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Peter was ten the first time he fired a gun.
It wasn't in a bad scenario— just that Ben had decided Peter needed to defend himself beyond hand-to-hand combat (Ben, being a police officer, had signed Peter up for self-defense lessons a few years back) and had taken Peter to a firing range owned by one of his friends. It was technically for military and police personnel, but Ben had been able to get Sam (the friend that owned the range) to let them in.
He had taught Peter the basics— arming and disarming various types of firearms, different ways to hold them, telling the difference between the kinds and how they work, and, of course, how to actually shoot them. Surprisingly, Peter had shown a natural proficiency, both in firing the weapons and in understanding the mechanics. As a result, it had become a tradition for Peter and Ben to go out to the range once a month, just him and Peter.
After the bite, Peter's spidey-senses increased his aiming ability tenfold. There had been a few times Peter had gone to the range by himself to test the full extent of his abilities (Sam gave them access even when the range was technically closed, he trusted Ben to not accidentally shoot himself in the foot) and had been able to hit the bullseye every time, even with his eyes closed, one handed, and in the middle of a flip. As an added bonus, his increased strength and flexibility made it so that he could almost completely absorb the recoil of most guns— at least, all of the ones at the range. And seeing as the range was used for military and police personnel, it had a lot.
When Ben was shot, though… Peter had stopped going to the range. Without Ben there with him, as well as how he had died, the range had lost all of its appeal. May had been worried— she knew how much he had loved going with Ben— but Peter just hadn't been ready.
It had taken almost half a year for May and Sam to convince him to return. Once he finally did— well, he didn't want to leave. The entire space was filled with memories of Ben. His hands correcting Peter's grip, his proud expression when Peter hit a bullseye, his raucous laughter when Peter quipped at him, his obvious love for his job when he shared stories. Being there was like having a piece of Ben back.
After that visit, trips to the range had become an almost weekly occurrence. It helped him mourn, gave him a space to remember Ben. Plus, it was very entertaining to watch everyone's reactions when a high-school age kid shot better than a bunch of highly trained military personnel.
But other than them, Sam, and May, no one knew that Peter could handle a gun. It led to a lot of interesting interactions.
~~~
"…look, Wade, just because you like My Little Pony more than Hello Kitty doesn't mean that it's better. It just means that you have terrible taste."
Wade gasped in offense. "You take that back! My Little Pony is so far superior to Hello Kitty. I mean, think about the…"
Peter stopped listening as his spidey-senses gave out a sudden burst. He straightened up, trying to figure out what was wrong, stretching his hearing.
Wade noticed his sudden alertness and stopped talking, his expression concerned. "Petey? What is it?"
Peter shook his head. "I don't… someone's coming, maybe? The anxiety on steroids isn't always very clear about what I should be anxious about. Something's wrong, though."
Wade nodded, silently pulling on his mask. Peter did the same, continuing to stretch his hearing.
There, a floor below them, a few sets of stomping feet. They were shouting aggressively in— was that Russian? Peter could make out a few of the words, but he was nowhere near fluent.
"find them… boss said… not far… must kill the… faster…" Well, one of those things was not like the others.
Let's see. A group of (probably) angry Russian mobsters looking for someone, probably to kill them. Well, three guesses who they were looking for.
"There's a group of maybe five or six angry Russians a floor below us. They're looking for someone, most likely to kill them," Peter muttered to Wade.
He let out a snort. "Wonder who they're looking for."
Peter grinned at him from behind the mask. "I'll give you three guesses."
He tuned back into the voices, standing up. They were closer now, making their way up the stairwell.
"Okay. They're on our floor."
Wade nodded, standing up and grabbing a handgun from between the couch cushions.
Peter flicked his wrists to arm his web shooters, but nothing happened. He glanced down, and—
Ah, shoot. His web shooters were currently sitting on his desk where he had taken them off to modify the cartridge holder to work with… uh… Well, that was unimportant.
The point was, he didn't have his web shooters, and his suit (except for his mask, he took that everywhere with him) was also sitting on his desk.
"Wade? Could I borrow a gun?"
Wade whipped his head around to stare at Peter. "What? I don't think I heard you right."
"A gun, Wade. I need a gun," Peter replied.
Wade was still frozen in place. "Uh…"
A sigh escaped Peter's lips and he bent down, rummaging in the drawer of the night stand/junk drawer/remote holder.
Score! He pulled out the gun— a 1911 pistol— and popped out the mag to check the ammo. It was almost full, only one or two bullets gone. Good.
