#help me get a proper wheelchair ramp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whump-card · 9 months ago

Text

Forged Divinity Chapter 27: Leannan Fucks Everything Up

2973 words

CW: past institutionalized slavery, religious themes, book burning, conditioning

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

“This place is amazing,” Jeanette said flatly, petting the purring cat in her lap.

She and Enjolras sat opposite each other on the couches in the Longhouse common room.

“It is,” Enjolras agreed, sensing Jeanette meant more than she was saying.

“You have electricity. Water systems. Plenty of food,” she tilted her head to the side, “I assume the city beyond the island has similar resources?”

“The same, if not better.”

“Why not expand, then? Share this wealth with more people?”

“We’re not expansionists,” Enjolras said, “We would never take control of more territory by force.”

“But you could take on more territory. Support more people.”

“Only if they want us to, and… we did sort of tank our reputation, twelve years ago. The kind of people we would want to join us tend to despise us.”

“How do you keep all this secret? The Iowans, I mean.”

“The general population in the city has no idea. Only a select few La Libera agents know the details. We have good people. We’re lucky.”

“Now that I know the secret, am I forbidden from leaving?” Jeanette asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“Not at all,” Enjolras said, “I think you…” she paused, “I’m not sure. I just trust you.”

Jeanette looked away, her hands pausing on the cat’s back.

“I don’t think I would, you know,” she said, “Leave, that is. This place is…”

“It’s pretty magical, right?” Enjolras grinned.

Jeanette shot her a rare smile.

“It is.”

“Hej, you let me know if there’s anyplace you have trouble accessing,” Enjolras said quickly, “We can whip up a ramp for your wheelchair no problem. I’m looking into getting you a better one, too, maybe even one with a motor.”

Jeanette blinked in surprise.

“Thank you, I,” she faltered, “I’m used to being confined to one place. One room.”

“If you’d prefer to stay in, that can be arranged too.”

“No, no,” Jeanette said, “I like…” she glanced at the piano, “I’d like to be able to get around more.” Enjolras watched her as she stared at the floor for a bit before mumbling, “I used to think it was bad karma, or something…”

“Wait, how do you know what karma is?” Enjolras asked, but before Jeanette could answer the door opened and Leannan walked in.

He looked utterly exhausted and defeated, his shoulders slumped and his eyes red.

“Oh, karulino,” Enjolras stood and went to him, “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Can I go lie down?” Leannan whispered.

“Of course, there’s a room all ready for you. Let me show you.”

They left the common room and went down the hall. The doors were numbered, and Enjolras opened number six.

It was a cozy little room. The furniture was all pine: a full-size bed, a dresser, and a bedside cabinet. There was also a small mirror, a woven wool rug, and a vase of flowers. The single window had the curtains drawn to keep out the heat of the sun. As Leannan looked around his face tensed like he might cry again.

“I’m not usually…” he cleared his throat, “I’ll be better tomorrow.” He glanced nervously toward Enjolras, unable to look directly at her.

“You don’t have to be better tomorrow,” Enjolras said, “You can take all the time you need.” She tilted her head, watching him. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just say so.”

“If you could just tell me what to do,” Leannan whispered, “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not your master, Leannan. You don’t have to do what I say.”

“Then what do I do?” Leannan swiped away a stray tear.

“Whatever you want.”

Leannan looked around the room again, chewing his lip.

“I’d like to be alone. Please.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said gently, “You can stay here as long as you like. Maybe we’ll give you a proper tour tomorrow, yeah?”

Leannan nodded, still unable to look at her.

Enjolras didn’t really want to leave him alone. He looked terribly forlorn, standing lost in his room, trying not to cry. But respecting Leannan’s wishes was a top priority at the moment.

