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seldomscilence16 · 3 months ago

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Whumpober day 1:

Race Against the Clock

Search Party | Panic Attack

Fandom: Ducktales/Duck Universe

…

Trembling limbs against his chest, a grip on his shirt from a tight little fist, teary quiet gasps. He does his best to rock back and forth at a steady pace, a buzzing numbness having filled his limbs long ago making it difficult to tell which way he leans. His mind screams at him to do something, anything, but he knows he’s tried everything in the book and then some, and he curses his luck now more than ever, for putting someone he loves in such danger.

His hold tightens at the thought, pulling the duckling just that much closer, his unsteady heartbeat likely doing nothing to help the boy. He runs his fingers through matted head feathers, gently adjusted each one, brushing away dirt and muck. The little head leans into his touch, stuttered breathing more apparent, he takes a long slow breath, holds it, and releases. For several breaths he waits, soothing the child in his arms as best as he can in such a hopeless situation.

“Unca’ Donald… are we gonna die here?” The weak rasp breaks his heart all over again, the breathless quality, the wet undertone that speaks of tears and panic.

“They won’t let that happen.”

Donald doesn’t know if it's a lie, but it's bitter on his tongue. At the very least, they would come for the boy in his arms.

Please.

…

“Mr. McDuck, if they are in there…”

“Spit it out.”

“Their air supply would have been limited to begin with, depending on how long they’ve been in there… if they’re still alive, they have very limited time.”

“Then I suggest everyone goes faster.” The old duck grinds the words out, trying to keep a lid on his temper as he grips his cane hard enough to cause the wood to creak, hard enough to make his joints ache.

“This is miles worth of underground tunnels, with traps and aging structure alike, anything could go wrong-”

“Then keep Gladstone around! I don’t care what you have to do! Just find my boys!”

“..Yes sir..”

“Uncle Scrooge, are you okay?”

He turns to the young voice, his temper washing away like an avalanche of snow on a candle. Three pairs of eyes stare up at him, tired rings underneath and so scared, but asking him if he was alright….

“Everything’s fine kids. Just, a lot of ground to cover.” He forces a reassuring smile onto his beak, ignores the shake to his hands and the waver in his step, anything to give these kids hope, but this is usually someone else's role, someone far better at it then Scrooge.

“You… really think they’re in there?” Webby is staring at- what once was- the entrance, now crumbled and blocked by the landslide the storm caused earlier.

The entrance to an underground maze, with rumored treasure in its center, old and hidden and discovered by their youngest when reading a book gifted to him. A book from somewhere Scrooge could still not identify. The youngest had gone off on his own, and Donald had found out first, a scribbled note left in their wake that had taken Scrooge too long to figure out. Now, now they’d been in there who knows how long, in who knows what condition, and apparently now on a time limit.

“Yes, and we’re going to find them.”

“Hello, we’ve come to assist!” The voice comes from above, the sound of jets reaching their ears belatedly.

Boyd and GizmoDuck descend from the sky, landing not far from the family, just above them, floating down with an open umbrella is José Carioca, and above him Panchito Pistoles with a parachute. Unexpected and unplanned for, Scrooge stares with a raised brow, feeling a headache begin to pound in his temples, this situation did not need anymore stress.

“How in the blazes did you even know about all of this?”

“We keep track of Donaldo’s wellbeing.” José drawls.

“And Dewey texted us.” Panchito’s grin is sharp.

“Webby texted us.” Lena and Violet pop into existence, several gasps and ‘holy feathers’ released from the group.

“Huey.” GizmoDuck says sheepishly.

“I’ve found several tunnels!” Boyd cuts in, eyes glowing as he scans the ground.

“Let's get started then.”

…

Fingertips bloody, hands sore and injured, Donald continues to dig at the rubble. Louie sleeps fitfully behind him, curled into a tight ball with the cape from donalds shirt as a pillow. His lungs take trembling breaths, he can’t tell if the unfulfilling feeling is coming from the lack of air in the room, or his own panic at the fact. If he doesn’t do something, his little boy will die, he will never see his family or friends again, he will never create the life he wanted, he will die here. Young, on an adventure he never asked for, terrified and injured and cold and running out of air, Donald couldn’t let that happen.

