#spiderneedsamom

Age 4

The mask fits this time.

You turn it over in your hands, checking the seals one more time even though you've already checked them twice. The previous masks were always borrowed—too big, straps sliding down Spider's small face, the seal never quite right. Makeshift solutions for a child who shouldn't exist here, who exists anyway. But this one was made for him. Specifically for him. Max spent three weeks in the workshop getting the measurements right, adjusting the filtration system for a four-year-old's lung capacity, making sure the weight distribution wouldn't hurt his neck.

Spider sits on the equipment room bench, unusually still. His legs dangle, not quite reaching the floor, and his hands are folded in his lap like he's trying to be good, trying to be patient. He's watching you with those wide dark eyes, serious in a way that makes your chest ache. He knows this matters. He's known for weeks, ever since you told him you were getting him his own mask, that you were going to take him outside.

Outside. The word has lived in his imagination for so long it's become mythical.

"Okay, baby," you say, kneeling in front of him so you're at eye level. "Let's try it on."

He nods, solemn as a judge.

You lift the mask carefully, showing him the inside. "See this part? This is where the air comes through. It's going to feel a little weird at first, but it's just the filter working. You're going to hear it—kind of a soft hiss. That's normal. That's good."

"Okay," Spider whispers.

"And these straps—" You touch them gently. "—they need to be snug, but not tight. If anything hurts, you tell me right away. Deal?"

"Deal."

You position the mask over his face, and he holds perfectly still, barely breathing. His trust is absolute and terrifying. You adjust the lower seal first, making sure it sits flush against his jaw, then the upper seal across his cheekbones. Your fingers are steady even though your heart is hammering. If this doesn't work—if the seal fails, if the filtration isn't right, if something goes wrong—

But you don't let yourself think that way. You focus on the task. Left strap, right strap, checking the tension. The back of his head is so small under your hands.

"How does that feel?" you ask. "Too tight anywhere?"

Spider shakes his head carefully, testing the range of motion. "It's okay."

"Can you breathe? Take a deep breath for me."

He inhales, and you watch the filter engage—that soft hiss he was expecting. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't panic. He breathes out. Breathes in again. The seal holds. The filter cycles. Everything is working exactly as it should.

"Good," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended. "That's really good, Spider."

He reaches up to touch the mask, curious, and you catch his hands gently. "Try not to mess with it too much once we're outside, okay? If something feels wrong, you come to me and I'll fix it. But don't pull on the straps yourself."

"Okay." His voice is slightly muffled now, filtered through the mask, but clear enough. He sounds like himself. He sounds safe.

You stand, offering your hand. "Ready?"

He takes it immediately, sliding off the bench. His grip is tight, sweaty already even though you haven't left the equipment room. You can feel his pulse through his palm—quick, excited, nervous.

The walk to the airlock is short, but Spider's steps are careful, measured. He's hyperaware of the mask, the weight of it, the way it changes his breathing. You keep your pace slow, letting him adjust. A few people pass you in the corridor—scientists, mechanics, the usual Hell's Gate personnel—and they glance at Spider with his new mask, at you holding his hand, but no one stops you. Everyone knows where you're going. Everyone knows what this means.

The airlock door is massive, industrial, designed for equipment and vehicles. There's a smaller personnel door set into it, and that's the one you key open. The transition chamber beyond is small, just big enough for two people, all metal and rubber seals and warning labels.

Spider stops at the threshold.

"It's okay," you say quietly. "I'm right here."

He looks up at you, then back at the chamber, then up at you again. You can see the war in his expression—want and fear, courage and hesitation. He's four years old and he's about to step into an alien world that could kill him if his mask fails. He's four years old and he's been dreaming of this moment his entire short life.

You squeeze his hand. "We can wait. We can do this tomorrow, or next week, or whenever you're ready."

"No." His voice is small but firm. "I wanna go. I'm ready."

"Okay. Then let's go."

You step into the chamber together, and the door hisses shut behind you. The space is tight, close. Spider presses against your leg, and you rest your free hand on his shoulder, steady and sure. The pressurization sequence begins—that deep mechanical hum, the slight change in air density that makes your ears pop. Spider's grip on your hand becomes almost painful.

You kneel down, bringing yourself to his level again. "You're doing great. Just a few more seconds."

His eyes are locked on yours through both your masks—his new one, your familiar one. You've worn yours so many times it's like a second skin, but for him this is all new, all strange. You smile at him, even though he might not be able to see it clearly through the mask. You make your voice warm, certain.

"I've got you."

The outer door unlocks with a heavy clunk. The seal breaks. And then it slides open, and Pandora pours in.

Spider freezes.

You understand why. You remember your first time, years ago—the way the scale of everything hit you like a physical force. But you've had time to adjust, to acclimate. Spider has lived his entire life inside Hell's Gate's metal walls, in rooms with ceilings, in corridors with artificial light. The forest beyond the airlock is vast and alive and utterly overwhelming.

Golden light filters through a canopy so high it might as well be the sky. Massive trees—each one thick enough that it would take twenty people holding hands to circle the trunk—rise like pillars holding up the world. Vines cascade down in curtains of green. The ground is covered in moss, in ferns, in plants that have no Earth names. Everything is big. Everything is alive.

Spider doesn't move. He just stares, his small body rigid with sensory overload.

You don't rush him. You kneel beside him at the threshold, one hand still holding his, and you wait. You let him look. You let him process. This is his moment, his discovery, and he needs to take it at his own pace.

"It's so big," he whispers finally.

"Yeah," you agree. "It really is."

"And it's all... it's all real?"

"Every bit of it."

He takes one step forward. Then another. His feet touch Pandoran soil for the first time—real soil, not the packed earth of Hell's Gate's sad little garden plots, but actual forest floor, soft with moss and fallen leaves. He stops again, looking down at his feet like he can't quite believe they're holding him up.

Then he looks at you, and his face—what you can see of it around the mask—is transformed. Pure wonder. Pure joy.

"I'm outside," he says, like he's testing the words, making them real.

"You're outside."

And then he's running.

It's not graceful—he's four, and the mask is new, and the ground is uneven. He stumbles over roots, catches himself, keeps going. He touches everything. His hands fly out to brush against bark, to grab at hanging vines, to press into moss. He laughs, high and bright and utterly uninhibited, and the sound echoes through the forest like music.

You follow at a distance, close enough to catch him if he falls, far enough to let him explore. Your heart is so full it hurts. This child—this small, determined, beautiful child—has been living in a box, and you just opened the door. You just gave him the world.

He finds a tree with bark that's deeply textured, ridged and rough, and he stops to really feel it. Both hands pressed flat against the trunk, his head tilted back to try to see the top. It's impossible—the tree disappears into the canopy far above—but he tries anyway.

"It's warm," he calls back to you, delighted by this discovery.

"The sun's been on it all morning," you say, moving closer. "Feel how the other side is cooler?"

He runs around the trunk, testing, comparing. "Yeah! This side is cold!"

Not cold, you think. Cool. But you don't correct him. He's learning the world through touch, through direct experience, and that's worth more than precise vocabulary.

He moves on, drawn by color—a patch of purple flowers growing low to the ground. He crouches beside them, careful not to crush them, and reaches out one finger to touch a petal. It's soft. He pets it like it's alive, like it might respond to gentleness.

"Can I pick one?" he asks, looking back at you.

"Just one. And be gentle."

He is. He's so careful it makes your throat tight. He pinches the stem between his thumb and forefinger and pulls slowly until it separates. The flower comes away intact, perfect, and he holds it up to examine it in the light. Purple petals, yellow center, delicate as tissue paper.

"It's pretty," he says.

"It is."

He tucks it carefully into the pocket of his shorts—a treasure, a prize, proof that this is real.

The exploration continues. He finds a fallen log covered in moss and climbs on top of it, wobbling, arms out for balance. You stay close, ready to catch him, but he makes it across on his own and jumps down the other side with a triumphant shout. He finds a smooth stone and puts it in his other pocket. He discovers that some of the leaves are fuzzy and some are waxy and some are thin enough to see light through.

And then he finds the bioluminescent fungi.

They're growing in a shadowed hollow where a tree root has created a small cave. In the dimness, they glow—soft blue-green, pulsing gently like they're breathing. Spider goes very still when he sees them. He approaches slowly, almost reverent, and kneels in the dirt.

"What is it?" he whispers.

You kneel beside him. "Bioluminescent fungi. They make their own light."

"Magic," he breathes.

"Bioluminescence," you correct gently. "But yeah. It's pretty magical."

He reaches out, hesitates, looks at you for permission. You nod. He touches one with the tip of his finger, and it glows brighter under the pressure, the light spreading out in a ripple. His face—lit from below by that ethereal blue-green glow, his eyes wide with wonder, his mouth open in a small 'o' of amazement—is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Did you see?" he asks, turning to you urgently. "Did you see it glow?"

"I saw."

"Can I touch it again?"

"Gentle touches. Don't hurt it."

He touches it again, and again, watching the light pulse and spread. He's completely absorbed, completely present in this moment of discovery. You watch him, and you feel something settle in your chest—something that's been restless and uncertain for months now, maybe longer. This is right. This child, this moment, this choice to show him the world—it's all right.

Eventually, he sits back on his heels, satisfied. "I wish I could take it with me."

"It wouldn't glow inside Hell's Gate. It needs the forest."

He considers this seriously. "Then I'll just have to come back and visit it."

"Yeah," you say softly. "You will."

He stands, brushing dirt off his knees, and starts to wander again. But this time he's looking, really looking—not just at what's in front of him, but at everything. The way light moves through leaves. The patterns of shadow on the ground. The colors, the textures, the endless variety of life.

He stops beside a plant with broad, flat leaves—nothing special, nothing remarkable. Just a plant. But he studies it like it's precious, and then he carefully plucks one leaf from the stem. He turns it over in his hands, examining both sides, running his finger along the veins.

Then he walks back to you and holds it out.

"For you," he says simply.

Your breath catches. It's just a leaf. Green, oval-shaped, slightly waxy. Utterly ordinary. But the way he's offering it—both hands, like it's treasure, like it's the most valuable thing he's ever held—makes it sacred.

You take it carefully, cradling it in your palm. "Thank you, baby. I'll keep it safe."

He beams at you, and then he's off again, drawn by something else, some new discovery. But you stay where you are for a moment, looking down at the leaf in your hand. It's still alive, still green, the veins still carrying water. He gave you a piece of Pandora. He gave you a piece of his joy.

You tuck it carefully into your own pocket, next to your heart.

The exploration continues for another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. You don't push him to go farther from Hell's Gate—this first trip is about acclimation, about building confidence, not about distance. He finds more stones, more leaves, a feather from some bird you can't identify. His pockets are bulging. His mask is still sealed perfectly. His breathing is steady and strong.

But you can see him starting to tire. The initial adrenaline is wearing off, and he's just a small child who's been running and climbing and experiencing more sensory input in an hour than he usually gets in a week. His steps are getting less sure. His laughter is quieter.

"Hey, Spider," you call gently. "You getting hungry?"

He stops, considers. "Maybe."

"Want to head back? We can come out again tomorrow."

You see the conflict on his face—he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want this to end. But he's also tired, and he trusts you when you say you can come back.

"Okay," he agrees finally. "But we're coming back tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," you promise. "And the day after that, and the day after that. As many times as you want."

He takes your hand again, and you walk back toward Hell's Gate together. He keeps turning around, looking back at the forest, like he's afraid it might disappear if he's not watching. You understand. You remember that feeling—the fear that Pandora was too beautiful to be real, too vast to be trusted.

The airlock cycle feels longer on the way back in. Spider is quiet, processing, his hand loose in yours now instead of tight with nerves. When the inner door opens and you step back into Hell's Gate's familiar corridors, the change is jarring. The air smells wrong—recycled, metallic, dead. The light is flat and artificial. The walls are close.

Spider pulls his mask off as soon as you're clear of the airlock, and you help him with the straps, careful and methodical. His hair is sweaty underneath, plastered to his forehead, and his face is flushed. But his eyes are bright, alive in a way you've never seen before.

"That was..." he starts, then stops, searching for words big enough. "That was the best day ever."

You smooth his hair back from his forehead, smiling. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He's emphatic, certain. "Can we really go again tomorrow?"

"We really can."

"And I can bring Lo'ak? Can I show him the glowing mushrooms?"