She stepped out of the room, closed the door, and went to talk to Jeanette about karma.

~~~

Leannan didn’t like the goats, and the goats didn’t like him.

He was headbutted by one as soon as he stepped into the pen, sending him sprawling into the dust. When Teresa tried to show him how to milk one, he spent far too long hesitantly squeezing a goat’s teat with zero results, until the goat lost patience and kicked the milk bucket into him. One change of clothes later – into a burnt orange-colored set, which made him irrationally upset – his tour of Goat Island continued with the chicken run. The children showed him the nesting boxes and collected the fresh eggs, and Leannan, of course, dropped one. Then Peter and Rory made him hold a chicken, and he did, just to humor them, but the bug-eyed creature squawked relentlessly and finally escaped by digging its talons into Leannan’s wrist. Then it was off to the restaurant kitchen, where there was a first-aid station set up in the corner. Shannon, who had been helping prepare lunch, washed and treated the scratch, wrapping it up and declaring him good as new. Then Peter and Rory were bouncing up and down demanding to show Leannan the arcade cabinet and the pool table downstairs, and the look Leannan shot Shannon must have been so pathetic that she took pity on him.

“Okay, Peter? Rory? Why don’t you go play downstairs, I think Leannan needs a break.”

They were surprisingly receptive to this, though they made Leannan promise he’d come look at their toys and games soon. Then they took off, and Leannan’s body sagged as their boundless energy left the room.

“They’re a handful at that age,” Shannon said knowingly, “You’re doing great.” She smiled. “Come on, I have someplace a little calmer and quieter to show you.”

The two of them walked back to the Longhouse, Shannon politely waving off the occasional Iowan who wanted to join them. They passed Jeanette and Enjolras chatting in the common room – Leannan couldn’t help but notice they hadn’t moved since he’d left that morning – and Shannon led him through the first door in the hallway. She turned and spread her arms with a grin.

“Welcome to the library!”

Leannan froze.

He was surrounded by books. It wasn’t a large room by any means, but the walls were lined with floor-to ceiling shelves and each shelf was at least half full of books. Dangerous books. Unholy books. More than Leannan had ever seen before in his life.

There were a trio of armchairs in the middle of the room, and Leannan grabbed the back of one as he swayed with shock.

“Leannan?” Shannon touched his shoulder, worried – his horror was apparent on his face.

“You can’t have these!” Leannan yelped, grabbing her arm, “These are dangerous, Shannon, books bring evil, and destruction, I’ve seen it, they – why are these here?”

“They’re not evil!” Shannon argued, a bit bewildered, “Leannan, books are just… words, they can’t hurt you.”

But Leannan knew that they could. Jeanette’s collection of books, a mere fraction of the amount gathered here, had been the catalyst of Donda Island’s destruction. He couldn’t let that happen here, too.

“They can, and they will! Shannon, God will punish us for keeping these here, we have to get rid of them!”

Her mouth fell open slightly as she realized how serious Leannan was.

“Leannan, we’ve been building this collection for years, if God was going to do anything about, it would’ve happened a while ago.”

Enjolras appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of their argument.

“What’s…?”

“Enjolras, you saw it!” Leannan desperately tried to pull her to his side, “The whole of Donda Island burned and it was all because of a box of books! Tell Shannon, we can’t keep these!”

Enjolras let out a slow breath.

“Leannan. Books aren’t dangerous.”

“But!”

“What happened on Donda Island was people taking advantage of the fear of books. People, doing things, not God, and certainly not the books themselves.”

Leannan’s shoulders slumped. He could tell he wasn’t going to convince either of them. They didn’t understand, not like he did. They hadn’t seen what he had seen.

Leannan was withdrawn the rest of the day. He smiled and laughed at Rory and Peter’s antics like he was supposed to, but internally he was haunted by the presence of blasphemous texts in their midst.

It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t right.

His distracted state didn’t go unnoticed. The children whined that he wasn’t really looking when they showed him their toys and games and he only nodded halfheartedly. At dinner the adults tried to engage him in conversation, but Leannan just couldn’t keep up.

He slept restlessly that night, trapped in a half-asleep nightmare of fire, fire, fire. He finally jerked awake, drenched in sweat, and knew he had to do something.

It took him five tries to light the wood stove in the common room. His hands kept shaking, and he kept flinching back from the tiny flame that erupted from the end of the taper as he struck it. But he got it going, somehow, and fed it a log.

Then he started feeding it books.

He went to the library and gathered as many into his arms has he could and carried them back to the common room, setting them down in front of the stove. He shoved in as many as would fit, and watched their covers curl up and the pages catch and the words disappear into smoke.