His breath hitches, inhaling more dust and dirt than air, as a larger bit of rubble dislodges. He moves it out of the way with a grunt, the barest bit of vigor returning at the thought of progress. As he turns back to continue digging, a rumble shakes the space, he lurches backwards, shielding Louie from falling dust and rocks as he waits it out. When the dust settles, he glances sideways to find a new layer of rubble atop the small dent he had made, the pile reaching farther in. The tight feeling in his chest increases, and he’s sure tears would come if he wasn’t so dried out. Huddled over the still sleeping Louie, Donald cries silent dry sobs, until there's not enough breath to do so, until his arms have simply locked, and his vision blurs, and the shaking begins again, and he can do nothing but shield a dying child.

He whispers a silent apology. To Louie. To Huey and Dewey. To Webby. To Della, wherever she is. To Scrooge. To everyone who loved the bright boy beneath him, and to all those he failed.

Darkness edges at the corners of his vision, a trembling spot of green all he can see through the dust, a light shines off to the side, but he can’t bear to look away. He can’t leave him.

Noise echoes around him as a warped unidentifiable mess, perhaps people in the after life after his head. Movement, the place is probably about to come down, he forces his limbs to hold, with every last bit of strength he has. Something touches his shoulder, something warm that breaks through the numbness ever so slightly, the walls had been cold… he doesn’t understand-

“Donaldo, breathe, please.”

“Zé?” He croaks, terror filling him at the thought his friend was on the other side.

“You’re safe. It's okay, we got you both.”

Oh…

And Donald allows the darkness to take him.

#whumptober2024 #no.1 #race against the clock #search party #panic attack #ducktales 2017 #duck universe #fic #child in danger #child injury #donald duck angst #louie duck angst #cave in #donald and louie duck

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drabbles-of-writing · 2 years ago

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Haunted Hallways

“The Healer”

AO3

Chapters: 1, 2

In which Hunter meets someone who talks a little odd, has awful bedside manners, and cares a whole lot. Even if he’s bad at showing it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next time, he was eight.

And this time, he wasn’t running or wandering aimlessly through hallways. He knew better than to try that now.

Instead, he was curled up in his bed, sniffling and covering his mouth with the glove Belos had gifted him a few months earlier to stifle his cries. With his other hand, he clutched at the bleeding wound over his side, skimming his ribs.

It’d been his fault. Belos was not happy, and Hunter had dared try and talk to him about wild magic. He’d come to the conclusion that, if wild magic had been what made his Uncle so scary and sick, then surely wild magic could fix it.

Unfortunately, he’d talked about it to Belos’s face. After he clearly had received some bad news, because he was already mad when Hunter started talking.

Belos had apologized. He remembered, somewhere in his mind, as he hobbled out and his Uncle tried to contain the monster that erupted from his skin, that he was yelling apologies. But Hunter was too scared, too cowardly, to turn back.

Which led to where he was now, pressing his hand over the bleeding wound, hiccuping and coughing. He had a med-kit, some healer accidentally left it in his room once and never took it back (at least, that’s what he thought happened) a few months ago, so he tried to use it whenever he got hurt. Belos didn’t like to hear him complain.

Right now, Hunter was only squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stop himself from making too much noise and someone got mad about him causing such a distraction. He’d been enough of a bother already.

His hand tightened, fire lighting over his skin. The pain was stinging, and maybe, if he clung tight enough, he’d get a good grip, and he could rip it off of him—

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Hunter yelped, eyes flying open as he jerked upright, wincing and whimpering at the pain that flared up. He caught sight of a humanoid figure with flashes of white and gold before his vision blurred and he shoved his face back down against the bed.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there,” the voice said quickly, making him full-body wince, because nobody was supposed to be in his room, “you’re alright, kit. Just–just hand on a second, I need to—”

“Get out!” He tried to shout, but it came out more as a desperate plea. “Please, please get out, you can’t—“

“Can't do that, kit.” The person apologized, the sound of shuffling and bumping by his head. “Well, I could, but, well, I don’t want to. So, sorry.”

