Chapter Text
The car rumbled down the familiar dirt road toward Camp Avenbrook, tires kicking up plumes of dry, golden dust that curled in the late afternoon sun. The towering pines lined the road like silent sentinels, their limbs swaying overhead in a way that made them feel almost alive - welcoming, even.
In the back seat, Peter sat motionless, his backpack wedged between his knees. He was absentmindedly twisting a rubber band around his wrist, over and over again, the soft tension and snap offering a rhythm he could cling to.
Four years.
Four summers had passed since he’d first rolled down this road - small, quiet, and tucked into the window seat of the same car. He’d been eleven, unsure of his own voice, and unsure if he even belonged here. But now, for the first time, he wasn’t coming back as a camper.
A laminated badge was clipped to the front of his shirt:
Peter Parker – YC.
Young Counsellor.
The letters felt too bold, too adult. As if the badge had been made for someone a little taller, a little more confident - someone who didn’t feel their pulse spike every time a stranger tried to make small talk.
Outside, the weathered entrance fence came into view, leaning as always at an angle like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stand proud or slump into the dirt. And beyond it, the old wooden welcome sign still hung slightly askew, its cheerful hand-painted letters faded by sun and rain. It was crooked. Imperfect. Familiar.
“Breathe, kid,” Tony’s voice floated lazily from the passenger seat. “You look like you’re about to take a math test during a tornado.”
Peter snorted. “That’s oddly specific.”
“But accurate,” Tony replied without missing a beat.
From behind the wheel, Steve caught Peter’s eye in the rear-view mirror. His smile was small, but solid - like a brick quietly anchoring the entire moment.
“You’re gonna be great, bud,” he said, with that quiet conviction that made you want to believe him. “You’re already great with the younger kids. This is just… the next step.”
Peter nodded, though the knot in his chest remained tight. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to be who they saw - someone steady. Someone kids could look up to. But it was hard to imagine being the safe place for someone else when, some days, he still struggled to feel safe in his own head.
How was he supposed to help a kid find their voice when his own still got stuck behind his teeth?
The van rolled to a gentle stop in the gravel lot, and the camp exploded into movement. Counsellors called out greetings, luggage was flung from trunks, and kids spilled from vans in a chaotic tangle of sunscreen, tangled backpack straps, and bug spray fumes.
Peter stuck close to the check-in table, where Natasha stood like an island of calm in the storm, clipboard in hand, checking names with her usual no-nonsense efficiency.
“You made it back in one piece,” she said, glancing up with the faintest curve of a smile.
“Barely,” Peter replied, deadpan. “Tony let Steve drive. I’ve been gripping the door for the past three hours. I don’t know how he has a license."
“Character building,” Steve called, hauling duffel bags from the van’s trunk. “Quit whining, you survived. And your buddy’s bus just pulled in.”
Peter blinked. “What? Already?”
Right on cue, Bucky strolled over, looking way too cheerful for someone who’d probably been shouting over third graders all morning. A small figure walked hesitantly behind him, clinging to the edge of his shirt.
“Heya, Pete,” Bucky greeted. “Still breathing? Good. I’ve got someone for you to meet. This is Morgan.”
Peter looked down - and felt his heart catch.
She was tiny. Five, maybe. Dwarfed by a lavender unicorn backpack and an oversized t-shirt that hung almost to her knees. Her untied sneakers scuffed against the gravel as she walked. One hand clutched the corner of Bucky’s shirt with pale, nervous fingers. The other was twisted into the strap of her backpack like she was bracing herself for a gust of wind.
“This is her first time at camp,” Bucky continued, his tone gentler now. “You guys are gonna be buddies for camp.”
Peter crouched slowly, giving Morgan space. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m Peter.”
Morgan didn’t answer. She glanced at him - briefly - then looked away, eyes fixed on the dusty ground between them. Her grip on her backpack tightened.
“I like your backpack,” Peter tried again, voice calm. “Very explorer-y.”
She gave the tiniest nod but still said nothing.
“Morgan’s five and our youngest camper this year,” Bucky explained, already backing away toward the mess of luggage. “Think you can walk her to her cabin? Get her settled in and take her through orientation? I’ll catch up with you later.”
Peter nodded automatically, watching as Bucky disappeared into the growing crowd.
Then he turned to Morgan, who was still eyeing him with silent, unfiltered curiosity.
“You ready to go find your cabin?” he asked.
Morgan considered this for a moment, then gave a decisive nod “Yes.”
Later that afternoon, orientation took place under the open-air pavilion. Campers gathered on benches, counsellors spread out like loosely tethered satellites, and Tony stood at the front with Steve, running through rules in his usual half-serious, half-sarcastic way.
Peter stayed near the back with Morgan, who hovered at his side like a shadow. She hadn’t said another word since “yes.”
Her small fingers were curled around one of the backpack straps, gently rubbing the soft fabric of the unicorn’s mane like it was a worry stone. She didn’t speak during introductions. Didn’t cheer when the other kids shouted their team names. She barely looked up.
But every time Peter glanced down, he noticed her eyes. Watching him. Carefully. Quietly. As though she was still trying to decide if he was safe.
He understood that look.
He remembered what it was like to walk into a room full of noise and strangers and feel like your skin didn’t quite fit. He remembered holding your breath for hours - or days - because you didn’t know what would happen if you let it out.
So Peter didn’t pressure her.
He let her stay behind him when the rest of the circle formed. When Clint asked the group to go around and share their favourite animal, and Morgan stared blankly at her shoes, Peter didn’t fill in the silence or try to coax her out of it.
He just stood there. A quiet, steady presence.
When orientation ended and the kids were unleashed to the field for games, he crouched again beside her.
“Want to join in, or wait here with me?”
Morgan didn’t answer right away. She looked at the field - at the kids already yelling and racing toward cones - and then looked away.
She gave a small shrug.
“Okay,” Peter said. “Waiting works.”
They sat side by side on the grass, the shade of the pavilion stretching out beside them like a quiet boundary.
It was nearly five full minutes before either of them spoke.
Then, very softly, Morgan murmured, “Llamas are better than goats.”
Peter turned to look at her. Her eyes stayed forward, her fingers still curled around her unicorn.
“Agreed,” he said.
A pause.
“Ponies are better than horses,” she added.
“Also true.”
And just like that, Morgan nodded once, solemn again, and Peter knew: she was watching him.