Chapter Text
Spider learns early that the world is bigger than arms.
Arms are good. Arms lift him when he is tired, pass him from one warm chest to another, hold him still when the mask straps pinch his skin or the air tastes wrong. Arms belong to Norm, to Max, to people whose names he does not always remember but whose hands he knows by feel.
But arms end.
Trees do not.
Trees go up forever.
Spider presses his bare feet into the rough bark and climbs.
The forest smells like green and wet and something sweet he does not have a name for yet. Not metal. Not soap. Not the sharp clean smell of High Camp. This smell feels… alive. Like it’s watching him back.
His mask fogs a little when he laughs, breath puffing fast, but he doesn’t stop. He grips with hands and feet the way his body just knows how to do, even though no one taught him. Norm tried once. Spider fell. Max panicked. They stopped trying.
The tree doesn’t stop him.
Someone yells his name behind him.
“Miles—!”
Spider grins and climbs faster.
He likes when they shout. It means they see him. It means they are looking. It means they hasn’t disappeared yet.
The bark scratches his palms. Sap sticks to his fingers. A bug skitters across his wrist and he squeaks, then giggles, then nearly slips—but a root sticks out just where his foot needs it, like the tree itself decided to help.
When he reaches the branch, he spreads his arms wide.
“Look!” he shouts through the mask speaker, voice echoing tinny and loud. “I’m up high!”
Norm skids to a stop below, breathing hard. “Spider—buddy—don’t—”
Spider laughs harder at the nickname. He likes that one. Spider. It feels like a name that fits. A name that means up.
Max appears a second later, hands on his knees, face red. “I swear,” he mutters, “we’re gonna lose him to the canopy one of these days.”
Spider doesn’t know what a canopy is, but it sounds nice.
He swings his legs over the branch and sits, chest puffed with pride.
From up here he can see everything.
The camp—metal walls, blinking lights, humans moving around like ants. Norm’s avatar sometimes looks like this view, tall and blue and wrong, like a dream that doesn’t quite fit right.
And then there’s the forest.
Where the light changes.
Where everything gets bigger.
That part is his favorite.
The forest feels quieter. Not empty. Just not loud like camp. The air hums, but it’s a low sound, like someone breathing slow.
Spider leans forward, curious—
And hears it.
A laugh.
Not human.
High and sharp and warm all at once.
Spider’s head snaps toward the sound.
Blue flashes between the trees.
Big. Tall. Moving fast—but not like Norm’s avatar. Not stiff. Not borrowed.
These move like they belong.
His heart bangs hard against his ribs. Not fear. Something brighter. Something electric. Like when Norm opens a crate Spider’s never seen before and tells him not to touch.
Someone lands lightly on the forest floor.
Tall. Blue. Striped. Glowing faintly where the sunlight kisses skin.
Spider stares.
He’s seen Norm’s avatar before. He knows blue. He knows tall.
But this—
This is different.
This is real.
The Na’vi kid looks up.
They lock eyes.
For a long second, neither of them moves.
Spider forgets how to breathe.
The blue kid tilts his head slightly, studying Spider the way Spider studies insects—careful, curious, deciding whether it’s safe to get closer.
Then the kid smiles.
Not big. Not showing teeth.
Just a small, quiet curve of the mouth.
Something in Spider’s chest loosens.
He lifts one hand slowly and waves.
The blue kid blinks, surprised—and then laughs again, brighter this time. He says something Spider doesn’t understand, words flowing smooth and fast like water.
Another blue kid appears beside him, then another. Smaller. One with wild braids and eyes that look like the forest decided to look back.
They stare openly.
Spider grins at them, because that’s what you do when you want people to like you.
“Spider!” the braided one calls—though Spider doesn’t know that’s her name yet. She says it like she already knows him, like she’s decided he belongs.
Neteyam hesitates, then steps closer.
Up close, the difference is clearer. They are the same age—four—but Neteyam is already taller, broader, his limbs long and sure in a way Spider has never been. Neteyam belongs to this world. Spider is borrowing air.
“I am Neteyam,” the Na’vi boy says, tapping his chest with two fingers. His voice is serious, careful and he has puffed himself up – looking important. “Son of Jake Sully.”
Spider blinks. That sounds important.
“I’m Spider,” he says quickly. Then, remembering, he adds, “Miles. But Spider is okay.”
Neteyam nods once, accepting this without question.
“You climb,” Neteyam says, like it is something he has already decided.
Spider grins. “Yeah.”
Neteyam is taller than the others. Broader. His limbs already long and sure in a way that makes Spider blink. They are the same age—four—but the difference is obvious even to Spider’s young eyes. Neteyam is Na’vi, born to this world, his body already stretching toward the future.
