Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was always quiet when Aunt May was home.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet - more like the heavy, waiting kind. The kind of silence that made Peter feel like if he breathed too loud, the walls would shatter. So he learned not to breathe too loud. He learned how to walk on the edges of his feet to keep the floors from creaking. He learned where the fourth step on the stairs squeaked and avoided it like it was a landmine, because to Peter, it was.

His room - if you could call it that - was a small space at the end of the hall. It had a slanted ceiling and a window that didn't open. The door could only be locked from the outside, and the paint was chipped around the handle from where May had slammed it open too many times. Peter had a mattress, a single drawer for clothes, and a small collection of May approved books, and a shoebox under the camp bed. That was all. He didn’t need much, he told himself.

Peter had gotten very good at being invisible.

In the mornings, he waited for May’s alarm to go off before moving. If he got up too early, she’d yell at him for making noise. If he got up too late, she’d call him lazy. So he timed it just right. Most mornings, she didn't speak to him beyond barking orders. “Wipe the counter. Clean the bathroom. Don’t be weird today.”

Breakfast was usually half a slice of toast - cold by the time Peter got to it. May always said he didn’t need more. “Look at you,” she’d sneer. “Skinny as a rake. Probably trying to get attention.”

He didn’t argue. He never did. That was another thing he’d learned: Don’t talk back. Don’t cry. Don’t complain. It only made things worse.

Peter moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed. He walked with a slight limp when he thought no one was looking, something that had started months ago and never really went away. His joints - especially in the mornings - ached, stiff and reluctant. But he’d gotten good at hiding it. Just like he hid the fact that the buzzing in his chest never really stopped. Anxiety, the school nurse had once said. May said it was “drama” and that he needed to grow up.

He didn’t sleep much. Not deeply. And when he did, he often woke up with his jaw clenched, stomach aching with hunger he had long since learned to ignore.

The worst were the migraines. Sharp, stabbing things that came with lights and nausea and made the world feel too loud and too fast. He’d sit on the floor of the bathroom until it passed, curled in on himself, silent.

But still - he made sure the dishes were clean. That his room was quiet. That he didn’t exist more than absolutely necessary.

So when May came home from work one Friday afternoon, slamming the door and tossing her purse onto the counter, Peter flinched instinctively from the sound.

He stayed sat on his bed, reading the same paragraph in his book for the fifth time. His hands were aching too much to turn the page. He listened as she stopped in the kitchen, opened the fridge, and let it hang open longer than necessary. Bottles clinked. The silence swelled again.

Then came her voice - sharp, bored. “There’s nothing to drink in this house.”

Peter didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the book, still on the same page.

She called out louder, as if he’d deliberately ignored her. “Peter! Jesus. You deaf or just dumb?”

He stood quickly, joints crackling in protest as he opened his door, “Sorry, pardon?”

May rolled her eyes and gestured vaguely at the fridge. “I said there’s nothing to drink. I’m not dying of thirst just because you forgot again. Go to the shop and get me something.”

He glanced at the window. It was getting dark. “Which one?” he asked quietly.

She waved a hand like it was obvious. “The good one. With the glass-bottled stuff. The one past the old laundromat.”

Peter blinked. That was almost an hour away on foot - longer with the limp he tried to pretend didn’t matter. “That’s really far,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I don’t… I don’t think I can walk that far today. My knees - ”

“Oh, Jesus,” May groaned, flinging a cabinet door open harder than necessary. “Not this arthritis crap again.” He flinched. “You’re eleven, not eighty. You don’t have arthritis, Peter. You have ‘look at me’ syndrome.” She mimicked a pout, voice high and mocking. “Ooh, my bones hurt, look at me. Grow up.”

“I really do - my joints - my hands...”

“You’re being a dramatic little attention-seeking whore ,” she snapped, rounding on him now. “That’s what you are. That’s what you always are. Just like when that dumbass social worker took you to that doctor and filled your head with all that crap.” Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. The buzzing in his chest was louder now. May snorted, grabbing her keys from the counter and tossing them at him. “I should’ve told her where to shove it. That lady acted like you were some kind of broken doll . Got you all excited about being ‘listened to.’ Like that was gonna make a damn difference.” Peter stared down at the keys now on the floor. “I said walk to the store. You can rest your poor little knees on the way. Take breaks. Sit on a bench. Just don’t come back empty-handed, or I swear to God - ”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Peter pulled on his shoes in silence. They were too small now, his toes curling to fit. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t ask for money. She’d probably already tucked a crumpled five into the side pocket of his hoodie when she’d decided he was going, long before she told him. The door closed behind him with a soft click . The world outside was still warm, but the sky was darkening fast.

He started walking.

The limp was worse today. But he knew the route. He knew where to sit without being noticed. He’d take his time. He always did. Sixty minutes there and sixty back - Two hours of silence. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

The next morning May shuffled through the mail, sighing in that way that meant she was already annoyed. A few envelopes hit the table, and then she paused.

“Hmph,” she muttered, holding up a colourful pamphlet. “Camp Avenbrook. Summer break program.” She snorted. “Outdoor activities, leadership, team-building. God, sounds like torture.”

Peter looked up, only a little. Camp?

Then came the silence. The kind of silence that meant she was thinking. And not the good kind of thinking.

“Huh,” she paused for a moment as her eyes glanced at the prices, drawn to the the FREE next to underprivileged kids. “Actually… this might not be the worst idea.”

Peter’s stomach twisted.

She glanced over at him, eyes narrow, calculating.

“You’ve got nothing going on this summer, and I’ve had it up to here with your moping. Maybe some time in the woods will knock the weird out of you.” She smirked at her own joke. “Hell, maybe you’ll make a friend. God knows you need one.”

Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. His mouth had gone dry. His chest buzzed.

“You’re going,” she said, already walking down the hall to her room. “I’ll fill out the paperwork tomorrow. Don’t bother me.”

And just like that, she disappeared behind her door and slammed it shut. The walls vibrated.

Peter sat still in the kitchen, hands clenched in his lap. He didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. Maybe both.

Chapter Text

May hadn’t said much since she announced Peter was going to camp. She filled out forms in silence, stuffing old shirts into the dryer to make them look somewhat clean, and then told him, without looking up, not to “ask a million dumb questions.” That was it. No excitement. No curiosity. No “good luck,” or “have fun,” or anything that resembled caring.

Now, it was the night before, and Peter sat on his bed, staring at the duffel bag like it might jump up and bite him. He wasn’t sure what to pack for camp. What do you pack for something like that? What was he supposed to bring to a place where he didn’t even know if he belonged? The camp website had been helpful - kind of. There was a list, split into ‘musts,’ ‘recommended,’ and ‘unrecommended.’ Peter had printed it out, checked off the things as he packed.

His hands hovered over the things he’d laid out. Clothes. T-shirts that didn’t fit quite right anymore. A hoodie with a fraying sleeve. The one pair of jeans that didn’t dig into his stomach when he sat down. He added his current book to the pile, a crumpled paperback he had barely read in the last few weeks, but it was the only thing that made him feel something other than empty.

His fingers brushed against the box under his bed, the one he hadn’t touched in ages. Inside were things he didn’t talk about, things he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to care about. A few books - real ones, not the crap May bought him - little scraps of paper with half-formed thoughts, ideas he couldn't say aloud. And a photo of his parents, one of the few left, tucked behind everything else. They were smiling. They were holding him. He could barely remember their faces, but in that photo, he looked small, safe. And loved.

The camp website recommended bringing a photo of family. Peter hesitated. He could already feel the weight of the photo pressing into his pocket, the heavy silence of it. But the thought of taking a picture of Aunt May - her scowling face, her dry voice, her sharp hands - was unbearable. Was there even a picture of her and him together?

He shoved the photo into his hoodie pocket before he talked himself out of it, deep enough that it couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be questioned. The duffel bag was quickly filling up.

But there was still one thing left. One thing that couldn’t be ignored. The website said to pack any prescription medication in a separate labeled bag- it was a must. But May kept it locked away. She’d told him before: “They make you soft. You’re just looking for excuses not to function. You don’t need pills. You need to stop acting like a freak.”

So he didn’t take the pills. He wasn't allowed.

The next morning came quickly, and with it, the same heaviness. The apartment felt colder when he woke up, quieter, like it was holding its breath. May was already awake, standing in the doorway of his room, eyes sharp as she watched him.

“Get a move on,” she said, her voice flat, no room for argument. “The bus leaves at nine. You miss it, we’re walking there.”

Peter didn’t ask where there was. He didn’t care.

May stepped into the room, eyeing the duffel bag with her usual scrutiny. “You better behave at this place,” she muttered, flicking her eyes over him. “Don’t embarrass me. Don’t act weird.” She paused, as if waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, but Peter didn’t give her anything. He just stood there, hands at his sides, nodding, not trusting himself to speak.

She rolled her eyes like he was being the problem. “I swear, Peter, if they send you back early, don’t even bother coming through the front door.”

Peter nodded once. It was the safest answer. The only answer.

“God,” May muttered again, turning to leave. “Just… try to be normal for once in your life.”

Normal. Right. The word hung in the air like it meant something. Peter swallowed.

He hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder, careful to keep the weight balanced to avoid the nagging pain in his hip. The apartment felt emptier now, colder somehow. May had already gone down the hall to get her purse, and Peter stood there for a moment, feeling like the apartment itself was shrinking around him.

They walked to the bus stop in silence. The sky was a thick gray, the air heavy with humidity that made everything stick. Every step Peter took felt like it took a little more out of him. He didn’t know how to feel, what to feel. He didn’t think he was supposed to feel anything at all.

At the bus stop, there were a few other kids already standing there. They had bags and duffels, some of them even had suitcases with wheels. They were laughing, sharing earbuds, talking about the things kids talked about before they disappeared into a place like this. They looked comfortable. Peter stood apart from them, near the edge, staring at the sidewalk cracks and hoping they didn’t notice him.

May didn’t stay long. She made sure the counselor with the clipboard saw her drop him off. Peter could barely meet the counselor’s eyes. May didn’t say goodbye, didn’t even look back as she got into her car and drove away, the tires screeching against the pavement. She didn’t care about the kid she was sending off.

“Don’t screw this up,” she’d said, but the words had already fallen away into the air, barely reaching his ears.

Peter boarded the bus without looking back. No one joined him. The seat at the back of the bus was empty, so he sat there, curling into the corner. The bus was loud, but it all felt distant. Like he was watching the world from behind glass.

Maybe that was better. Safer.

He kept his head down the whole ride. Didn’t speak.

And as the city fell away and the road stretched out into trees and unfamiliar signs, Peter just hoped - quietly, desperately - that this place would be better.

That someone, anyone, might see him.

Or that no one would.

He wasn’t

sure which would hurt less.

Chapter Text

The bus rumbled to a stop at the base of a long gravel path, flanked by towering pine trees and a wooden sign that read Welcome to Camp Avenbrook! in faded, cheerful paint. Beneath it, smaller words carved into the wood read: Grow. Explore. Belong.

Peter didn’t move at first.

The other kids were already standing, shuffling into the aisle, tugging their bags from the overhead racks and chattering about lake time and zip lines. Peter sat with his bag clutched tight to his chest, eyes scanning the new environment beyond the window.

There was a lodge in the distance, wide and open-faced with a big porch. Beyond that, cabins lined a path that led into the woods. It looked… peaceful. Normal. Like a place from a TV show. Peter didn’t trust it for a second.

“Hey there, campers!” someone called outside as the doors hissed open. “Welcome to paradise!”

The voice was warm, but booming in a way that made Peter flinch.

He was the last one off the bus, his sneakers crunching lightly on the gravel. He kept his eyes low, body tight. His fingers had already begun to ache from clenching the bag straps too hard.

“Hi! Welcome, welcome!” A man in sunglasses grinned down at him, hands on his hips. “You must be… Peter Parker?”

Peter gave a small nod.

“Awesome,” the man said. “I’m Tony - counsellor slash genius, and this handsome guy,” he gestured to the man beside him, who looked like a golden retriever in human form, “is Steve. Co-counsellor, heart of gold, much better at remembering names than I am.”

Steve stepped forward with a smile and a clipboard. “Hey, Peter. We’re really glad you’re here. You’re in Cabin 4 - right over there, near the trees. You’ll have four bunkmates, and you’ll get a chance to meet them after orientation. No pressure, okay?”

Peter nodded again, tighter this time. He didn’t know what to say, and worse, he didn’t know if he was supposed to say something. He looked at the ground and followed the motion of Steve’s hand pointing toward the lodge.

Tony’s voice rang out behind him. “Alright, everyone! Orientation time! Rules, safety, how to not get eaten by raccoons - it’s all important.”

The lodge’s main hall was filled with wooden benches, string lights hanging across the rafters, and big banners that said Teamwork! and Respect! Someone had propped open the windows, and a breeze carried in the scent of pine and something vaguely like campfire smoke. Peter slid into the end of the nearest bench and kept his bag in his lap, anchored like a shield.

Tony and Steve ran through the rules - curfew at 9, no wandering into the woods alone, mealtimes, activity schedules, counsellor contact info. Peter didn’t miss a word. His eyes stayed fixed on their mouths as they talked, his body going still and rigid like he could memorize every instruction just by listening hard enough.

Don’t break a rule. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t mess this up.

That was the only math that mattered.

Then came the introductions.

“Alright,” Steve said, stepping back and gesturing to the row of adults behind him. “Let’s meet your full support squad for the summer.”

Tony smirked. “Some of the finest minds in the field of not letting you get eaten by bears. Or your emotions. Or each other.”

A few kids laughed. Peter didn’t. He didn't realise he was supposed to until it was too late.

Steve nodded to the first person. “You already met me and Tony. I’m in charge of outdoor activities - hiking, kayaking, capture the flag, basically anything that gets your hands or feet dirty. I'm also your lead counsellor so you'll probably be hearing my voice a lot at breakfast and dinner. Tony runs the tech labs - coding, drones, all things electric and likely to explode.”

“Safely explode,” Tony added. “Mostly.”

Next came a quiet, thoughtful-looking man in a soft green t-shirt. He gave a small wave. “I’m Bruce. You’ll find me in the science labs - chemistry, astronomy, some pretty cool biology stuff if you like bugs or trees. We’ve got microscopes, telescopes, and one pet snake named Einstein, but don’t worry, he’s friendly.”

