(no subject)
"Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."
--John Howard Payne
The truth was, he'd given up looking for her a long time ago. During the moping process, he'd come to all the usual conclusions: he wasn't good enough for her, she wasn't ready to settle down, their timing was off. He could rationalize it (it was bound to happen anyway) or he could blame himself (why hadn't he taken better care of her). He could even blame other people (many things were, forever, Greg Sanders' fault).
But Bitsy wasn't coming back.
He supposed that he could thank his time as a teenage girl (again) for the clarity. Clarity was a good word for it; as Arya, he'd found that while he could remain as single-minded as ever, he was better able to examine his own motives. Whether the girl should become a psychologist or whether it was simply an effect of being removed from his own body-- and how bizarre it was to have that as something to consider more than once-- he wasn't sure.
It was after he'd given up hope, long after, that hoped poked its shining head up from the proverbial snow in the winter of his discontent.
Grissom was leaving via the doors close to the caves when a tiny shift in the light and shadow caught his eye. He stopped, responsive to such a tiny detail as ever, and knelt, almost gasping at what he saw. Though it was small, he would have known the distinctive markings anywhere. It could only be Bitsy's progeny.
He reached for the tiny flashlight he always carried, taking care not to frighten the spiderling. Where there was one baby spider, there was likely to be a lot more. Hundreds, probably.
He was so pleased.
[Baby spiders, get 'em while they're squirmy! Late tags and ST accepted with love.]
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."
--John Howard Payne
The truth was, he'd given up looking for her a long time ago. During the moping process, he'd come to all the usual conclusions: he wasn't good enough for her, she wasn't ready to settle down, their timing was off. He could rationalize it (it was bound to happen anyway) or he could blame himself (why hadn't he taken better care of her). He could even blame other people (many things were, forever, Greg Sanders' fault).
But Bitsy wasn't coming back.
He supposed that he could thank his time as a teenage girl (again) for the clarity. Clarity was a good word for it; as Arya, he'd found that while he could remain as single-minded as ever, he was better able to examine his own motives. Whether the girl should become a psychologist or whether it was simply an effect of being removed from his own body-- and how bizarre it was to have that as something to consider more than once-- he wasn't sure.
It was after he'd given up hope, long after, that hoped poked its shining head up from the proverbial snow in the winter of his discontent.
Grissom was leaving via the doors close to the caves when a tiny shift in the light and shadow caught his eye. He stopped, responsive to such a tiny detail as ever, and knelt, almost gasping at what he saw. Though it was small, he would have known the distinctive markings anywhere. It could only be Bitsy's progeny.
He reached for the tiny flashlight he always carried, taking care not to frighten the spiderling. Where there was one baby spider, there was likely to be a lot more. Hundreds, probably.
He was so pleased.
[Baby spiders, get 'em while they're squirmy! Late tags and ST accepted with love.]