Spider is all sharp angles and borrowed air.
Neteyam doesn’t smile right away.
He looks Spider over slowly—bare feet, too-big mask, scraped knees, dirt under his nails. Not judging.
Assessing.
“You are very small,” he says seriously.
Spider beams. “I’m four!”
Neteyam blinks, surprised. He looks Spider up and down again, then nods once, decision made.
The others relax instantly, like they were waiting for permission.
That seems to satisfy him.
Neteyam nods once, decision made.
The others relax instantly, like they were waiting for permission.
Norm and Max reach the clearing then—and everything changes.
Norm freezes so hard Spider can feel it from the tree.
Max swears softly. “Oh no. Oh no.”
Jake Sully steps out behind them.
Jake is smiling.
Jake is happy.
Jake hasn’t seen Norm and Max in months, and relief floods him—until his eyes drop.
Until he sees a human child.
Barefoot.
Masked.
Four years old.
On Pandora.
Jake’s heart slams into his throat.
“What the hell—” he starts.
Then he watches his son catch the kid.
Because Neteyam lifts his arms and says, calm and certain, “Come down. I will catch you.”
Norm opens his mouth. “Hey—maybe—”
Neteyam lifts his arms without hesitation.
His hands are already big enough to catch.
Already steady.
Already sure.
Spider jumps.
For one terrifying heartbeat, Jake sees a dead child.
Then Neteyam catches him.
Clean. Solid. Certain.
Spider’s arms wrap around Neteyam’s neck without thinking. His feet dangle uselessly in the air, the height difference suddenly very real.Neteyam grunts softly under the weight—but he doesn’t stagger. He adjusts, instinctive, like this is what he’s meant to do.
Neteyam laughs too, startled but pleased, and sets him down carefully like something precious.
Jake can’t breathe.
His kids swarm instantly.
Lo’ak pokes Spider’s arm. “Does your skin come off?”
“No,” Spider says seriously. “It’s just like this.”
Lo’ak looks disappointed but accepts it.
Kiri takes Spider’s hand. “Come see,” she says, already pulling him toward the roots. “There’s a place where the vines swing.”
Spider goes with her easily.
Like this is where he’s always meant to be.
Jake watches it happen—his children falling in love with this feral little human in the space of seconds—and something cold settles in his gut.
Because he knows this isn’t simple.
Because he knows Neytiri.
And because somewhere, deep down, he already understands:
This boy will change everything.
From the edge of the clearing, Neytiri watches.
Spider doesn’t see her.
She stands very still, bow in hand, eyes locked on the human child wrapped in her children’s laughter.
Her breath comes tight in her chest.
The boy laughs—bright, sharp, alive.
And all Neytiri can see is fire.
AGE FOUR — High Camp Smells Like Metal and Warm Hands
Spider learns which footsteps belong to which people.
Norm’s steps are fast and uneven, like he’s always thinking about something else. Max’s are slower, heavier, and they stop a lot—usually right behind Spider when he’s not supposed to be somewhere.
Other footsteps come and go. Spider doesn’t learn all their names. He learns their hands instead.
Some hands are careful with the mask straps. Some are too rough. Some smell like soap. Some smell like oil and metal.
He doesn’t cry when people leave anymore.
He used to. He remembers that part like a picture that’s been folded too many times. Crying made people sad, and sad people held him tighter, but they also left faster.
So now he climbs.
Up onto crates. Up onto shelves. Up onto the scaffolding even though Norm tells him not to.
“Spider,” Norm sighs, catching him around the waist and lifting him down. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
Spider laughs and presses his forehead against Norm’s shoulder. Norm smells like the forest now, not just camp. That makes Spider feel like he did something right.
Some days they go past the fence.
Spider’s mask hums softly, air steady and cool against his face. The forest is loud in a way that feels safe—clicks and chirps and faraway calls. Norm holds his hand at first, then lets go when Spider doesn’t trip.
The blue kids are there almost every day.
They don’t treat him like he’s breakable.
Neteyam walks a little ahead of him, always looking back. Kiri talks to the plants like they talk back. Lo’ak dares Spider to jump farther than he should.
Spider learns to trust the ground.
He learns to trust the branches.
He learns that when he falls, someone catches him.
That feels like a rule.
AGE FIVE — The Forest Has Rules, and So Do People
Spider is five when he learns that not everyone likes him being there.
He doesn’t know why at first. He just knows the feeling.
He doesn’t know why his chest tightens sometimes when he runs toward the big tree. He doesn’t know why his feet slow without him telling them to. He just knows that the forest feels different depending on who is there.