Clint was next, lanky and grinning, with a whistle around his neck. “Archery and survival skills,” he said. “I can teach you how to hit a bullseye or build a shelter in under ten minutes. No bears guaranteed. Raccoons? Eh. We don't mention them.”

Then came a woman with sharp eyes and a calm posture. Her black braid was tied tight, but her smile was faint and warm. “I’m Natasha. Arts and crafts, journaling, storytelling, quiet-time electives. If you want a space to just… exist for a while, come find me - sometimes there will be glitter, sometimes paint, but all the time no pressure.”

Sam stepped up next, broad-shouldered and reassuring. “Hey, I’m Sam. I’m here for mental health support - talks, check-ins, stress stuff. If things get heavy or you need to rant about Tony never shutting up, I’ve got you.”

Beside him, Bucky gave a short nod. “I’m Bucky. I help out with additional needs and any accommodations - mobility, sensory, anything at all you need to make the summer easier just ask. I float around with Sam to most of the activities, so you’ll see us around. If something’s off, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Last was a kind-faced woman with a medical badge clipped to her shirt. “I’m Helen. I handle any medical needs - daily meds, injuries, allergies, all the bumps and scrapes of camp life. My cabin’s always open if you’re not feeling well, or just need somewhere quiet. Don't worry I've seen it all.”

“Okay so that's your guy's team,” Steve retook the lead. “You’ll probably see other counsellors around for the different age groups, and you might see Nick. He's our camp director, kind of like a head teacher.”

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t relax.

That was a lot of names. A lot of faces. Too many ways to fail.

His bunkmates joined him outside Cabin 4 after orientation. A boy named Ned waved at him excitedly, already mid-sentence about something involving drones. 

“You’re Peter, right? I saw your name on the bunk list. I’m Ned! This is Miles, and that’s MJ, and Harley’s the one trying to look cool with his feet on the bench.”

Harley gave him finger guns. Miles gave him a polite nod. MJ looked up from a thick book and offered a small smile. 

“Your first time here right?” Peter nodded mutely. “Well, welcome to the weirdest summer of your life,” she said.

Peter tried to smile back, but it came out more like a grimace.

When they walked into their cabin, Peter hung at the back of the group. The cabin was small, with five bunks, a bathroom that smelled faintly of pine cleaner, and a screen door that creaked just slightly when pushed open.

The moment the others were distracted unpacking or claiming bunks, Peter’s eyes scanned the room - not for decorations or outlets like the others - but for hiding places. Under the beds. Behind the bathroom door. The narrow gap between the dresser and the wall.

Just in case.

That evening, during the icebreaker circle on the field, Peter sat cross-legged on the edge of the group. He didn’t speak until it was his turn to give his name, age, and fun fact about himself. He felt his throat close, the way it does when he can't manage to speak, but managed to squeeze out a “Peter,” and avoided looking up. No one pressed him. That helped.

Still, Natasha noticed.

She stood a little away from the group, her arms folded loosely, observing. Her gaze wasn’t hard or judging. It was patient. Calculating, but kind.

She saw how he winced when the group laughed too loud. How he startled when Tony clapped someone on the shoulder nearby. How he flinched from even casual touch and always kept something - a bench, a bag, a person - between himself and the counsellors.

She made a quiet note on the pad she carried. No diagnosis, no assumptions. Just one word:

“Watch.”

Later that night, in the low hum of cabin lights and muffled night-time laughter across the camp, Peter curled into the far edge of his bunk with his hoodie pulled over his head, the photo of his parents still hidden in his pocket.

He didn’t know yet what this place was. If it was safe. If it was better.

But for now, he was still quiet.

And very, very small.

Chapter Text

The first couple of days at Camp Avenbrook passed in a warm blur of sunlight, bug spray, and scheduled fun. For most kids, it was easy to get swept up in the rhythm - wake up to music blaring from the main lodge, scarf down pancakes, dive into archery or canoeing or friendship bracelets, learn new campfire songs, and crash into bed each night covered in dirt and mosquito bites.

Peter tried. He really did.

He learned the rules immediately and followed them like gospel. Wake-up bell at 7:00. Breakfast at 7:30. Activities by 9. Lights out by 21:30, no exceptions. He memorized the rule sheet pinned to the cabin wall and rehearsed it in his head like a safety net. He arrived early to every meal, kept his shoes neatly lined up, made his bed tighter than any of the others - even tugging the corners of his blanket sharp while his bunkmates laughed and tossed pillows at each other.

He stayed invisible on purpose.

When the counsellors asked questions during campfire games, Peter stayed quiet. If he was called on, he gave short, flat answers with as few syllables as possible. If someone asked to sit next to him, he smiled too quickly and too tightly and said yes, but his hands stayed clenched in his lap the whole time. He nodded more than he spoke.

And at meals, he mastered the art of not eating without anyone noticing.

He took small portions and pushed food around on his plate with practiced ease, careful to hide scraps under his napkin or quietly toss them once others got distracted. His stomach growled through most of the day, but the anxiety churned louder. Too much food made him nauseous. Not enough made him lightheaded. But anything was better than someone noticing. Someone asking.

He didn’t want attention. Attention made you vulnerable. Attention meant someone might look too closely and want something.

During activities, he signed up for things that let him keep his distance - nature sketching with Natasha, astronomy with Bruce, the occasional afternoon time in the tech lab with Tony, where the lights were dim and he could sit near the back. He avoided anything loud, physical, or social. No archery. No improv. Definitely no dance night.

On the second day, during a knot-tying masterclass with Steve near the lake, Peter tried to watch the demonstration but quickly found himself zoning out while his fingers instinctively tied and untied his hoodie strings with quiet, repetitive precision. Steve crouched beside him once to help him with a double fisherman’s knot, and Peter flinched when their hands brushed.

Steve gave him a gentle smile and backed off without comment.

Later that afternoon, Bruce introduced the campers to the science lab’s pet turtle, Galileo. He talked about its age, feeding habits, and slow metabolism with soft enthusiasm. Peter stood at the back of the group, quietly absorbed. It was the only time that day he didn’t look like he wanted to disappear.

That night, the sky was clear and dark. Bruce brought a telescope out to the open field and aimed it toward Jupiter. Peter hesitated to join the small group crowding around, but eventually edged closer, hands shoved into his sleeves. When it was his turn, he stepped forward silently, peered through the eyepiece, and breathed out - just a little. Something about the size of it all - the moons, the silence - made the pressure in his chest ease, just for a second.

At night, Peter lay perfectly still in his bunk, eyes wide open long after the others had fallen asleep.

The cabin creaked and settled around him. A bat clicked somewhere in the trees outside. Harley and Miles snored lightly. MJ mumbled in her sleep. Ned shifted and sometimes whispered to himself, as if dreaming about robots. But Peter didn’t close his eyes until he saw the faint glow of dawn bleeding through the curtains.

He was afraid to fall asleep. What if he didn’t wake up early enough and got in trouble? What if he made a noise? What if someone came into the cabin and…

No.

He couldn’t think about that. He pulled his blanket tighter around him and stayed still, like a stone on the forest floor. The way he’d always done.

To most counsellors, Peter would be just another quiet kid. A little awkward, maybe. But polite. Obedient. He never acted out, never got into trouble, never caused any problems.

Steve noticed him, of course - he kept a mental track of the quieter kids, the ones who didn’t push to the front or volunteer answers during canoe safety drills. Peter never asked for anything. Always said he was fine. Always smiled that strained, too-careful smile that made Steve pause - but not long enough to worry. Not yet.

Tony was immediately drawn to Peter’s natural ease around tech; his instinctive understanding of circuitry and the way he handled tools like they were extensions of his hands impressed Tony to no end. That interest quickly turned into concern when Peter reacted sharply to every loud pop, bang, or sizzle - practically a soundtrack in Tony’s lab. Still, Peter never caused any chaos himself. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid it, often double-checking connections and working quietly in corners. He was the only camper who hadn’t yet blown something up, even though Tony insisted that a proper camp experience required at least one good, dramatic explosion.

Bruce noticed Peter’s posture - how he held himself too stiffly while handling beakers or using fine motor tools, like he was always bracing for something to go wrong. But lots of kids were nervous with glassware, especially early on. Bruce made a quiet note to give Peter less fiddly tasks and low-pressure projects. Nothing timed. Nothing explosive. And he made sure to call on him gently, never abruptly.

Clint didn’t have much of a read on Peter yet. The kid never came to archery or survival training, where Clint tended to make his biggest impressions. He’d flagged the name but hadn’t seen much of the face. Which, to Clint, was data.

Natasha watched more closely. She ran quiet-time activities and always kept the back row open for kids who didn’t want to talk that day. Peter always took a seat. She saw how he moved with that hyper-awareness - like every step might trigger something. How he waited until no one else was near the supply shelves before grabbing a pencil. She never pressed. Just made sure he had space, and that there was always a blank page ready.

Bucky and Sam, though, had the advantage of watching from a broader lens.

Sam made his usual morning rounds through the cabins and walked the field during group activities with his calm, unshakable presence. He’d caught Peter throwing away half a sandwich on the second day - when he thought no one was looking - and then saying, “I’m good,” when Ned asked how he was doing ten minutes later.

Sam didn’t press. Not yet. But he watched Peter out of the corner of his eye during breakfast, during group check-ins. And he made a note to circle back again. Sometimes it was the kids who said the least that needed the most.

Bucky noticed the bed.

Peter’s covers were made with military precision. Every morning. Corners tucked, pillow squared, blanket folded exactly the same way. It was unnerving for preteen behavior, and more than a little familiar to Bucky, who’d once learned to do the same thing for reasons that were nothing to do with comfort. He also noticed the silence. How Peter could go a whole hour without speaking. How his voice sometimes caught like he was trying to talk through a wall.

One afternoon, Bucky wandered past the outdoor rec area while a small group was building model shelters out of twigs and string. Peter was there, helping MJ tie knots without a word. His hands moved quickly. Automatically. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. When MJ complimented him, he just nodded and moved away like the praise was dangerous to hold onto.

Helen had yet to see Peter at all - something not uncommon for the first days of camp - but she kept an eye on all the kids no matter how much of a frequent flyer they are with her. Quiet kids, she knew, didn’t stay off the radar forever. 

So for now, no alarms were raised.

After all, maybe Peter was just a shy kid. A model camper, polite, tidy, well behaved.

Chapter Text

By the end of the first week, Camp Avenbrook had found its rhythm.

Kids darted from one activity to the next in a chaotic blur of bug spray, sunscreen, and shouted laughter. The days melted together in a soundtrack of team chants, canoe splashes, and the clatter of beads against wooden tables. Counselors guided the whirlwind with practiced ease, helping campers string together memories one game, one inside joke at a time. On the surface, everything seemed to be working.

But Peter was beginning to fray.

It started small - easy to miss in the noise. His posture grew tighter. His answers shorter. The careful way he followed the rules turned rigid. Mechanical. And slowly, the pain that crept into his hands and wrists began to colour everything else.

During his first archery session, Clint stood on the range with a bow slung casually over one shoulder and his signature backwards ball cap already sun-faded from years of summer. “Alright, team!” he called, grinning. “Time to channel your inner Katniss. Or Legolas, if you’re classy.”

Peter joined the line immediately, his body already tensing. He collected his bow with the same wary precision someone might use to pick up broken glass. Every part of him looked like it was trying not to shake.

Clint wandered up and down the row, correcting posture, cracking jokes, showing the younger kids how to dock arrows without stabbing themselves. But when he stopped beside Peter, the difference was obvious. Peter’s grip on the bow was too tight, shoulders hunched up around his ears like he was trying to become smaller. His fingers fumbled the string twice before he could pull it back, the arrow wobbling down before he could even aim.

“Hey,” Clint said gently, stepping into his peripheral vision. “Want a hand?”

Peter startled, flinching like he hadn’t heard him approach. “No, it’s… I’m fine. Sorry.”

Clint raised both hands in mock surrender. “No need to apologize. These things are tricky. Arms cramping already?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. His face had gone blank - not neutral, but still . Like someone had flicked a switch behind his eyes. “I’m okay,” he said finally.

Clint didn’t press. Just nodded and moved down the line. But he kept glancing back. He saw the way Peter rubbed at his wrist after each shot. The small winces. The way he used his whole arm to draw the bowstring, like his fingers couldn’t do it alone.

After what felt like an hour but was probably thirty minutes, Peter ducked out early for bracelet-making in the craft cabin - a quieter zone. Safer. MJ sat across from him at the long table, threading beads with mechanical precision.

“You’ve made that same pattern three times,” she said eventually, nodding at his half-finished bracelet. “Red, black, blue, black, red. Again.”

Peter’s hands froze. “I… like repetition.”

“Cool,” MJ said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, even though it sort of did. “Just don’t hypnotize someone with it.”

A few seats down, Ned held up a mess of string and panic. “Peter. Emergency. I’ve committed bracelet-related war crimes.”

Peter snorted quietly and leaned over to help. His movements were careful, gentle, a little slow. Ned’s elbow bumped him as he shifted to make room, and Peter visibly flinched, wincing and withdrawing just slightly.

“You okay?” MJ asked quietly, catching the moment.

“I’m fine,” Peter said too fast.

She let it go. But later at lunch, she slid a folded napkin note across the table to Harley.

I think something’s off with Peter. Not just shy.

Harley read it, then scrawled back without looking up:

Ikr Hes got walls like they’re made of vibranium

Peter didn’t see the note. He sat beside them, picking at the edges of his sandwich with trembling fingers. He barely touched the rest.

Later that afternoon came Peter's favourite part of the day: Tech Lab.

The air in the room buzzed faintly with static and smelled like warm metal, ozone, and the ever-present threat of Tony Stark’s sense of humour.

“Alright, nerds,” Tony announced dramatically, flipping down safety goggles. “Rule one of soldering: Don’t fry your fingerprints off. That’s my thing.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Peter didn’t laugh. He didn’t even flinch this time - just stared down at the circuit board like he couldn’t quite see it. His hands wouldn’t cooperate. He dropped the wires twice. His grip on the soldering iron trembled just enough to miss the contact point, again and again. His jaw clenched with quiet frustration, but he didn’t speak up.

