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You can't find Bernie anywhere.
There's only so many places a teddy bear can get to - at least when he's not walking around, but you're almost definitely sane enough to make that unlikely - and you've retraced every footstep from camp to the pig village. The gnawing sense of unease that generally comes with not having him in your arms is sharpening into real fear, because while you've been separated before too many times, you've never lost him entirely like this. You try to be careful with your stuff. You can never know when you'll get a chance to restock anything, so you've always got to hold on to what you have for as long as possible. And Bernie... nothing could replace him, you wouldn't even want to try.
So you're digging through the mess inside your tent, just in case you'd somehow forgotten to bring him with you on your trip to the Pig King instead of losing him on the way. Packages of bundled food hidden inside an empty gasoline container, worthless trinkets and little Cawnival prizes squirreled away under a pile of clothing scraps too tattered to be useful, and a hundred other things that aren't Bernie. You're on the verge of just setting the whole place alight, when a muffled voice from outside breaks through your rising panic.
"Oh, are you lost? We'll get you back home to Mr. Willow!"
That gets your attention quick enough. You duck through the tent flaps and veer around the side, to find Webber dusting off a familiar shape, sharp claws wrapped around Bernie, who suddenly looks a hell of a lot smaller and more worn down. Breakable. Whatever greeting you had ready dies in your throat, all else abandoning you but the thought that you need to get Bernie back. Webber tilts his head to the side as he looks up at you, mouth moving like he should be speaking, but you can't make anything out.
"Let-" You choke on the words, not quite sure of how to make this situation stop now. "Go."
It's like it happens in slow motion, as you practically lunge at him in your desperation. Your hand shoots out to grab him, and Webber passes him to you but their claws snag right as you tug just a little too hard, and there's the sound of fabric tearing that you can barely hear over the blood rushing in your ears-
And you're nine years old again and Bernie's laying on the hardwood floor without his head, torn so violently it's ripped open a seam down the side of his body. You're fine, you're not even hurt this time, but you can't get your breathing to slow down because that's Bernie; your best and only friend in the whole wide world, the one thing you've held onto through everything, and he's broken and you don't know if you can fix him. It's stupid, you know it's stupid as soon as you blink and realise you're gripping Bernie like a lifeline, as if someone's going to take him away again. All of that should be behind you by now. It's a world away from you here and it's still happening, something you've tried to forget for good and never really left behind.
The edges of your vision seem to gray and warp faintly which doesn't feel like a good sign, Webbers eyes almost glowing against the dullness. You should probably say something to him instead of just standing and swaying slightly. But your gaze slides down to Bernie hanging limply in your grasp, his little torn paw abandoned in the grass.
You bare your teeth at it and Webber bolts, vanishing into the treeline within seconds in their hurry to get away from you.
Well, you can't take it back now, there's nothing left to do but wipe the tears you hadn't noticed beginning to fall - that's just embarrassing at your age, really, what the hell do you have to cry about? - off of your face, try to pull yourself back together. There's a faint hum of energy under your skin that could grow into flames if you're not careful. You've almost caught your breath when a hand settles itself on your shoulder, jerking you out of the moment of quiet.
Wilson looks at you with something close to horror and you can feel everyone watching you throw your stupid little tantrum like you're a fucking child again, disapproving eyes muttering uneasily to eachother, just waiting for him to go ahead and start reading you the riot act.
So you do what you do best, and run.
It takes a while to burn off the bulk of your agitation, stomping around the woods and growling under your breath and watching the broken remains of a hollow stump go up in smoke, Bernie tucked safely under one arm so he can't fall out of your backpack again. Whatever used to live there must be long gone. Not much left for you to destroy, really. Gee, how fucking fitting. You're going to be in so much trouble, you'll never be able to look anyone in the eye again after this; no, you don't care what they think about you, it doesn't matter if they're all telling eachother I told you so right now.
If you had to lose your rag at anyone, why couldn't it have been somebody who actually deserved it? They're just a kid. You know how it feels to have people suddenly turn on you like that, so why the fuck would you do it to someone else? The others must be regretting ever letting you live with them in the first place.
You won't blame them for it. You get it this time, you're not gonna make a fuss. Even if you'd managed to hold out here much longer than you usually do, you're still no good with people, you can't expect them to let you stick around after that. You hope they'll let you take the tent with you. Winter isn't that far away, and you won't have much time to prepare. There's guilt in that if nothing else, that you're thinking about yourself before Webber, terrified the poor kid and now you're busy worrying about your own future instead of how they are right now. Maybe it'll be easier to say goodbye like this. Shut down whatever part of you ever thought you'd get to keep this or that you could be nice for once, shrug and say you'll have better luck in the non-existent next time. But you’ve never been great at sticking to smart ideas. You don't want that to be the last memory they have of you. He'd run off too, hadn't he? You should go pick them up, apologise, do anything that isn't razing this place to the ground while they get eaten by hounds out there.
(It isn't going to fix anything; saying sorry is just another thing people get to hold over your head because you're never sorry enough, you aren't gonna sit idly and wait for someone to come and really make you regret it, so why bother?)