Neytiri doesn’t yell at him.
That would be easier.
She smiles at her children. She laughs with them. She touches them easily—hands smoothing braids, fingers warm at shoulders, her presence steady and sure.
Spider watches all of it.
He loves seeing it. Truly. He thinks it’s beautiful.
He just… isn’t part of it.
No one says he shouldn’t be. No one tells him to move away. Neytiri never raises her voice, never bares her teeth, never does anything Spider can point to and say this is wrong.
So Spider assumes the problem is him.
He starts to notice little things instead.
How Neytiri doesn’t look at him for very long.
How her attention slides past him like water over stone.
How her hands are always busy when he’s near, but never reaching.
The other kids don’t see it.
Why would they? This is their mother. She has always been like this—strong, focused, loving. Neteyam trusts her completely. Kiri leans into her without thinking. Lo’ak barrels into her space like the world has never taught him fear.
Spider doesn’t tell them what he feels.
If they don’t see it, then it must not be real.
So he tries harder.
He stays quieter when Neytiri is nearby. He doesn’t climb as high. When he laughs, he makes it softer, like sound itself can be too much.
He watches carefully and copies what her children do—where they stand, when they speak, how they move.
If he does it right, maybe she will look at him the way she looks at them.
Sometimes Neytiri’s bow is in her hand. Spider doesn’t know why, but those moments make his skin feel tight. He stands very still then, breathing slow through his mask, afraid that if he moves wrong something bad will happen.
Nothing ever does.
Which makes it worse.
Jake notices Spider before Neytiri does.
Jake kneels down, meets Spider’s eyes, asks questions like the answers matter.
“How old are you now?”
Spider holds up all five fingers proudly. “I can climb higher now.”
Jake smiles, real and warm—but there’s something tired behind it. Something Spider doesn’t understand.
“You having fun out here, buddy?” Jake asks.
Spider nods fast. “I play with my brothers.”
Jake pauses. Just for a moment.
Then he ruffles Spider’s hair. “Yeah. Okay.”
Spider takes that and holds onto it.
Jake doesn’t send him away.
That means he’s allowed to be here.
At High Camp, people start lowering their voices when Spider walks past.
He hears words he doesn’t understand yet—Quatrich’s kid, orphan, not ours, stuck here.
He doesn’t think they’re about him being bad.
He thinks they’re about him needing to be better.
So he climbs higher.
Maybe if he can climb higher, move faster like his friends do, he can be held the same way they are.
He’ll get better. Then things will change.
AGE SIX — The Day Grown-Ups Start Making Plans
Spider is six when things start changing.
Not all at once. Just enough that he feels it in his bones.
Norm hugs him longer before forest trips. Max checks his mask twice. People start asking him questions he doesn’t know how to answer.
“Do you like living here?”
Spider nods. “I like the trees.”
“Do you want a mom and dad?”
Spider’s heart jumps so hard it scares him.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Like Neteyam and Kiri and Lo’ak.”
The grown-up smiles, but it looks wrong. Like smiling hurts.
At the village, Neytiri doesn’t let Spider sleep near her children anymore. He has to return to High Camp with Norm and Max every time he visits.
Neteyam protests. Kiri pouts. Lo’ak argues.
Neytiri does not move.
Spider lies awake at night trying to listening to forest sounds through the metal walls of the camp, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what he did wrong.
He can’t figure it out. He’s been doing so much better. He can now even shoot a bow just as good as Neteyam. He has to use Neteyam’s old bow because his arms are still super short but he’s been practicing! Neteyam says he has gotten really good.
Then one day, Norm kneels in front of him and says, “Hey, buddy. We’re gonna introduce you to some people.”
Spider brightens instantly. “Friends?”
Norm hesitates.
“Family,” he says finally.
Spider doesn’t notice the way Norm’s eyes look wet. He doesn’t notice Max turning away. He doesn’t notice Jake standing very still in the background, shoulders heavy like someone put a pack on him without asking.
Spider only hears one thing.
Family.
He goes to bed that night imagining a mom who smells like the forest and a dad who catches him when he jumps.
He thinks maybe if he has his own family, he won’t feel like he has to climb so high all the time.
He doesn’t know yet that this is the moment that they have already started planning on giving him away.
The forest is settling for the night when Neytiri speaks.
The children are asleep, their breathing slow and even in the hammocks. Jake is sharpening a blade by the fire, movements automatic, when Neytiri comes to sit beside him. She doesn’t touch him at first. That alone tells him this matters.
“For a long time,” she says softly, “I have carried something.”