Tony crouched beside him after a few minutes. “Need a hand, Mr. Parker?”

Peter stiffened. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t. The soldering iron wobbled in his grip. His shoulders were locked, his breath shallow.

Bruce, who had stopped by to calibrate some of the voltmeters, paused when he saw Peter struggling. “Hey, Peter,” he said gently. “If the soldering’s too much today, I’ve got some diagnostics you could help me run. Less heat, more math.”

Peter shook his head quickly. “No, I can do it.”

Bruce gave him a small nod and moved on, but his frown lingered.

After the session, Bruce and Tony walked the gravel path back toward the staff cabins.

“Something’s going on with that kid,” Tony muttered. “It’s not just shyness. He’s smart as hell, but his hands -”

“Yeah, they aren’t working the way he wants them to,” Bruce finished. “I saw it yesterday with the microscope slides. He avoids anything that needs fine motor precision. Like it hurts.”

Tony rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll check in with Helen and Bucky. See if there’s something in his file that didn’t make the rounds.”

By the time the final activity rolled around - canoe racing - Peter was wrecked. His muscles ached, his hands burned, and the thought of gripping a paddle made him want to lie down in the grass and cry.

Steve stood at the lakeshore, his voice steady and cheerful as he explained the rules. “Two per canoe! It’s not about speed, it’s about coordination. No flipping each other on purpose, or Clint will make you clean oars.”

Most kids were excited. Shouting team names, laughing, strapping on life vests with enthusiasm. Peter stood near the back of the group, chewing the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt.

Steve saw him hesitate and made a mental note, but decided not to push. Miles,however, did.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Peter nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… watching the wind.”

Miles blinked. The lake was completely still.

“Cool,” Miles said, matching Peter’s tone exactly. “I love watching… still air.”

Peter blinked, and to Miles’s surprise, a crooked little smile appeared. Brief. But real.

Helen Cho’s infirmary was warm and clean, a haven tucked between the art studio and the supply shed. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, the scent of antiseptic gently mixed with lavender and eucalyptus. Sam was half-perched on the edge of the counter, talking with Helen, who was clearly unimpressed with his sixth violation of her “no sitting on clinic surfaces” rule.

When Tony and Bruce arrived later that evening, Helen didn’t even look up. “If you blew up another toaster and you’re both bleeding, go find gauze. If you’re here to bother me, take a number to join the queue.”

“Actually, this is about a camper.”

Helen straightened, tone shifting immediately. “Who?”

“Peter Parker. Eleven. Small, adorable curly hair. Drowning-in-a-hoodie vibes.” Helen raised an eyebrow and pulled up the camp medical tablet. 

“Okay. So, what’s going on?”

Tony leaned against the wall. “Shaky hands. Stiff posture. Acts like everything’s on fire but won’t say a word.”

Bruce added, “It’s not just in tech with Tomy. He struggles with anything that needs precision or a reliable grip.”

Helen’s brow furrowed as she scrolled. “There’s barely anything in his intake file. No known allergies, no listed conditions, no meds. Just an emergency contact: May Parker. No notes from Bucky either.”

Sam, now fully perched on the counter, crossed his arms. “He's made it into my ‘keep tabs on’ list. I’ve seen him in the dining hall. He doesn’t eat much. Hardly speaks. Has these dark circles under his eyes. I thought maybe homesickness or introverted, but it could definitely be more.”

Helen sighed. “I’ll do a light checkup if he stops by. I’ll find a reason to ask the right questions.”

Tony nodded. “He’s incredibly smart as a warning. Picks up tech fast. But he flinches every time someone laughs too loud or claps. You can’t even walk up behind him without him jumping.”

Bruce murmured, “Trauma?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Could be medical. Could be environmental. Could be both. But we can’t know unless someone builds real trust. I’ll talk to Bucky,” Sam added. “He spends more downtime with the kids. Maybe Peter opened up a little.”

They parted with quiet agreement: no alarms yet, just awareness. Just care.

And for the first time, Peter Parker was on someone’s radar.

Not as a problem.

But as a puzzle.

A quiet, trembling puzzle they were finally beginning to piece together.

Chapter Text

The dark pressed in on Peter like a weight, thick and heavy and impossible to shake. The cabin was quiet except for the even rhythm of his cabin mates’ breathing, soft snores from Ned and Miles, the gentle murmur of MJ shifting in her sleep. Somewhere nearby, Harley snored low and steady, a comforting, familiar sound in the stillness.

But Peter couldn’t sleep.

He lay curled under the thin blanket, rubbing his knees slowly, careful not to make a sound. The dull ache was growing, insistent and sharp beneath the surface - his muscles twitching and tightening like they were made of wire rather than flesh. His fingers followed the same restless rhythm, one hand running over the other, squeezing the joints, before swapping, trying to chase the pain away without success. It had been almost two weeks now without his meds, and boy could he feel it. He bit his lip to hold back the wince when the pain flared, knuckles turning white against the fabric. 

Peter could feel the familiar grips of late night anxiety take a hold, and he held his breath, willing it away (unsuccessfully). After a long moment, Peter pushed the blanket back carefully and slipped off the bed, trying to ignore the sting in his knees as his feet touched the cold wood floor. He moved like a ghost through the quiet cabin, careful not to disturb the fragile calm that had settled over his friends.

He reached the window and pulled back the thin curtain just enough to peer outside. The forest was alive in its own quiet way. The trees swayed gently in the night breeze, and fireflies blinked lazily like stars trapped in the branches, casting flickering pools of light on the undergrowth below. Peter’s breath hitched slightly. For a long time, he just watched - captivated by the small, pulsing lights. It was peaceful, and for a moment, he almost managed to forget the pain and the worry and the gnawing loneliness.

Then, Sam’s voice floated back to him from earlier that week, clear and soft and steady.

“You get to exist. No conditions.”

Peter’s heart hammered in his chest. The words felt strange and foreign - but also, maybe, just a tiny bit true. A tiny flame of hope kindled inside him, fragile and flickering.

He pulled out his notebook from under his pillow, flipping it open with trembling fingers. The pages were full of his sketches, notes, and little secrets. He wrote the words carefully, over and over, until the phrase filled the page:

You get to exist. No conditions.

He stared at the words, feeling them settle into his skin, like a quiet promise he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe.

Then, with a sudden sharp breath, he closed the notebook and slid it back beneath the pillow, hiding it away like a treasure too precious to share.

The fireflies blinked on, unaware of the small battle being fought in the stillness of Cabin 4. Peter stayed by the window a little longer, the night wrapping around him like a fragile shield against the pain.

The following morning, Sam had all but carried Peter down the gravel path to Helen’s infirmary the next morning after Peter had tripped on an unseen root while walking to breakfast, his knee scraping against gravel and jagged rock.. It wasn’t a big fall - just an awkward twist of his ankle on a patch of uneven gravel - but Sam caught the stumble, the sudden drawn breath, and the way Peter froze afterward like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“C’mon,” Sam said, not unkindly. “Helen’ll want to look at it. We’ll be in and out.”

Peter had shaken his head first, mutely, then nodded. He walked with a limp that he tried not to show.

The infirmary was quiet, sunlit, and smelled faintly of lavender. The breeze lifted the curtains and turned the room into something less like a clinic and more like a retreat.

Helen looked up from her desk when they entered, her expression calm and unsurprised. “Hi Peter. What’s happened?”

Peter shrugged and looked at Sam, “He tripped over a root on his way to breakfast.”

Helen motioned toward the padded bench. “Don’t worry Peter you're not the first one - Clint was in here for the same thing yesterday. Sit down for me kiddo. I’ll take a quick look at that ankle.”

Peter hesitated, then eased himself onto the bench. It was clear from the way he sat that more than his ankle hurt - his shoulders slumped a little too carefully, his movements stiff in a way that didn’t match a single stumble. Helen took note, but said nothing.

She knelt beside him, inspecting the ankle gently.

“You took a bit of a slide?” she asked.

Peter nodded once. No words. Eyes averted.

“It doesn’t feel sprained, that’s good.” She pressed gently at the base of his shin, watching his reaction. “Feel that?”

He gave the barest shake of his head. Not really no, but not really yes either. He didn’t know which was the correct answer.

Helen didn’t press. She moved smoothly, using the opportunity to guide him through a general once-over. “Since you’re here, let me just check a few things. Helps me spot if kids are coming down with anything - dehydration, fatigue, all that sort of stuff.”

She was already lifting his wrist before he could decide whether or not to object. Her fingers were warm and steady.

“I’ll check blood pressure, too,” she added as she moved efficiently. “First-time tradition.”

Peter remained quiet. He didn’t resist, but every so often he flinched, so faintly it would be easy to miss - except Helen didn’t. She noticed the subtle wince when he rotated his shoulder, the way his right wrist didn’t extend fully, how his fingers curled in on themselves when left still.

“Sleeping okay?” she asked lightly.

He shrugged.

“Any pain when walking this morning? Before you tripped.”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. A lie.

Helen didn’t challenge it. “Alright,” she said, returning to her notes, “I’ll mark you as cleared, but if anything does start to hurt don’t hesitate to come find me, okay? No lectures I promise. Just help.”

He blinked at that. Didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head either.

“Alright kiddo, let’s get you to breakfast,” Sam said.

As they left, Helen jotted a few quiet notes on her clipboard. She didn’t write any suspected diagnosis, not yet. But she added “joint discomfort suspected,” “non-verbal under stress,” and “further observation recommended.”

Later, when Sam passed back through the cabin on counselor rounds, Helen caught his eye and said casually, “Might be good to watch how much he talks today. Noticed he was pretty quiet - not just shy quiet. Might be worth noting.”

Sam nodded. “You think neurodivergent?”

Helen didn’t answer right away. “I think there’s more going on than he’s admitting.”

Being the second week of camp, Peter had gained the courage to sign up to all the popular activities. At least, that's what he was telling himself; it was an easier option than admitting that the thought of swimming made him want to cry or a drum circle session made him want to curl up in a ball with his hands on his ears. It was definitely better than the looks and attention, hence, the morning pioneering session he found himself at - ready to use all his energy on tying some sticks together.

Peter stood near the edge of the group, his fingers twitching nervously as he stared down at the coil of rope in his hands. His palms were slick with sweat, though the air was cool, and his knees bounced slightly beneath his shirt. He wanted to be good at this. Really good. He wanted to prove it - to himself more than anyone else.

Steve was nearby, demonstrating the current lashing to a group of confused campers. His movements were smooth and practiced, confident without being showy. Peter watched him from the corner of his eye, hesitating to ask for help.

Peter wasn’t even 10% as grateful as Steve. His fingers fumbled over the rope, trying to remember the steps Steve had shown them but, every time he thought he had the knot secure, it slipped through, unraveling like it was teasing him.

A grimace flickered across Peter’s face. He bit his lip hard, trying to keep from wincing as the rope slid loose again and again.

Steve glanced over, his expression gentle but attentive. Without a word, he stepped closer and knelt beside Peter.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, voice low so only Peter could hear. “Want me to show you again? We can take it slow, step by step.”

Peter nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I just… don’t want to mess up.”

Steve gave a small, understanding smile. “No worries. Messing up’s part of it. It’s how you get better.”

Peter exhaled and watched as Steve took the rope and began again, his hands steady and deliberate.

“See?” Steve said quietly. “You start with the loop here - nice and loose, not too tight. Then you wrap this end around, and tuck it under right here.”

Peter repeated the motions as Steve described them, his fingers shaking slightly but determined. The knot tightened imperfectly in his hands, but fell apart as soon as he let go.

Peter’s chest tightened. “I got it wrong again,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve’s eyes met his, steady and kind. “Yeah. But it was closer, you tried again and that’s what counts.”

Peter nodded, blinking back a tear. The tightness in his chest wasn’t going away.

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning a little closer. “It’s okay. No rush. We can keep going until you’re sure, or we can pick this back up another time.”

Peter’s fingers tightened around the rope. The ache in his hands was sharp, but something in Steve’s calm steadied him. He nodded again, slower this time, and tried to focus on the rhythm - loop, wrap, tuck, pull tight.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. The knot was weak but it held.

The afternoon sunlight filtered softly through the tall windows of the craft cabin, casting warm rectangles of light across the worn wooden tables scattered with beads, scissors, and colorful strands of paracord. The air smelled faintly of pine and fresh-cut rope, mingling with the quiet hum of focused campers working on their projects.

MJ was perched at one corner of the room, threading paracord through a half-finished keyring, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’d been using green and yellow paracord to make matching keyrings for Cabin 4, determined to craft something that felt like a quiet badge of belonging. Ned sat nearby, tangled up in knots and looking increasingly frustrated - his hands clumsy with the fine work, his attempts earning amused but gentle sighs from MJ.

Peter stood a little apart, hands clasped tightly in front of him, eyes darting back and forth between the colorful rolls of cord and the small group. The sounds of scissors snipping and quiet chatter felt distant to him, as though muffled by a thick glass bubble he couldn’t quite break through.

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure the others could hear it. He shifted on his feet, twisting the edge of his sleeve. MJ had used up almost all the green and yellow, and she was only 3 keyrings in.

Natasha was sitting near the supply shelves, sorting through scraps of fabric and ribbons, when Peter approached. He hesitated at the edge of her table, then leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice so soft it was barely audible.

“Do you have any more green and yellow paracord?”

His words came out shaky, eyes flicking nervously away almost immediately.

Natasha looked up, her sharp eyes catching the subtle tremble in his voice. She noticed the way he didn’t make eye contact, the quiet anxiety in his posture, the way this simple request felt like a monumental step for him.

A slow, gentle smile spread across her face.

“Yeah,” she said softly, reaching under the table and pulling out a new full roll. “Here you go.”

She held it out to him like it was something precious, not just craft supplies.

Peter’s fingers closed around the roll, and for a moment, he just stood there, still uncertain if he was allowed to take it. The weight of it was small, but the meaning was huge - this wasn’t a demand or a need he’d been forced to voice. This was him, reaching out on his own, asking for something because he wanted it (even if it was for someone else).

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Natasha nodded, her eyes kind and steady. “You’re doing good, Pete.”