The only problem is finding him. But there's only so many safe places to go outside of camp, and with the way your luck is going right now it'd probably be a safe bet to pick the one you want to check the least. If humans let you down, why not go back to the spiders, right? And if you're selfish enough to hope that nobody else has already gone to find him, at least it's the last time you'll ever get to indulge that.
Shockingly, you don't visit this part of the forest much. It's closer than you'd like it to be, but out of the way enough that you can let yourself forget it exists most of the time, just something to creep you out if you think about it too long. There's no noise here other than the spiders, the birds and bees drowned out by clicking and growling. Nothing can grow in there except more trees.
There's a wave of interested chatter from the inhabitants as you walk through the thick layer of webbing which coats the ground here, though thankfully all the nests here are marked out as safe by the stickers plastered onto the silky surface. You reaaally don't wanna imagine what would happen if these guys weren't friendly. Picked clean, your brain suggests helpfully. You're glad Bernie's okay, half because you couldn't cope with losing him again and half because you're sure you'd really be going over the edge without him right now. Every shadow has claws and teeth a hundred times better than your useless human ones. But if you're scared, Webber probably is too, and even you're not bad enough to leave someone alone like this. You almost don't see him at first, dark fur blending in with all the creepy-crawlies swarming the place and circling around him. Can they tell something's wrong? Spiders might not have the most complicated lives, you know Webbers explained that before, but they still think. They still feel. And you've just hurt one of their own.
You don't want to die here. But you're something too close to loyal to leave him now and too impulsive to not mess up in the first place, you're doing this.
He's quiet as you sit yourself on the log next to him, fiddling with a twig in their claws instead of acknowledging the hissing from a hundred eight-legged friends that announces your presence. Probably best not to sneak up on them, you've done enough damage for one day. It's more than a little awkward to just wait in silence next to someone who definitely doesn't want to speak to you right now, but you owe them an apology.
"I didn't mean to hurt him. We were just going to give him back, that's it." Finally, he lifts his head, and wow you've fucked up here. Webber looks at you with a sadness usually reserved for newly-orphaned children and kicked puppies (and you know that firsthand), and breaks whatever's left of your heart.
"I know, buddy." Your voice wobbles, dangerously close to doing something dumb like crying again. God, you suck at apologies. "I'm sorry."
"Are we in trouble?"
"No." You answer too quickly, almost snapping, so you settle for just shaking your head instead.
"Really?" They ask, so tentatively hopeful it makes you want to get out of here already.
"I mean, both of us might be for running off, but I'm not mad at you or anything." It feels so weird to say those words, as if you would be punishing someone instead of the other way 'round. You don't like how it feels in your mouth.
"Oh." Face falling, Webber wilts again. "Sorry. We know we're meant to take someone with us, we just weren't thinking about it."
It's too much like when they'd first arrived in camp, hiding behind Wilsons legs and watching the rest of you warily, before he'd gotten used to being around people. You hadn't been much more approachable yourself back then - if you're honest, you still aren't that much better now - but it doesn’t feel right to see him this down in the dumps. This is more Wendys style. Every one of these kids deserved better. You can recognise all too well the way his eyes dart back and forth even as they keep their head down, the brief flash of teeth whenever something rustles in the undergrowth. Sure, you aren't an obligate carnivore dealing with a ten year olds fears, but you know what it looks like to be afraid.
Maybe you should try to sound gentle? "Me too, but it's not safe on your own, kid." Yeah, yeah, you're a hypocrite. You never said you were any good at leading by example.
"We're never alone." They point out quietly.
"You're right, sorry. But you'd still need somebody to light a flare if you got knocked out or something."
"We've been okay out here before. I wouldn't get hurt." Their voice is hardly audible over the noise of the other spiders, so much more... tired than you've heard him before. He gets like this sometimes, but it doesn't usually come with that bone-deep weariness you see now. "I like living with everyone else, I don't wanna go back to the woods again. But we could do it, if we really, really had to."
Huh. You're pretty sure that's weirdly close to being word for word what you'd said to Maxwell the last time you messed up badly enough to warrant making an escape plan, and you don't like how that feels to hear it repeated by a little kid. "Is that something you think about a lot?" You ask, trying to sound casual.
"Not all the time." They mumble a little shyly, hesitant. "Just when it might be important. So you don't need to worry about me, see? I don't need to go back to camp."
You let yourself slide off the log and down to the cool earth, silver strands of cobweb criss-crossed over every inch of the surface, pawing at it thoughtfully with one hand. It's a nice texture, smooth and soft and not as sticky as you'd expect. Things seem a little easier from down here. You'd feel better with something to sink your teeth into, but poor Bernie's been through a lot today already, and this helps enough.
"Look, I'm not gonna make you come back if you don't want to, okay? It's your choice first. But if you're scared of the others not wanting you back, I'm pretty sure that's never happening." You don't trust your voice to stay steady for the next part, so you force it out as quick as possible. "Nobody's going to kick anyone out. Things are different here."
