#surreal fluff

That warm cocoon of safety from when she was very small—before names, before pain, before the cold reality of the world carved her into the slicing machine she is today. The memory lingered like a phantom touch: a gentle hum, a lullaby in a language that made her bones vibrate, and the embrace of limbs—too many to be human.

Spindly, gentle limbs. Like a spider’s legs.

She liked spiders.

So when she dreamed of the gigantic creature that once cradled her in webs of starlight, she didn’t scream. She felt… safe.

Even now, in the Hotel Bouffes d’Été, in her sharp suits and sharper words, she sometimes woke with that same warmth wrapped around her chest. A sense of belonging that had no origin. The little ones at the House of the Hearth never asked about her dreams, and she never told them.

It wasn’t real. Probably.

Until you walked in.

You arrived like an echo from a different dimension.

Not loud. Not demanding. You simply were—like something the world had misplaced and was only now remembering. Your presence bent the light, made the air seem thinner, made her heart pause in its rhythm.

She didn’t recognize your face—couldn’t, really. It was like looking into something trying to appear human, like a relative remembered from a dream. But it wasn’t your shape that mattered.

It was the feeling.

A pulse. A pull. The same warmth from her oldest, most impossible memory.

You stood quietly in the hall, like a visitor hesitating on the threshold of a long-abandoned home.

“…You don’t recognize me?” you asked gently, like you didn’t want to hope.

Her eyes narrowed. “I do.”

You blinked. Then your face lit up, blooming into pure, unrestrained joy.

“You— you do?!”

Light exploded from you like a burst of gold.

It was so bright several staff members outside screamed. The kids in the upper hall went temporarily blind. One poor cat in the courtyard saw heaven and came back crankier than ever.

Arlecchino blinked once. “You’re still dramatic, I see.”

You immediately panicked, motioning in wide, frantic gestures. “Oops—wait—no, sorry! Sorry!” In an instant, you pulled the memory of the flash from every nearby mind like threads from a tapestry, rewinding time just enough to erase the chaos.

She raised a brow. “Is that necessary?”

You coughed. “I got excited. My bad.”

She studied you carefully, her expression unreadable. “...You’re the spider.”

A pause. You nodded slowly. “Technically, no. But that’s… how your infant mind made sense of me. So… yes. I suppose I was.”

“You carried me.”

“You liked to be upside-down in my webs,” you said quietly. “I sang to you in a language no one remembers. You always fell asleep with your cheek against my chest.”

“…Why did you leave?”

Your glow softened, dimming like a sunset pulled into itself.

“I was… too different,” you whispered. “Too strange. I couldn’t speak your language properly. I couldn’t cradle you like others could. You cried and I didn’t know why. So I found a family—good people—who could raise you better. I stayed close. I watched. I thought you were safe. But then…”

She looked away.

“They died,” she said flatly. “There was a fire. The neighbors didn’t come in time.”

“I didn’t know,” you said, voice breaking. “If I had—if I had known, I would’ve—”

“Stop.”

The word wasn’t cruel. Just tired.

Then, after a pause:

“…You tried.”

You looked up, tentative. “You forgive me?”

“No,” she replied. “But I understand.”

Something in you trembled.

“I thought you might hate me.”

“I did. Then I dreamt of you. Over and over. Your legs, your humming, your webs. I woke up happy. Couldn’t explain why.”

You let out a quiet, almost teary laugh. “I guess I made an impression.”

“Not many spiders sing lullabies,” she replied.

Later, you walked with her through the House of the Hearth. You asked to meet the children—her little ones.

She hesitated, then led the way.

When you stepped into the children’s wing, your expression shifted instantly to delight, as though you’d stepped into a hidden grove of blooming flowers.

“These are your little ones?” you said, clasping your hands together like someone seeing baby stars. “They’re so cute!”

“Don’t scare them,” Arlecchino warned flatly.

But you were already kneeling down, softly aglow, eyes wide as you looked at each child like they were the most delicate and divine creatures in the world.

“This one has tiny fangs!” you cooed. “And this one has sleepy eyes—just like you used to have!”

A small boy stared at you suspiciously. “Are you Father's brother?”

“Something like that,” you said with a grin, squishing his cheek gently. “She used to chew on my hair when she was a baby, did you know that? Wouldn’t let go.”

Arlecchino groaned softly. “You’re making that up.”

“They don’t have to know that,” you whispered conspiratorially, patting three heads at once.

You turned back to her, your expression softened—less cosmic, more human. Less glowing god, more proud guardian.

“You did it,” you said quietly. “You became what I couldn’t. I thought I’d lost you forever… but you found them. You made a family.”

She folded her arms, averting her gaze. “…They’re not mine. Not really.”

“They are,” you said, “because you love them. And because they are safe with you.”

A long silence passed between you.

Then:

“…You’re still a terrible singer.”

You smirked. “And you still have terrible taste in sleepwear.”

The children looked between you two with big, confused eyes—half in awe, half unsure whether they were supposed to laugh or leave.

That night, after the children had gone to bed, you left a thread on her windowsill—silver, delicate, folded into the shape of a small heart.

She never told anyone she kept it under her pillow.

And sometimes, when sleep took her, she dreamed of limbs rocking her gently again—only now, they were joined by smaller limbs.

A family. Of all things.