Then he did it over again.

He felt a little sick, maybe from the heat, maybe from the physical exertion. He was shaking, and sweating, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. These books would destroy this place, destroy Shannon, and Rory, and Peter, and Lena, and Enjolras. They’d almost destroyed Jeanette once already. They’d almost destroyed him. Leannan couldn’t let that happen again. He could feel the panic deep in his gut, staggering his breaths and bringing heat to his eyes, and he soothed it by throwing more books into the stove.

He finished a row on the first shelf, and kept going.

Leannan couldn’t read words, but he could read clocks. The one on the wall of the common room read 1:20. The books took a long time to burn, even as the fire roared brightly. He hoped he’d be able to get rid of most of them before anyone woke up.

Heat enveloped the room, rolling off the stove in waves. Leannan’s shirt stuck to his back, and his curls pasted to his forehead. He bore through it, feeding the fire more books, swiping sweat and tears off his face with the back of his hand.

Shannon and Enjolras would be angry with him. That thought was scary. But they didn’t understand.

He added another book, and another, and…

He stopped.

He was holding a red and black book, with an image of two figures standing by a wall.

It was a copy of one of Jeanette’s books. The one she’d read to him. The one about the nameless woman.

It was the one he’d seen ripped in half. The one he’d been sad to see ripped in half, because there was a person in there. There was a person in the book, telling her story, showing him her strange world. Missing her daughter.

He sat and stared at the book for a very long time, as if just by looking he could hear the words inside again. He turned it over and looked at the back. There was a whole block of unintelligible white text, and up in the corner a tiny photograph of a woman with a mysterious smile.

Leannan swallowed hard around a lump in his throat.

It was just another book. A cursed, unholy item that would bring him only misfortune.

And yet, he couldn’t throw it on the fire.

Tears dropped from his cheeks onto the book, and he instinctively wiped them away, not wanting to damage the cover. He sobbed as he realized what his action meant, overwhelmed with helplessness and confusion.

What if all the books had people in them.

“Enjolras!” he staggered to his feet, clutching the book to his chest, “Enjolras!”

He panted from the high temperature, wandering out into the cooler hallway.

“Enjolras!”

She burst out of her bedroom, running down the hallway to him.

“Leannan! What’s going on? Why do I smell smoke?”

Leannan couldn’t answer, his throat was too choked with tears. Enjolras swept past him into the common room, and cursed.

“Diable – Leannan, what did you do?!”

Others were poking their heads out of their rooms now, and Shannon rushed to Leannan’s side.

“What’s happening?” she asked, worried.

Enjolras returned, ducking into the library.

“Fuck!” she shouted. Leannan flinched. Shannon ran past him to look into the library, and then into the common room, putting the pieces together.

“Oh! Oh, Leannan, no!” she cried, “How could you!”

The hallway was crowded with spectators now, frowning adults and wide-eyed children.

“What’s going on?” Aisling called, her hands protectively on Peter’s shoulders.

Shannon stormed back into the hallway.

“Leannan’s been burning books!” she shouted. The group fluttered with murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” Leannan whispered.

“Two dozen, at least!” Enjolras joined them, “Leannan, what…” she spotted the onlookers, and took Leannan’s arm, “Okay, come this way – someone put the kids back to bed, this isn’t…” Enjolras sounded unusually lost. Leannan saw Aisling nod her head before he was pulled into the stifling heat of the common room. The fire still burned brightly, and his unfinished stack of books sat before it.

Shannon followed them, running her hands through her hair.

“Leannan, what were you thinking?” she pleaded, “What would make you think this was a good idea?”

Leannan couldn’t look at either of them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, breathing hard.

“Leannan, this is serious,” Enjolras said, “Some of those books were incredibly rare, it’s taken over a decade to collect them all.”

Leannan finally cracked.

“I’m sorry!” he sobbed, “I’m really really, sorry, I was trying to do the right thing, I don’t want anything to happen to anyone, I don’t want anyone to die, and I thought, I really thought, that the books, they’re not – they’re not safe, but I shouldn’t have, not without your permission, I’m so sorry, I think…” he started to cry harder as it hit him, still clinging to the book, “I think I’m not supposed to be here, I think I was sold for a reason, I don’t think God wants me to be here, I think I should have stayed with Phineas…”

He gasped as Shannon grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“God’s not real, Leannan!” she shouted at him.

Leannan stared at her, at her teary eyes and trembling chin, until his eyes slid off, gazing into space. Of course they were heathens. Of course they were.

