Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!
Title: Frayed Yarn
Summary: Webby's bracelet is starting to fall apart.
...
Webby's eight when her precious spider, Morocco Pete, dies.
He'd been a precious gift from Granny- an Arizona blond tarantula, all silky gold bristles and big fangs- and she'd loved him like any kid would their first pet. Fed him only the finest of roaches and grasshoppers that only dined on the most nutritional of foods. And maybe she couldn't hug or pet him or anything like that, but she could watch him move each leg at a time, always so careful, like he feared he was on glass, and know that she wasn't the only living thing on the planet- that Granny wasn't hiding some horrific nuclear fallout from her, and all that was left was her and Scrooge McDuck and whatever was in the air particles outside.
Morocco Pete was special to her. If nothing else, she could hold onto that, even after he lost his grip on a wall he'd managed to skitter his way up and- well, it wasn't pretty. Spiders can jump, sure, but they don't exactly have bones or anything. A high enough fall is bound to make one go splat, regardless of how big and impervious they may seem. There had been tears, and Granny had held a mock-funeral for Pete in the backyard while carefully burying him the garden, and she had moved on.
It hurt, but she'd moved on.
She didn't think it was possible to move on from Lena.
Gods, who could? Maybe she wasn't always truthful, and maybe she sold them out to Magica (the details were still a bit hazy, seeing how Lena couldn't exactly explain herself), but her laugh. Her smile. Those rare, fleeting moments when she would reach out and hug Webby, giving a quick squeeze before letting go, something naked and sad on her features. Webby would always return the favor.
Lena had meant much more to her than a spider. A very nice, very gentle spider, but even the very best spider couldn't match up to Lena. And maybe that had been true for Lena too, and that's why she did what she did- for Webby.
Maybe that's why she's dead.
Maybe Morocco Pete hadn't been a proper metaphor for grief. But he was all Webby had lost before- there were her parents, she supposed, but that was complicated and distant; and if Webby was being entirely honest, she didn't remember much of it. The same could not be said of Lena's purple feathers and her never-ending comebacks and that pillow fight they'd had, once upon a time, when she thought family was all red roses and bright skies and it didn't occur to her that she could lose them in an instant.
Now Webby knows better. And now Webby cries late at night, the frayed remains of a friendship sticking to her wrist almost desperately. The lights flicker and her shadow swirls; and Webby, face in her arms, doesn't notice a thing.
Author's Note: What can I say? Even with all the fun I've been having with SU and She Ra, I've missed writing ducklings.
-Mandaree1