Jake stills. He sets the blade aside.
“I see it every day,” Neytiri continues. “And I do not wish to see it anymore.”
Jake turns fully toward her. “What is it?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts toward the forest edge, where the darkness presses close.
“The child,” she says at last. “The human one.”
Jake exhales slowly. He’s been waiting for this conversation, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself.
“Spider,” he says gently.
Neytiri nods once. “Yes.”
Her voice doesn’t shake. Her hands don’t tremble. But there is a tightness in her shoulders, like she’s holding something in place with sheer will.
“When I see him near our children,” she says, choosing her words with care, “I remember fire. I remember the sound of Sky People laughing while my home burned. I remember my father falling.”
Jake’s jaw tightens.
“I know he is a child,” Neytiri continues quickly, as if she’s afraid Jake will interrupt. “I know he did not choose his blood. But my body does not know this. My spirit does not forget.”
She finally looks at him then, eyes bright with something raw and honest.
“He should not be here,” she says—not angry, not cruel. Certain. “Not between our children. Not in our home.”
Jake swallows. “He’s not hurting anyone.”
“No,” Neytiri agrees. “But he is hurting me.”
The admission hangs between them.
Jake reaches out, placing a hand over hers. She lets him.
“I have tried,” Neytiri says quietly. “I have been patient. I have said nothing. But every time I see him, I feel myself pulled backward. I do not want my children to grow up with that shadow.”
Jake closes his eyes for a moment.
“What are you asking?” he asks.
Neytiri inhales slowly, steadying herself.
“He is Sky People,” she says. “He breathes their air. He lives their life. He should be raised among them—by people who understand his body, his needs. By a family that is his.”
Jake opens his eyes. “You want to give him parents.”
“Yes,” Neytiri says. “A mated pair. Spirit parents. Someone who can claim him fully, so he does not drift between worlds.”
She hesitates, then adds softly, “And so I do not look at a child and see only pain.”
Jake leans back, staring up through the leaves.
Spider flashes through his mind—small, laughing, fearless. His kids’ hands always reaching for him. Neteyam catching him without hesitation.
“He’s happy,” Jake murmurs.
Neytiri nods. “For now. But happiness without belonging is fragile.”
Jake knows she believes that.
“I am not asking to abandon him,” Neytiri says. “I am asking to place him where he will grow whole.”
Silence stretches.
Finally, Jake nods.
“I’ll talk to the scientists,” he says. “See what options there are.”
Neytiri exhales—a long, careful breath she’s been holding for far too long. She leans into Jake’s shoulder, just slightly.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Jake wraps an arm around her.
Neither of them looks toward the forest.
Neither of them see the small human boy who has been dreaming of blue hands and catching arms and a place where he thinks he already belongs.
Jake knows better than to rush this conversation.
That’s what he tells himself as he stands in the open space at High Camp, listening to the low mechanical hum of generators and the softer, human sounds of living—boots scuffing, mugs clinking, someone laughing in the distance.
Spider’s laugh, if he’s honest. Somewhere nearby. Always climbing. Always moving.
Jake folds his arms and waits until everyone is seated.
Norm sits across from him, hands wrapped too tightly around a mug he hasn’t touched. Max leans back in his chair, posture casual but eyes sharp, already braced for something he doesn’t want to hear.
Jake doesn’t start with Neytiri.
He starts with responsibility.
“We’re doing our best,” Jake says, voice steady. “All of us. But Spider’s six now. He’s not a baby we can pass around anymore.”
Norm flinches.
Jake keeps going before he can stop himself. If he hesitates, this falls apart.
“He needs consistency. Structure. Someone whose first and last responsibility is him.” Jake gestures vaguely, encompassing the whole camp. “What we’re doing—what you’re doing—it works in the short term. But it’s not built to last.”
Norm opens his mouth. Closes it again.
Max exhales through his nose. “He’s happy,” he says flatly.
Jake nods. “I know. He’s loved. But love isn’t the same thing as belonging.”
The words sound practiced. Like something Jake’s said to himself more than once.
“He’s always moving between spaces,” Jake continues. “High Camp. The forest. The village. He’s learning how to adapt instead of learning how to settle. That’s fine for now—but one day he’s gonna notice he doesn’t actually belong anywhere.”
Norm’s fingers tighten around his mug.
“We never made him feel like that,” Norm says quietly.
“I’m not saying you did,” Jake replies, gentler now. “I’m saying the world will.”
Max rubs a hand over his face. “So what are you proposing?”
Jake hesitates. This is the part that still knots his stomach, even now.