The tech lab buzzed quietly with the low hum of computers and the soft clink of tools. Sunlight poured through the wide windows, hitting the scattered gadgets laid out on the long tables. Broken phones, half-torn remote controls, cracked headphones - all waiting for repair or, at least, a little tinkering.

Peter sat slumped in his chair, his hands folded tightly in his lap. His eyes, usually darting nervously around the room, were half-lidded with exhaustion. The weariness weighed on him like a heavy blanket, making his thoughts sluggish and his mouth reluctant to form words. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He was non-verbal, the day’s strain finally overwhelming his usual attempts at communication.

Tony Stark paced the room like a restless conductor, assigning tasks with a sparkle in his eye and a casual grin. “Alright, team,” he said, voice loud enough to catch everyone’s attention, “I’ve got a bunch of broken gadgets here for you all. Nothing too tricky - no nuclear reactors or quantum computers, don’t worry.” He waved a cracked smartphone toward Peter’s table. “Peter, you’re on this little guy.”

Peter glanced down at the phone on his table - a relic with a shattered screen and a missing back panel. His fingers twitched toward it, then pulled back.

Tony crouched beside him, noticing the hesitation. “Hey,” he said softly, eyes locking with Peter’s, “this isn’t a test, okay? I don’t care if you don’t fix it. Or if it explodes in your hands. Either way, science wins.”

Peter nodded, but made no move to start. His gaze flickered uncertainty to the screwdriver for the next 15 minutes, his fingers fumbling when he finally tried to start. The grip was painful enough he didn’t notice Tony’s return.

“Mind if I borrow your screwdriver for a sec?” Tony asked. Peter nodded, eyes wide as Tony pocketed the screwdriver, playing an adaptive one into Peter's hand. The difference was immediate - the handle fit snugly in Peter’s palm, the straps giving him a bit of extra control. 

Peter exhaled slowly, gripping the tool with more confidence, though his hands trembled slightly. Tony smiled knowingly. “Sometimes, it’s not about muscle or speed. It’s about having the right tools. You’ve got this kiddo.”

As evening settled over Camp Avenbrook, and the sky faded into deep shades of indigo, Bucky sat on the log he always did when he needed to breathe - the one with the split in the middle and the carved initials from campers past. His knife moved slowly through the grain of the wood in his hand, shaving down the beginnings of a bear or a wolf or something not quite either.

Footsteps approached, soft and uneven.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept carving.

But when the steps stopped, he glanced sideways - and there was Peter, standing awkwardly at the edge of the light, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, clutching a small wooden kit to his chest.

Bucky gave him a small nod. No questions. No welcome speech. Just a shift of his legs to make room.

Peter sat carefully, like every movement cost him something. He opened the kit and pulled out a block of wood, his hands trembling slightly. The kid’s whole body was drawn in tight, like he was trying to make himself smaller than the shadows. His shoulders stayed hunched. His mouth was pressed into a tight, thin line. When he picked up the whittling knife, his fingers flexed slowly, like they didn’t want to obey.

He carved a few careful slices - awkward, stiff. The shavings came off uneven. It wasn’t just his hands. Bucky noticed how Peter kept shifting his weight like sitting hurt. His knees twitched. His elbows stayed close to his ribs like even extending them might pull something wrong. He moved like someone much, much older.

Pain didn’t always need to be loud. Sometimes it was the silence that said everything.

After a few minutes, Peter dropped the knife, his hands shook as he tried to pick it up again, but he couldn’t. His fingers just wouldn’t close around it. He stared down at them like they weren’t his.

Bucky finally set his own carving aside. Quietly. No pressure in his voice, no alarm. Just even calm.

“They hurt a lot?” he asked softly.

Peter didn’t answer. His jaw twitched, but the silence held.

Bucky waited a beat. “Ya know, Helen has deep heat in the infirmary. It might help a bit?”

Peter looked at him briefly.

Then shook his head once, sharply.

Bucky didn’t push. He nodded once and put it down beside him, not touching Peter, not even looking directly at him. Just letting it be there. Just in case.

They sat in silence after that.

The knife stayed on the ground.

But Peter didn’t leave.

And to Bucky, that said more than any words might’ve.

The small staff lounge was quiet, lit only by the warm flicker of the lamp above Helen’s clipboard. She was jotting down final notes for the day, her pen moving in deliberate strokes. Across from her, Steve leaned back in an armchair with Tony on the arm, leant against Him. Sam sat nearby, cradling a mug of something herbal, alert in his quiet.

Bucky was the one to speak first, voice low, posture forward.

“So, I was whittling with Peter this evening,” he paused, thoughtful. “Didn’t say a single word. I asked if he was okay. Nothing. Just silence.”

Helen looked up, attentive. “Was it avoidance or non-verbal?”

“Non-verbal. He wasn’t brushing me off - he just… couldn’t talk. Like the words weren’t available.”

Steve frowned. “That’s the first time we’ve seen that, right?”

Bucky shrugged. “First time I noticed. But now I’m thinking he’s been masking more than we realized. Today might’ve pushed him past the limit.”

Sam nodded, setting his mug down. “He’s had a pretty bad day to be fair. He tripped earlier - nothing serious - but he didn’t want anyone to notice. I walked him to Helen just in case. Figured it might be a chance for a check-up.”

Helen nodded, her tone clinical but gentle. “I framed it as routine. Said I give all new campers a basic first visit exam. He didn’t argue, but he shut down the second I started. No verbal responses. Wouldn’t make eye contact. But he let me go ahead.”

“What did you find?” asked Natasha, stepping in from the hall to lean against the doorframe.

“His joints are stiff,” Helen said simply. “There were uncontrolled reactions like small winces when I rotated his wrists or touched his shoulders. He’s in chronic pain. Not just his hands. Knees, elbows, spine, but everywhere.”

Tony stopped pacing. “That would explain the lab today. He was struggling to use a basic screwdriver. I swapped it out for the adaptive one - told him I needed his for a demo. He didn’t say anything, but he worked better after.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Same with whittling. He lasted a few minutes before the pain was too much. Didn’t complain. Just… sat there, quiet. Like being near someone who didn’t expect anything was easier than going back to bed and hurting alone.”

“Did he say anything about the pain?” Steve asked.

Helen shook her head. “Denied it outright. Just shook his head. He’s definitely learned to hide it - possibly for a long time.”

Steve frowned at that. “He flinched when I offered help during rope work, like he thought getting it wrong would mean trouble.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “I offered him deep heat in the infirmary. He wouldn’t even look at me. I think needing help terrifies him.”

Helen tapped the tablet in her lap, pulling up Peter’s intake form. “There’s definitely nothing listed - no mention of chronic pain or verbal shut-downs, no request for any type of accommodations. No meds. Either May didn’t know… or she didn’t say. I’ll give May a call tomorrow - if she doesn’t know, we need to explain. If she does know, we need to get a full picture on how to help.”

“Okay team,” Steve clapped his hands. “The plan for tomorrow then: give Peter space to engage on his terms. Obviously no-one pressures him to speak if he isn’t. Offer accommodations based on chronic pain and reduced mobility even if he doesn’t accept it yet.”

A quiet hum of agreement passed through the room. Just mutual understanding settling into the air. Peter Parker wasn’t a project; he was a kid doing everything he could to survive in silence.

And he didn’t have to do it alone.

Chapter Text

Helen never liked phoning parents or guardians.

99% of the time, she had to call to tell them to pick up their kid because they’d gotten injured being reckless and not listening to counsellors - something that never went down well and Helen always got the blame. The other 1% of the time she was chasing up medical information, which tended to end with less hearing damage from parents screaming down the phone.

Fingers crossed under the desk, she dialled the number listed beside May Parker’s name. It rang three times.

Then  -  click.

“What?”

Helen blinked at the tone, but kept her voice steady. “Hi  -  good afternoon. Is this May Parker?”

A sigh crackled through the line like static. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

“This is Dr. Helen Cho. I’m the medical director here at Camp Avenbrook. I’m calling about Peter  -  your nephew?”

Another sigh. Longer this time. Irritated.

“What’d he do now?”

Helen didn’t react. Her tone remained neutral, almost pleasant. “Nothing. He’s been very polite and respectful. I just had a few questions about his medical history. His intake form didn’t mention any medical issues, but some of the counsellors have noticed he seems to struggle with joint stiffness and fatigue. Has he ever been diagnosed with any - ””

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The voice cut her off sharply. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He says a lot of things. He’s always whining about something hurting - his back, his knees, his hands. It’s constant. Just growing pains or some kind of... I don’t know, attention-seeking thing.”

Helen’s jaw clenched, her fingers curled slightly tighter around the pen in her hand.

“I see,” she said curtly. “Has he seen a doctor about this and has he ever been prescribed any medication to help with the pain?”

There was a beat of silence  -  then, a dismissive scoff.

“I mean, sure,” May said. “Some quack gave him pills for anxiety and some joint thing. But he doesn’t need them. You give him an inch and he’ll take a mile  -  next thing you know, he’s pretending he can’t walk just to get out of chores.”

Helen’s voice cooled slightly, just one notch as to stay polite enough for May not to hang up immediately. “So you didn’t send his medication with him?”

“Of course not,” May said, as if the answer should be obvious. “He doesn’t need it. And don’t let him trick you into thinking he’s sick  -  he’s just dramatic. He’s always been like this. He likes pity. Wants people to feel sorry for him. Wants to be centre of attention all the time”

Helen closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, gaze sharp. “I see.”

May wasn’t done. “Well, I hope you’re not wasting your time calling me every time he cries about something - you’ll never put the flippin’ phone down!. It’s just a phase. Ignore it and he’ll stop.”

Helen didn’t respond right away. She let the silence stretch this time. Then she said, flat and professional, “Thank you for your time.”

She hung up before May could say another word.

The dial tone hummed briefly in her ear, then cut to silence. Helen stared at the phone in her hand.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She couldn’t

Letting out a shaky breath she opened Peter’s file again, this time reaching for a different pen  -  a red one  -  and began writing on a blank page at the back.

• Suspected medical neglect.
• Potential emotional abuse.
• Observed signs:
  • Chronic joint discomfort
  • Fatigue
  • Flinching at physical contact
  • Startle response
  • Underweight for age
  • Guarded posture
  • verbal shutdown when stressed
• Phone call to May Parker made 11:00 - transcript available on shared drive
• Emergency contact (May Parker) dismissed known medical information as “attention-seeking”. No medication sent - May Parker verbally confirmed medications  were withheld intentionally.
• May Parker did not confirm any diagnosis or prescription names.
• Actions to take asap:
  • Escalation to counsellor lead team and Camp Director recommended immediately.
  • Contact CPS (to be complete by Camp Director)
  • Notify all Peters counsellors of situation

She set the pen down, picked up the file and head to Fury’s office for the second conversation she didn’t want to have today and it wasn’t even midday.

Peter hadn’t been having a much better morning than Helen. Whilst he was blissfully unaware of the call she made, he was very aware that his whole day was wrong because someone had decided lunch was going to be an hour earlier than normal today, cutting the morning lab session down to only an hour long.

The tech lab was chaos.

Organized chaos, Tony would insist  -  but chaos all the same.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like bees, glaring a little too sharp against the polished workstations. The scent of solder and melted plastic hung thick in the air, undercut by the distinct smell of burnt copper. Multiple conversations competed for space  -  kids arguing over voltage thresholds, troubleshooting code syntax from opposite sides of the room, and excited squeals when something worked correctly.

It wasn’t just noise. It was layered noise. Interlocking, sharp-edged, unpredictable.

And Peter felt all of it.

He sat hunched at a corner table, shoulders tight and drawn inward, trying to ignore the tide rising in his skull. His workstation  -  a basic servo-motor setup for a low-weight suction window cleaner  -  had once felt like a comfort zone. But today, his mind wasn’t cooperating. His fingers trembled. The wires blurred together like seaweed in water, slippery and impossible to hold. He blinked hard, adjusting his grip. Just two more connections. Red to input, blue to return.

He dropped the screwdriver.

Clatter. Metal-on-metal. Too loud. Too close.

A second later someone shouted  -  something unrelated, probably a joke across the room  -  but the volume cut through Peter’s spine like a blade.

Then a chair scraped, hard plastic feet screeching against linoleum. A soldering iron hissed. Another beep. A fuse sparked near the back corner and someone cursed.

It wasn’t any one thing. It was all of it. Stacked like Jenga blocks. No time to process.

Peter’s breath hitched.

The lights were too bright. The smells too sharp. The sounds too loud, too many, coming from everywhere at once. It felt like the walls were bending in, squeezing the air from his lungs. His skin prickled like static  -  clothes too tight, temperature too hot, pressure building in his chest like a scream he couldn’t let out.

He reached for the screwdriver again. Missed. Knocked it further away.

That did it.

He gasped once, shallow and sharp, and then he was sliding down off the stool, curling in on himself on the floor. Knees to chest. Arms over his head. Hands clamped over his ears. An unconscious whine escaping the back of his throat.

The lab kept moving around him but Peter’s world narrowed to a pinpoint: a roaring, swirling, too-loud mess he couldn’t escape from.

His hands started to repeatedly hit his head. He rocked slightly back and forth. His breath came in short, fast bursts. His vision blurred with tears he wasn’t even aware of. His whole body vibrated like a tuning fork, stuck in a resonance he couldn’t break.

He just wanted everything to stop and go away.

But someone had noticed.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice, lower now, uncertain. Then louder: “MJ  -  go get Sam. Or Bucky. Now.”

MJ didn’t argue. She was already moving.

Tony knelt nearby, keeping his distance. He didn’t reach out - didn’t try to touch him - but he shifted so he was in Peter’s line of sight.

“Hey, buddy. You’re okay. I got you. Help’s coming.”

Peter didn’t respond.

Harley, standing at the centre table, clocked what was happening in an instant. His expression tightened, as he ushered the rest of the kids out the room. When MJ returned with Sam and Bucky, the room was already nearly silent again.

Peter was still crouched in the corner, rocking slightly, hands over his ears. His breathing was ragged, as if each inhale was a mountain to climb.

Sam stepped in first. He didn’t speak right away. He just knelt down, far enough not to crowd but close enough to be seen. His expression was calm. Open. Gentle.