"We'll see. Maybe in a few days, once you're more comfortable with the mask."

He accepts this, already planning, already imagining. You walk him back to your quarters, and he chatters the whole way—about the tree bark, about the purple flower, about the way the moss felt under his feet. He's processing out loud, cementing the memories, making them permanent.

By the time you get him cleaned up and fed, he's fading fast. The exhaustion is hitting him all at once. You tuck him into his small bed—the one you set up in the corner of your quarters months ago, when it became clear he was spending more nights here than in the children's dormitory—and he's asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

But he's clutching something. You look closer and see it's the leaf—the one he gave you, the one you accepted like treasure. You must have given it back to him at some point, though you don't remember doing it. Or maybe he took it from your pocket while you weren't looking. Either way, he's holding it now, his fingers curled gently around the stem.

You watch him sleep for a moment, this small child who's claimed you as surely as you've claimed him. His face is peaceful, his breathing deep and even. He's dreaming, probably—dreaming of forests and light and endless green.

You turn off the light and leave him to his dreams.

In the morning, you wake before he does. You move quietly through your quarters, making coffee, checking the day's schedule. When you glance over at Spider's bed, you expect to see him still asleep, the leaf probably crushed in his fist or fallen to the floor.

But he's awake. Sitting up in bed, very still, very focused. And the leaf—the leaf is on the small table beside his bed, positioned carefully where he can see it first thing. Not crushed. Not forgotten. Placed with intention, with care.

He sees you watching and smiles, shy and pleased with himself.

You smile back, your heart full.

He's already building a collection, you realize. He doesn't know it yet—doesn't know that this is the first of hundreds of treasures he'll gather, doesn't know that his love language is gifts, is bringing you pieces of the world he loves. But you know. You see it beginning.

And you understand, with sudden clarity, that this is just the beginning. Yesterday you opened a door. Today, tomorrow, all the days after—you're going to keep opening doors. You're going to show him everything. You're going to give him the whole world, piece by piece, and he's going to give it back to you transformed into treasure.

This is what motherhood looks like, you think. Not biology. Not paperwork. Just this: presence, witness, care. Just showing up, day after day, and saying yes, you can explore and yes, I'll keep you safe and yes, that leaf is beautiful, thank you for sharing it with me.

Just love. Just choice. Just being here.

Spider catches you looking at the leaf and his smile widens. "I'm keeping it," he announces. "Forever."

"Good," you say. "That sounds like a good plan."

And you mean it. Keep it forever, baby. Keep all of it—the leaf, the purple flower, the smooth stone, every piece of wonder you find. Build your collection. Build your world. I'll be right here, watching, helping, keeping you safe while you discover everything.

I'll be right here.

I'm not going anywhere.

Age 5

Spider's hand is sweating in yours as you approach the Sully kelku, but he doesn't let go.

You can feel his pulse through his palm—quick, nervous, rabbit-fast. He's been to the village before, dozens of times over the past year, but always with you close by, always as an observer. Today is different. Today Jake invited him specifically, told you to bring Spider by in the afternoon, that Lo'ak had been asking about "the small human boy" nonstop for days.

Your own mask hisses softly with each breath, a sound so familiar you barely notice it anymore. Spider's does the same—the two of you moving through Pandora's air like fish in water, separate from it, dependent on the technology that keeps you alive. His mask is still relatively new, just over a year old, but he's completely comfortable with it now. Doesn't fidget with the straps, doesn't complain about the weight. It's just part of him, like his hands or his feet.

The village is settling into late afternoon, that golden hour when the light turns honey-thick and warm. Cooking fires are being started. Children's voices carry from different directions—playing, arguing, laughing. The whole place smells like wood smoke and growing things and life, so different from Hell's Gate's recycled air and metal corridors.

Spider's grip tightens as the Sully home comes into view.

It's larger than some of the other kelku, woven with care and decorated with small touches that speak of family—carved figures hanging near the entrance, colorful woven mats visible through the open doorway, the organized chaos of a household with multiple children. You can hear voices inside, movement, the sounds of people living together.

Jake emerges before you reach the entrance, ducking slightly through the doorway. He sees you and smiles, warm and genuine, then his gaze drops to Spider.

"Hey, little man," he says, his voice easy. "Glad you could make it."

Spider doesn't answer, just presses closer to your leg. You rest your free hand on his shoulder, steady and sure.

"Thanks for having us," you say.

Jake waves this off. "You know you're always welcome." He means it. There's history between you—you stayed when others left, fought beside him during those early uncertain years, proved yourself trustworthy in ways that mattered. His friendship isn't given lightly, but once given, it's solid. "Lo'ak's been driving us crazy asking when Spider was coming back."

"He has?" Spider's voice is small, muffled slightly by his mask, but you hear the hope in it.

"Non-stop," Jake confirms, grinning. "Kid doesn't shut up about wanting to show you his stuff." He gestures toward the kelku. "Come on in. Neytiri's inside with the girls."

You feel Spider hesitate, his hand going damp in yours. This is the threshold. This is the moment of real vulnerability—walking into someone else's home, someone else's family, and hoping they'll make space for you.

You squeeze his hand. "I'm right here," you murmur, quiet enough that only he can hear through the masks.

He nods, takes a breath, and steps forward.

The interior of the kelku is beautiful in its functionality. Woven walls in rich ochres and deep blues—you notice the dyes immediately, your artist's eye cataloging the colors, wondering about the plants used to create them. Sleeping mats are rolled neatly along one wall. A cooking area occupies one corner, where Neytiri kneels, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she prepares something that smells savory and unfamiliar. Two girls sit nearby—Kiri, who's close to Spider's age, and baby Tuk, who's playing with a carved wooden toy.

Neytiri looks up when you enter, and her expression is carefully neutral.

You've met her before, of course. Multiple times. But there's a difference between polite acknowledgment in passing and welcoming someone into your home. She's cordial, always, but reserved. You're human. Spider is human. Her father died because of humans, her home was destroyed by humans, and no amount of time can erase that history completely.

But Jake vouched for you. Jake trusts you. And Neytiri trusts Jake.

"Welcome," she says, her voice musical even in its formality. Her gaze moves from you to Spider, assessing. Not hostile, but not warm either. Cautious.

"Thank you for having us," you say, keeping your tone respectful. You don't try to prove anything, don't try to win her over with charm or excessive friendliness. You just exist, honest and present.

Spider is frozen beside you, his hand still locked in yours.

Kiri looks up from where she's been weaving something small and intricate. "Hi, Spider," she says, her voice gentle. "I remember you. You came to the gathering last month."

Spider nods but doesn't speak.

Before the silence can stretch too long, there's a commotion outside—running feet, something crashing, a yelp of laughter. Then Lo'ak barrels through the entrance, skidding to a stop so abruptly he nearly falls over. He's all energy and enthusiasm, his eyes bright, his grin wide.

He sees Spider and his whole face lights up.

"You came!" Lo'ak exclaims, like this is the best news he's heard all week. Then, without preamble, without any of the careful social negotiation adults require: "Wanna see my stuff?"

Spider looks up at you, uncertain. His eyes are wide behind his mask, asking permission, asking if it's okay to let go, to follow this Na'vi boy who's offering friendship like it's the simplest thing in the world.

You nod. "Go ahead, baby."

His hand loosens in yours. Slowly, carefully, he releases your fingers. The absence of his grip feels strange, your hand suddenly empty and light. He takes one step toward Lo'ak, then another, and then Lo'ak is already moving, talking rapid-fire about the bow he's making and the cool rock he found and did Spider want to see the baby viperwolf pups that were born last week?

Spider follows, his steps gaining confidence, and just like that, he's across the kelku, kneeling beside Lo'ak as the younger yet bigger boy pulls out a woven basket full of treasures.

You stand there, hand still slightly raised from where Spider released it, and feel something in your chest pull tight. He doesn't need you right now. He's okay without you. That's good. That's what you want. But it still aches a little, watching him find his footing in a world that doesn't include you at its center.

"Sit," Neytiri says, not unkindly. She gestures to a woven mat near the cooking area. "You will eat with us."

It's not quite an invitation—more like a statement of fact. But you'll take it.

You settle onto the mat, careful and respectful of the space. From here, you can see Spider and Lo'ak, heads bent together over Lo'ak's collection. Kiri has moved closer to them, curious, and she's asking Spider something you can't quite hear. Spider answers, his voice still quiet but less hesitant than before.

Neytiri returns to her work, and you watch her hands—strong, competent, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of practice. She's preparing some kind of root vegetable, slicing it thin, adding it to a pot over the fire. The smell is earthy and rich.

"Can I help?" you ask.

She glances at you, surprised. Then she hands you a second knife and a root. "Cut like this," she demonstrates. "Thin."

You take the knife and the root and begin cutting. Your slices aren't as perfect as hers, but they're adequate. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds the soft thunk of knives on cutting boards, the crackle of the fire, and the children's voices across the kelku.

"He is small," Neytiri says eventually, not looking at you. "Spider."

"He is," you agree. "But he's strong."

"He will always be small. Compared to Na'vi children."

"Yes." There's no point denying it. Spider will always be different, always be other. "But Lo'ak doesn't seem to care."

Neytiri's mouth quirks, almost a smile. "Lo'ak does not care about many things he should care about." But there's affection in her voice, warm and maternal. She loves her son's wild enthusiasm even when it exasperates her.

You keep cutting, and she keeps cooking, and the silence between you becomes less stilted, more comfortable.

Across the kelku, Lo'ak is showing Spider how to string a small bow. Spider's hands are clumsy at first, too small for the task, but he's trying. Lo'ak is patient in the way children can be when they're genuinely interested in teaching something, adjusting Spider's grip, demonstrating again.

Kiri sits beside them, watching. "Do you have dreams?" she asks Spider suddenly.

Spider looks up, confused. "Yeah. Everyone dreams."

"What do you dream about?"

Spider considers this seriously. "Flying, sometimes. And the forest. And..." He trails off, shy.

"And what?" Kiri prompts gently.

"And being big," Spider admits quietly. "Like you."

Kiri tilts her head, studying him. "You don't need to be big. You're fine the way you are."

It's such a simple statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty, that Spider just blinks at her. Like he's never considered that being small might be acceptable, might be enough.

You feel your throat tighten, watching this. Kiri's casual acceptance, her complete lack of judgment—it's a gift. She doesn't know how much it matters, but you do.

Neytiri is watching too. You see her gaze on her daughter, on Spider, on the way Kiri has made space for him without hesitation. Something in her expression shifts, softens incrementally.

"He is careful with them," Neytiri observes, her voice quiet. "With my children."

"He knows how important they are," you say.

"And you—you watch him closely."

"Always."

She nods, like this is the right answer. Like maybe you've passed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jake returns from wherever he'd gone, ducking back into the kelku with an armful of something wrapped in leaves. "Got the good stuff," he announces, grinning. "Neytiri, your favorite."

Neytiri's face transforms when she looks at him—still reserved, still dignified, but warm. Deeply warm. "You went all the way to the grove?"

"For you? Always."

It's such a small moment, such a casual exchange, but it speaks of years of partnership, of love built on daily choices and small kindnesses. You look away, giving them privacy even in this communal space, and find yourself watching Spider again.

He's laughing now. Actually laughing. Lo'ak said something ridiculous—you didn't catch what—and Spider is giggling, his shoulders shaking, his mask fogging slightly with his breath. Lo'ak looks delighted by this reaction and immediately tries to make him laugh again.

The evening settles in around you. The light outside shifts from gold to amber to the first hints of bioluminescent blue. Neytiri finishes cooking, and the smell of food fills the kelku—roasted meat, the roots you helped prepare, something sweet and unfamiliar. Jake sets out woven plates, and Kiri helps distribute food while Lo'ak continues talking, his voice a constant stream of enthusiasm and ideas.

"Spider, sit here," Lo'ak commands, patting the mat between himself and Kiri. "You're with us."

Spider glances at you, checking in, and you nod. He settles between the Sully children, his small human frame dwarfed by their taller, leaner Na'vi builds, but he doesn't look out of place. He looks like he belongs.

Neytiri hands you a plate, then serves Spider, her movements careful. She gives him smaller portions, appropriate for his size, and includes a bit of everything. "Try all of it," she tells him. "If you do not like something, that is okay. But try."

"Okay," Spider says, his voice small but earnest.

