little more force has him falling.

He lands hard, the breath knocked from his lungs and the weight of her atop him a heavy reminder of his failure, and he closes his eyes with a grunt, reaching blindly for her hand. She meets it halfway, catches it firmly in her own, and he squeezes twice.

He doesn't need to see her to know she's smiling. She always does, with him. He thinks maybe it's to help ease some of the anxiety that thrums beneath his skin, or maybe just to simply be kind, but either way he appreciates it. She releases him and clambers off, and when he opens his eyes, there's a hand outstretched to help him up. "That was better, kid. You're lasting longer."

Peter scoffs, let's himself be pulled to his feet. "That's not exactly a compliment."

She shrugs, idly flicks her braid over her shoulder. "But it's an improvement. You can't disagree with progress."

"She's right."

He nearly jumps straight out of his skin, whirling to face the super soldier leaning against the wall.