“Hey, Pete,” he said, voice low. “It’s me, Sam. Bucky and Tony are here too. You’re safe. I’m gonna stay right here with you, okay? Just you and me. You don’t have to talk. Just breathe if you can.”

Peter didn’t respond. Sam kept his voice steady and soft.

“I know everything’s loud. I know your brain’s full and it's a lot right now. It sucks. But you’re not in trouble. Nobody’s mad. You’re not broken. I’m going to move a bit closer okay, and I'm going to hold your hands for a little minute, because you’re hitting your head with quite a bit of force, bud. I know you might be finding it a little difficult to talk at the minute so if you need me to stop, pull away and I’ll let go.” 

Peter didn’t answer. But much to Sam’s relief, Peter allowed Sam to hold his hands. Bucky knelt behind Sam, watching carefully.

“Peter, I have some ear defenders here - I think they might help. Can I put them over your ears?” Much to Sam, Bucky and Tony’s surprise, Peter grunted in a way that could be interpreted as vaguely positive. “Take your time, Pete,” Bucky said as he slipped them on. “We’ve got all day.”

After almost 20 minutes, Peter’s rocking slowed. His fingers twitched. His shoulders dropped a fraction. Sam noticed immediately. He didn’t comment, didn’t rush him. Just waited.

Then, with a small, jerky movement, he shifted sideways and leaned against Sam’s arm. Not all the way  -  just a fraction of his weight, enough to make purposeful contact.

Sam didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just breathed.

In. Out.

Slow. Measured. Grounding.

Peter’s own breath hitched again, then tried to match his.

In. Out.

A little slower now.

“I’m here,” Sam murmured. “You’re not alone. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Peter curled in closer. His arms were still locked tight around himself, but the trembling had eased. The tears were still there, tracking silently down his cheeks, and his breathing, though ragged, had rhythm now.

When Peter finally opened his eyes and whispered  -  hoarse and broken  -  “Sorry,” Sam shook his head.

“Nope,” he said firmly. “No apologizing for having a brain. Or a body. Or a nervous system that’s trying its best.”

After a while, Sam shifted to stretch out his legs, keeping one shoulder pressed against Peter’s.

“Do you want to stay here for a bit?” he asked. “Or want to head somewhere quieter?” Even with the campers having left, the room was filled with the noise of 3D printers and children running around outside.

Peter hesitated, before squeezing Sam’s hand twice.

“Cool,” Sam said. “We’ve got the shaded deck behind the counsellor's cabin. No-one ever hangs there so it’ll be nice and peaceful.” Normally Sam would take him to the quiet room in the infirmary, but he hadn't heard from Helen yet, and had a gut feeling that May Parker was the last person Peter needed right now.

Chapter Text

The deck behind the counselors' cabin was tucked beneath a spread of tall pines, half-swallowed by the long stretch of afternoon shadows. A breeze cut through the lingering heat, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine sap. For Peter, the quiet here was bearable. Manageable. If nothing else, it was still.

He didn’t speak - hadn’t since the tech lab. He sat curled up on one of the wide benches, knees tucked to his chest beneath a camp hoodie three sizes too big, despite being marked for ages 11–12. The ear defenders were still on. The world was still too much.

Tony sat at the far end of the bench, absentmindedly fiddling with a mini soldering kit and a half-dismantled drone that had been broken for months. Occasionally, he muttered to himself.

“That’s definitely a burned-out resistor. Why even bother with thermal shielding if it’s garbage-tier quality?”

He wasn’t expecting a response, and he didn’t get one - but he kept talking anyway.

Nearby, Steve sat on the step, sketchpad balanced on his knees. His pencil moved slowly, almost meditatively - not forming anything in particular, just gentle shading and soft lines. Rhythm without pressure.

Peter’s fingers twitched in his lap. His skin felt too tight. His hands were trembling again - just enough for him to notice, just enough to frighten him. He knew what happened when people thought he was “too much.” May had made sure of that.

But Tony didn’t push. Steve didn’t ask questions. Nobody told him to talk. Nobody acted like his silence was a problem.

They just let him be.

And it helped. A little.

In Fury’s cabin, Helen Cho pressed her fingers to her temple, tension drawing lines across her forehead. On the screen in front of her, framed between Fury and the coffee pot, was the third face in the room: Amanda Grant, a CPS social worker video-calling in. Her expression was sharp and businesslike, rectangular glasses perched low on her nose as she typed briskly into her system.

“This isn’t our first report on May Parker,” Amanda said, voice clipped. “But it’s the first time we’ve had formal documentation - audio transcripts, medical observations, third-party witnesses. That’s enough to open a case.”

The door creaked softly open. Steve Rogers stepped in, quietly closing it behind him. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I was with Peter.”

Helen looked up. “How is he?”

“Still non-verbal,” Steve replied. His voice was low, serious. “He’s shaking, didn’t touch the food we made him. And… I don’t think he understands what’s happening to his body. Honestly, I think he’s afraid of it - or afraid of how we’ll react to it.”

Helen exhaled sharply. “His intake form was completely blank. No conditions, no meds, no warnings. That’s not forgetfulness - that’s intentional. May lied to our staff. She knew what he needed and chose not to send it.”

She paused, collecting herself.

“Peter hasn’t said exactly what he’s been prescribed, but based on symptoms, I’d guess an SSRI, something anti-inflammatory, and probably a pain management med. May admitted to pulling him off medication for joint issues and anxiety cold turkey, but didn’t say which ones or give any details.”

“We need a blood panel,” Fury said flatly. “ASAP.”

“I’ve already requested one,” Helen replied. “The kit’s en route. Results won’t be immediate, but I’ve flagged it as high priority.”

Amanda leaned closer to the camera. “Until we have more information, he does not go back to May. Full stop.”

“I can arrange alternate placement if needed,” Steve offered quickly.

Amanda shook her head. “Not yet. He can stay at camp for now, under supervision. CPS will determine if removal from her custody is warranted - but that process takes time. This isn’t going to be overnight.”

Peter was already regretting his decision to go to the dining hall.

He sat with Sam at the far end of the mostly empty space, hunched in on himself. Sam had brought him a tray: plain mashed potatoes, a soft roll, and a glass of apple juice. No meat. No strong smells. No overwhelming colors. Just safe food.

Peter didn’t even glance at it.

Sam didn’t push. He didn’t sigh. He just waited.

“You know,” he said casually, “when we were in college, Bucky basically survived on bread and peanut butter for like six months. I’m not even kidding. I don’t think I saw him touch a vegetable once.”

No reaction.

Peter’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. His shoulders were curled so tightly it looked painful. His breathing was short, shallow, uneven.

Sam lowered his voice. “I don’t care if you eat the whole tray. Just one bite. Just enough to keep your body from crashing on you later.”

There was the smallest twitch - Peter’s hand moved toward the tray… then froze.

Sam saw the hesitation. The internal struggle was obvious now - like Peter wanted to comply but physically couldn’t.

“You’re not in trouble,” Sam said gently. “You’re not letting anyone down. We know something’s happening. And we’re figuring it out. You’re not alone, okay? You’re safe.”

Peter’s throat moved as he swallowed. Still silent.

Sam nudged the roll a little closer. “Just help your body out. You don’t need to prove anything.”

Peter’s hand trembled as he reached out and broke a piece of the bread off. He didn’t eat it - just held it between his fingers and crumbled it slowly, the pieces falling like dust into his lap.

Sam didn’t comment. He just gave a small nod and stayed with him.

“Still no food,” Sam said quietly as he stepped into the infirmary, rubbing the back of his neck. “He tried. Crumbled the bread. But didn’t eat. Please tell me CPS sees what’s going on.”

Helen looked up from her desk. Her face was pale with worry, red pen still in hand. “They’re opening a case. That much is confirmed. Did he drink anything? Tony said he wouldn’t earlier, no matter what he tried.”

Sam shook his head. “May did a number on him.”

Helen didn’t respond. She just nodded once, quietly, and returned to her notes.

That evening, Natasha found Peter alone in his cabin, curled up on the beanbag in the far corner. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, fists bunched in the sleeves of his hoodie so hard his knuckles had gone white.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago - not because he’d gotten warmer, but because his body had run out of energy.

Everything hurt. His brain felt electric and raw, his joints were aflame, and even the pressure of the fabric against his skin felt wrong. He’d tried lying down. Sitting. Standing. Nothing helped. Stillness was unbearable. Movement made it worse.

His stomach was twisted in knots - a sickly, sharp thing that hovered somewhere between nausea and hunger. Food felt like poison. And necessity.

He didn’t understand what was happening to him.

But he was pretty sure it was his fault.

May always said he made himself sick for attention. That he was fragile. Exhausting. Dramatic. She’d said it so often, for so long, he couldn’t tell where her voice ended and his own began.

A soft knock came at the door. Not loud. Not pushy.

Peter didn’t move.

It opened slowly, and Natasha leaned in. “Hey,” she said softly. “Mind if I sit with you?”

No response.

She entered anyway, crossing the room and lowering herself gently to the floor nearby - not too close, not crowding.

Peter didn’t look at her, but he knew she was watching. Not judging. Just observing.

After a long moment, Nat reached into her jacket and pulled something from the inside pocket - a small plush bird, homemade, with lopsided wings and crooked stitching.

“MJ made it,” she said. “For stress. Or emotional support. Or maybe just because she was bored. Either way, it’s squishy. And ridiculous. And I think she’d want you to have it.”

Peter stared. After several seconds, his trembling hand reached out and took it. He didn’t squeeze it - just let it rest in his palm like something fragile.

“You don’t have to talk,” Nat said gently. “I just wanted you to know... you’re not alone. Whatever your body’s doing - it’s not your fault.”

Peter’s throat burned.

“We don’t think you’re faking,” she added. “We don’t think you’re dramatic. Or manipulative. Or broken.”

His fingers clenched around the bird. A sharp, trembling breath escaped his chest before he could stop it. The shaking returned, stronger this time. His breathing went shallow and fast.

And then the tears came - sudden and hot, rolling down his cheeks as his body curled tighter, clutching the soft toy like it was a lifeline.

“You’re not broken,” Natasha said again, steady and sure. “You’re hurting. There’s a difference.”

Chapter Text

Camp was restless. The air hung too heavy, too still, charged with the promise of rain. 

Peter stood at the edge of the playing field, arms wrapped tightly around his torso like he was trying to hold himself together. He was drenched in sweat beneath his hoodie; he hadn’t taken it off all day, even though the sun had pressed down hard through the haze until mid-afternoon. Now, the sky had dulled to gray, and thunder growled threatening somewhere far off.

Around him, the others ran full speed across the field in another round of capture-the-flag. MJ shouted orders like she was born in a war room. Harley cackled as he bolted through a patch of scrub. Miles yelled Peter’s name once and waved before disappearing behind a hay bale.

Peter raised a hand to wave back. The movement made his fingers shake.

His whole body felt wrong. Hot and cold at once. His joints pulsed with the kind of ache that crept in and settled behind the bones. His stomach was a mess of acid and nothingness, churning and hollow all at once. His head throbbed, sharp and rhythmic, like his skull couldn’t quite contain his brain anymore.

The world was moving too fast. His body couldn’t keep up.

The edges of his vision wobbled.

He took a breath. Held it.

Then the ground tipped sideways.

And Peter dropped.

“Peter! Hey - Peter!”

Clint Barton’s voice cut through the field, sharp and rising. He was halfway across the lawn, pausing mid-laugh at one of the junior counselors when he saw Peter sway.

By the time he reached him, Peter was already on the ground - limbs trembling. His face waxy-pale. His breathing too shallow.

“Hey, Peter.” Clint knelt fast, hand already pressing to his wrist. “You with me?”

No response.

“Somebody get Dr. Cho,” Clint called, calm but loud. “Go!”

Footsteps pounded away behind him.

Clint eased the kid onto his side and stayed close, one hand lightly bracing Peter’s back, one firmly on the pulse point. “You’re okay Peter. Just hang in there, bud.”

Helen Cho worked fast but careful as soon as Peter was led on a bed, her movements precise as she checked vitals. His skin was clammy. His pulse galloped under her fingers.

Clint paced by the windows, barely pretending be calm. Bruce stood nearby, expression tense.

“He’s fevered,” Helen said, voice low. “BP’s a lot lower than I'm happy with, his pulse is too fast and he’s not responsive yet.”

“Dehydration?” Bruce offered. “Heat exhaustion? Sam said he only ate half a plain roll at lunch?”

“Possible,” Helen murmured. “Definitly contributors but I think it's more…”

She peeled back Peter’s sleeve. Red, uneven patches traced the inside of his arm. His knuckles were swollen - subtle, but unmistakable to someone trained to see it.

Peter stirred. Barely. A weak groan escaped his throat.

“Peter,” Helen said gently, kneeling next to the cot. “You’re in the infirmary. You collapsed out on the field, but you’re safe. I’ve got you, okay?”

His eyes fluttered open. “’M okay.”

“You’re not,” she said, soft but firm.

She offered a cup of water. He took a small sip. Then another, pain flickering across his face with each gull. “Can you tell me what hurts Peter?”

“Everything” he whispered. “Head. Joints. Skin”

“Okay, thank you for telling me,” she said. “That helps.”

She moved carefully, running another set of tests, watching how he flinched from the light, how his gaze didn’t quite focus. It was all adding up. Everything they’d been seeing over the past few days - the tremors, the stiffness, the exhaustion, the hypersensitivity. Now this.

Helen hesitated before speaking. “Peter… I know we talked a little about your medication before. Do you remember the names of any of them?”

He didn’t answer. But his face changed - guilt, shame, and fear plastered across his face.

“You’re not in trouble,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to give me details. I just need to know what your body is missing so I can help you.”

He swallowed. “I… don’t know the names. I never got to see the bottles.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Can you remember for me if you were taking something everyday or once a week - how often?”

He nodded, just once. “Every day.”

“Okay, well done. Do you know when you last had the medication?”

“Morning before I left for camp.”

Helen exhaled. Her hands stilled.

That had been two weeks ago.

Fourteen days cold turkey off what? An SSRI? Anti-inflammatory? Something for joint pain, based on the swelling? Maybe even a mood stabiliser from what May implied.

She didn’t have enough data yet. But she had enough to be certain of one thing.

Withdrawal.

The body-breaking, system-crashing kind.