You watch him navigate the meal, lifting his mask just enough to take quick bites, the motion practiced now after a year of eating outside Hell's Gate. The food is unfamiliar—textures and flavors he's never experienced—but he tries everything, just like Neytiri asked. Some things he likes. Some things make him wrinkle his nose. But he doesn't complain, doesn't refuse anything.

Lo'ak barely pauses eating to keep talking. "—and then the viperwolf pup tried to climb the tree, but it was too small, so it just hung there yelling until its mother came and got it, and it was so funny, Spider, you should have seen it—"

"Can I see them?" Spider asks. "The pups?"

"Yeah! Tomorrow! We'll go tomorrow, okay? I'll show you where they den, and maybe if we're really quiet, the mother will let us get close—"

"Lo'ak," Neytiri interjects gently. "Spider may not be able to come tomorrow."

Lo'ak's face falls. He turns to you, imploring. "But he can come back, right? Soon?"

You glance at Jake, at Neytiri. Jake is smiling, relaxed. Neytiri's expression is still reserved, but not closed. Not rejecting.

"Whenever he wants," you say carefully. "If that's okay with your parents."

"It's fine," Jake says easily. "He's welcome anytime."

Neytiri doesn't contradict this. She just nods, once, and returns to her food.

Lo'ak whoops, triumphant, and Spider's face breaks into the widest smile you've seen all evening. Kiri grins too, pleased, and reaches over to pat Spider's shoulder in a gesture of casual affection.

The meal continues, conversation flowing around you. You don't talk much—just listen, observe, exist in this space that's been opened to you and Spider. Jake asks you about work at Hell's Gate, about some equipment that needs repair. You answer, but your attention is split, most of your focus on Spider.

He's relaxed now. Really relaxed. His shoulders aren't hunched anymore. He's leaning slightly toward Lo'ak, mimicking the older boy's posture without realizing it. When Kiri asks him another question—something about what games human children play—he answers with more confidence, his voice stronger.

He's finding his place. Right here, right now, between these two Na'vi children who have decided he's worth knowing. Worth keeping.

After the meal, the children play while the adults clean up. Lo'ak and Spider and Kiri tumble outside, their voices carrying back through the entrance—laughter and mock arguments and the sounds of a game you don't recognize. You help Neytiri gather plates, scrape remnants into a compost container, wipe down surfaces.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "For this. For letting him—"

"He is a child," Neytiri interrupts, her voice firm but not unkind. "Children need other children. Lo'ak needs a brother who will follow him into trouble." Her mouth quirks. "And Kiri needs someone who will listen to her questions."

"Spider's good at both those things," you say, smiling despite yourself.

"Yes." She pauses, then adds, "You are good with him. Patient."

It's not effusive praise. But coming from Neytiri, it feels significant. Like another test passed, another small measure of acceptance earned.

Jake catches your eye from across the kelku and grins, like he knows exactly what just happened.

The evening deepens. Bioluminescence begins to glow outside—plants and insects and the freckles on Na'vi skin all lighting up in that ethereal blue-green. It's beautiful, magical, and you see Spider stop mid-game to stare at Kiri's freckles as they illuminate in the dimming light.

"You're glowing," he says, awed.

Kiri laughs. "So are you. Look." She points at the plants around them, at the way everything is coming alive with light.

Spider looks down at his own arms—human, unadorned, not bioluminescent—and for a moment you see disappointment cross his face. But then Lo'ak shoves him playfully, and the moment passes, and they're running again, chasing each other through the village paths.

You watch from the kelku entrance, Neytiri beside you. She's watching too, her gaze on her children, on Spider running with them.

"He will always be different," she says quietly. "Human among Na'vi."

"I know."

"But Lo'ak has claimed him. And what Lo'ak claims, he keeps."

You look at her, and she looks back, and there's understanding in her eyes. She knows what it is to be protective, to be fierce in defense of your children. She recognizes that same fierceness in you.

"Thank you," you say again, and this time she accepts it with a small nod.

When it's finally time to leave, Lo'ak protests loudly. "But we didn't even get to the good part of the game!"

"Tomorrow," Jake says firmly. "Spider will come back tomorrow if he wants to."

"I want to," Spider says immediately, looking at you for confirmation.

"We'll see," you say, which is parent-speak for probably yes but I'm not committing right now. "Maybe in a few days."

Lo'ak groans dramatically, but he's already planning. "Okay, but when you come back, we're going to see the viperwolf pups first thing, and then I'll show you the good climbing trees, and then—"

"Lo'ak," Neytiri says, patient but firm. "Let them go."

He subsides, but he grabs Spider's hand and squeezes it. "You're my brother now," he announces, casual and certain, like he's just stating a fact. "Okay?"

Spider stares at him, speechless.

"Okay?" Lo'ak repeats, insistent.

"Okay," Spider whispers.

Kiri hugs Spider too, gentler than Lo'ak's enthusiasm but just as genuine. "I'm glad you came," she says. "Come back soon."

Jake walks you to the edge of the village, his presence a quiet escort, a signal to anyone watching that you're under his protection. Spider's hand finds yours again, but it's different now—not desperate and sweaty, but comfortable. Secure.

"He did good," Jake says as you reach the forest path that leads back to Hell's Gate.

"He did," you agree.

"Lo'ak really does think of him as a brother, you know. It's not just kid talk."

"I know." You can hear it in Lo'ak's voice, see it in the way he includes Spider without hesitation.

Jake nods, satisfied. "Then we'll see you both soon."

The walk back to Hell's Gate is quiet at first. Spider is processing, his steps automatic, his mind clearly elsewhere. You don't push him to talk. You just walk beside him, your hand in his, letting him take his time.

The forest at night is alive with sound—creatures calling, leaves rustling, the distant sound of water. Your masks hiss softly with each breath, a rhythm you're both so used to it's like silence. The bioluminescence lights your path, blue-green and magical, and Spider keeps looking around like he's seeing it all for the first time.

Finally, as Hell's Gate comes into view—ugly and industrial and home—Spider speaks.

"Lo'ak said I'm his brother."

You squeeze his hand. "I heard."

"He really meant it. Didn't he?"

"Yeah, baby. I think he really did."

Spider is quiet for a few more steps. Then: "How does that work? We're not... I mean, he's Na'vi and I'm human."

"Family isn't always about biology," you say carefully. "Sometimes it's about choice. About who you choose to love, and who chooses to love you back."

He thinks about this. "Like you and me."

Your throat goes tight. "Yeah. Like you and me."

"So Lo'ak chose me?"

"He did."

"And Kiri too?"

"Her too."

Spider's grip on your hand tightens, and when you glance down, you see his face is scrunched up like he's trying not to cry. Not sad tears—overwhelmed tears. Too much feeling, too much joy, too much belonging all at once.

You stop walking and kneel down, bringing yourself to his level. "Hey. You okay?"

He nods, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding down his cheek inside his mask. "I just... I didn't think..."

"I know."

"They really like me."

"They really do."

He throws his arms around your neck, and you hold him there in the middle of the path, this small boy who's been so hungry for acceptance, for family, for proof that he's worth keeping. You hold him and let him cry, let him feel everything he needs to feel.

When he finally pulls back, he's smiling through the tears. "Can we really go back in a few days?"

"We really can."

"And I can see the viperwolf pups?"

"If Lo'ak's mother says it's okay, yes."

He nods, satisfied, and takes your hand again. You walk the rest of the way to Hell's Gate together, and Spider talks the whole time—about Lo'ak's bow, about Kiri's questions, about the food and the kelku and the way the village sounds at night. He's processing out loud, cementing the memories, making them permanent.

By the time you get him back to your quarters, cleaned up and ready for bed, he's still talking. You tuck him in, and he's mid-sentence about something Lo'ak said when his eyes start to drift closed. He fights it for a moment, trying to finish his thought, but exhaustion wins.

He's asleep in seconds, his face peaceful, his breathing deep and even.

You sit beside his bed for a while, watching him sleep. His mask is on the small table beside him, cleaned and ready for tomorrow. His clothes are folded neatly—you'll wash them in the morning. Everything is as it should be.

But something has shifted. Something fundamental.

He's not just yours anymore. He's theirs too—Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of the Sully family in a way that's real and recognized. And that's exactly what he needs. You can't be everything to him. You can't be his whole world. He needs peers, siblings, a community that claims him.

And now he has it.

You lean over and press a kiss to his forehead, careful not to wake him. "Sleep well, baby," you whisper. "Dream about your brother."

In the morning, he'll ask to go back. You'll tell him maybe in a few days—you don't want to overstay the welcome, don't want to take advantage of the Sullys' generosity. He'll accept this, but he'll spend the next few days talking about Lo'ak and Kiri and the village and all the things they're going to do together.

And you'll watch him bloom, watch him grow into this new identity—not just your son, but Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of something bigger than just the two of you.

It's exactly what he needs.

It's exactly what you wanted for him.

And it's just the beginning.

Age 6

The shelf was nearly empty two years ago.

You remember that—the stark metal surface, the utilitarian edge of Hell's Gate quarters that no amount of wishing could soften. Just another storage space in another recycled room, all angles and function and nothing warm.

Now it's full.

You're standing in front of it, rearranging Spider's gifts, and the transformation makes your chest tight with something you can't quite name. The leaf is here—the very first one, from his first day outside, carefully preserved between two thin pieces of clear material you'd salvaged from the lab. It's brittle and brown now, but still whole, still recognizable. Still precious.

Beside it: a smooth river stone, dark gray with flecks of mica that catch the light. He'd brought that to you three months after the leaf, solemn and proud, telling you he thought it would make good pigment. He was right—you'd ground a small portion of it, mixed it with binding agent, and the resulting paint had a subtle shimmer that made everything you touched with it seem to glow from within.

A blue-black feather, long and perfect, not a barb out of place. A smaller one, soft gray with white spots, downy enough to use for detail work. Two shells from the stream, their spirals catching afternoon light from your window. A piece of bark with deep ridges, the texture so compelling you'd used it to make prints last month. Seeds in a small glass jar—he'd been so excited about those, explaining that you'd mentioned this plant was good for dye.

Each item placed with care. Each one a gift he'd brought to you directly, eyes bright, hands outstretched: Look what I found. I thought you'd like it.

You pick up one of the shells, turn it in your palm. The spiral is mathematically perfect, each chamber slightly larger than the last, the whole thing fitting together with an elegance that makes you want to paint it, to capture that progression somehow. You'd told Spider about spirals in nature once—how they appear everywhere, in shells and plants and the way water moves. Two days later, he'd brought you this.

He'd been listening. He's always listening.

You set the shell down carefully and reach for the iridescent stone he'd given you last week. It's your favorite, maybe—small enough to fit in your closed fist, but when you turn it in the light, colors shift across its surface like oil on water. Pinks and greens and golds, all moving, all alive. He'd been so proud of this one. Lo'ak helped me find it, he'd said, breathless. We had to dive really deep, but I saw it underwater and I knew you'd love it.

You did love it. You do.

The pattern is so clear now, standing here with two years of gifts arranged in front of you. He's not just bringing you random pretty things. He's learning to see what you value. Color. Texture. Light. The way materials can be transformed into art, into beauty, into something permanent. He's teaching himself your language, piece by piece, gift by gift.

He's learning to see the world through an artist's eyes.

Through your eyes.

The realization makes you smile even as your vision blurs slightly. You blink hard, set the iridescent stone back in its place, and step back to look at the whole collection.

It's beautiful. Genuinely beautiful. Not because the individual items are precious—though some of them are—but because of what they represent. Two years of a six-year-old boy paying attention to what his mother loves, then going out into the world and bringing pieces of it back to her.

Two years of I thought of you. I wanted to share this with you. I want to give you something beautiful.

You're still standing there, throat tight and heart full, when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside. Quick and light, but doubled—two sets of feet, one heavier than the other.

The door opens without knocking. It never does anymore.

"—and I told him that's not how you do it, you have to wait for the right moment, but he just—oh!" Spider stops mid-sentence, his whole face lighting up when he sees you. "You're here!"

Lo'ak is right behind him, taller and blue and grinning. "She lives here, skxawng. Where else would she be?"

Spider ignores this, already moving toward you, his hands cupped carefully in front of him like he's carrying something fragile. His exopack is still on from outside, the mask slightly fogged from running, his hair wild and his clothes dusty. Lo'ak's the same—both of them clearly fresh from some adventure, still buzzing with the energy of it.