“Enjolras,” he croaked, “Enjolras, you have to punish me.” He spun around when she didn’t reply, rushing over to her. “Enjolras, I – I disobeyed, I burned your things, I knew I shouldn’t have, I knew it was wrong, you have to punish me for being bad, please.”

Enjolras looked at him sadly.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“No, no, Enjolras, you have to, I did something wrong, please,” he dropped to his knees in front of her, his voice rising in volume with his panic, “You’re my master, if I do something wrong you have to punish me, if you don’t then God will and it’ll be worse, please, Enjolras, you have to punish me, please punish me, ple-e-ease!” Leannan’s words fell apart into wails as he doubled over, hunching around the book he still cradled.

“Leannan,” Enjolras’ familiar hand rested on his back, “Let’s just go to bed, huh?”

“Yes!” Leannan’s head whipped up, determined to seize the opportunity, “Yes, I can do that, I can do anything, Enjolras, I’ll do anything you want!”

Enjolras shut her eyes, wincing.

“No,” she said firmly, “No, that’s not what I meant. I just want you to go to sleep, and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning. Okay?” She opened her eyes again, and while she didn’t look angry her gaze burned Leannan down to his core.

“Yes, Enjolras,” he breathed. She took his elbows and helped him to his feet.

When he turned around, everyone was staring at him.

The children and teens had been convinced to stay in their rooms, but all the adults had witness Leannan’s breakdown. They wore a range of expressions from horrified, to sad, to… disgusted. Leannan’s stomach flipped. Shame clenched around his heart, making it beat a trapped, panicked rhythm.

They weren’t like him. They didn’t understand. They hadn’t seen the world out there. They hadn’t seen the wrath of God, up close and personal, as Leannan had so many times before.

How could he ever explain twelve years of… that?

The only person who didn’t look upset was Jeanette. Her gaze was as icy and calm as usual. She leaned against the back of the couch and held out her hand.

“Leannan,” she said simply.

Leannan moved towards her like a magnet, taking her outstretched hand. They supported each other, and the small crowd parted to let them through. Jeanette guided him down the hallway to his room, and they climbed onto the bed. Leannan lay on his side facing the window, hugging the book to his chest, and Jeanette curled comfortingly around his back and rubbed his arm.

“It’ll be okay,” was all she said.

He didn’t believe her.

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #forged divinity #cw slavery #cw religion #cw book burning #cw conditioning

9 notes · View notes

sunshine-in-a-bottle · 8 months ago

Text

I fantasize every single day about having my own house, decorated in a bright flourish of colors and filled with fun silly knickknacks and the comfiest furniture. I'll have a dishwasher and a washer/dryer set, and enough windows to let the light in. I'll have ac and heat, and a fan just in case. The lamps will have fun shapes, like flower bulbs, and there will be a clock that makes noises every hour like the one in my parents house.

My bed will be a queen size, and it's gonna have fun sheets and covers and maybe even something crocheted for the top (I would have the money to buy someone's work, to pay them what they deserve.) I'll put up glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, and do wallpaper on some walls and paint on others. No carpets, but a couple of rugs and mats with pretty patterns.

One of the rooms will be a small library, only half- filled because I have so much more I want to read. It'll also have a work desk maybe for my computer and a sketchbook, and there's plushies peeking out off some of the shelves.

There's gonna be a basement, and that's where all my art stuff will be. An art studio, but it's not fancy, and it's going to be messy as all hell, but I'll get to work with clay on the wheel again, paint things on a big canvas, or just draw. Maybe accidentally drink paint out of my mug. There'll be a fan in the basement window to keep the air down there from becoming too bad.

I'll have one dog and one cat. The dog will get training and get to go to a groomers and he'll protect the house but also get so many kisses and snuggles, and when I walk in to get a cat I'll ask who's been there the longest and who needs the most help, maybe an elderly cat, and I'll love it forever. It'll have toys and a cat tree and two litter boxes. I'll make time to walk the dog every week, and we can go to a dog park for many zoomies.

I want a guest bedroom that's clean and always ready to go, so my friends will always have a safe place to be if they need it. They can come over for fun times and we can make food together, and some of them will get antsy and ask to do dishes with me cause they want to help, so I'll rinse off the dishes and they can put them in the washer, or vice versa. They'll never have to, because they're my favorite guests in the whole world, but I'd never let them stew in anxiety over a couple of plates.