Wade was staring at him. "Uh— Peter? Do you know how to use that? It isn't like the movies—"
Peter cut him off. "They're here."
As if on cue, the door burst off it's hinges and the angry Russian mobsters filed in, all holding a mix of handguns and assault rifles. Oh, come on.
Before anyone could react, Peter fired.
One-two-three-four-five-six.
One bullet for each mobster, knocking the guns out of their hands before rebounding and going through their shoulders.
Within ten seconds, all of the would-be hit men were curled up on the floor in pain, their guns scattered around them.
Peter spun the gun around his finger before setting it back down on the nightstand (a move that had taken him far too long to get the hang of). He dusted his hands off, appraising his work. "There we go. Six would-be assassins, delivered straight to your doorstep."
When Wade didn't laugh, Peter turned to him with a frown before letting out a loud laugh.
The merc looked absolutely gobsmacked, his gun hanging limply in his hand. "What— when— why— how did you learn how to do that?"
Peter huffed out another laugh, still grinning. "My uncle taught me. The anxiety on steroids doesn't hurt, either."
Wade shook his head. "Doesn't hurt— baby boy, I've never seen anyone do that. I don't even think I could."
What? No. Peter wasn't that good. He was skilled, sure, but that was all. It wasn't like he was some kind of gun-shooting child prodigy. There's no way he could be better than Wade. His disbelief must have shown through his mask, because Wade shushed him when he started to deny it.
"It's true! You're good, Petey-pie. Really good."
Debatable.
He just shook his head, wandering over to the window. "Can you take care of the assholes?" He asked Wade.
Wade nodded, still shocked. "Yeah. I've gotten worse out of the carpet. Still don't think I'll get my security deposit back, though."
Peter smirked, glancing at the bullet holes and assorted dents on the walls. "Yeah, I think that ship sailed long ago. See you later!"
He jumped out the window, twisting so that he could climb up to the roof.
He really needed to stop forgetting his web shooters.
~~~
Tony clapped his hands together, giving the team a grin. " Glad you could all make it. Now, I know Capsicle has been working on bonding exercises, so I figured— why not make a training simulation?" He took a dramatic pause before clapping twice, making the floor of the gym rise up and shift until it resembled a block of buildings.
Very familiar buildings.
Peter sucked in a quiet breath. This was Queens— his Queens. Peter knew it all like the back of his hand.
He jumped onto the wall, trying to take it all in. The gym had turned into a to-scale replica of a two-by-two four block area. Holly hell, this place was huge.
The rest of the avengers hadn't seemed to notice Peter, instead taking in the city that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Bruce looked like he was taking apart the mechanism in his mind, Clint's eyes shone with all of the possibilities of roofs he could perch on, Steve looked absolutely gobsmacked, Bucky also seemed shocked (but less so, his time in Wakanda had somewhat desensitized him to modern technology), Nat's eyebrows were raised slightly, and Rhodey— well, Rhodey didn't actually look surprised at all. His expression was much more resigned than anything else.
Peter jumped back down, landing lightly behind Clint who spun around, startled. Peter grinned sheepishly at him, and Clint just rolled his eyes and turned back around. Damn, he still must not have been over Peter's latest addition to their ongoing prank war. Really, filling the vents with invisible webbing had been a stroke of genius on Peter's part.
Peter turned his attention back to Tony, who was surveying each of their expressions with a barely controlled look of glee.
Peter mirrored his expression. He had helped Tony come up with the idea for the training exercise, as well as developing and testing it during their lab days.
Giving Peter a subtle wink, he turned to the armory that had just popped up next to him. He pulled the assorted guns off the stand, handing them to their respective recipients— they were all custom made, designed after their recipient's uniform. All except for Rhodey's— his was hot pink with a teddy bear decal on it. Tony had assured Peter it was an inside joke.
Peter lifted up his gun, turning it around and looking over it. The gun was modeled after an AR-15 rifle, but with some… modifications. The weight and design, however, was almost exactly the same (he had made sure it stayed similar to the actual gun while designing it with Tony) so it shouldn't take much getting used to.
Once they had all examined the guns, Tony continued his explanation. "These are modified AR-15s. Me and Peter changed the firing mechanism so that instead of shooting bullets, they shoot beams of infrared light that we keyed into everyone's specific DNA. This means that if you get hit, it will send out a signal to the mainframe and will disable your gun, taking you out of the game."
Clint, Bucky, and Steve looked confused.
"Glorified laser tag," Peter and Tony chorused.