“Neytiri believes he needs spirit parents,” Jake says finally. “A mated pair. Someone who can claim him fully. Not borrowed care. Not shared responsibility.”
Silence falls heavy.
“A replacement family,” Max says, voice tight.
Jake winces. “Not a replacement. Just… something whole.”
Norm stares down at the table. “We are whole,” he murmurs, like he’s trying to convince himself.
Jake looks at him and, for the first time, sees how tired Norm is. How many nights he’s spent patching mask seals, checking Spider’s breathing, staying awake just in case. How many times he’s lifted a laughing child off a shelf and thought, I hope this is enough.
“I know you’ve given him everything you can,” Jake says honestly. “This isn’t about failure.”
But Norm hears it anyway.
Failure.
The word hangs between them, unspoken but sharp.
Max sits forward now, elbows on his knees. “He’s never asked for more,” he says. “Never acted like something was missing.”
Jake swallows.
He knows that. He’s seen Spider light up at the smallest things—Neteyam catching him, Kiri pulling him into games, Lo’ak daring him into stupid, joyful risks. He’s seen a kid who doesn’t count what he has and doesn’t mourn what he doesn’t.
But Jake also knows children don’t always know what they’re supposed to need.
“He shouldn’t have to make do,” Jake says quietly. “He deserves something intentional.”
Norm laughs softly, broken. “We thought that’s what we were doing.”
Max’s voice cracks when he speaks again. “So you’re saying we give him away.”
The word hits hard.
Jake doesn’t deny it.
“I’m saying we place him,” Jake says. “With care.”
They talk. Go through options on base. Norm and Max try and think of the humans present on base. Try and decide who will be getting their baby. The boy that they all have loved and tried to raise together as a group.
Norm describes the McCosters. Married. New. Eager to integrate. A stable unit. Two parents instead of many half-parents stretched thin.
Jake listens, then nods slowly, “Have they shown interest in children?”
Max shrugs refusing to meet Jakes eyes. He is staring determinedly at the wall, “We can ask. Although having kids on base is forbidden. This would be their only chance to have some if they had ever dreamed of it.”
“If this is what he needs,” Norm says hoarsely, “then… then we do it.”
Max doesn’t look convinced. But he doesn’t argue.
Because none of them want to be the one who says stay and wonders later if that was the selfish choice.
None of them want to imagine Spider older, asking why no one ever claimed him fully.
None of them stop to ask Spider what he thinks—because six-year-olds don’t get votes in adult decisions.
They plan the logistics. Carefully. Gently. They talk about transition periods and visits and making sure Spider understands this isn’t punishment.
They don’t talk about how he will feel when his things are moved. Or how excited he already is about the word family. Or how he doesn’t feel broken. They tell themselves he will adapt. Children always do.
They would always regret that they didn’t ask more questions.
They didn’t know this would be the last time they saw the wild, carefree child who climbed because he could, who laughed because he was loved, who believed that every open hand was meant to catch him.
They didn’t know that the boy they were planning to give away did not feel lacking.
He had Norm. He had Max. He had the forest.
He had brothers and a sister who caught him every time he jumped.
And he had no idea that he was about to be placed somewhere no one was waiting to catch him at all.
Spider knows something important is happening because everyone is acting careful.
Norm fixes his mask slower than usual, tugging the straps just right even though Spider tells him it’s already fine. Max keeps hovering like he’s guarding something fragile.
Spider stands very still and lets them fuss.
He’s learned that when grown-ups are careful, it usually means they’re doing something big.
“You remember how you asked about moms and dads?” Norm says.
Spider nods immediately. He’s been asking for a while now. Mostly in his head.
Like Jake and Neytiri.
Like Neteyam and Kiri and Lo’ak have.
He doesn’t say their names out loud. He never does. He’s learned not to say things that might make Neytiri’s eyes go sharp.
“Yes,” Spider says. “Like families.”
Norm smiles, but it looks like it hurts a little. “Yeah. Like that.”
Max clears his throat. “We’re going to introduce you to some people today.”
Spider rocks forward on his toes. His stomach flips in a good way.
Friends would be nice. But friends don’t make your chest feel like this.
“A family?” Spider asks, hopeful but careful.
Norm hesitates—just a blink too long.
“A couple,” he confirms.
Spider’s heart leaps. Jake and Neytiri are a couple. Norm and Max call them a “mated pair” – whatever that means – but they also call them a couple. Couples are families. Jake and Neytiri are a family.
He thinks about the way Neteyam always catches him. The way Kiri braids leaves into his hair and hums like the forest listens. The way Lo’ak shoves him and laughs and always waits for him to catch up.