"I found things," Spider announces, breathless and proud. "Really good things. You're going to love them."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He's in front of you now, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look—"

He opens his hands carefully.

Three stones, each one different. The first is pale green, smooth and cool-looking, with darker green veins running through it like rivers on a map. The second is deep red, rough-textured, the kind of stone that would grind into a pigment so rich it would stain your hands for days. The third is small and black, but when you look closer, you can see tiny crystals embedded in its surface, catching light like stars.

"Where did you find these?" you ask, already reaching out.

"The green one was by the big waterfall," Spider says, watching your face carefully. "You know, the one we went to last month? It was just sitting there in the shallows, and the sun was hitting it, and it looked exactly like that green paint you made from the moss. Remember?"

You remember. You'd shown him that paint, explained how you'd extracted the color from living moss without killing the plant, how you had to be patient and careful. He'd watched the whole process, fascinated.

"And the red one?" You pick it up, feel its weight, its rough texture against your palm.

"Lo'ak found that one," Spider admits. "But I saw it first! We were climbing, and I saw this red color in the rocks, and I thought—" He stops, suddenly shy. "I thought it would make really good paint. Like, really red. The kind you can't get from plants."

"Iron oxide," you murmur, turning the stone. "You're absolutely right. This would make a beautiful red."

Spider beams. Lo'ak looks pleased too, in his casual way, like he's not entirely sure what iron oxide is but he's glad his contribution matters.

"What about this one?" You hold up the black stone, tilt it so the tiny crystals catch the light.

"That one's my favorite," Spider says immediately. "It doesn't look like much at first, but then when the light hits it—see? See the sparkles? I thought maybe you could grind it really fine and mix it with something, and it would make paint that shines. Like the night sky."

Your throat goes tight again. "Spider. Baby. These are perfect."

"Really?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see how much your approval means. How carefully he's watching your face, looking for genuine delight and not just politeness.

"Really," you say firmly. "These are some of the best stones you've brought me. You have such a good eye."

Lo'ak snorts. "He made me look at like fifty rocks before he picked those three. I thought we were going to be there all day."

"It has to be right," Spider protests. "I can't just bring her any rock."

"I know, I know." Lo'ak's teasing is gentle, affectionate. "You're very serious about your rock collecting."

"It's not collecting," Spider says, with the dignity of a six-year-old who knows exactly what he's about. "It's finding things she'll like."

And there it is. The whole thing, stated plainly. He's not collecting for himself. He's gathering for you. Every stone, every feather, every shell—all of it chosen with you in mind, brought home as an offering, a gift, a way of saying I love you in the only language he's sure of.

You kneel down so you're at his level, the three stones still in your hands. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For thinking of me. For paying attention to what I like. For bringing me pieces of the world."

Spider's smile is so bright it could light the whole room. "I always think of you," he says simply. "When I see something pretty, I think, 'Mom would like that.' So I bring it home."

Lo'ak makes a gagging sound. "You two are so sappy."

"Shut up," Spider says without heat, still looking at you.

You reach out and ruffle his hair, then stand, the stones carefully cradled in one hand. "Come here. Let's add these to the collection."

Both boys follow you to the shelf. Lo'ak's eyes widen slightly when he sees the display—he's been here before, but maybe he's never really looked at it, never understood what it represents.

"Whoa," he says. "You kept everything?"

"Of course I kept everything," you say, surprised he'd even question it. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I just thought..." Lo'ak trails off, looking at Spider. "You really bring her a lot of stuff, huh?"

"She likes it," Spider says defensively.

"I love it," you correct gently. "Every single thing."

You make space on the shelf, moving a few items slightly to accommodate the new stones. Spider watches intently, making sure you're placing them where they'll catch the light, where their colors will be visible. When you set the black stone down, he reaches out and adjusts it slightly, turning it so the crystals face the window.

"There," he says, satisfied.

The three of you stand there for a moment, looking at the collection. It's fuller now, richer. The green stone next to the iridescent one, the red stone beside the gray river rock, the black stone catching light like a tiny piece of night sky.

"It's really pretty," Lo'ak says eventually, and he sounds genuine. "Like... I don't know. Like a treasure."

"It is a treasure," you say quietly.

Spider looks up at you, his expression soft and open. "Do you really like them? The new ones?"

"I really, really like them," you tell him honestly. "The green one is going to make such a beautiful pigment. And the red—Spider, this red is going to be incredible. Deep and rich and permanent. And the black one..." You pick it up again, turn it in the light. "This one I might not grind at all. It's too perfect as it is."

"You can grind it if you want," Spider says quickly. "That's what it's for. For your paints."

"Maybe," you say. "Or maybe I'll just keep it like this, so I can look at it and remember the day you brought it to me."

Spider considers this, then nods. "Okay. That's good too."

Lo'ak shifts his weight, suddenly restless in the way of children who've been still too long. "Can we go back outside? I want to show Spider the thing I found."

"What thing?" Spider asks immediately, distracted.

"The thing. By the big tree. You'll see."

Spider looks at you, asking permission without words.

"Go," you say, smiling. "Just be back before dark."

"We will!" Spider's already moving toward the door, then stops, runs back, and wraps his arms around your waist in a quick, fierce hug. "Thank you for liking them."

"Thank you for bringing them to me," you say, hugging him back.

Then he's gone, Lo'ak right behind him, their voices fading down the corridor as they argue about whatever mysterious thing Lo'ak found by the big tree.

You turn back to the shelf.

The collection has grown again. Three more stones, three more pieces of Pandora, three more small perfect offerings that say I thought of you. I wanted to share this with you. I love you.

You pick up the green stone, feel its smoothness, its coolness. Tomorrow, maybe, you'll grind a small portion of it. You'll mix it with binding agent, test the color, see if it's as beautiful as you think it will be. Spider will want to watch—he always wants to watch the transformation, the moment when raw material becomes art.

But right now, you just hold it. You just stand here in your quarters, surrounded by two years of gifts, and let yourself feel the full weight of what this means.

Spider is six years old. He's learning to read and write, learning to climb and swim, learning the difference between Na'vi words and English ones. He's learning to be Lo'ak's brother, Kiri's friend, part of a community that's slowly, carefully making space for him.

But he's also learning this: how to see beauty. How to notice what matters. How to take something from the world and transform it into a gift, into an offering, into a tangible expression of love.

You taught him that. Not explicitly, not through lessons or lectures, but through your own way of moving through the world. Through the way you stop to examine interesting stones, the way you point out colors in the forest, the way you talk about texture and light and the potential hidden in raw materials.

He's been watching. Learning. Making it his own.

And now he's teaching it back to you, gift by gift, stone by stone, piece by piece.

You set the green stone back on the shelf, arranging it carefully next to the others. The afternoon light catches the iridescent stone, makes the colors dance. The black stone sparkles like stars. The red stone sits heavy and rich, full of potential.

Everything between you is shared now. His gifts are your treasures. Your love is his language.

And it's enough.

It's more than enough.

It's everything.

That evening, after dinner, Spider sits at your work table while you prepare the red stone for grinding. He watches intently as you set up your tools—the grinding stone, the palette, the small amount of water you'll need.

"Can I help?" he asks.

"You can watch," you say. "And next time, when you're a little older, I'll teach you how to do it yourself."

He accepts this, settling in to observe. You begin the slow, meditative work of grinding stone into powder, and Spider watches every movement, every transformation.

"It's getting redder," he observes after a few minutes.

"It is," you agree. "The finer the powder, the richer the color."

"Lo'ak didn't think it would work," Spider says. "He thought it was just a rock."

"It is just a rock," you say, smiling. "But rocks can become paint. Shells can become tools. Feathers can become brushes. Everything has potential if you know how to look at it."

Spider nods seriously, like you've said something profound. Maybe you have.

You grind in silence for a while, the only sound the soft scrape of stone on stone. Spider's presence is comfortable beside you—he doesn't need to fill the quiet with chatter, doesn't need constant entertainment. He's content just to be here, watching you work, learning through observation.

When you finally have enough powder, you mix it carefully with binding agent. The color that emerges is exactly what you hoped for—deep, rich red, the color of earth and clay and permanence.

"Wow," Spider breathes.

"Yeah," you agree. "Wow."

You dip a brush in the paint, test it on a scrap of material. The color is stunning—vibrant but not garish, deep but not muddy. Perfect.

"That's from the rock I found," Spider says, awed.

"That's from the rock you found," you confirm. "You have a really good eye, Spider. This is beautiful."

He glows under the praise, and you realize—not for the first time—how much your opinion matters to him. How carefully he watches for your approval, how much he values your recognition of his efforts.

You're not just teaching him to see beauty. You're teaching him that he's capable of finding it, of recognizing it, of bringing it into the world and sharing it with others.

You're teaching him that his gifts matter. That he matters.

Later, after Spider's gone to bed, you sit at your work table and look at the shelf of gifts. The leaf, the stones, the feathers, the shells. Two years of love made tangible. Two years of a little boy learning to see the world through your eyes and bringing pieces of it home to share with you.

Tomorrow there will be more. Next week, next month, next year—he'll keep finding things, keep bringing them to you, keep building this collection of beauty and love and shared understanding.

And you'll keep accepting them. Keep treasuring them. Keep recognizing them for what they are: not just pretty objects, but a language. A conversation. A way of saying I see what you value. I see who you are. And I want to give you the world.

You pick up the black stone one more time, hold it up to the light, watch the tiny crystals sparkle like stars.

This is how Spider loves you.

Through gifts. Through gathering. Through the simple, profound act of noticing beauty and wanting to share it.

And you love him back the same way—by receiving each offering with genuine delight, by recognizing the thought and care behind each choice, by understanding that every stone and feather and shell is really him saying: I love you. I love you. I love you.

You set the stone down gently, turn off the light, and head to bed.

The shelf remains, full and beautiful, a testament to two years of love expressed through the language you taught him.

And tomorrow, he'll bring you more.

He always does.

Age 7

The question comes on an ordinary evening, in that soft time when the day is winding down and his courage is finally up.

You've noticed Spider's been quiet all day. Not withdrawn—he still played with Lo'ak this afternoon, still helped you organize your pigments after dinner, still chattered about the new climbing route they found near the big tree. But there's been something underneath it all. A weight. A hesitation in the spaces between his words.

You know this feeling. You've learned to read it in the set of his shoulders, the way he keeps glancing at you and then away, the way his hands fidget with whatever's nearby. He's building up to something. Working up the nerve.

So you wait.

Your quarters are warm tonight. The lamp in the corner casts soft golden light across the room, and the bioluminescent samples you collected last week glow faintly in their jars on the shelf—pale blue and soft green, like captured starlight. Spider is sitting cross-legged on your bed, supposedly looking at one of the picture books Max brought back from a supply run, but he hasn't turned a page in ten minutes.

You're at your work table, grinding a small amount of ochre, the repetitive motion soothing. The sound fills the quiet—stone on stone, steady and rhythmic. You're not really focused on the work. You're focused on Spider, on the tension radiating from his small frame, on the question you can feel forming in the air between you.

Finally, he speaks.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice is smaller than usual. Careful.

You set down your grinding stone and turn to face him fully. "Always."

He doesn't look up from the book. His fingers trace the edge of the page, over and over, a nervous gesture. "It's... it's about my father."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest—a squeeze of protectiveness, of sorrow, of love. You've been waiting for this question for three years. Since the day you first took his hand and led him outside. Since the day you became the person he comes to with his questions, his fears, his need for truth.

"Okay," you say quietly. You stand, cross the small space, and sit on the bed beside him. Not touching yet, but close. Present. "What do you want to know?"

Spider's quiet for a long moment. His jaw works like he's trying out different versions of the question, testing which one feels right. Finally: "What was he like?"

Simple. Direct. Devastating.

You take a slow breath, buying yourself a moment to choose your words carefully. This matters. How you answer this will shape how Spider understands himself, his origins, the complicated legacy he carries. You can't lie to him. You won't. But you can be kind.

"Your father's name was Miles Quaritch," you begin, your voice steady. "He was a colonel in the RDA military. A soldier."

Spider nods. He knows this much already—picked it up from overheard conversations, from the careful way people don't talk about Quaritch around him.

"He was..." You pause, searching for the right words. "He was very good at what he did. Strong. Determined. He didn't give up easily."

"Was he a good person?"

The question is so earnest, so hopeful, that it breaks your heart a little.