Tony clapped his hands again, bringing a big scoreboard down from the ceiling and a smaller one on each of the walls. "Three hits, you're out. Every man— and woman— for themselves, last person standing wins. Powers are allowed, everyone gets a thirty second head start. Three, two, one, go!"
Peter took off, slinging his gun over his back with a well placed web and swinging up to the top of the buildings with an almost feral grin on his face.
Tony had made a huge mistake modeling the simulation after Queens. This was his terf— and he was going to win.
~
Bruce was the first one out, taken down by Rhodey and Nat. He didn't seem to be too surprised or upset— with two highly trained assassins, a former SHIELD agent, and Peter (though the rest of the team didn't know it yet), the chances of survival were low.
Rhodey quickly followed Bruce, taken out by Bucky within a minute of Bruce.
So far, Nat, Bucky, Clint, and Peter were tied for first place with the full three lives each. Tony and Steve followed behind, with one life each taken by Nat and Bucky, respectively.
Peter crept along the familiar rooftops, trailing behind Tony. He had been trailing the genius for almost a minute now, waiting for an opening. Really, at this point, Peter was just waiting to see how long it took for Friday to see him and alert Tony. For all his mentor claimed she was all-seeing, Peter was easily able to avoid her. Maybe he was just her favorite. He should take the next opening, though; this had gone on long enough— there!
Pulling the trigger, Peter let his senses guide his aim. One-two, both slipping directly into the cracks of Tony's armor.
That was almost too easy.
Tony's gun let out a beep and he spun around, trying to figure out who had shot him. His gaze landed on Peter, who gave him a smirk and a salute. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. Nothing personal."
Tony's mouth dropped open, eyes flicking to the scoreboard.
Peter leapt off the roof, swinging away.
When Tony looked back, Peter was already gone.
Hah! Bet he hadn't been expecting that!
Peter's senses blared at him and he ducked out of the way, just barely avoiding a shot from Nat. They reacted almost the same as they did for a real bullet, which— why? It was a beam of light. Not even an x-ray or gamma ray, for Thor's sake.
Anyways, he leapt off the edge of the apartment complex and swung away. Not yet, Nat. Not yet.
Sounds of shouting drew his attention, and he swung over to the source. Scanning the rooftops, he carefully avoided Bucky, who was lying in a sniper position a few rooftops away. He ducked behind an AC unit, peering over the roof and taking in the scene in front of him.
Steve and Clint were back to back, circling around with their guns held up.
"Shit— Barton, do you see him?"
A shout of "language" came from everyone who heard.
Steve groaned, lowering his gun slightly. "Will you please—"
Peter took the opening to take two quick shots at Steve, both beams hitting him in the head.
"Shit!" Steve's gun beeped, signifying that he had been taken out.
Clint whipped around. "Who was that?"
Peter ducked back behind the AC vent, hiding from both Clint and Bucky, who had started looking around as well.
Steve was looking up at the scoreboard with an expression of shock. "Clint… It was Peter."
Clint's mouth dropped open. "What? How did that innocent fucking twelve year old—" He was cut off when Peter ducked out again, firing at Clint.
One-two-three, all right to the middle of his chest. "I'm fifteen, birdbrain."
And then there were three.
Slinging his gun across his back, Peter swung away. Keeping one eye on the scoreboard, he made his way to one of his usual perches. Nat, Bucky and him were still tied with 3/3 lives each. Maybe Nat and Bucky would take care of each other and Peter wouldn't even have to do anything.
He waited a few minutes to see if there was any development before letting out a sigh.
He had to do everything himself, didn't he.
Stretching his hearing as far as it could go (which just so happened to be the entire gym) he listened for any movement.
Let's see. There was Tony, Rhodey, Steve, Clint, and Bruce, their talking muffled slightly by the soundproof walls of the waiting area. Near the entrance, the mechanical whirring of the security system. All around him, the hum of various security cameras (he was already aware of them because of his spidey-sense, but it was nice to have confirmation that his anxiety on steroids wasn't just crashing out). Right on top of the model Delmar's— that was a heartbeat.
Zoning in on it, Peter started making his way across the rooftops. It was Nat. She was completely still, and Peter crept silently over to where she was perching.
Slinging the rifle off his back, he prepared to flick the safety off.
As soon as he did, Nat would hear the click and he would have a (roughly) three second window to hit her three times.
He lifted the gun up, peering through the scope.
Ready, aim…
The safety let out a click as he flicked it off.
Fire!
One-two-three, all hitting their target. Nat had rolled out of the way, but it was too late. Her gun let out a beep and she looked up in surprise.