He thinks about how he sits a little straighter when Neytiri is near. How he tries to be quiet, tries not to climb too high, tries to listen better.
He thinks maybe if he is good enough, careful enough, she will smile at him one day.
He doesn’t know why that matters so much. It just does.
They walk toward the McCosters’ quarters. Norm holds Spider’s hand. Spider squeezes back hard, just in case.
The woman smiles first.
She looks neat. Clean. Like everything in her space has a place already.
“Oh,” she says. “That must be him.”
Spider nods proudly. “I’m Spider.”
The man chuckles. “That’s an unusual nickname.”
“I climb,” Spider explains, because it’s important.
The woman laughs politely. “How energetic.”
Spider glances back at Norm, checking. Norm nods encouragingly.
The woman kneels. She smells sharp and clean, not like leaves or rain.
“I’m Dr. McCoster,” she says. “This is my husband.”
“You can call us Helen and Richard,” the man adds.
Spider nods. Grown-ups like when you nod.
Norm crouches beside him. “These are the people we told you about, buddy.”
Spider’s chest feels too full.
“Are you my mom and dad?” he asks, because when you want something badly enough, you should ask before it disappears.
The McCosters look at each other.
Spider watches their faces closely. He’s learned how to do that—learned it from Jake, seen in practiced by Neytiri.
Then Helen smiles wide. “Yes,” she says. “We are.”
Spider’s breath whooshes out of him.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Richard confirms. “We chose you.”
Chose.
That word lands warm and bright.
Spider grins so hard his cheeks ache.
“Do I get my own room?” he asks immediately. “Neteyam, Kiri, and Lo’ak all share a r—”
“Yes,” Helen says quickly. “You’ll have your own space.”
Spider nods erratically, excited.
“Can I still visit the forest?” he asks. “I like the trees. And my friends are there.”
Helen’s smile tightens just a little. “We’ll see.”
Spider doesn’t hear the hesitation. He hears we’ll see, which sounds like yes if you’re good.
“I can be good,” he says earnestly. “I can listen. I can be quiet.”
He doesn’t know why those are the words that come out.
Norm’s hand tightens on his shoulder. Max turns away.
Helen reaches out and takes Spider’s hand. Her grip is firm. Certain. Not like catching. More like holding something in place.
Spider doesn’t pull away. He tells himself this is how moms hold hands. He’s seen Neytiri grab Lo’ak and Kiri’s hand before.
As they walk toward the door, Spider looks back.
Norm raises a hand. Max gives a small two-finger wave.
Spider waves back, smiling wide. He doesn’t look toward the forest. He doesn’t look for blue faces or braids or bows.
He tells himself this is okay.
That now he has his own mom and dad, Neytiri won’t need to be afraid of him anymore. Maybe now she’ll like him.
The door closes behind him with a soft sound. Spider doesn’t hear it as an ending. He hears it as a beginning.
He believes—completely—that this is how he becomes part of a family.
At first, Spider thinks he is just learning how to be good.
Helen shows him where to put his shoes. Where to sit. How to eat without spilling. How to keep his hands still. She smiles when he does it right, but the smile never reaches her eyes.
Richard makes rules.
Rules about noise.
Rules about touching equipment.
Rules about not leaving rooms without asking.
Spider nods and nods and nods. He is very good at nodding.
“I can do that,” he says a lot. “I’m good at listening.”
Helen likes that. She tells him so.
“You’re very smart,” she says, straightening his shirt too sharply. “You just need structure.”
Spider doesn’t know what structure is, but it sounds like something you build. Something that keeps things from falling down. He tries to build himself taller. He stands straighter, trying to resemble his new family.
The house is quiet in a way that feels wrong. No laughing voices echoing down corridors. No footsteps that sound like they belong to him. The walls are smooth and white and clean, and Spider learns quickly that clean means don’t touch.
When he climbs the back of a chair to look out the window, Helen snaps.
“Miles.” -they don’t ever call him Spider.
Spider freezes.
“We do not climb in this house.”
“I was just—” He points. “I wanted to see if the forest—”
Richard’s voice cuts in. “You don’t need the forest.”
The words land heavy and strange.
Spider nods anyway.
The next time he climbs, he is punished.
At first, the punishments are small.
No dessert. No stories. Standing in the corner with his hands behind his back until his legs shake.
“You have to learn,” Helen says calmly, like this hurts her more.
Spider cries quietly. He learns not to make noise. Noise makes things worse.
He asks about Norm and Max on the third day.
“When can they visit?” he asks, hopeful. “Norm said he would come see my room.”
Helen pauses, just long enough for Spider’s stomach to twist.