"No," you say gently. "He wasn't."

Spider's face crumples slightly, and you reach out instinctively, your hand covering his smaller one where it rests on the book.

"But that doesn't mean he didn't love you," you continue quickly, squeezing his fingers. "Those two things can both be true at the same time. He loved you very much, Spider. That part was real."

Spider looks up at you finally, his eyes searching your face. "How do you know?"

"Because I saw it," you tell him honestly. "I wasn't close to your father—we didn't know each other well. But I saw him with you when you were a baby. Before... before everything happened. And I saw how he looked at you. Like you were the most important thing in the world."

This is true. You remember it clearly—Quaritch holding infant Spider with a tenderness that seemed at odds with everything else about him. The way his whole face would soften when he looked at his son. The way he'd talk to Spider in a low, gentle voice, making promises about the future.

Promises he'd never get to keep.

"Then why wasn't he good?" Spider asks, his voice wavering slightly. "If he loved me, why was he bad?"

You're quiet for a moment, considering. This is the heart of it—the thing Spider needs to understand, even if it's complicated. Even if it hurts.

"People are complicated," you say finally. "Your father loved you. That was real. But he also did terrible things. He hurt people. He hurt the Na'vi. He was part of a war that destroyed lives and families and homes."

Spider's hand tightens under yours. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not directly," you say. "But he hurt people I care about. He hurt this world. He believed things that were wrong—that humans had the right to take whatever they wanted from Pandora, no matter who it hurt. And he acted on those beliefs."

"Even though he had me?" Spider's voice is very small now. "Even though I'm part Na'vi?"

"You're not part Na'vi, baby," you correct gently. "You're human. But yes—even though you were born here. Even though this is your home. Your father... he couldn't see past what he believed. He couldn't change, even when maybe he should have."

Spider is quiet, processing. You can see him working through it, trying to fit these pieces together—a father who loved him but did terrible things. A legacy that's both gift and burden.

"Do you think he would have been different?" Spider asks eventually. "If he'd lived? Do you think he would have... I don't know. Been better?"

You consider this carefully. "I don't know," you admit. "Maybe. People can change. But it's hard. And your father was very set in his ways."

"Jake says he was dangerous."

"Jake's right. He was."

Spider looks down at your joined hands. His fingers are so small compared to yours, still round with childhood, not yet showing the lean strength they'll develop as he grows. "Is it bad that I wish I knew him? Even if he was bad?"

"No," you say immediately, fiercely. "It's not bad at all. He was your father. It's natural to want to know him, to wish you'd had the chance. That doesn't mean you agree with what he did. It just means you're human. You're allowed to have complicated feelings about complicated things."

"Do you think he'd be proud of me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper. "If he could see me now?"

Your throat goes tight. You pull Spider closer, wrapping your arm around his shoulders, and he leans into you immediately, seeking comfort.

"I think," you say carefully, "that any father would be proud to have a son like you. You're kind. You're brave. You're curious and smart and you care about people. You're learning two languages, two cultures. You're building bridges between worlds. That's extraordinary, Spider."

"But would he be proud?" Spider presses. "Would he like who I am?"

This is harder. Because the truth is, you don't know. Quaritch loved his son, but would he have loved the boy Spider is becoming? A boy who speaks Na'vi, who has Na'vi brothers, who belongs to this world in ways Quaritch never could?

"I think he'd love you," you say finally. "Because you're his son. But I don't know if he'd understand you. I don't know if he'd understand the life you're building here, the person you're becoming. And that's okay. Because the people who matter—the people who are actually here, actually in your life—we understand. We see you. And we're so proud of who you are."

Spider is quiet against your side. You can feel him breathing, can feel the slight tremor in his small frame that means he's trying not to cry.

"I'm glad I have you," he says eventually, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I'm glad you're my mom."

The words hit you like a physical thing—warm and overwhelming and precious. He's never said it quite like that before. Never used that word so directly.

"I'm glad I have you too," you whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "You're my son, Spider. Not because of biology or paperwork or any official thing. But because I choose you. Every single day, I choose you. And I always will."

"Even though I'm his son?" Spider asks, and there's something fragile in the question. "Even though my father did bad things?"

"Especially because you're his son," you say firmly. "Because you get to decide who you are. You get to take the good parts—the strength, the determination, the love he had for you—and leave the rest behind. You're not responsible for what he did. You're only responsible for who you choose to be."

Spider pulls back slightly to look up at you. His eyes are red-rimmed but not crying. "Who do you think I'll be?"

"I think you'll be exactly who you already are," you tell him, smoothing his hair back from his face. "Someone who loves fiercely. Someone who belongs to two worlds and makes them both better. Someone who asks hard questions and isn't afraid of complicated answers. Someone who brings me stones and feathers and makes me laugh every single day."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I found a really good feather today. I was going to give it to you tomorrow."

"Yeah?" You smile back. "What kind?"

"It's blue. Really, really blue. Lo'ak said it's from a forest banshee, but I think he's lying because we weren't anywhere near where they nest."

"Well, I can't wait to see it," you say. "Blue is my favorite."

"I know," Spider says, and there's pride in his voice. "That's why I kept it."

You pull him close again, and this time he settles against you completely, his head on your chest, his small body curled into yours. You can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, the tension draining out of him as the conversation settles into something he can carry.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" he murmurs after a while.

"Anything."

"Do you think... do you think it's okay that I don't really miss him? I mean, I never knew him. So I can't miss him, exactly. But sometimes I feel like I should. Like I should be sad that he's gone."

"You're allowed to feel however you feel," you tell him gently. "You can be curious about him without missing him. You can wish you'd known him without being sad that you didn't. There's no right way to feel about this, Spider. It's all okay."

"Okay," he says quietly. Then, even quieter: "I'm glad I have you instead."

Your eyes burn. You blink hard, holding him tighter. "Me too, baby. Me too."

The room falls into comfortable silence. The bioluminescent samples glow softly in their jars. The lamp casts warm shadows on the walls. Outside, you can hear the distant hum of Hell's Gate—the generators, the air filtration systems, the mechanical heartbeat of the human compound. But in here, it's just the two of you. Just this moment. Just this love.

Spider's breathing is evening out, getting slower and deeper. You can feel the weight of him growing heavier as he relaxes completely, trusting you to hold him, to keep him safe, to carry the weight of these hard truths so he doesn't have to carry them alone.

"I love you," you whisper into his hair.

"Love you too," he mumbles, already half-asleep.

You stay like that for a long time. Long after Spider's breathing shifts into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Long after your arm starts to go numb from his weight. You stay because this is what matters. This is what motherhood is—not the easy moments, not the joyful discoveries or the proud achievements, but this. The hard conversations. The complicated truths. The willingness to sit with a child's pain and confusion and help them make sense of it.

You think about Quaritch. About the man you barely knew, who loved his son but couldn't see past his own convictions. About the legacy he left behind—not just in Spider's DNA, but in the questions Spider will carry his whole life. Questions about belonging, about identity, about what it means to be the son of a man who did terrible things.

But you also think about the boy in your arms. About his kindness, his curiosity, his fierce love for the people and world around him. About the way he's building something new—a life that honors both his human heritage and his deep connection to Pandora. A life that's entirely his own.

Quaritch gave Spider life. But you're giving him something else. Something more. You're giving him the tools to understand that life, to navigate its complexities, to build an identity that's whole and true and his.

You're giving him love. Unconditional, unwavering, present-every-single-day love.

And that, you think, is what makes you his mother. Not biology. Not paperwork. Not any official recognition. Just this. Just showing up. Just choosing him, over and over, in the big moments and the small ones.

Age 8

Spider doesn't hold your hand anymore when you arrive at the village.

He used to. Even a year ago, he'd keep his fingers wrapped around yours until you were well past the tree line, until he could see Lo'ak or Kiri, until he was absolutely certain he was welcome. But now—now he barely waits for you to step out of the forest before he's running ahead, his exopack bouncing against his back, his voice already calling out in Na'vi.

"Lo'ak! Mom said we could go to the stream today!"

You watch him go, your hand still half-raised from where he let go, and something in your chest does that complicated thing it's been doing more and more lately. Pride and bittersweetness tangled together. He doesn't need you to walk him in anymore. He doesn't need you to smooth the way, to make introductions, to stand between him and uncertainty.

He just runs.

And the village opens for him like he's always belonged there.

Lo'ak appears from behind one of the woven structures, already grinning, already moving toward Spider with that loose-limbed energy that eight-year-old boys seem to generate out of thin air. They collide in a tangle of limbs and laughter, Lo'ak's hand coming up to shove at Spider's shoulder, Spider shoving back, both of them talking over each other in a rapid mix of Na'vi and English that you can barely follow.

"—saw the yerik tracks near the big—"

"—no, that was yesterday, I'm talking about the new ones—"

"—think we can get close enough to—"

They're already moving away, already absorbed in their own world. Spider glances back once, just once, and waves. You wave back. He grins—quick and bright and utterly confident—and then he's gone, disappearing into the village with Lo'ak, their voices fading into the general hum of morning activity.

You stand there for a moment, just watching the space where he was.

Eight years old. When did that happen?

The village is fully awake now, the morning sun filtering through the canopy in shafts of golden light that catch on the woven structures, the carefully tended gardens, the Na'vi moving through their daily routines. Smoke rises from cooking fires. Somewhere, a baby is crying. Somewhere else, someone is singing—a low, rhythmic melody that blends with the forest sounds until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

You've been coming here for four years now. Long enough that people nod to you when you pass. Long enough that you know where to sit, where to wait, how to move through the space without disrupting the flow of life around you. You're not Na'vi. You never will be. But you're not a stranger anymore either.

You're Spider's mother. And that gives you a place here.

You make your way toward the central area, where several women are working on preparing food for the day. Neytiri is among them, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she strips leaves from stems, sorts roots, directs the younger women with quiet authority. She sees you coming and nods, a small smile touching her lips.

"Kaltxì," she says, her voice warm.

"Kaltxì," you reply, settling onto a woven mat nearby. Not joining the work—you're not skilled enough for that, not yet—but present. Observing. Learning.

"Spider has already found Lo'ak," Neytiri says, switching to English for your benefit. Her accent is thick but her words are clear. "They will be gone all day, I think."

"Probably," you agree, smiling. "They were talking about yerik tracks."

Neytiri's expression shifts into something fond and exasperated all at once. "Lo'ak is teaching him to track. Or Spider is teaching Lo'ak. I am not sure which." She pauses, her hands stilling for a moment. "Your son is good in the forest. Quick. Quiet when he needs to be."

Your son.

She says it so casually. Like it's just fact. Like there was never any question.

"He loves it out there," you say, your throat suddenly tight. "He loves learning from Lo'ak. From all of you."

"He is a good student," Neytiri says. She returns to her work, but there's something softer in her expression now. "And a good brother to my children. Lo'ak is... better when Spider is with him. More careful. More thoughtful."

You're not sure what to say to that. The idea that Spider—your Spider, the human child who was so desperate to belong—is making Lo'ak better feels almost too big to hold.

"Thank you," you manage finally. "For letting him be part of this. Part of your family."

Neytiri looks up, her golden eyes meeting yours directly. "He is part of this family because he chooses to be. Because he shows up. Because he loves my children and they love him." She pauses. "That is how family works. Yes?"

"Yes," you whisper.

She nods, satisfied, and returns to her work. The conversation is over. The truth has been spoken. Spider belongs here, and everyone knows it.

You sit with the women for a while longer, listening to their conversation—half in Na'vi, half in English for your benefit—and watching the village wake fully into the day. Children run past, chasing each other. Hunters return from an early morning expedition, their voices low and satisfied. Someone is repairing a bow nearby, the scrape of stone on wood a steady rhythm beneath everything else.

This is Spider's world. One of them, anyway.

And he moves through it like he was born to it.

You find them mid-morning, deep in the forest.

You weren't looking for them, exactly—you were just walking, enjoying the quiet, the green-gold light, the way the forest breathes around you. But you hear their voices before you see them, and you follow the sound until you spot them crouched low near a fallen log, their attention fixed on something in the undergrowth.

Spider is in front, his body language completely transformed from the boy who runs through Hell's Gate. Here, he's all coiled energy and focus. His feet are bare and he moves across the forest floor like he's reading it, like every root and stone and patch of moss is a word in a language he's learned to speak.