I don't have a green grass lawn. I hate mowing. There's gonna be flowers everywhere instead, and I'll have a bunch of written notes about where the sunlight goes and how much shading there is so I can make sure each plant gets the proper amount of light. I'll have a list in my big binder, all the flower names and where they are and what they need. I know it'll take me years to get everything set up and grown, but it'll be a really big reward to have butterflies and birds. There will be a big multi-feeder like my grandma has, and a squirrel feeder opposite side of it to keep them separated. I want a gooseberry bush so I can make a pie. I'll have a composter. I'll have overwhelming amounts of zucchini and sheepishly offer them to my neighbors every year. I want to be friends with all my neighbors.

I'll know all the people in the neighborhood and their kids, I'll say hi and give them food and be a part of the community. When the kids go out and play on our street like I did as a kid, they'll be safer cause I'll be an adult worth trusting. My dog will always be happy to see them and I'll never be mean and yell at the kids when they get too rowdy. If a neighbor wants to be left alone I'll leave them be, but I'll make sure they know I'm here if there's ever an emergency or they need a working phone, like our old neighbors did for us.

I'll have a ramp and no steps to get into my house, because I want my friends on wheels to be able to easily get inside my house. If I gotta have stairs inside my house, I want to someday afford one of those wheelchair lifts so they're not stuck to one floor. The floor space will be clean and open enough for the chair to zoom everywhere. I'll have a shower that's handicap accessible like the one in my family home now, along with a huge bathtub. I'll make my home accommodating in all the ways they suggest so I can have my friends be safe and comfortable when they're with me.

I could have a pond out in the back, like my grandparents did. Get toads every summer, get some fun plants to make it a diverse ecosystem. It would be lined with big rocks and the birds would like it, even if the water isn't clear. Could also get a bird bath. I'd take my grandmother's books about identifying birds with me, so I can learn about which ones are coming to my garden. I'd learn about all the different insects scuttling through the dirt.

There'd be two medical kits, one in the bathroom and one in the kitchen. Everything would be organized so I don't have to go rummaging through drawers at 3 am for a bandaid.

It wouldn't always be the cleanest place, because I know myself, but once a month I could hire a cleaning service and pay them to help me. It might be a little awkward at first, but I'll be very nice to them and check to see if I can leave a tip for the hard work, and maybe offer them zucchini bread.

I don't watch TV, but I'd probably have a small one in the living room that has a DVD player, perched in one of those wood shelves that have cupboards filled to brim with movies and shows and even music I like. I'd have them on in the background while I do things, cause I need the audio. I won't have to pay for streaming sites because every show I love I can hold in my hands.

I can never bring myself to hang my clothes up in a closet, so I'll have a couple baskets of clean clothes I can look through. I'll learn how to iron. I'll be able to pay to have my clothes tailored to fit me. The closet will have Legos in it instead, or some very soft nerf guns, or board games I know I love. I'll make messes I won't clean up for a week, but I'll be able to build a Lego city with my friends when they come over or build marble towers.

I'll host tea parties where we can have fun and dress up in pretty clothes, and costume parties where my friends can come and show off their cosplays. There'll be good food, maybe potlucks. I'll learn how to be a good host and maybe my friends will make friends with each other sometimes. Every holiday and season will get its own special flag that I'll hang outside my house. I'll have a welcome mat at the door.

I'll have pictures of my friends hanging up on the wall. I'll have paintings from artists I love. I'll have figurines and interesting rocks I found.

I'll have my friend's favorite sweets in the pantry for when they come visit. My fridge will always have food in it. There's vanilla ice cream in the freezer. The fridge won't have any fancy computers and alexas inside, none of my stuff ever will, but it'll have a long lifespan and be easy to repair.

I'll have the family piano and my violin case on top of it. My guitar will be safe in its stand. They'll all be clean, tuned, and well cared for. I'll never be forced to play an instrument ever again, but I can always pick them up again, and it'll be my choice.

There will always be clean water. I can walk around my whole neighborhood safely. I can go to the park and climb something. A grocery store might even be within walking distance! (But there will be a bus line that can take me there if not, or maybe a train, if the future is kind.)

The roof will be well tended. I might have solar power and a backup generator. The house's siding will be nice and clean. I'll have a nice fence that doesn't go too high so I can chat with my neighbors if they like.

I'll have a calendar on the wall to mark off each day, and even if there will be bad days (cause there will always be bad days) at least I know that I lived through another one. And that's definitely good enough.