She reached over, adjusting the blanket over Peter’s shaking frame.

“You’re going to stay here tonight,” she said gently. “We’re going to manage the symptoms, keep your fluids up, and I’ll help your system stabilize. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Peter didn’t reply. But he didn’t protest.

The porch outside the infirmary was quiet that evening except for the low hum of cicadas and the distant murmur of kids settling into cabins. The air had cooled a little since sundown, but it still clung heavy, waiting for rain.

Steve stood leaning against the railing, arms crossed. Tony sat on the steps just below him, elbow braced on his knee, twisting a loose screw between his fingers. Neither had spoken in a few minutes.

“He trusts you,” Steve said eventually, voice quiet.

Tony didn’t look up. “He trusts you more.”

“That’s not a competition.”

Tony let the screw fall into his palm. “It’s not about that.”

Steve turned toward him slightly. “Then what’s it about?”

Tony’s jaw worked for a second before he answered. “I just… keep thinking about the way he flinches when someone raises their voice. How he apologized for passing out. He does it less with you than me I think. He trusts you more.”

His voice was rough. Honest.

Steve exhaled slowly. He reached down and let his hand brush against Tony’s shoulder - neither wanted to say out loud how Tony apologised for everything when they started dating. How it took months after they moved in together for Tony to stop flinching and apologising for existing around Steve. Steve pulled Tony into a hug, hoping it would convey all his admiration, protectiveness, and absolute love he held right then. Tony didn’t pull away.

The infirmary door opened behind them.

Helen stepped out, closing it gently behind her. Her expression was unreadable at first, then settled into something somewhere between tired and tightly controlled.

Tony straightened slightly. “How is he?”

She didn’t answer right away, just gave a small shake of her head and crossed her arms.

“It’s withdrawal,” Helen said finally. “I’ve got his fever managed for now. Fluids are going in, I’ve got him resting. He’s not in immediate danger, but we don’t know what kind of long-term damage cold-turkey withdrawal could be doing under the surface. He’s pretty shaken up and still a bit out of it, but I suspect he'd be up for a visit from either of you” Steve grimaced and left to update Nick as Tony entered the medical cabin.

“Hey, kid,” he said gently. “You still awake?”

Peter opened his eyes slowly, just enough to see him.

Tony pulled up a chair beside the bed, then reached into his jacket pocket. “I brought you something.”

He held out a small sensory toy - a loop of plastic curves that moved as you fiddled with it. “You don’t have to use it. Just figured it might help. It helps me when I don't know how to think normally.”

Peter took it wordlessly, clutching it like a fragile thing.

Tony leaned back a bit, giving him space. “You scared us today.”

Peter’s voice was a rasp. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Tony said. “That’s what makes it even more scary.”

Peter looked down at the fidget in his hands. “May always says… if I stopped taking them, it would prove to everybody I didn't need them.”

“Sometimes…” Tony praised, contemplating his wording, “sometimes adults we should be able to trust are wrong and you need new people to learn to trust again.”

Peter curled a little tighter under the blanket, the fidget toy pressed against his chest.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Tony said. “That’s our job now.”

Later, at the counselor debrief, the mood was somber.

Steve stood at the front of the room, arms crossed over his chest, voice steady.

“Peter’s condition is serious. Helen’s confirmed withdrawal symptoms. CPS has already been updated, and they’ve approved keeping him onsite under medical observation. He is not returning home - we're expecting a visit from CPS in the next day or so to get Peter's side of the story.”

Helen spoke next, her tone clipped but kind. “He’s stable for now. We’re monitoring vitals, managing pain and hydration. He’s got a long road ahead, but he’s safe. That’s what matters.” She glanced around the room. “Until further notice, he’s not to be left alone. Not because he’s dangerous to the other kids, but because he’s scared. His whole world’s changing; it's falling apart around him so he’s going to need extra support to keep him from falling with it.”

Chapter Text

The rain came gently the next morning, tapping against the infirmary windows in a rhythm too soft to wake anyone who was still asleep. Outside, the camp was quiet - trails damp, branches bowed slightly from the weight of water, fog clinging to the treetops like breath that hadn’t finished exhaling. Inside, the lights were dim, softened to a warm glow that Helen had deliberately set lower the night before. Too much brightness made Peter flinch.

Peter was already awake.

He hadn’t moved from the curled position he’d fallen asleep in - one arm tucked under his head, the other wrapped tight around the plush bird MJ had given him. Its lopsided wings were warm from his body heat. The fidget tangle Tony had brought lay looped around his fingers, the motionless curves resting against his knuckles.

He didn’t know what time it was. It didn’t really matter.

His stomach still felt like it was eating itself, but food didn’t seem like something meant for him. His body hurt slightly less than they had yesterday, but that was like saying the fire was down to embers - he was still burning.

Thoughts sloshed in his head like water in a glass someone had dropped but caught mid-air. He hated that he was here, in this bed, where everyone could see him being a problem. He hated that his body had betrayed him, that it needed so much, that it took up space.

May had always said the same thing: “You’re not sick, Peter. You’re pathetic. You want to be special. To be worth something.” After 7 years he had started to believe her.

The door creaked softly open.

Peter’s shoulders stiffened, though he didn’t look up. He didn’t have the energy to brace for more talking. More questions. More prodding and poking.

But it wasn’t Helen this time.

It was Steve and Tony.

They came in quietly; Steve was carrying a sketchpad and a small box of crayons, Tony holding a covered tray with a familiar cocoa mug and something wrapped in foil. Tony set the tray on the bedside table and pulled up a chair as Steve sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, laying the sketchpad down without fanfare.

“Morning, kid,” Tony said, voice soft. “You awake?”

Peter’s eyes flicked toward them for a split second, then down again.

“It’s okay,” Steve said gently. “You don’t have to talk. Just figured we’d keep you company.”

Peter didn’t respond. But he didn’t roll away either.

Tony lifted the foil on the tray revealing warm toast, no crusts, cut into little triangles. A peeled apple, sliced thin. And cocoa with the tiniest swirl of whipped cream on top. All familiar. All safe. All silent apologies from people who weren’t the ones who hurt him.

Steve opened the crayon box and chose a soft blue. He started sketching clouds, gentle and looping.

“I know you might not feel hungry right now,” Tony began, “But you can try to have some toast when you feel ready for it. We’re not going to take it away. If you don’t eat it now, we can save it for later.”

Peter’s lips twitched, barely. Maybe it wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t nothing.

He didn’t eat. But when Steve passed him a crayon, Peter took it without hesitation.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, Peter breathed a little easier.

He wasn’t ready to trust. Not completely. But he knew for the first time he wasn’t alone.

Distant laughter and the crack of dodgeballs on the court drifted in through the open screen door as the camp morning activities began, mixed with birdsong and the rhythmic clack of someone working in the craft cabin nearby.

Helen had stepped out of Peter's room briefly to speak with Sam, leaving Peter alone for the moment, resting on his side, watching dust motes spin lazily through the sunbeam above his bed. His fingers traced the edge of his blanket without thought, a slow, repetitive motion he didn’t seem to notice.

Then came the knock and the door creaked open.

“Hey,” MJ said quietly. “Is it okay if we come in?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but her voice carried permission more than expectation. Ned followed her inside, tripping slightly over his untied shoelace, and Harley followed half-walking, half-hopping like he’d just run from somewhere and barely caught his breath. Miles trailed behind, a bit more reserved, holding something behind his back.

“Dude, camp is so boring without you,” Harley blurted as he flopped onto the edge of Peter’s bed. “In the science lab this morning I made a hilarious joke about protons and photons and nobody laughed. I need you, Peter. No one else appreciates good comedy!”

MJ rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t good comedy. That’s why we need you back - we’re all stuck with Harley’s sense of humour.”

“Lies and slander,” Harley shot back.

“Oh! We brought you stuff!” Ned said, practically vibrating as he rummaged in MJ’s bag and produced the latest Batman comic. “My mum sent it - just came this morning. It only came out last week, so you definitely haven’t read it yet.”

Peter reached for it slowly. His fingers brushed the cover, and he smiled, small, but real.

Miles stepped forward at last. He held out a tiny paper crane, its folds sharp and precise. “My mom taught me this one,” he said. “It’s supposed to bring peace. I dunno... I just thought you might like it.” He set it down gently on the table, next to the plush bird.

Peter stared at it.

He wished he could thank them all properly. He wished he could just make the words come out so they knew just how much their visit meant.

“It’s okay looser, we know you’re mentally saying thank you”

And with that they just kept talking - casual chatter about camp life, MJ’s latest archery record, Harley’s ongoing feud with the snack machine, Miles accidentally beating one of the junior counsellors at chess and getting roped into teaching a class.

And Peter listened.

Not just with stillness this time. With intent. With presence.

Ned leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “If you want, we’ll smuggle in cookies later. Or banana bread. No raisins. We swear.”

Harley nodded solemnly. “We all voted. Raisins are betrayal.”

The group didn’t linger too long. MJ had them timed perfectly - fifteen minutes, tops. No pressure. No overwhelm. Just enough to remind him: he still belonged. He still mattered. The world hadn’t shut him out.

When they left, the infirmary felt just a little less cold. On the table beside Peter, the comic, the crane, and the plush bird sat like anchors in a sea that had maybe, finally, started to settle.

The camp’s infirmary door opened with a soft click, and Pepper Potts stepped inside, her posture calm and assured. She wore a tailored blazer in muted grey over a simple blouse, her appearance crisp and professional - every inch the social worker with years of experience in navigating difficult, painful situations.

“Peter,” she said gently, pulling one of Helen's stools up to his bedside. “I’m Pepper. I’m a social worker for CPS - do you know what that means.”

Peter nodded. Helen had told him about this visit at lunch.

“Okay, good,” She slid a note pad and pen across to him, “if you don’t feel like talking and want to use this to communicate, that's perfectly okay. I’m going to ask you some questions about home because we want to make sure you are safe and happy, okay?”

She spoke slowly, with care, her voice soft enough to soothe but clear enough to carry authority. She didn’t press him with questions, only waited patiently as Peter wrote his responses.

After almost half an hour with Peter, Pepper excused herself to meet with the camp staff, collecting Helen’s reports and notes from the counsellors. She skimmed through the detailed observations - the flinching, the withdrawal, the abuse that had been hidden behind lies and silence.

Pepper folded her hands and looked up, her expression firm but compassionate.

She folded her hands and looked up, voice firm, but full of care.

“I can’t tell you the full outcome yet,” she said. “But I can tell you this: Peter is not going back to May Parker. Not until everything is resolved.” She handed Fury a packet. “This details temporary guardianship rights - what you can and can’t do, what CPS needs to be notified about, what Ms. Parker is restricted from doing, etcetera. I suggest at minimum you, Helen, and Steve read it thoroughly. Ideally, any counsellor working with Peter should understand the basics. I have informed Peter of the temporary guardianship and what it means for him, but it might be good if one of your counsellors he’s familiar with goes through the basics with him again later today or tomorrow.” 

She stood and shook Fury’s hand. “I’ll call when there’s more.”

The light had shifted again by late afternoon, softening into the warm gold that always made the trees outside glow. Peter had drifted in and out of shallow sleep - never quite resting, but not entirely present either. His fingers still curled around the corner of the comic book Ned had brought, though he hadn’t opened it. He hadn’t eaten anything, either, though the toast from that morning remained untouched on the tray.

Helen had just stepped out to take a call when the door creaked open again, this time with less hesitation. 

“Heya, kiddo.” Clint settled into the chair and pulled out a tattered notebook. “So, this is gonna sound weird,” Clint said, flipping through a few pages. “But I figured, if you were up for it, you might want to help me figure out my hieroglyphics of some archery drills. Some of the younger kids are struggling to keep the string tension even, and I’m not exactly the diagram type.”

He turned the notebook toward Peter.

Inside, the page was covered in scribbles, rough sketches of archery targets, posture stick figures, and an enormous cartoon squirrel for no discernible reason.

Peter stared at the page.

Clint didn’t push. He just leaned back and gave a shrug. “Honestly, it’s fine if you just think I draw like a six-year-old. You wouldn’t be wrong.”

There was a pause.

Peter reached slowly for the pencil clipped to the edge of the notebook. His grip was a little unsteady, but he underlined one of the stick figures and drew a small arrow pointing at the supposed arm.

Clint peered at it. “Ohhh, right. Yeah. I always forget stick-elbows exist. It’s a talent of mine.” As Clint silently got to work adding in the 7 missing elbows, he talked Peter through the physics behind it all. He finished, put down the pencil and gave Peter his full attention. “Y’know, I didn’t always wear these.” He tapped his hearing aid. “I went through a whole mess of years pretending I was just… bad at paying attention. That I could handle it. I didn’t want anyone thinking something was wrong with me. I spent a fair bit of my childhood being told I was damaged good and broken.”

Peter went still.

Clint lowered his voice - not serious, not dramatic, just honest.

“But I wasn’t broken or damaged goods. I’m disabled. It took a lot of time for me to get to that conclusion, but I didn’t have anyone in my corner to tell me any different until I met Nat in high school. It makes a big difference when all the voices around you aren’t being mean, ya know. Once I figured the whole I’m just disabled thing out, it got easier. Not perfect. But I stopped wasting all my energy trying to hide it, and found ways to make the world more accessible to me.” He glanced toward Peter. “Takes guts to live with something like that. Something your body won’t let you ignore. Doesn’t make you weak, kid.”

Peter didn’t answer. But his hand tightened on the pencil. His jaw twitched.

Clint could hear Helen wrapping up her phone call outside the door, and took it as his cue to leave and not overwhelm the kid. Peter didn’t move. But as Clint stepped toward the door, a faint whisper, so quiet it could’ve been imagined, broke the silence.

“…thanks.”

“No problem kiddo,” and lifted two fingers in a casual wave before slipping out the door, letting it close behind him with a gentle click.

As dinner time appeared so did Sam, balancing a small tray with the kind of deliberate care that said this was not just a chore. The smell of warm bread and cinnamon drifted in behind him. “Hey, bud. I brought something.”

Peter didn’t look over. Didn’t even remotely acknowledge Sam’s existence.

Sam set the tray down on the table anyways. 