Lo'ak is beside him, equally focused, but it's Spider who's pointing now, Spider who's whispering in rapid Na'vi, Spider who's teaching.

You stay back, not wanting to interrupt, and just watch.

"There," Spider says, his voice barely audible. "See the broken stem? And the way the moss is pressed down?"

Lo'ak leans closer, squinting. "I see it."

"Something came through here this morning. Small. Maybe a hexapede." Spider shifts his weight, moving forward in a crouch that's pure Na'vi—low, balanced, silent. "The tracks go this way."

They move together, reading the forest, and you're struck by how completely Spider has absorbed this knowledge. How naturally it sits on him. He's not pretending. He's not imitating. He's just... doing it. Being it.

A branch cracks under your foot, and both boys whip around, their eyes wide.

Then Spider sees it's you and his whole face lights up.

"Did you see?" he asks, switching to English without even seeming to notice. "We've been tracking it for like an hour. Lo'ak thinks it's a hexapede but I think it might be a tetrapteron because of the way the—"

"It's definitely a hexapede," Lo'ak interrupts, also in English now, his tone mock-offended. "The spacing is all wrong for a tetrapteron."

"The spacing is perfect for a tetrapteron if it was moving fast—"

"You don't know what you're talking about—"

"You don't know what you're talking about—"

They're grinning at each other, the argument completely without heat, and you can't help but smile.

"Sounds like you two have it all figured out," you say.

"We do," Spider says confidently. Then, to Lo'ak: "Come on, let's keep going. We're gonna lose the trail."

And just like that, they're off again, moving deeper into the forest, their voices fading into the green.

You follow at a distance, content to watch. Content to see Spider in his element—confident, capable, completely at home.

Lunch is back at the village, and by the time you return, Spider and Lo'ak are already there, sprawled in the shade near Neytiri's fire, eating with the single-minded focus of children who've spent all morning running wild.

Neytiri hands you a woven plate with roasted teylu and some kind of root vegetable you've never learned the name for, and you settle nearby, close enough to hear the boys' conversation but not intruding on it.

"—and then the hexapede just ran," Lo'ak is saying, his hands gesturing wildly. "Like, so fast. We almost had it."

"We weren't trying to catch it," Spider points out, his mouth full. "We were just tracking it."

"We could have caught it if we wanted to."

"Sure, Lo'ak."

"We could have."

Neytiri makes a sound that might be a laugh, and when you glance over, she's watching the boys with that same fond exasperation from this morning.

"Lo'ak," she says, her voice dry, "you could not catch a hexapede if it was sleeping."

Lo'ak looks offended. "I totally could."

"You could not."

"Spider, tell her I could."

Spider grins, clearly enjoying this. "I mean... you're pretty loud when you run."

"I am not—"

"You are," Spider says, laughing now. "You sound like a thanator crashing through the trees."

"I do not—"

"You kind of do," you offer, unable to resist.

Lo'ak turns his offended look on you, and Neytiri actually laughs—a real laugh, warm and genuine.

"See?" she says to Lo'ak. "Even Spider's mother agrees. You are loud."

The words land softly, without ceremony, and for a moment, everything goes still inside you.

Spider's mother.

She said it like it's just true. Like it's been true for so long that it doesn't even need to be remarked upon.

Spider doesn't react. He just keeps eating, completely unbothered, like of course that's who you are. Of course.

Lo'ak is already moving on, already arguing about something else, and the moment passes. But you hold it close, this casual recognition, this simple truth spoken aloud in the middle of an ordinary day.

You're Spider's mother.

Everyone knows it.

Even you.

The afternoon is slower, quieter. The heat of the day settles over the village like a blanket, and most of the adults retreat to the shade to work on quieter tasks—weaving, tool repair, food preparation. The children, though, are irrepressible.

Spider has gathered a small group of them—younger kids, maybe five or six years old—and he's leading them on what he's calling an "expedition" to the forest edge. You watch from a distance as he crouches down to their level, his voice animated, his hands gesturing.

"Okay, so we're looking for colors," he's saying in Na'vi, his accent nearly perfect now. "Different colors. And different textures. Like... see this leaf? It's smooth. But this bark? It's rough. Feel it."

The children crowd around, their small hands reaching out to touch, to explore. One of them—a little girl with huge eyes—looks up at Spider like he's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"What do we do with the colors?" she asks.

"We collect them," Spider says. "And then we can make paint. Or just... I don't know. Look at them. See how many different kinds there are."

He's teaching them what you taught him. Passing it forward. The way you showed him how to see the world—not just as a place to move through, but as a place full of beauty and variation and wonder—he's showing them now.

Your chest aches with pride.

One of the boys finds a piece of bark with purple sap oozing from a crack, and he brings it to Spider with both hands, like it's precious.

"Is this a color?" he asks.

Spider's face lights up. "Yes! That's perfect. That's—wait, let me see—" He takes the bark carefully, examining it. "This is really good. The purple is really bright. My mom's gonna love this."

He glances around, spots you watching, and waves the bark at you excitedly.

"Look!" he calls in English. "Purple sap! I'm gonna mark a tree for you so you can find it later!"

You wave back, smiling so hard your face hurts.

He returns to the children, already explaining how to look for more, how to tell which trees might have sap and which won't, and you just... watch. Watch him be exactly who he is. Watch him belong.

You don't hear Max arrive.

One moment, you're sitting alone on a woven mat near the edge of the village, watching Spider and his little expedition group examine a fallen log. The next moment, there's a presence beside you—quiet, familiar, expected without being announced.

Max settles onto the mat next to you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and sets down the supply pack he's been carrying.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and warm.

"Hey," you reply, not looking away from Spider.

Max follows your gaze, watching Spider crouch down to show one of the younger children how to peel bark carefully without damaging the tree. He's patient with them, gentle, encouraging. The little girl from earlier is holding his hand now, trusting him completely.

"He's good with them," Max observes.

"He is," you agree. Your throat is tight again. "He's teaching them what I taught him. About colors. About textures. About paying attention."

Max is quiet for a moment, just watching. Then: "He's happy."

It's not a question. It's an observation. A truth.

"Yeah," you whisper. "He is."

Max's hand finds yours where it rests on your knee, his fingers curling around yours in a touch that's casual and comfortable and utterly familiar. You've been together for over a year now—quietly, without fanfare, building something steady and real in the spaces between your devotion to Spider. He's never asked you to choose. He's never made you feel like loving Spider means there's less of you for him.

He just shows up. Brings supplies. Sits beside you. Watches your son play.

And loves you both in his quiet, steady way.

"Neytiri called him my son today," you say softly. "Just... casually. Like it's been true forever."

Max squeezes your hand. "It has been."

"I know. But hearing her say it..." You trail off, not sure how to explain the weight of it. The relief. The recognition.

"It matters," Max says simply. "Being seen. Being recognized."

"Yeah."

You sit together in comfortable silence, watching Spider lead his little group back toward the village, all of them chattering excitedly about their finds. Spider is in the middle of them, his face animated, his hands full of bark and leaves and stones. He's covered in dirt and sap and his exopack is slightly crooked, but he's never looked more himself.

"He doesn't have to choose," you say quietly. "Between here and Hell's Gate. Between Na'vi and human. He just... is. Both. All of it."

"That's good," Max says. "That's how it should be."

Spider spots you then—spots both of you—and his grin gets even wider. He says something to the children, and they scatter toward their parents, showing off their treasures. Spider jogs over, slightly out of breath, his eyes bright.

"Did you see?" he asks, switching to English automatically. "We found so much stuff. And I marked the tree with the purple sap for you—it's near the big boulder, you know the one? You can get there easy."

"I saw," you say, smiling up at him. "You're a good teacher, Spider."

He ducks his head, pleased. Then he notices Max properly, and his expression shifts into something casual and warm. "Oh, hey Max. Did you bring the new filters?"

"In the pack," Max confirms. "And some of those protein bars you like."

"The chocolate ones?"

"The chocolate ones."

"Yes!" Spider pumps his fist, then immediately looks a little embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. "I mean. Cool. Thanks."

Max's mouth twitches in a smile. "No problem, kid."

Spider lingers for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly torn between staying and going back to play. The pull of the village wins.

"I'm gonna go find Lo'ak," he announces. "We're gonna practice climbing before dinner. Is that okay?"

"That's fine," you say. "Just be careful."

"I'm always careful," Spider says, which is absolutely a lie, and then he's off again, running toward the central area where Lo'ak is visible near one of the larger trees.

You watch him go, and Max watches you watch him, and the afternoon stretches out warm and golden around you.

"You're good at this," Max says after a while.

"At what?"

"Letting him go. Letting him be himself."

You consider this. "I don't really have a choice. He's always been himself. I'm just... trying to keep up."

Max's thumb strokes across your knuckles, a small, grounding touch. "You're doing more than keeping up."

You lean into him slightly, letting yourself take comfort in his solid presence. In the fact that he's here, that he chose to be here, that he sees what you're building with Spider and wants to be part of it.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "For coming. For... all of it."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," Max says simply.

And you believe him.

The walk back to Hell's Gate happens in that soft twilight time when the forest is shifting from day to night. The bioluminescent plants are just starting to glow, faint and tentative, and the air is cooling, carrying the scent of evening flowers and damp earth.

Spider is between you and Max, holding your hand on one side—casual now, comfortable, not the desperate grip of a younger child but the easy touch of someone who knows you're not going anywhere. He's talking a mile a minute, recounting every detail of the day, switching between English and Na'vi without seeming to notice.

"—and then Lo'ak said I couldn't climb as high as him but I totally could, I just didn't want to because Neytiri said we had to be careful, and then we saw this huge spider—not me-Spider, like an actual spider, it was this big—" He spreads his hands wide, exaggerating. "—and Lo'ak screamed like a baby—"

"I bet he did," you say, smiling.

"He did! It was so funny. And then—oh, and I found the purple sap tree, did I tell you? I marked it really good so you can find it. The sap is like... really purple. Like, the most purple I've ever seen."

"I can't wait to see it," you tell him.

Max is carrying the supply pack and a few other things Spider accumulated during the day—a particularly interesting rock, a bundle of feathers, a piece of wood Lo'ak said he could have. He doesn't complain about the extra weight. He just carries it, steady and uncomplaining, his free hand occasionally reaching out to steady Spider when the boy stumbles over a root in his excitement.

It feels like family. The three of you moving through the forest together, Spider's voice filling the spaces between the trees, Max's quiet presence anchoring you both.

By the time you reach Hell's Gate, Spider is starting to flag. His steps are slower, his voice softer, and when you cycle through the airlock, he leans against you while the pressure equalizes, his eyes half-closed.

"Tired?" you ask, running your hand through his hair.

"No," he lies, then yawns hugely.

Max catches your eye over Spider's head, his expression amused and fond.

Inside, the base is quiet. Most people are in the mess hall or their quarters, winding down for the evening. You guide Spider toward your rooms, Max following with the supplies, and by the time you get there, Spider is practically asleep on his feet.

"Bath first," you say gently. "Then bed."

Spider groans but doesn't argue. He's too tired to argue.

The bath is quick—just enough to wash off the day's dirt and sweat—and by the time you get him into clean clothes, he's swaying where he stands. You guide him to his bed, and he collapses onto it with a satisfied sigh.

"Today was good," he mumbles, his eyes already closing.

"Yeah?" You sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket over him. "What was your favorite part?"

He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "All of it. I like... I like that I can be everywhere. You know? Like, I can be in the village with Lo'ak and then come back here with you and Max and it's all... it's all just me. I don't have to be different. I'm just me everywhere."

Your throat goes tight. "You are," you say softly. "You're whole, Spider. You don't have to split yourself into pieces. You're just you, and that's enough. That's everything."

"Yeah," he whispers, already drifting. "That's good."

You stay until his breathing evens out, until you're sure he's deeply asleep. Then you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the clean, warm scent of him.

"Sweet dreams, baby," you whisper.

He doesn't answer. He's already gone, lost in whatever dreams eight-year-olds have after perfect days.

You stand slowly, carefully, and turn to find Max in the doorway, watching. His expression is soft, open in a way it rarely is around other people.

"He's right, you know," Max says quietly as you cross to him. "About being whole. You've given him that."

"We've given him that," you correct, reaching for his hand. "All of us. The village. You. Me. Everyone who's shown him he doesn't have to choose."