Heck yeah! Peter had done it.
Nat's gaze landed on him, and her expression of surprise deepened.
Peter gave her a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Aunt Nat. Nothing personal."
She let out a low laugh. "Impressive, маленький паучок."
His grin widened, and he swung away to go find Bucky.
One left.
Bucky was easy to find (he used the same technique as for Nat). The ex-assassin was crouching on a roof and scanning the gym.
Peter crept up behind him. He slung the gun off his back again, and—
Shoot!
Bucky spun around, his gaze landing on Peter. He turned to run, and Peter silently cursed. He had forgotten about Bucky's enhanced hearing— not nearly as good as Peter's or Matt's, but significantly better than a non-enhanced person.
He closed his eyes, letting his senses take over.
Not yet…
Not yet…
Now!
He pulled the trigger.
The IR lasers reflected off of the metal buildings, all three hitting Bucky right on the chest.
Bucky's gun let out a beep.
"Yes!" Peter shouted.
The buildings slowly sunk back into the floor, and Peter ran over to the entrance. The rest of the Avengers walked back out of the waiting room, various levels of shock on their faces.
He threw a smirk at Tony. "You should have known better than to choose my turf for a simulation that used guns."
Tony gave him a proud grin. "Bet no one expected that, huh?"
"When did you learn how to shoot like that, паук?" Nat interrupted.
Peter gave her a small smile. "Ben taught me."
She gave him an impressed nod. "We'll have to see just how much you can do, паук. You're good."
Yeah. Yeah, he was.
~~~
Spider-Man, Daredevil, Deadpool, Jessica Jones, and the Punisher walked into a bar (despite the fact that Spider-Man was underage and Jessica Jones really did not need more alcohol).
Deadpool made a bet that Spider-Man could outshoot the Punisher, and everyone started taking sides.
Spider-Man did not consent, but here they were.
Peter had taken them to the range (Sam had quickly figured out Peter's identity— after all, his aim and strength had improved exponentially almost overnight. Sam had known something was up the second Peter picked up a gun) and Sam had barely blinked an eye at Peter's entourage. He probably saw a lot stranger.
Peter led them to the armory, flinging open the doors and stepping inside with a satisfied sigh before turning to Frank. "So, what's it gonna be? Handgun? Rifle? AR-15? 1911? Deagle? Ruger Mark IV?"
Frank raised his eyebrows slightly, turning to Wade. "Wade? You're the one who started this stupid bet."
Wade grinned. "Mark IV. I wanna see what you can do."
Grabbing one and handing another to Frank (along with his specialized noise-cancelling headphones and an extra pair for Frank), Peter suppressed a grin. The Ruger Mark IV handgun was one of his favorites. It had incredible accuracy and was very reliable (after the first 300 rounds, of course). It had also been Ben's gun of choice.
His chances against Frank might not actually be negligible, after all.
They made their way over to the firing line, both checking the mags and safety with practiced hands.
Wade stepped up between them, crossing his arms in a mock-serious stance. "Now, I want a nice, clean game—"
Frank snorted.
Wade gasped in mock offense. "The rules must be taken seriously, my boy! Now, as I was saying, this is a test of accuracy. You will shoot the head, the heart, and a shoulder on the target— but two bullets through each hole. We'll start at 15 yards, then move to 20 and 25 if we need to." He took a step back pulling his noise-cancelling headphones on over his mask. Peter and Frank quickly followed suit. "On your marks, get set, go!"
One-two-three, one-two-three.
Peter lowered the gun, checking his work.
Three bullseyes, no stray bullets or extra holes.
Score.
Frank had done the same, so they stepped back and readied their guns again.
"Three, two, one, fire!"
One-two-three, one-two-three.
Same results.
They moved back again.
"Ready, aim, fire!"
Peter's was perfect again, and Frank's— wait.
One bullet of his second round had hit the target just a few millimeters to the right of the previous.
Wade cheered. "Petey wins! Everybody pay up!"
Money exchanged hands with a large mix of disgruntled and smug expressions.
Frank pulled his headphones off and Peter followed suit. "Damn, kid. Where'd you learn to shoot so well?"
The background chatter died down as Peter smiled softly. "Ben taught me. It was here, actually— we would come once a month or so, just us."
They all nodded in understanding— and they did understand. They had all lost someone at some point.
"Besides, my anxiety on steroids doesn't hurt either," Peter said, lightening the mood.
Frank shook his head. "You're good, kid."
Yeah. Yeah, he was.