“Go away!” Hunter pleaded again, the hand that wasn’t around his side fisted in the sheets. “My—the–the Emperor will—“

“Ugh, God, just call him Belos,” the person huffed, something shifting towards the end of his bed from the tiny, tiny sliver where his eye wasn’t shoved full-force into the sheets, “it’s way too weird to for him to be an Emperor now—“

“Don’t touch that!” Hunter jolted upright when the movement processed, vision whirring together as he looked over in a mad panic to where his med kit was across the room, figure next to it.

“Hey, look at that, he can sit up.” The person huffed, and when he looked at his face, he realized with a start they barely had a mask compared to the others. “It is ridiculously hard to mess with things that aren’t borderline cursed, quit your fretting.” He muttered, looking down into the kit.

“That’s mine!” Hunter defended desperately, wincing and hissing as he tried to sit up, still clutching his side, eyes wild. “You can’t—I need—“

“Easy there!” The person raised his hands, gloves much thinner than the others, this time a blackish blue with white ribbons tightly pushed through the loops around the wrists. “I’m just taking a look at it for you, kit. I certainly don’t need ‘em anymore.”

Hunter begged to differ.

This person’s mask was so busted that the only parts that remained were everything across his eyes and a chunk that curved down the right side of his face, only barely covering the very edge of his mouth. Everything was cracked to all hell, and he could see the straps, which looked quite a bit like the ribbons on his wrists, that kept it on his face overtop his very pale blond hair, a small wiggly cowlick sticking up from his head.

His cloak, on the contrary, wasn't in that bad of condition. The ends looked like they’d been singed, but it stopped underneath his knees. The gold pattern along the trims were in a curving loop, almost like stitch lines. The same trim was around his hood hanging over his back.

He bore a more solidly gray tunic, though his belt was the same shade as his gloves, and his trousers were darker.

Hunter swore he saw boots that went nearly up to his knees until the person was turning fully to him with his oddly small, pointed ears twitching.

“How well do you know first-aid, anyway?” He asked curiously. “Can’t be very good. You’re, like, five.”

Normally, Hunter would’ve bit back a I’m eight! at the assumption, and he kind of wanted to. But his room started swimming again, and he gave a shaky gasp before swaying back and heavily leaning on his headboard.

“Oh shit—God help me—”

Hunter wasn’t quite sure what else he was saying, much too busy focusing on the blood seeping through his gloved hand and how much he cringed away from the feeling of it. But he needed to keep pressure, and what he felt about wet gloves wasn’t a big deal—

A soft, malleable pressure on his forehead.

He leaned into it for a moment, even if it was bitterly cold, before his eyes snapped open.

The person had one leg bent and resting on his bed, leaning over with the back of his gloved hand pressed to Hunter’s forehead. His mouth, the most visible part overall, was downturned in a frown.

“What do you want?” Hunter croaked, much too quietly.

“To make sure you don’t bleed out and die.” The person said simply, pulling his hand away. “I mean, you’re probably not, but little guys like you have a ridiculously low amount of blood. Honestly, I don’t know how any of us made it to full size.”

Hunter just blinked with heavy eyelids, and the person sighed as he leaned back a bit. He looked from the med kit, then to Hunter, back to the box, then to Hunter again. He tried not to squeeze his side too harshly in the ensuing anxiety.

“You’re gonna have to get up, kit.” The person said, sounding a bit apologetic. “I can’t heal you myself.”

“But it—”

“It hurts, I know.” The person cut him off, moving till he was sitting fully on the edge of the bed. “But it’s gonna hurt less when you patch yourself up. I can walk you through it. I wasn’t good at it in the beginning, either.”