Max pulls you close, his arms coming around you, and you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself take a moment to just breathe, to let the day settle into your bones.

"Good day?" he asks, his voice rumbling against your ear.

"Really good day," you confirm.

And it was. It really, really was.

Outside, Pandora's night is coming alive—the forest singing its evening song, the bioluminescence painting the world in shades of blue and green and purple. Inside, Spider is sleeping, safe and loved and whole. And you're here, held by someone who chose you, who chose this life, who shows up day after day without fanfare or expectation.

You've built something here. Something real and good and true.

A family.

Not the way you expected. Not the way anyone would have predicted.

But a family nonetheless.

And tomorrow, you'll do it all again. You'll watch Spider run into the village without looking back. You'll see him teach younger children about colors and textures. You'll sit with Max and watch your son belong to two worlds completely.

You'll choose Spider, and he'll choose you, and that will be enough.

It will always be enough.

Author's Note: A little love for Max! Every time I see him I just can't help but think of how sweet Max is. Like, what a sweetie.

The waiting is the worst part.

You've been standing near the airlock for three hours now, arms crossed tight against your chest like you can physically hold yourself together through sheer force of will. Max is beside you, his presence steady and quiet, but even he can't fill the silence that's eating you alive from the inside out.

Spider is safe. That's what the message said. Safe with Jake and the others in Awa'atlu. Safe.

But safe doesn't mean here. Safe doesn't mean you can see him, touch him, confirm with your own eyes that he's whole and breathing and alive. Safe is just a word someone sent through a radio, and words aren't enough. They've never been enough.

"He's okay," Max says quietly, not for the first time. "Jake wouldn't lie about that."

You nod because you know he's right. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and right now all you can feel is the absence. The Spider-shaped hole in the world that's been there since the day he was taken. Weeks of not knowing. Weeks of imagining the worst. Weeks of waking up in the middle of the night reaching for a child who wasn't there.

The base hums around you—generators, air filtration, the mechanical heartbeat of Hell's Gate. It sounds wrong. Everything sounds wrong without Spider's voice cutting through it, without his footsteps running down corridors, without his laugh echoing off metal walls.

Max's hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours and squeezing. You squeeze back, grateful for the anchor.

Then the alarm sounds—the one that signals incoming from the forest—and your heart stops.

You're moving before you consciously decide to, Max right behind you, both of you heading for the main airlock. Other people are gathering too—scientists, technicians, everyone who's been waiting for news. But you push through them, get to the front, press yourself against the observation window.

The outer door is cycling open.

And then you see her.

Neytiri.

She's not walking.

She's laid out on a makeshift stretcher—a plank, really, rough-hewn wood lashed together with vines—and even through the window you can see the arrow shaft protruding from her shoulder, the dark stain of blood spreading across her skin. Tarsem is at the front, his face grim and tight with worry, and two other Omaticaya warriors support the back. Her head lolls slightly with each step they take.

Unconscious.

Your breath catches. If Neytiri is here like this, if she's wounded this badly—

The inner door opens and the warriors carry her through. The stretcher tilts slightly as they navigate the threshold and you see her face fully now—pale beneath her stripes, her braids hanging limp, her breathing shallow.

"Medical bay," someone shouts—Norm, already moving. "Now!"

And then Max's hand slips from yours.

He's moving before you can process it, his medical training overriding everything else. He's already calling for supplies, for assistance, his voice sharp and focused in a way that means someone's life is on the line. He doesn't look back at you. Doesn't hesitate.

Of course he doesn't.

This is what he does. This is who he is.

But it still leaves you standing there alone, your hand empty, watching as they rush Neytiri toward the medical bay. Watching as Max disappears with them, already assessing, already working, already gone.

You stand frozen for a moment, the crowd flowing around you like water around a stone.

Then you follow.

The medical bay smells like antiseptic and recycled air and the faint metallic tang of blood.

You hover near the doorway, staying out of the way as Max and the medical team work. Neytiri is laid out on the largest examination table they have—built for avatar bodies, thank god—and Max's hands are already moving, cutting away fabric, examining the wound, his face set in that expression of absolute concentration you've seen a thousand times.

The arrow is still lodged in her shoulder. You can see the shaft trembling slightly with each shallow breath she takes.

Tarsem stands against the far wall, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. Norm is beside him, quieter, but his eyes never leave Neytiri's face. Waiting. Watching.

You join them.

Nobody speaks.

The minutes stretch. Max works with steady hands, murmuring instructions to his assistant. They're preparing to remove the arrow, to clean the wound, to stitch her back together. Standard procedure. Routine, even.

But your hands won't stop shaking.

Because if Neytiri is here like this, wounded and unconscious, then something went wrong. Something bad enough to send her back to Hell's Gate instead of keeping her with Jake and the children.

And Spider—

"He is safe," Tarsem says quietly, and you realize you've spoken aloud without meaning to. "Jake has the children. They are protected."

You nod, but the knot in your chest doesn't loosen.

Safe is just a word until you can see it with your own eyes.

Time moves strangely. You're not sure if it's been twenty minutes or two hours when Max finally steps back from the table, peeling off his gloves. The arrow is out. The wound is packed and bandaged. Neytiri's breathing is deeper now, more even.

Stable.

"She'll wake soon," Max says, and his eyes find yours across the room. There's an apology there. A recognition that he left you standing alone.

But you just nod. You understand.

He turns back to Neytiri, checking her vitals one more time, and you settle in to wait.

When Neytiri's eyes snap open, it's with a gasp—sharp and desperate, like someone breaking the surface after drowning.

Her hand flies to her chest, clawing at the IV line taped there.

"The children," she gasps. "The children—"

"Neytiri, no—" Norm lunges forward, trying to catch her wrist, but she's already ripping the lead from her chest, the monitor shrieking as it loses contact. "You need to stay—"

"The children!" Her voice cracks, raw with panic, and she's trying to sit up, trying to swing her legs off the table despite the fresh bandage on her shoulder, despite the way her face goes white with pain.

Mo'at is there suddenly, her hands firm on Neytiri's uninjured shoulder, speaking fast and low in Na'vi—words you don't understand but can feel the weight of. Grounding. Commanding.

But Neytiri fights her.

She's gasping, her eyes wild, unfocused, and she's trying to stand, trying to push past Mo'at's hands, trying to move—

"Where?" Tarsem's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and urgent. He leans forward, his hand catching Neytiri's face, forcing her to look at him. "Where are they, Neytiri? Where?"

She blinks. Focuses. Her breathing is ragged, her whole body trembling.

"Awa'atlu," she manages. "We were on our way here. Wind traders—attacked. Jake has them. Taking them—" She winces, her hand going to her shoulder. "Taking them through the forest. Home."

"How long?" Tarsem demands.

"Hours. Maybe—" She gasps again, her eyes squeezing shut. "Maybe less. I don't know."

The room explodes into motion.

Tarsem is already moving, barking orders in Na'vi to the warriors waiting outside. Norm is running for the link room, his human body moving fast, already calling out coordinates, routes, rally points. Mo'at releases Neytiri but stays close, her expression tight with worry and determination.

You're frozen, watching it all happen around you—the organized chaos of people preparing to move, to fight, to find the children.

Max's hand finds yours, squeezes once.

You're staying behind.

You push forward through the movement, slipping past Norm as he rushes by, and you reach Neytiri's side just as she's trying to stand again, Mo'at supporting her weight.

"Spider," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Neytiri—Spider. Is he—"

Her eyes meet yours.

There's pain there. Exhaustion. But also certainty.

She nods, just once.

"He lives," she says, her voice rough but clear. "Last I knew. With Lo'ak." She takes a breath, steadying herself against Mo'at. "Safer than alone."

It's not much.

It's not a promise.

But it's something.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and step back as Mo'at guides Neytiri toward the door, toward the warriors already assembling outside, toward whatever comes next.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and Max's arm tightens around your waist.

Soon.

The next hour is agony.

You pace. You sit. You stand. You pace again. Max tries to get you to eat something but you can't, your stomach is too tight, too knotted with anticipation and residual fear. You keep replaying Neytiri's words. Safe. Coming. Soon.

But soon is relative. Soon could be minutes or hours or—

The alarm sounds again.

This time you run.

You're at the equipment locker before anyone else, your hands shaking as you pull down the exopack. The mask is familiar—you've worn it a thousand times—but today it feels different. Heavier. Like you're strapping on a cage.

Max helps you secure it, his fingers steady on the clasps even as his eyes search yours. "You okay?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. The mask settles over your face, and immediately the world becomes filtered. Recycled air hisses through the filters, cool and artificial against your skin. You can taste the chemical tang of it on your tongue, that metallic edge that means you're breathing something manufactured. Something safe. Something that keeps you alive in a world that would kill you in minutes without it.

The airlock cycles open.

You step through into the outer chamber, and the weight of Pandora's atmosphere presses against you like a physical thing. Even through the mask, you can sense it—the wrongness of the air, the toxicity that would burn your lungs if you breathed it unfiltered. Your heart rate picks up. The mask hisses with each breath you take, a constant reminder of your dependence on the technology strapped to your face.

Max emerges behind you, his own mask secure, and together you move to the outer door.

The alarm sounds again—the signal that the group is approaching.

The outer door begins to cycle open, and you step out into the Pandoran atmosphere. The air around you is thick, humid, alive in a way that Hell's Gate's recycled air never is. You can see it shimmer slightly in the afternoon light. Toxic. Lethal. Beautiful.

And you're suffocating behind plastic and filters.

Your breathing sounds loud in your own ears—the rasp of your lungs pulling in processed air, the mechanical hiss of the exopack working overtime to keep you alive. You can feel the weight of the mask on your face, the pressure of the seal against your skin, the slight ache in your jaw from clenching. Every breath is a reminder: you don't belong here. You need this. You need this to survive.

The Na'vi warriors emerge first from the forest—Omaticaya, their faces painted, their weapons ready. They move through the toxic air like it's nothing, like they're breathing water, like their lungs were made for this world in a way yours never will be.

Then you see them.

Jake, tall and unmistakable. Kiri. Tuk. Lo'ak.

And then—

Spider.

He emerges from the tree line, and your breath catches so hard you nearly choke on the filtered air in your mask.

He's walking on his own, moving with that familiar loose-limbed grace, his head turning to look at something Lo'ak is saying. He's dirty, his hair wild, his clothes torn and stained. But he's whole. He's here.

And he's not wearing a mask.

The realization hits you so hard the world tilts.

No exopack. No mask. No protective technology strapped to his face. Just Spider—your Spider—breathing Pandora's air like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he was born to it.

He walks through the toxic atmosphere that would kill you in minutes, and he's breathing it freely. Easily. Like his lungs were always meant for this.

Your vision blurs behind the mask. You're crying before you even realize it, tears streaming down your face as you watch him through the plastic barrier. The exopack hisses with each ragged breath you take, the filtered air suddenly feeling suffocating, wrong, a prison of your own biology.

He's breathing.

He's free.

He doesn't need the mask anymore, doesn't need the technology that's kept him alive his whole life, doesn't need the barrier between him and the world he loves. He can just walk through this air—this air that's killing you even as you stand here protected—and he can breathe it like it's home.

Like he's finally home.

Your son is standing in an atmosphere that would destroy you, and he's breathing it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He can just... be.

"Oh my god," Max breathes beside you, his voice stunned. "He's—"

"Breathing," you whisper. "He's breathing."

The outer door begins to cycle open and you're moving before it's fully unsealed, pushing through, not caring about protocol or procedure or anything except getting to him.

Spider sees you the moment you emerge.

His whole face transforms—exhaustion and wariness melting into something open and young and relieved. He takes a step toward you, then another, and then he's running and you're running and you meet in the middle of the airlock chamber, your arms coming around him, pulling him close.

He's solid. Real. Here.

And he's breathing.

You can feel it against your chest—the rise and fall of his lungs, steady and strong, pulling in Pandora's air without mechanical assistance. No hiss of filters. No fog on a mask. Just breath. Just life.

You're sobbing now, your hands in his hair, on his back, touching him everywhere you can reach like you need to confirm he's real. That this isn't a dream. That he's actually here, actually safe, actually breathing air that would kill you but gives him life.

"Mom," Spider says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. His arms are tight around your waist, holding on just as desperately. "Mom, I'm okay. I'm okay."