“They’re busy,” she says. “You don’t need them anymore.”
The words don’t need feel wrong. Spider nods anyway.
He waits a day then asks about the forest next.
He learns quickly that questions have to be rationed. That wanting too much at once makes things worse.
They are eating dinner—quiet, controlled, the kind of meal where no one talks unless spoken to. Spider’s feet don’t touch the floor. He swings them anyway, slow and careful.
“Can I visit Neteyam?” he asks softly. “He said he’d teach me how to—”
“That’s enough,” Richard snaps.
Spider flinches so hard his chair scrapes.
“We’ve talked about those influences,” Helen says coolly, not even looking at him. She cuts her food with precise movements, neat and clean. “You need to focus on your real family now.”
Spider nods automatically. “I—okay.”
Helen finally looks at him then. Her gaze flicks over his clothes—the woven strips Kiri helped him tie that morning, the soft forest fibers he likes because they don’t itch under his mask.
Her mouth tightens.
“We’ve discussed this too,” she says. “You are not to wear that anymore.”
She stands and disappears down the hall, returning with folded fabric—human clothes. Stiff. Heavy. Shoes with hard soles.
“These are real clothes,” Helen says, handing them over. “What people wear.”
Spider stares at them.
“But I like—”
Richard’s chair legs screech as he leans forward. “You’re not one of them.”
Spider’s throat closes.
“You are human,” Richard continues. “You will dress like one. Shoes on at all times. No exceptions.”
Spider nods, hands shaking as he takes the clothes.
That night, when he comes out dressed the way they want, Helen smiles.
“There,” she says. “Much better.”
She smiles and pats his shoulder. Spider doesn’t feel like smiling.
The next morning, he hums without realizing it.
A soft sound. Tuneless. Something Kiri does when she braids things. Something the forest does when it’s waking up.
Helen freezes.
“What is that?” she asks sharply.
Spider stops. “I—I don’t know.”
“It’s that language again, isn’t it?” Richard says, disgust curling his lip. “The native one.”
Spider shakes his head fast. “It’s just—”
“You will not speak that here,” Helen cuts in. “You will not repeat their sounds, their words, their… beliefs.”
She leans down to his level, voice low and firm. “Do you understand me?”
Spider nods.
“Good,” she says, straightening. “I won’t have you communicating like those savages.”
The word lands like something thrown. Savages.
Spider doesn’t know exactly what it means, but he knows it’s bad. He knows it’s the way Richard’s mouth twists when he says it. He knows it’s the way Helen wipes her hands afterward, like touching the idea makes her dirty.
After that, Spider learns the rules without being told.
He doesn’t mention the Omatikaya.
He doesn’t say their names.
He doesn’t talk about the tree, or the vines, or the way Neteyam always caught him.
When he forgets—when a story slips out by accident—Helen’s face hardens.
Richard scoffs. “They fill your head with nonsense.”
“They’re not—” Spider starts once.
The look Richard gives him makes his voice die in his throat.
“They are animals pretending to be people,” Richard says flatly. “And you will not act like one of them.”
Spider nods. He nods a lot now.
At night, he takes the shoes off and presses his bare feet against the floor, pretending it’s bark. Pretending he can feel the forest through the metal.
He whispers Na’vi words into his pillow where no one can hear.
Names. Sounds. Pieces of himself he isn’t allowed to keep.
He doesn’t understand why loving his friends is something that makes grown-ups angry.
Spider doesn’t understand how wanting his brothers makes him bad.
He stops asking.
The rules multiply.
Don’t touch.
Don’t climb.
Don’t talk back.
Don’t cry.
When he breaks them, the punishments get bigger.
Longer timeouts.
Locked doors.
Hands gripped too tightly around his arms and a belt that hangs in the closet.
“Why do you make this so hard?” Richard demands once, shaking him slightly.
Spider doesn’t have an answer.
He didn’t know loving the forest was wrong. He didn’t know missing people was bad behavior. He didn’t know being himself was something that needed to be fixed.
He starts to wonder if Norm and Max gave him away because he wasn’t good enough, that they didn’t visit because he couldn’t get anything right.
Maybe they were tired of him climbing.
Maybe they didn’t like him anymore.
The thought hurts worse than any punishment.
At night, Spider curls up in his bed and presses his face into the pillow so no one hears him cry. His chest aches in a way his mask can’t fix. He thinks about Mr. Sully. He imagines big blue hands lifting him up, steady and warm. Imagines Jake kneeling down, wiping his tears away like he does for Kiri when she scrapes her knee, like he does for Lo’ak when his voice breaks.
It’s okay, Spider pretends Jake would say. I’ve got you.