“I don’t like it.” Hunter whined, hating how babyish he sounded.

“I know,” the person said evenly, “but you gotta get up. I’m sorry, but you just…you have to.”

Hunter supposed it was that surety that made him decide he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Or the pain getting to his head.

But he knew that after a long exhale that barely hid a hiccup, he gritted his teeth. He braced his free hand against the headboard, pushing himself upright.

“Yeah, you got it.” The person praised with a halfway upturned smile as Hunter slowly got up. “You just gotta grab it and bring it back to bed. Easy enough.”

Hunter really thought otherwise. And he had half a mind to snap that maybe if this mysterious hidden rank had such issues with grabbing things that weren’t alive, then maybe they should try different spells.

But he’d already complained enough. So he didn’t.

The time between grabbing the med-kit and making it back to his bed were a blur. Lost somewhere between the black holes that ate at his memory like moths. But he knew that at some point, he made it, and he was laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, face feeling awfully wet as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“No rest for the wicked, kit.” He heard distantly, feeling something nudge his uninjured side. “Come on, get up.”

“M’tired.” He complained.

“Yeah, well, so am I. Get up.” A harsher nudge.

Hunter thought it was woefully unfair, this guy wasn’t bleeding, but whatever. He muttered and mumbled as he threw out a hand to bat around lazily.

“So, first things first, are you in need of stitches?”

“What?” Hunter mumbled.

“Just—hang on, let’s see.”

Hunter felt more coldness brushing along him, flinching a little bit at it, though it wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Probably too tired to think about putting up much of a fight, really. Even if in later years it wouldn’t be close to the worst injury he’d gotten.

Then his shirt was flung up.

“Hey!” He squawked, actually managing a bit of energy.

“Apologies,” the person said, not sounding very sorry at all, “gotta check you don’t have bones exposed, or something. I mean, you’d be writhing if you were, but—”

Hunter kicked out a leg. He felt it connect with the sludge that made up these weird people, and a muffled oof following. His shirt was promptly dropped.

“You’re lucky I don’t feel pain.” The person growled, Hunter craning his head to see him glaring daggers (assumedly, at least, but he at least looked unhappy), though shifting away so he wasn’t in Hunter’s direct kicking-range. There was a mutter—of course I can interact with you just fine—before he mumbled bitterly; “I get why healer’s hated me so much, now.”

“You’re not a healer?” Hunter wound up asking, though he began to blindly reach out for the med-kit.

“As if I ever had the chance to be.” He scoffed, reaching out and nudging Hunter’s hand as it rummaged around. “Antiseptic, first, you’re gonna get an infection, those are a death sentence.” He hummed. “Anyway, no, but I’ve been around ‘em enough.” He continued despite Hunter’s glower. “Could probably qualify as a decent doctor's apprentice.”

“Infections aren’t that bad.” Hunter muttered, though he did sit up a tiny bit to find the spray that stung him.

“I’ve seen, like, six witches die from it.” The healer (he was still close enough, he reasoned) deadpanned, making Hunter pause. “God help them, wherever they are, but don’t you tell me how ‘not bad’ it is.” He scolded.

“I had an infection two weeks ago?” Hunter tried meekly, eyes sliding over to the figure.. “I-I was fine…”

It was a bit of a simplification, the infection had hurt like a bitch and left him shaking and feverish for a full day. His arm still twinged from where the infection had spread, but, well, he hadn’t died, so…

A moment of silence. Hunter decided to just grab the antiseptic spray bottle and draw it out before he said anything worse.

“Oh, yeah, it’s been a while.” The healer hummed after a moment, raising his head a bit like he was looking off into a memory. “Infections aren’t that bad anymore, are they?”