But you can't speak. Can't do anything except hold him and cry and feel the miracle of his breathing.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. He's thinner than he was. There are shadows under his eyes, new scars on his skin, a hardness in his expression that wasn't there before. He's been through something. Something terrible.

But he's here.

"Let me look at you," you whisper, your thumbs stroking across his cheekbones. "Let me see you."

Spider's eyes meet yours—dark and deep and so, so tired. But there's something else there too. Something new. A kind of peace you've never seen in him before.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw tightens.

"I can breathe," he finally says, and it comes out rough, fractured. Like the words themselves cost him something.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Your thumbs keep moving across his cheekbones—a rhythm, an anchor.

He swallows hard. "I don't—" He stops. Tries again. "I'm not going back."

It's not what you expected him to say. But it's everything.

And that's when you understand what he's really saying.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. He's thinner than he was. There are shadows under his eyes, new scars on his skin, a hardness in his expression that wasn't there before. He's been through something. Something terrible.

But he's here.

"Let me look at you," you whisper, your thumbs stroking across his cheekbones. "Let me see you."

Spider's eyes meet yours—dark and deep and so, so tired. But there's something else there too. Something new. A kind of peace you've never seen in him before.

Your greatest fear—the one that's lived in your chest since the day you first took his hand and led him outside—has been the mask. The fragility of it. The knowledge that one crack, one malfunction, one moment of equipment failure could take him from you. You've lived with that terror for years, checking his seals obsessively, maintaining his equipment with paranoid precision, always aware that his life hung on technology that could fail.

And now it doesn't.

Now he's free.

"You're safe," you whisper, pulling him close again. "You're safe."

He melts into you, and for a moment he's not a teenager who's survived kidnapping and war. He's just your boy. Your Spider. The child you raised, the son you chose, the piece of your heart that walks around outside your body.

You hold him and cry and breathe with him, and it's enough.

It's everything.

Eventually—minutes or hours later, you're not sure—you become aware of the others around you. Jake standing nearby with his children, his expression soft and understanding. Max close by, his hand on your shoulder, his presence steady. The Omaticaya warriors giving you space but watching with curiosity and something that might be approval.

You pull back slowly, reluctantly, your hands still on Spider's shoulders. He's not pulling away either, still standing close, still seeking your presence.

"We should get you checked out," you say, trying to sound practical even though your voice is still shaking. "Make sure you're okay. Make sure—"

"I'm fine," Spider says. "Really. I'm just tired."

"Humor me."

He nods, accepting this, and you start to guide him toward the medical bay. But as you move, your hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of comfort and connection, and your fingers brush against something.

You freeze.

Spider notices immediately. "What?"

You can't speak. Your fingers are tracing the base of his skull, and there—right there—you feel it.

Tiny tendrils. Gossamer-thin and impossibly delicate, barely an inch or two in total length, but absolutely real. They're like the finest silk threads, so fragile you're almost afraid to breathe on them, and they're growing from the base of his queue in soft, wispy strands. The beginning of a kuru. Eywa's acceptance made manifest in these newborn filaments, so new they're still finding their shape.

Your breath stops. Your vision blurs again. Your fingers are shaking as they trace the tiny kuru, so small it's almost nothing, but it's there. It's real.

Eywa has accepted him.

Spider is going to have tsaheylu.

"Mom?" Spider's voice is uncertain now, worried. "What's wrong?"

You can't answer. You're crying too hard, your hand still on the back of his neck, feeling the proof of what he's becoming. What he's always been meant to be.

Not human. Not entirely.

Something new. Something whole.

Na'vi.

"You're growing a kuru," you finally manage, your voice breaking on every word. "Spider, you're—Eywa accepted you. You're going to be able to make the bond. You're going to—"

You can't finish. Your voice cracks completely, and suddenly Spider's pulling you close, his arms coming around you with surprising strength, and you're falling apart against his chest.

"Whoa, hey, hey—" He's laughing a little, breathless and overwhelmed, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. "Mom, you're gonna make me cry too, bro, and that's—that's not—"

But his voice wavers. You feel him swallow hard against your hair.

"I know," you manage between sobs. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Don't be sorry." His grip tightens. "This is—God, this is insane. This is actually insane."

Max's hand is on your back now, and when you glance up through your tears, you see his face is wet too. He understands. He sees what this means.

"Let me see," Max says quietly, and Spider turns slightly, letting Max examine the small kuru.

Max's breath catches. "It's really there," he whispers. "Spider, this is—do you know what this means?"

"I know," Spider says, and there's wonder in his voice now. Awe. "Kiri explained it. She said Eywa was changing me. Making me... making me what I was supposed to be."

What he was supposed to be.

Not human. Not Na'vi. But something in between. Something new.

Something perfect.

You pull back enough to look at him again, your hands framing his face, and you see him clearly now. Not the child you raised. Not the boy who brought you stones and feathers and pieces of the world.

But the person he's becoming. The bridge between worlds. The proof that love and choice and belonging matter more than biology.

"I'm so proud of you," you whisper. "So, so proud."

Spider's face crumples slightly, his own eyes filling with tears. "I missed you," he says, his voice small. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, baby. Every single day."

You hold him again, and this time it's different. This time you're not just holding your child. You're holding someone Eywa has touched. Someone the world itself has claimed.

And you're grateful.

So, so grateful.

For his breath. For his safety. For his kuru. For every impossible, miraculous thing that's brought him to this moment.

For the fact that he's here, alive, whole, and free.

Your son.

In every way that matters.

Forever.

The apartment is small, but it's yours.

Metal walls, yes—industrial and cold in their bones—but softened now with years of living. Woven tapestries hang across the largest panels, deep blues and greens that Lo'ak's grandmother made, intricate patterns that catch the low light. Vines trail from clay pots on the windowsill, their leaves broad and glossy, reaching toward the glass. The windows themselves look out over the forest, dark now with evening settling in, bioluminescent specks beginning to glow like scattered stars among the branches.

It smells like home. Like the tea Max brewed an hour ago—something herbal and faintly sweet that Spider wrinkled his nose at but drank anyway. Like the flatbread warming on the hotplate. Like the forest air that seeps in through the vents, earthy and alive.

Spider hasn't left your side since you walked through the door.

He's pressed against you now on the low couch—one of Max's salvage projects, reupholstered with fabric that's more patch than original—his shoulder tucked under your arm, his head tipped back against the cushion. His legs are stretched out long, bare feet crossed at the ankles, and he's still shirtless, still wearing that worn tewng from Awa'atlu. His locs spill across your shoulder, and you can feel the warmth of him, the solid realness of him, the fact that he's breathing without effort.

Lo'ak is sprawled on the floor near the window, leaning back against the wall with his knees drawn up, picking at the edge of a woven mat. He's been quiet since they arrived—watchful in that way he gets when he's processing something too big to name. But he's here. He insisted on staying, and you didn't argue.

Max is at the small table across the room, pouring tea into mismatched mugs, his movements careful and deliberate. He glances over at you and Spider, and something soft crosses his face. Relief. Gratitude. Love.

"You want more?" Max asks, lifting the pot slightly.

Spider shakes his head. "I'm good."

"You sure? You barely ate."

"I ate, bro." Spider's voice is light, teasing. "You watched me eat like three pieces of flatbread."

"Two and a half," Max corrects, deadpan. "I was counting."

Lo'ak snorts from the floor. "He does that. It's weird."

"It's called caring," Max says mildly, setting the pot down. "You should try it sometime."

"I care," Lo'ak protests, grinning. "I just don't count food like a creep."

Spider laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded—and the sound fills the small space like light. You close your eyes for a moment, just listening. Just feeling the vibration of it against your ribs.

You've heard him laugh a thousand times. But this is different.

This is after.

After Quaritch. After the seadragon. After his mask shattered and he thought he was dying. After Eywa reached into his lungs and said, You belong here.

This is the laugh of someone who made it through.

Your hand moves without thinking, sliding up to rest against the back of his head, fingers curling gently into his locs. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes closing, his breath evening out.

"You okay?" you murmur.

He nods against you. "Yeah. Just—" He pauses. Swallows. "Just really glad to be here."

Your throat tightens. You press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in—salt and forest and something faintly floral that must be from the reef.

"Me too, baby."

Max crosses the room and settles into the chair near the couch, cradling his own mug. He's watching Spider with that quiet, assessing look he gets—the one that's part scientist, part father, all concern.

"You should sleep soon," Max says gently. "You've been going nonstop since you got back."

Spider cracks one eye open. "I'm fine."

"You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

Max raises an eyebrow. "Spider—"

"I don't want to sleep yet." Spider's voice is firmer now, but there's something underneath it. Something raw. "I just—I want to be here. With you guys. Is that okay?"

The question lands soft, but it hits hard.

You tighten your arm around him. "Of course it's okay."

"You can stay up as long as you want," Max adds, his voice gentler now. "I just don't want you crashing later."

"I won't crash." Spider shifts slightly, turning so he can see Max better. "I'm good. I promise."

Max studies him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."

Lo'ak stretches his legs out, his feet nearly reaching the couch. "So what's the plan? We just gonna sit here all night?"

"That's the plan," you say.

"Cool." Lo'ak grins. "I can do that."

Spider huffs a quiet laugh. "You're such a dork."

"Says the guy who cried when he saw his mom."

"Bro, you cried too—"

"I did not—"

"You literally had tears on your face—"

"That was sweat—"

"From your eyes—"

You can't help it. You laugh, and it breaks the tension like a stone through glass. Lo'ak and Spider both turn to look at you, their bickering forgotten, and they're grinning now—both of them—like this is exactly what they needed.

Max is smiling too, shaking his head. "You two are ridiculous."

"We're bonded," Lo'ak says solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. "It's a sacred thing."

"It's a loud thing," Max mutters into his tea.

Spider leans harder into you, his grin softening into something quieter. His hand finds yours where it rests on your knee, and he laces your fingers together—that same instinctive need for contact, for reassurance, for the proof that you're real and here and not going anywhere.

You squeeze his hand gently.

He squeezes back.

The room settles into a comfortable quiet. The kind that doesn't need filling. Lo'ak goes back to picking at the mat, his expression distant but peaceful. Max sips his tea, his gaze drifting toward the window where the forest glows faintly in the dark. Spider's breathing slows against you, his weight growing heavier, and you know he's not asleep—not yet—but he's close.

You let your own eyes close, your hand still tangled with his, your other hand resting against his hair.

You've spent months imagining this. Months wondering if you'd ever get it back—this simple, ordinary closeness. The weight of him against you. The sound of his breathing. The knowledge that he's safe.

And now he's here.

Not just safe. Not just surviving.

Transformed.

Your mind drifts back to the things he told you earlier—halting and careful, like he wasn't sure how much you could handle. Quaritch's face. The recom squad. The seadragon hunt. Kiri's hands on his chest. The moment his mask cracked and the air rushed in and he didn't die.

He didn't die.

Eywa wouldn't let him.

Your chest aches with it—the gratitude, the disbelief, the overwhelming love for a world that chose your son when it could have let him go.

"Mom?"

Spider's voice is quiet, drowsy.

You open your eyes. "Yeah, baby?"

"Can I just—" He pauses, shifting slightly. "Can I stay here tonight? Like, right here?"

You glance at Max. He's already nodding.

"Of course," you say softly. "You can stay as long as you want."

Spider exhales, long and slow, and you feel the last of the tension drain out of him. "Okay. Good."

Lo'ak yawns from the floor, stretching his arms overhead. "I'm crashing here too, by the way."

"You don't have to ask," Max says.

"I know. I'm just being polite."

Spider snorts. "Since when?"

"Since now, bro. I'm evolved."

You smile, your eyes drifting back to the window. The forest is alive out there—glowing, breathing, singing its quiet night song. And in here, in this small metal room softened by love and years and the stubborn insistence on making a home, your family is whole.

Not perfect.

Not untouched by pain.

But whole.

Spider's hand tightens around yours, and you squeeze back.

"Love you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your throat closes. You press another kiss to his hair.

"Love you too, baby. So much."

Max sets his mug down and moves to the couch, settling on Spider's other side. He doesn't say anything—just rests his hand on Spider's shoulder, his thumb brushing gently against the base of his neck. Spider leans into him too, caught between you both, held and safe and home.

Lo'ak glances over, his expression soft. "You guys are disgustingly cute."

"Shut up," Spider mumbles, but he's smiling.

The room falls quiet again.

Outside, the forest glows.

Inside, you hold your son.