He couldn't have accomplished anything while Harold was around. Mostly because, when Harold was around, Scotty couldn't seem to let go of him. He'd been somewhat clinging to his husband since the Nexus decided to send them off on a grand adventure where they met the other Harold and Scotty.
But that wasn't all of it. Now, it felt he was hanging on for dear life, too.
He couldn't have accomplished anything while Harold was around. Even so far to the point as going to work with Harold, and forsaking his own. He was half-freelancing, and he could get away with it, but in a universe where work had always been a retreat or an outlet for Scotty, it was now some unfathomable thing. It meant letting go of Harold. And Scotty just couldn't do it.
It was only his beloved Grace that kept him home today, while Harold had to go handle a contract at Lowe & d'Thalia from a customer who refused to acknowledge that the offices were closed on Sunday. And that was because Grace was showing signs of an imminent molt, and until she was ready to go into their isolation tank, they didn't want to take her away from the other crabs.
She was a little cranky lately. Lethargic some, too. Mostly, she spent a lot of time eating and drinking, storing nutrients to get her through her molt. In an uncertain world, Scotty was terrified that something would go wrong with her change, and she would die.
She was a little cranky, but she was always a kind of perceptive crab. Even facing her molt, she tried to help him.
He held her in his palm, curled around her some on his side, on the bed, close to his chest. She ate, too. She ate, and he even had put droplets of water along the lines of his palm for her to drink. But every once in awhile, she'd make that soft chirp, and he wanted to cry because he knew she was doing it for him.
It was a very, very strange world where even the reassurance of a crab was enough to make him want to fall apart. And where that kind of reassurance could possibly mean quite so much.
The strangest part was that he wasn't even sure what exactly he wanted to fall apart about. It might have been nothing but nightmares. It might have been everything.
It was both, and neither.
Grace ate her bits of mango and chicken and egg shells, a little kind of finely minced paste he made for her. Unattractive, entirely. But good for her, too, and he wanted to make sure she would have all of the things she needed to make it through this next while. Lots of water, lots of nutrients, to give her strength.
Sometimes he reflected that she was going to be all different and all the same. She would still be his Grace, when she came up; her shell would be new, and a little stronger, a little bigger, and maybe even with different colors in it. Old scratches would be gone, including one on her leg that she had gotten on the beach the other day playing that upset Scotty quite a bit. Even if it didn't hurt her and was only on her exoskeleton, it had upset him.
She would have bright, new colors. Maybe the same colors, maybe not. She would have grown, and sloughed off old scars, and she would come up anew. And the process was hard, and it could also kill her. He could only help so far; then he had to stand back and wait, and fear, and even pray.
But if she came up, when it was all done, she would still be his Grace. The most important things, the things that really made her herself, would all be the same.
She gave him that soft chirp again; that gentle kind of reassuring sound. And he couldn't quite take it this time. He buried his face in the arm he was laying on and fell to pieces. It wasn't wretched, clawing-for-his-life crying. He was just crying for it all. For everything. It was anger, and hurt, and helplessness. But it was also love, and hope, and renewal. It was nightmares and realities and it was hard, and he could do nothing but wait. It was all of it.
So lost in his own tears, he didn't even hear his husband come in. But Harold must have known, because he didn't ask. He just curled in around Scotty's back, and held on, though he also spared a stroke down Grace's fading shell.
And Scotty cried with his crab on one side, and his phoenix on the other.
But that wasn't all of it. Now, it felt he was hanging on for dear life, too.
He couldn't have accomplished anything while Harold was around. Even so far to the point as going to work with Harold, and forsaking his own. He was half-freelancing, and he could get away with it, but in a universe where work had always been a retreat or an outlet for Scotty, it was now some unfathomable thing. It meant letting go of Harold. And Scotty just couldn't do it.
It was only his beloved Grace that kept him home today, while Harold had to go handle a contract at Lowe & d'Thalia from a customer who refused to acknowledge that the offices were closed on Sunday. And that was because Grace was showing signs of an imminent molt, and until she was ready to go into their isolation tank, they didn't want to take her away from the other crabs.
She was a little cranky lately. Lethargic some, too. Mostly, she spent a lot of time eating and drinking, storing nutrients to get her through her molt. In an uncertain world, Scotty was terrified that something would go wrong with her change, and she would die.
She was a little cranky, but she was always a kind of perceptive crab. Even facing her molt, she tried to help him.
He held her in his palm, curled around her some on his side, on the bed, close to his chest. She ate, too. She ate, and he even had put droplets of water along the lines of his palm for her to drink. But every once in awhile, she'd make that soft chirp, and he wanted to cry because he knew she was doing it for him.
It was a very, very strange world where even the reassurance of a crab was enough to make him want to fall apart. And where that kind of reassurance could possibly mean quite so much.
The strangest part was that he wasn't even sure what exactly he wanted to fall apart about. It might have been nothing but nightmares. It might have been everything.
It was both, and neither.
Grace ate her bits of mango and chicken and egg shells, a little kind of finely minced paste he made for her. Unattractive, entirely. But good for her, too, and he wanted to make sure she would have all of the things she needed to make it through this next while. Lots of water, lots of nutrients, to give her strength.
Sometimes he reflected that she was going to be all different and all the same. She would still be his Grace, when she came up; her shell would be new, and a little stronger, a little bigger, and maybe even with different colors in it. Old scratches would be gone, including one on her leg that she had gotten on the beach the other day playing that upset Scotty quite a bit. Even if it didn't hurt her and was only on her exoskeleton, it had upset him.
She would have bright, new colors. Maybe the same colors, maybe not. She would have grown, and sloughed off old scars, and she would come up anew. And the process was hard, and it could also kill her. He could only help so far; then he had to stand back and wait, and fear, and even pray.
But if she came up, when it was all done, she would still be his Grace. The most important things, the things that really made her herself, would all be the same.
She gave him that soft chirp again; that gentle kind of reassuring sound. And he couldn't quite take it this time. He buried his face in the arm he was laying on and fell to pieces. It wasn't wretched, clawing-for-his-life crying. He was just crying for it all. For everything. It was anger, and hurt, and helplessness. But it was also love, and hope, and renewal. It was nightmares and realities and it was hard, and he could do nothing but wait. It was all of it.
So lost in his own tears, he didn't even hear his husband come in. But Harold must have known, because he didn't ask. He just curled in around Scotty's back, and held on, though he also spared a stroke down Grace's fading shell.
And Scotty cried with his crab on one side, and his phoenix on the other.