Hunter chose not to answer that. He just turned the spray around in his grip, bringing his other hand over for a moment before pausing, remembering the blood. Well, he didn’t think he was bleeding as much anymore, but…

“You gotta take that off, kit.” He said, sounding much more present than he had earlier, though Hunter kept his eyes locked on his hand. “Best not get any more old blood around the wound. Also, y’know, it restricts movements. And makes it harder to be precise. And probably feels awful, actually—”

“I need it.” Hunter protested, eyes flicking up to the healer, who was sitting halfway now, both legs hanging off the edge of the bed, body turned in Hunter’s direction, the med-kit acting as a barrier between them.

“Medically?” He tilted his head.

“I need them.” Hunter repeated, much too tired to go into depth on why it was bad to have hands like his. “They’re weird.”

“Well, my sincerest apologies,” The healer said, not sounding sorry at all, which seemed to be a theme, “but survival comes before insecurities. That’s a constant truth.”

“Before what?” Hunter squinted.

“Insecurities? You know—when you have a dislike—?”

“But they are weird!” Hunter insisted. “They’re, like–like they don’t—”

“I’m sure I’ve seen weirder things.” The figure dismissed casually, waving a hand. “We’ve got demons with seven eyes and beasts with tongues for feet. You’re fine.”

“But they’re supposed—”

“Do you want to stop bleeding?” The healer cut-in again, a slight shift to his exposed forehead signaling a raised brow. He barely waited until Hunter cautiously nodded. “Then the glove will hinder it. Just pretend I’m not here, if it makes you feel better, or something.” He muttered, head turning to the side to look off at nothing again. “Not that it’d be pretending, really.” He added, incredibly quietly.

Hunter hesitated, because of course he did. But he figured that, well, if these guys were so secret, it’s not like he would tell anyone. And his uncle wouldn’t let anyone bother him about his hands, anyway.

He muttered, albeit grumpily, and set down the spray. Then, he pulled off his gloves.

They felt very uncomfortable dragging across his skin, and he shuttered through every inch of it. He wound up throwing them to the floor as soon as they were off. Never again.

“There we go.” The healer praised, not missing a beat as he gestured to the med-kit. “Now give it a spray and wrap it up. You don’t look like you need stitches.”

“Yay,” Hunter grumbled dejectedly, picking up the spray again.

The figure barked out a laugh at that, startling him. He stared as the healer’s head turned away slightly, open mouth showing not-quite-sharp-enough teeth. He decided to believe he was being laughed at, and glowered as he managed to pull out the gauze.

“Oh, God above,” The figure wheezed when he spoke again, “alright, maybe there’s something annoyingly funny about kids.”

“M’not annoying.” Hunter muttered bitterly, frowning at the spray in his hand. “I’m telling the Emperor to rep..repim…repro…”

“Reprimand.” The healer offered, grinning like the right prick he was.

“Repamind you!” Hunter shot back, testing out a small squirt of the antiseptic spray. And promptly dropped it with a hiss.

“Yeah, he started reprimanding long before you, kit.” The person said, casually. “You gotta spray more than that.”

“Shut up.” Hunter growled, getting another snort for his troubles.

“Nah,” The healer decided, passive as Hunter managed another spray and decided that was enough, because that stung. “Now you wrap—”

“I know what I’m doing!” Hunter snapped, much louder than probably needed.

“What else am I supposed to say, exactly?” The figure spread out their hands. “I literally don’t have anything better to do.”

“If you’ve got nothin’ to do, then you aren’t wanted.” Hunter sniffed, somewhat of a paraphrase of words he’d heard many times before.

“Alright, Christ.” The person muttered quietly as Hunter rolled out the gauze. “Ass.”

Hunter sneered, managing one wrap around his body before looking up again, smug and haughty.

“That is a bad wor—”

Silence.

Hunter paused. Blinked at the nothingness, then turned his head almost a full one-eighty degree as he tried to see where the healer had gone off to.

His door hadn’t opened. In fact, he didn’t hear it open when the figure entered in the first place. It was still closed, and later, he would find it was still locked.

There was no indent on the bed where the figure had been. When Hunter pressed a hand over it, it was colder than the rest of his bed.

He silently wrapped up the rest of his injuries after that.

It was a lot more nerve-wracking than it had any right to be.

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