Spider clings to that thought when the house goes quiet and cold.
He misses his friends. He thinks about Neteyam most of all.
Neteyam always caught him.
Neteyam always stood between him and sharp things.
Spider whispers his name into the dark sometimes, like maybe the forest will hear and send him.
“Please,” he says once, so soft he barely hears himself. “I’ll be good.”
No one comes. The punishments get worse. One day Spider forgets and climbs the counter to reach a cup.
Richard’s hand comes down hard on the table.
“What did we say about climbing?”
Spider’s breath stutters. “I— I forgot—”
“Well, we’ll have to make sure you remember,” Richard states – then he goes to the closet and grabs the belt.
Spider cries a lot that night. Cries until his voice breaks and all he can do is whisper, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”
The door locks behind Spider that night. Spider drags himself to his window.
He presses his hands against it, small and shaking. Trying to hear his forest through the glass. Trying to hear Eywa like Kiri always says she can when she’s sad.
Silence answers him.
Something breaks then—not loud, not all at once. Just a quiet understanding settling into his bones.
No one is coming. Mr. Sully isn’t coming. Norm and Max aren’t coming. Neteyam isn’t coming to catch him.
He has been left here. And left things don’t get “rescued”.
Spider slides down the wall under the window until he’s curled up on the floor, arms wrapped tight around himself.
He stares at the unused mask hanging on his closet door. It hadn’t been used in months now.
For the first time, Spider stops believing that if he is good enough, someone will choose him.
He learns instead how to endure. He learns how to disappear.
And somewhere far away, in the forest where he used to climb freely, the boy Spider used to be— always laughing freely went silent and no one was around to care.
Neteyam notices the absence before he understands it.
He notices it when he reaches for his arrows and his hand stops halfway. The small bow isn’t leaning where it always is. Everything else looks the same—the tree roots, the firelight, the smell of smoke—but the place beside it feels empty, like when you miss a step you thought was there.
Neteyam frowns at it for a while.
Then he tells himself Spider will come back later.
Sometimes Spider is late.
His mother is happier.
Neteyam notices that too.
She laughs more when Kiri talks. She hums while she works. She sleeps all night and doesn’t wake up suddenly anymore. When Neteyam crawls close to her in the mornings, she smells calm instead of sharp.
That is good.
His father is lighter.
Jake’s voice doesn’t sound tight all the time. He smiles more. When he puts his hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, it feels steady, like nothing bad is about to happen.
Neteyam likes that.
But Spider is still gone.
Lo’ak is quieter now.
He still runs fast. Still climbs. Still argues. But sometimes he stops talking in the middle of a sentence and presses his mouth into a hard line. Sometimes he looks at their parents like he wants to ask something and doesn’t.
Neteyam doesn’t ask him about it.
Kiri sits by the roots a lot.
She presses her hands to the tree and closes her eyes. Sometimes she tilts her head, listening, and then frowns like she didn’t hear what she wanted.
She doesn’t say Spider’s name out loud.
Neteyam says it in his head instead.
When Norm and Max come, Neteyam watches them closely.
They smile at first. They hug Jake. They kneel to talk to the kids. But when someone asks about Spider, their smiles go crooked.
They say he’s busy.
They say he’s settling.
They don’t say when he’s coming back.
Neteyam doesn’t ask questions.
He already knows Spider isn’t here.
That night, when everyone is asleep, Neteyam crawls over to the place where Spider’s bow should be.
He picks it up carefully.
It’s too small for him now. It always was. But Spider liked it because Neteyam gave it to him. Because Neteyam said it was his.
Neteyam runs his fingers over the little marks Spider left on it. Places where he dropped it. Places where he chewed the edge when he was thinking.
They were the same age when they met.
Four.
Spider followed him everywhere. Up trees. Over roots. Into places Neteyam wasn’t supposed to go yet. Spider laughed when he fell. Trusted Neteyam to catch him.
Neteyam holds the bow across his legs and looks at it for a long time.
He doesn’t think Spider is gone forever.
He thinks Spider is just… somewhere else.
That’s different.
Neteyam tucks the bow carefully among his things, hidden where no one will throw it away or give it to someone else.
“It’s yours,” he whispers, just in case Spider can hear. “I’ll keep it.”
He lies back down and stares up through the leaves.
The forest feels the same.
That helps.
“I’m here,” Neteyam murmurs to the quiet. “I can wait.”
He closes his eyes.
Spider will come home.
Neteyam knows this the same way he knows where to put his feet when he climbs—without thinking, without doubt, just something steady in his chest that feels like Eywa breathing around him.