“I know food’s hard,” Sam said as he sat down nearby, close but not crowding. “But I figured maybe if we make it more of a... team effort thing, it might be less scary.”

Peter didn’t respond. His eyes flicked toward the tray. Briefly. Then away.

Sam waited. Not with the kind of expectant silence that demanded anything - just the kind that said I’ve got time . He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice easy.

“When I got out of basic training,” Sam said, “my appetite was all over the place. Couldn’t keep anything down. Everything smelled like engine oil and rubber. And my body… well, it wasn’t always telling the truth about what I needed.”

Peter blinked slowly. That caught something.

Sam smiled faintly. “Sometimes your body lies to you when you’ve been through something hard. It tells you you’re not hungry. That you don’t deserve food or rest. That you’re just being difficult. But it’s not the truth. It’s just a scared system trying to protect itself the only way it knows how.”

He reached out and nudged the toast plate a little closer. “I’m not asking for much. One bite. Just… don’t let your body lie to you forever, okay?”

Peter stared at the toast. Then at Sam. His fingers twitched under the blanket.

Sam didn’t say anything more. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea.

There was a long silence.

Then Peter, with visible effort, pushed the blanket down and reached out a trembling hand.

His fingers hovered over the toast. He picked up one tiny square, turned it over in his hand, then held it to his lips.

He didn’t eat it.

But he smelled it.

And then he set it back on the plate.

Sam’s face didn’t change. No praise, no exaggerated relief. Just a warm, steady nod.

“That’s brave,” he said quietly. “That’s a win.”

Peter didn’t look at him. But his breathing had evened out. His shoulders had relaxed a little.

The infirmary was quiet now, the low hum of machines the only sound in the dimly lit room. Peter lay on the bed, tucked beneath a soft blanket, eyes half-closed but still alert to the world around him. The events of the day weighed heavy on him - exhaustion mixed with that gnawing uncertainty and fear.

Steve rose from his seat by the window, preparing to leave. His gaze lingered on Peter a moment longer. As he moved toward the door, Peter’s voice, fragile and barely a whisper, stopped him.

“Stay?”

Steve’s heart clenched. Without hesitation, he turned back, nodding gently.

I’m right here,” he said softly, settling back into the chair beside the bed. 

Minutes slipped by in comfortable silence. Steve watched Peter’s breathing even out, the tension slowly draining from his small frame.

After a few minutes, the door opened softly.

Tony stepped in, glancing at Steve. “You coming to bed?”

Steve shook his head without looking away from Peter. “Nah. The kid asked me to stay.”

Tony smiled quietly. “Alright. I’ll be right back.”

He slipped out and returned a moment later, carrying a blanket and a couple of pillows. Setting them down carefully on the floor beside Steve’s chair, he settled in.

They didn’t speak.

They just sat - quietly sharing the space, watching over Peter.

He was tired. Worn down. But not alone.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Tony unequivocally hated May Parker. Despite all the pain she’d inflicted on Peter - emotional wounds buried beneath years of negligence, strained affection and down right medical abuse - she still had to go that extra mile. With her one remaining shred of legal authority, she requested a phone call to Peter. And Peter, of course, agreed. Whether it was guilt, some stubborn residue of love for his aunt, or internal pressure to be a people pleaser, Tony wasn’t quite sure. What he did know, though, was that Peter didn’t owe her anything. Not his time, not his grace, and certainly not another piece of his heart she could twist.

And now, as if the day hadn’t already carved its mark deep into his chest, Tony was soaked to the bone, dragging his feet through the flooded paths of the camp alongside Natasha and Bucky. They were caught up in a brutal game of hide and seek - not the kind with laughter and tag-backs, but the kind that made your pulse pound in your ears. The kind where a traumatized kid ripped out his IV and bolted barefoot into a rainstorm. The kind where every second mattered more than anyone wanted to admit. The kind where finding him wasn’t just important - it was life or death.

As Tony rounded the back of the old dining hall, he froze at the sound of a child whimpering. It was faint, muffled by the thunder and wind, but unmistakably there - sharp and raw in the quiet way someone tries not to cry. He followed the sound to the wooden pavilion, crouching beside it with slow, measured movements, careful not to startle the boy beneath. His breath caught in his throat at the sight - Peter curled in on himself, hoodie soaked and clinging like a second skin, fists buried in his hair, shoulders trembling.

“Peter?” Tony called softly, his voice stripped of all its usual armour.

Peter didn’t move, didn’t look up. He was shaking, chest hitching silently as he tried - and failed - not to cry. Rain dripped steadily from his curls, his entire body taut with the effort of holding himself together.

“Hey,” Tony murmured, kneeling beside him but keeping his distance. His voice was impossibly gentle, barely above the rain. “I’m here.”

There was no response, just the sound of water splashing gently off the roof, the wind shifting through the trees. Peter stayed curled in a ball, refusing to meet Tony’s eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Tony added, voice calm and even. “I just wanted you to know I’m not leaving.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Tony took the chance to quietly message an update to Natasha and Bucky, unaware of the storm still raging in Peter’s mind - May’s cruel words playing on repeat, every syllable a strike to his already fragile sense of worth.

Then Peter broke the silence, voice hoarse and barely audible. “She hates me.”

Tony didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting something like this - knew it was only a matter of time before Peter let the poison out. “She’s wrong,” he said simply.

“I just…” Peter’s voice cracked, barely holding itself together. “I wanted her to care. Just once. I wanted her to say that she… that I mattered.”

“You do matter,” Tony replied, eyes steady and sure. “You matter so much more than her words right now.”

Peter’s lip trembled, eyes locked on the puddles beneath him. “But what if she’s right? What if I’m just… broken?”

Tony exhaled slowly, his heart aching with the weight of that question. “You’re not broken, Peter. It’s not your fault she doesn’t understand you. That’s on her.”

Peter looked up at that - just a little. Just enough to see Tony’s face shadowed by rain, his eyes soft with concern, his drenched hair plastered to his forehead. He didn’t see judgment there. Just quiet, patient care. And that was what broke something open in him - not pity, not reassurance, just the presence of someone who stayed.

Tony didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer false promises or empty comforts. Instead, he talked - about the trees swaying in the wind, about how the canoe dock used to flood every year, about how soaked he was and how much he missed dry socks. Mundane, gentle things. And slowly, breath by breath, Peter started to settle. His sobs faded into sniffles, his body uncurled inch by inch.

Eventually, Tony extended a hand, his voice still warm. “Can I take you back to the infirmary? You’ve been out here a little while, and I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing and could really go for a blanket right about now.”

Peter hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods. He reached out, fingers barely brushing Tony’s before gripping his arm tightly.

The walk back was slow, each step heavy like trudging through molasses. But Peter didn’t let go. He kept hold of Tony like a lifeline, like something solid in a world that had started to crumble.

Inside, the infirmary’s warmth wrapped around him instantly, like a weighted blanket. Helen stood waiting just inside the doorway, a towel and blanket already in her hands. She didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t mention the mud on his clothes or the redness in his eyes. She simply moved forward, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and guided him gently back to his bed.

Peter didn’t speak. Neither did she. But the silence between them wasn’t empty - it was calm. It was a lull after the storm, the kind of quiet that made space for healing. Rain tapped lightly on the window, the thunder now distant.

“You’re a good kid, Peter,” Helen said after a while, brushing a damp curl from his forehead with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

And something inside him cracked open - not like a wound, but like a shell giving way to something softer. He didn’t sob this time. The tears came slower, quieter. But they weren’t bitter, or angry, or helpless. They were just… real.

The storm had passed by the time Peter fell asleep. Curled under layers of blankets, his breathing was steady now - finally, mercifully even. Tony had dimmed the lights and stepped out, giving Helen one last meaningful look before closing the door behind her.

He found Steve out on the counsellor cabin’s back porch, sitting on a bench overlooking the drenched campgrounds. Steve’s hoodie clung to him in places where the rain had seeped through, his hair still damp and wild from the downpour. He looked up as Tony approached, his expression softening.

“He asleep?” Steve asked.

Tony nodded and dropped beside him with a weary sigh. “Out cold. For now.”

The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the dripping trees and the hum of wet earth cooling. A loon called out across the lake, its song distant and lonely.

Steve leaned back, eyes on the dark sky. “Is it bad that I already hate her?”

“No,” Tony said, voice low. “I do too.”

Steve looked over, studying him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Tony didn’t answer right away. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands. “We have the license. The background checks. Everything’s already in place. It wouldn’t be hard to make the call.”

“But?” Steve prompted gently.

Tony hesitated, jaw tightening. “What if I screw it up?”

Steve turned toward him fully now. “Tony-”

“I’m serious,” Tony cut in, his voice quieter but raw. “I look at him, and I see this… kid who already thinks he’s unlovable. And I remember what it felt like to grow up thinking you were never good enough. What if I… I’m just another Howard? What if I’m just like him in ways I can’t even see?”

Steve was quiet for a long beat. Then he reached over, resting a hand on Tony’s shoulder, grounding him.

“You’re not your father,” he said firmly. “You never have been.”

“You don’t know that,” Tony said, but it didn’t come out defensive - just tired. “What if I get angry at the wrong moment? What if I miss something important? What if I make him feel like he’s too much? God knows I’ve made a career out of pushing people away.”

“And yet,” Steve said softly, “there you were. Sitting in the rain with him. Holding his hand. Listening instead of blaming. You care. That’s not how your dad did things.”

Tony swallowed, throat tight. “But it still scares me.”

“I know,” Steve said, his voice never wavering. “It should. That’s how I know you’ll do it right - because you care enough to be afraid. And you won’t be doing it alone. We’re in this together, remember?”

Tony looked over at him, and there was that steady blue gaze again - clear and unwavering. Like an anchor.

“You think we’re enough?” Tony asked, the real question finally surfacing. “For him?”

Steve nodded. “I do. And I think he needs us. Two people who give a damn and love him for him. That’s more than he’s had in a long time.”

Tony exhaled, long and shaky. Then, finally, he nodded. “Alright. We’ll talk to CPS in the morning. Start the process.”

Steve squeezed his hand. “We’ll bring him home.”

Tony glanced back toward the infirmary door, where just beyond it, a kid was trying to unlearn years of believing he didn’t deserve to be wanted. “Yeah,” Tony murmured. “We will.”

Chapter Text

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the camp slick and shining beneath a clearing sky. Drops clung to the needles of pine trees, and puddles reflected the soft morning light, still heavy from last night’s storm. Tony sat quietly in the counsellor cabin, hunched over a chipped mug of coffee that had long since cooled.

The phone rested on the table before him, heavy and silent like a countdown. It was the last barrier between what was and what could be - the moment they would call Child Protective Services to begin the fostering process for Peter.

Steve stood near the window, watching the campgrounds glisten under the fresh light. His hands were tucked deep in the pockets of his hoodie, and his eyes were steady, unwavering as always.

Tony took a deep breath, feeling the cold morning air mix with the warmth of the cabin. He swallowed hard and asked, voice low and tense, “You ready?”

Steve’s calm smile was the steadying anchor Tony needed. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The line connected, and a polite voice answered on the other end.

“Hello, this is CPS. How can I help you today?”

Tony’s fingers tightened around the receiver as Steve’s presence grounded him. “Hi. We want to begin the process to foster a child currently in care - his name is Peter.”

The words felt surreal coming out loud, but they were real. They were taking the first step toward giving Peter something he’d never truly had: a home.

Peter stirred in the infirmary bed as sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. His body ached from exhaustion and from memories that still haunted him: the cold rain, the loneliness, the crushing weight of feeling invisible and unwanted. Despised.

Helen sat quietly nearby, her presence a steady calm as Peter blinked awake. She didn’t rush him or ask questions - just waited patiently, as if understanding the storm inside him.

Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle. “Peter, Tony and Steve want you to know something.”

Peter turned his head slowly, wary.

“They’ve started the paperwork,” Helen said softly. “To become your foster parents.”

Peter’s heart hitched, disbelief and fear collided in a painful knot.

Foster parents.

The phrase hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.

Before Peter could respond, Steve knocked on the door frame, a soft smile and gentle eyes on his face.

“Hey, Peter,” Steve said quietly but warmly. “Can I sit?”

Peter nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “What does foster parents mean? Do I have to leave here?”

Steve shook his head slowly. “No. It means Tony and I want to take care of you. When camp is finished, you’ll come live with us in New York for as long as you need. We want you to have a place that’s safe, where you’re cared for. A place you can call home.”

Peter swallowed hard, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “What if I mess it up? I’m… I’m sick, like all the time. What if I’m too much for you?”

Steve’s eyes grew distant for a moment, the softness deepening.

“When I was a kid, I was really sick. I spent a lot of time in hospitals. I felt different - like I was broken, or not good enough for anyone to want around.”

Peter’s eyes widened, surprised. “You were sick?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. It made me scared and lonely. I thought people would get tired of me. But my Ma and Bucky stuck around and loved me no matter what. They didn’t give up, because your health doesn’t make you worth any less.”

Peter bit his lip, trying to hold back the flood of feelings.

“I can promise you this, Peter,” Steve continued softly, “Tony and I will never care about you any less - no matter if you’re sick, or quiet, or even if you mess up. Nothing will make us care less.”

A child entering foster care during camp was very uncommon for Camp Avenbrook, but it wasn’t the first time. There was a procedure to follow, so Sam and Bucky now sat quietly in Peter’s room, giving him space without leaving him alone.

Sam broke the silence first, voice low and calm, careful not to push.

“We’re here,” he said gently. “No pressure to say anything, alright? It’s okay to be scared. This whole thing is scary. But if you have any questions, or thoughts you want to share, Bucky and I are here to help however we can.”

Peter’s fingers clenched tighter around the fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t look up but whispered, “‘S a lot.”

Bucky shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough to soften his presence. “Yeah, it’s a big change. It’s totally understandable that it feels like a lot,” he said quietly. “Change can be scary and confusing, but you’ve got four more weeks to get to know Steve and Tony better as your foster parents before you live with them. And we all want to make this as easy as possible for you.”

Peter’s chest rose and fell unevenly, a small hitch betraying the storm inside him. “Like May?”