"We want to stay with everyone here forever." Claws tearing the bark into brittle shreds, they speak barely above a whisper. There's a long silence that makes you feel weirdly like you're interrupting something just by being there to witness it, the shifting emotions crossing his face, before he continues. "Sometimes we hope we never find a way back home. We don't think there's anything left for us."
"I'm guessing there's no family on the outside for you either?" It's a shot in the dark at best, curiosity at worst. Not like you've got any experience in that department, and he only ever mentions his parents in little snippets, never anything about what they were actually like. But whatever happened between them, you think you could have done the world a favour burning that house down too.
"They don't want us. They don't like me anymore, they don't like Webber." His words rise to a snarl at the end and he snaps the twig in half, hurtling it to the ground.
There's a single moment - looking up at that maw of pointed teeth bared in anger, sunlight glinting off wicked little claws, just the same as the ones you've felt tear at you a hundred times before - where you could very easily recoil like with any other spiders here. And then they're just Webber again. Folding in on themselves, 'cause they only ever hiss when they're scared and they always worry about sounding mean afterwards. Your little buddy, the sweetest kid you know, who cried because he was scared he'd ruined a teddy bear who's been ripped apart more times than you want to remember.
"I like Webber." You tell them, soft as you can manage. Which isn't much but you're pretty sure it's the thought that counts. "And so does Wendy, and Wilson, and Ms. Wickerbottom. And everyone else likes you too."
"What if they stop liking us?"
What are you meant to say to that? 'Oh don't worry about that, it doesn't hurt as much as you'd expect, you get used to it eventually?' They're not like you, it doesn't matter that they're better suited for survival than you were when you lost everything, they're just a kid; they need a home, somewhere safe to stay where he won't be alone, people to take care of him when he's afraid. Is it lying to promise someone they'll always have something like that? He already knows it's not true.
"I'll set their tent on fire." You say instead, because that's something you can make sure of. "I'll get Bernie to chase them around until they say sorry. Or I'll beat them up. But there's probably gonna be a fire at some point."
That gets you a quiet giggle. "I think you just like burning stuff, Ms. Willow."
"And you! I can have two favourites!"
"Burning things, and watching things burn." They list off. He's got you there.
"Hey, you're almost as cool as arson is, that's a win in my book." A little more cheerful, you stretch up to ruffle the spiky tuft of hair on their head and he mock-growls at you, raising his hands up like claws. (Well, they are claws, but still.) You pretend to fall backwards in shock with a yelp.
"You're almost cool too!" He chirps innocently, peering down at you.
You hesitate. You don't want to make them sad again now that he's finally stopped looking at you as if you're going to lunge at him, but you don't want to drop it altogether.
"Offer's open if you ever wanna talk about your parents." You swallow, hugging Bernie a little tighter. "I know a bit about not having anyone else to count on."
They pause for a second, fangs clicking open and shut, before he simply says, "I miss them a lot. But I don't miss them more than we'd miss being Webber.
"Then it's their problem, not yours. Who gives a shit what anyone else thinks? You like being spiders." Shrugging isn't easy when you're upside down on the ground, but you think you manage to pull it off well enough.
He nods, yawning wide enough to make their jaw click. Reminds you of a cat, kinda. "I think we might want to go home soon. Just before it's too dark." You don't quite manage to hide your discomfort at that fast enough. "Mr. Willow? What's wrong?"
You don't want to go back and face the others. You've got to do it, even if it's only to tell Max you're leaving and pack your bags, but you reaaally don't want to. It's gonna suck so much to find out this is the thing that finally gets you kicked out, all this time of you actually trying to fit in for once undone because you couldn't just act normal. Always too angry, too loud, too much for people.
"I don't like being in trouble either, buddy." You groan.
Earnest enough to make something in your chest ache, he tips his head to the side in confusion. "Why would you be in trouble?"
"I was fu- effing horrible to you." Nice save. You're a great role model.
"We forgive you!"
"The others might not." You mutter darkly, more to yourself than to them. Little things add up; even if this isn't bad enough to warrant throwing you out, it could be the thing everyone brings up as proof you're bad news whenever you slip up again. You might be better off getting out while you still can without too much hassle.
"We wouldn't let them be mean to you either." He tells you with surprising fierceness.
"Thanks, kid. I'll remember that next time I'm chasing you around with a bug net." You manage to crack a smile. It's a cute sentiment, that they would care enough to try and hold off the inevitable for you, even after what you've done. It's going to make this hurt so much more.
You'll walk them home. You know you need to try and fix the rest of it soon, that you can't just hide out in the woods and hope somebody falls asleep on night-watch so you can sneak in and pick up your stuff (actually, that sounds like a great idea now that you're thinking it through), or ask Maxwell if they'd cover for you long enough to dismantle that tent. But that's a problem for future-you. That's one comfort that nobody can ever take away, you're still alive, there's gonna be time to feel sorry for yourself about losing everything all over again later. Right now, you just have to make it back to camp alive and fuck off again before anyone spots you. Wouldn't be the first time. Right now though, it's you and Webber, and you're going to enjoy it while it lasts.