Sam shook his head, understanding Peter’s full meaning. “I’ve known Steve and Tony a long time, kiddo. I trust them to always be kind. Good people. They’ve been approved to look after you because they are not like May. They would never withhold medication or food or hurt you. And if anything does happen - not that it will - but if it does, you’ll be given a social worker’s number. If you call it, or text if you can’t speak, they will come and keep you safe, okay?”

Peter’s gaze flickered toward Sam’s face for just a moment, then shifted away again. After a pause, he nodded.

That afternoon, Peter lay back on the infirmary bed, his body sinking into the crisp white sheets, but his mind was anything but still. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it - his thoughts twisted and turned like a storm, tangled and relentless, spinning faster than he could grasp.

What if they give up on me? The question echoed relentlessly, pounding in his chest with a weight that made it hard to breathe.

What if I’m really too much? Too broken, too scared, too… everything? What if May is right?

The doubts rose inside him like wild waves, crashing over and over again, threatening to pull him under. The fears whispered for so long - the ones that made him think no one could ever want him - were louder than ever.

But then, somewhere beneath the noise, Peter remembered Sam’s words, and Bucky’s reassurances. He thought about Steve, too - the boy who had been sick and scared but survived the fear and pain. If Steve could do that, maybe Peter could, too. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

But the shadows in his mind whispered dark lies still. What if I push everyone away? What if I’m too much even for them? What if they don’t really want me here?

His fingers clenched the edge of the blanket, clutching the soft fabric like a lifeline, desperate for something solid to hold on to. The weight of those fears pressed down on him, but somewhere underneath, just beneath the surface, a small flicker of hope tried to grow. Fragile, but there.

The evening sky darkened as Tony and Steve sat on the porch, the camp quiet and dripping with the residue of rain. Stars blinked faintly above - distant and steady.

Suddenly, the sharp ring of the phone cut through the silence.

Tony grabbed it, heart pounding like a drum.

Steve leaned in, eyes fixed.

The voice on the other end was calm, professional.

“The approval has been granted. You are authorized to foster Peter.”

Tony exhaled deeply, the tension inside him loosening for the first time all day.

Steve looked toward the infirmary where Peter slept peacefully, finally at rest.

“We’re going to bring him home,” Steve said softly.

Tony nodded, eyes wet but steady. “Yeah. We are.”

Chapter Text

Peter’s legs felt like lead as Helen helped him carefully down the infirmary steps. Every movement sent a dull ache through his limbs - a reminder of how long he’d been confined within the sterile walls of the medical cabin. That place - quiet, cold, clinical - had been a cocoon in its own way, shielding him from the unpredictable chaos outside. Now, stepping into the open air of Camp Avenbrook felt like stepping into a new world altogether.

The damp grass beneath his bare feet was slick and uneven, pressed cold against his skin from the rain that had fallen overnight. Each blade clung to glistening droplets, and the earth smelled rich and alive - a stark contrast to the lingering scent of antiseptic on his clothes. He flinched at the sudden rush of camp sounds flooding his senses: birds chirping nervously high in the trees, the soft murmur of voices drifting from cabins scattered through the woods, and the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle, teasing breeze.

Sunlight filtered through the pine boughs, casting mottled patches of light across the path ahead. It should have felt warm and comforting, a natural welcome back. Instead, it felt harsh - almost like a personal attack on his senses, too bright and loud after the muted safety of the infirmary. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying to adjust, but the tightness in his chest grew heavier, as if the brightness was pressing down on him, reminding him of everything he was leaving behind - and everything he still feared was waiting for him.

Helen’s voice cut through the noise, soft and steady like a lifeline. “Take your time, Peter. No rush.” Her hand was firm but kind on his back, grounding him with its warmth. “We’re all here to help you.”

He nodded, barely able to meet her eyes. His gaze dropped to the dirt and grass beneath his feet, unwilling to meet the curious glances from campers who passed nearby. There was a lingering edge in their eyes - an unspoken question hanging in the air: What happened? Why was he gone? Why was he so fragile now? The memory of May’s cold, dismissive stare loomed like a shadow just at the edge of his mind, sharpening his instinct to curl inward, to disappear into himself where no one could see him.

His fingers clenched tightly around the hem of his hoodie, knuckles whitening with the effort. He felt raw, exposed - like every step back into camp was a step onto thin ice where he might slip, be judged, or worse, be ignored entirely. The medical cabin had been safe, though lonely. Here, the camp was alive - bustling, unpredictable, and loud. It moved with a rhythm all its own, a steady beat that never stopped, no matter what storms passed through its woods.

For Peter, that rhythm was strange and overwhelming - a chaotic melody of sounds, movements, and conversations swirling around him like a tide he wasn’t sure how to ride.

Helen’s gaze flicked between Peter and the campers nearby, reading the tension clinging to him like a second skin. “You’re doing good,” she said gently, squeezing his shoulder. “One step at a time.”

Peter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat catching as he nodded. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was just the first step back, and maybe it was okay if it felt hard.

Later that morning, as Peter slowly made his way toward the pavilion, still keeping his gaze low, he almost didn’t notice when a familiar voice broke through the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

“Hey, kid,” Clint’s easy drawl called out from nearby, a bow resting against his shoulder as he adjusted his cap. “Thought you might be down here. Want some help with the archery equipment?” Clint offered, patting the bow gently. “Sometimes it helps to have something else to focus on. Or just come hang out, no pressure.”

Peter gave a faint, hesitant smile - the first genuine one in a while. “Maybe... I’ll try.”

They spent a few minutes together sorting arrows and tightening bowstrings. Clint didn’t rush him, didn’t ask questions. Just steady, simple companionship that helped Peter feel less like he was drowning in his own worries.

As lunchtime approached, Peter’s anxiety flared again. The loud chatter, the clang of utensils, and the jumble of voices in the food hall felt like a tidal wave crashing over him. He sat at the edge of the long wooden bench, staring down at the tray in front of him - untouched. The smell of the food, normally comforting, now seemed sharp and heavy, making his stomach churn.

Sam noticed immediately. He sat down beside Peter quietly, lowering his voice to a calm murmur so only Peter could hear. “Hey, Pete. How’re you holding up?”

Peter’s eyes flicked up briefly, his lips pressed tight. “Too loud,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Sam nodded gently. “Yeah? How about we go somewhere quieter? Maybe the counsellor cabin decking or by the lake? We’ll find a spot where we can eat without all this chaos.”

Peter hesitated, then gave a small, uncertain nod.

They stood and moved slowly away from the bustling dining hall, weaving through the camp paths to a small clearing near the lake where the air was cooler and the sounds gentler. A few trees rustled quietly overhead, sheltering them from the wider camp noise.

Peter set his tray down on a flat rock, and Sam placed his jumper on the ground to sit on. The silence between them was comfortable, safe. Peter took a few small bites, the food easier to handle here, away from the overwhelming noise.

“You’re doing great,” Sam said quietly, watching him carefully. “It’s okay to need things to be different. You don’t have to do everything the same as everyone else.”

Peter glanced up, his eyes softer, a flicker of relief crossing his face.

Sam reached over and gave a reassuring squeeze on Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll keep figuring it out, together.”

By the afternoon, Natasha and Bucky had also found him near the pavilion. Natasha’s smile was gentle and patient, her eyes kind and understanding as she extended a water bottle toward him. Bucky stood quietly beside her, giving a small nod of encouragement, his presence solid and steady without needing to speak.

Peter took the bottle with a shaky hand, the cool plastic unfamiliar and grounding. His gaze dropped to the ground, avoiding eye contact. Words felt heavy, thick in his throat; short nods and soft whispers were easier. When Natasha asked how he was feeling, Peter offered a barely audible, “Okay,” and that was enough for now.

Campers nearby whispered quietly among themselves, stealing curious glances as they passed. Peter felt the weight of their eyes - the quiet judgment and questions - pressing against him like a wall. The echo of May’s harsh words settled like cold fog inside his chest, making him want to shrink further.

The team gently steered Peter toward quieter, simpler tasks throughout the afternoon - watering plants near the greenhouse, organizing supplies in the arts cabin. Small jobs that kept his hands busy and his mind from spinning too fast. One of his cabin mates seemed to always need to complete a different quiet task close by; it was obvious even to Peter what they were doing. Not that he minded. He would take all the reassurance he could get that his friends were still here for him.

During a break, Steve checked in quietly, simply offering a calm presence that reminded Peter he wasn’t invisible, that he was cared for.

Later, as Peter handed a watering can to a younger camper struggling to reach the plants, Tony caught his eye from across the clearing and offered a small thumbs-up. Peter’s heart gave a quiet skip - an unexpected flicker of connection in the overwhelming swirl of camp life.

Night settled softly over Camp Avenbrook. The stars blinked faintly in the clear sky, the camp wrapped in the quiet calm that follows a day’s storm.

Peter sat alone on a weathered bench by the lake, the cool air brushing softly against his skin. His thoughts, though still tangled, were quieter now. Less frantic. Less harsh. He allowed himself to breathe deeply, the heavy weight pressing on his chest easing just a little.

From the shadows, Steve appeared silently and settled beside him. His presence was steady, reassuring - an unspoken promise that Peter was not alone. Soon after, Tony joined them, sitting close without a word.

“You did amazing today, Pete,” Tony said softly, his eyes kind as he looked at Peter. “You made it through. That’s impressive.”

Steve hummed in agreement, voice warm. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

Chapter Text

The early morning light spilled softly into the counsellor cabin as Bucky, Tony, Steve, and Peter gathered around the worn wooden table.

Bucky cleared his throat gently. “Alright, Peter. Now that you’re in tip-top condition and Helen’s cleared you to return to the normal camp routine, we want to make sure camp is enjoyable for you, and won’t cause another flare-up. Which means,” he continued, placing the Camp Avenbrook Campers Accommodations and Support folder in the middle of the table, “figuring out what kinds of accommodations would help. Stuff to make things less overwhelming, or painful, or just easier.”

Peter shifted uneasily in his seat. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his hoodie, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t really… need anything,” he said quickly, voice tight. “I mean, I’m okay. I can manage.”

Tony’s eyes softened with understanding. “You’re tough, Pete. We know that. But having a little help doesn’t mean you’re not strong. It just means camp will be better. More fun. And that’s what we want for you.”

Peter swallowed hard, the tightness in his chest growing. The thought of asking for help felt foreign, like admitting a secret he’d kept hidden for years. “I don’t know what I need. I’ve never…”

Bucky’s gaze was steady and kind as he leaned forward slightly, pushing a list across the table to Peter. “So, this is a list of accommodations that I think might be useful to you. How about we start by going down the list, and you can just nod or shake your head if you think it sounds good?”

The apprehension on Peter’s face was clear.

“You don’t have to use all of these things, Pete,” Bucky continued gently, noticing Peter beginning to relax. “But we might find something that can make a big difference. You want to try it? Like having access to the quiet room in the medical cabin when things get too loud or overwhelming - does that sound like it could make camp easier for you?”

Slowly, Peter nodded.

Steve reached over and gave Peter’s hand a gentle squeeze, and Bucky smiled in response.

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the trees on Sam’s day off as he sat on the counsellor cabin porch, people-watching - one of his favourite pastimes. He smiled at first when he noticed the new family settled near the pavilion, but then his chest tightened with a quiet ache - Peter was forcing himself still, hands folded tightly in his lap, suppressing the subtle shaking he usually did to calm his racing mind.

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line as Steve and Tony chatted nearby, their laughter light and easy. He forced a smile back, biting down the urge to stim openly, pretending the tightness inside wasn’t there. When Steve caught his eye, Peter quickly looked away, heart pounding with the familiar dread.

After Steve and Tony walked away, Sam moved closer and sat down beside Peter on the bench, his voice soft and gentle.

“You don’t have to hide it, Pete. It’s okay to stim. It helps you regulate - it’s part of who you are.”

Peter’s eyes flickered, haunted by the echo of May’s harsh words - cold voices that never quite left him.

Be normal.
Weird.
Freak.

His voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared they’ll give up on me… like she said.”

Sam’s gaze stayed steady, warm and sure. “Tony and Steve? They’re not May. They want the real you - all of you. Even the parts you think aren’t good enough. You don’t have to pretend with them.”

Peter swallowed hard, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. For the first time in days, the thought that he didn’t have to hide everything felt like a lifeline.

Over the next few days, the small accommodations began to make a noticeable difference, much to everyone’s delight.

Peter sat staring at his finished painting - the first art project he’d been able to complete without the sharp pain in his hands and fingers becoming unbearable.

With Natasha’s encouragement and solid presence, Peter had picked up one of the adaptive paintbrushes specifically reserved for him. The wider, ergonomic grip made a world of difference - so much so that Peter thought he might cry.

The daily accommodations (alongside actually being allowed his medication) were making a clear impact. The small things - like a counsellor carrying his food tray - allowed Peter to participate in activities he would never have dreamed of trying before.

Subsequently, Peter was now trying every single activity he hadn’t gotten to enjoy so far, which is how he found himself climbing one of the tall pines near the arts cabin. His fingers gripped the bark instinctively, the rough texture grounding him as he moved upward, body steady and sure.

“Wow,” Clint said, clearly impressed. “You’re a natural climber.”

Peter glanced down, a flush of pride rising in his chest. For the first time at camp, he felt the exhilaration of mastering something - the pure joy of movement.

The night settled over Camp Avenbrook like a soft blanket, the cool air humming with the quiet chorus of crickets and whispering pines. Peter lay on his bunk, listening to his friends’ quiet breaths, feeling oddly calm.

For the first time since moving n with May, Peter felt something new stirring deep inside - a cautious hope. It wasn’t loud or flashy. It was small and fragile, like a single glowing ember waiting for a breath of wind to catch flame.

But it was real.

The ache of anxiety was still there, a dull pulse beneath his ribs. But the sharp edges of fear and loneliness had softened, worn down by kindness, by moments of quiet acceptance, and by the gentle steadiness of people who refused to give up on him. Steve and Tony’s quiet presence. Bucky’s steady guidance. Sam’s understanding and patience - each had woven a safety net beneath him, catching him when the old darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

Peter let his gaze drift to the stars out the window, their steady light a silent promise that even after the darkest nights, the sky would clear again.

Maybe the rest of camp would be okay.
Maybe he could be okay.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a place in this world where he belonged, and a future worth holding onto.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter let himself have hope.