#suds soapbox #ill also have the jar with my uterus in it up on a high shelf so i can flip it off occasionally #but we dont talk about that

6 notes · View notes

nbenvs3000w24 · 10 months ago

Text

Unpacking the World of Privilege

Hi everyone!

Welcome back to my third blog post!

So far, we’ve talked about more light hearted subjects such as my evolutionary relationship with nature, my personal experiences with nature and my ideal world as an environmental interpreter and what that would entail. In this week's post, I am going to reflect on what role privilege plays in nature interpretation and how I have experienced forms of privilege within my own life. As we head into this weeks blog post, I acknowledge that myself and those who read this, might feel moments of discomfort or uneasiness however, I believe this to be an important topic to reflect on.

To begin, privilege to me is the advantages and benefits that come with having a certain identity such as race, gender, or economic status that often provides easier access to opportunities, resources and overall a heightened sense of well-being and success. As mentioned in the readings this week, many individuals born into more privileged environments, “are not taught to recognize their own privileges,” and after reflecting on my own life, I’ve realized that there are many ‘invisible backpacks’ I carry that I haven’t truly recognized (Gallavan, 2005). To get personal and transparent, I am white, middle class, speak English, was able to get a University degree with help from my family, was not born with physical or cognitive disabilities and wake up each day with a roof over my head and food on the table. Although many of these things might seem small or trivial, the impact they can hold is significant without even realising it.

An experience in my life where I truly realized my own privilege, was when I volunteered at Kids Ability to assist in a swim program for children with disabilities. I learned through my time assisting these children that there are barriers and obstacles they face that do not make them any less of a person, but that gives a person like me an amplitude of challenges I will never have to face. If I connect this topic to the world of nature interpretation, the concept of privilege is particularly important when considering individuals with disabilities as they may face various barriers that affect their ability to access and interpret the natural world around them. For example, physical access to natural spaces that lack wheelchair ramps or accessible trails or inadequate visual or tactile tools such as braille or audio descriptions. As mentioned in the textbook, it is important as nature interpreters to integrate all audiences by providing opportunities for building social skills for those with and without disabilities while also recognizing our own privilege we carry in relation to those around us. Some suggested examples of proper etiquette when working with people with disabilities are: don’t “talk down’ to a person with a disability, speak in a normal tone of voice, be patient and encouraging, do not lean on a wheelchair or any other assistive device, offer assistance only when permission is given, etc (Beck, 2018). Most importantly, as an interpreter it is important to treat every person in your audience the way you would want to be treated and in regard to people with disabilities, “interpreting to people with disabilities involves getting people to participate and learn by building on their knowledge, interests, and skills, just as with any group of visitors!” (Beck, 2018).

Thank you for reading and I hope you were able to take something away from this post, whether that be reflecting on your own privilege or gaining more knowledge on how to interact with those around you. As always, treat others the way you want to be treated and be kind!!!!!

Cheers, Natalie

References:

Gallavan, N. P. (2005). Helping teachers unpack their "invisible knapsacks". Multicultural Education, 13(1), 36. https://link-gale-com.subzero.lib.uoguelph.ca/apps/doc/A137921591/AONE?u=guel77241&sid=bookmark-AONE&xid=9fe2f151

Beck, L., Cable, T.T., & Knudson, D.M. (2018). Interpreting cultural and natural heritage: for a better world. Sagamore Publishing.

9 notes · View notes

latenightsimping · 1 year ago

Text

so i'm travelling by train today, and sometimes, being a wheelchair user just sucks. like, the doors will open to nobody, and you need a ramp to get down that only the staff can work.

so it happened on one of my changes, and i was like ah beans. one really nice guy asks if i need help, i'm like yeah could you go get someone for me?

then this group of four guys show up, and they're the most british 'lads' you can imagine. they offer to just pick me up, heavy ass wheelchair included, which i politely turn down to my tech being like four grand to replace (which is another conversation but anyway) and i can't see it from my vantage point, but they've spotted the staff on the other end of the platform.

the only way i can explain what happened next is just pure roasting from the lads. cries of "HURRY UP" and "CHOP CHOP" as they clap their hands. one madlad tries to wrangle the ramp themselves. the others are proper jeering this staff member (who had no fault in this btw, there was a mix up of communication). a security guard swans in, and i have suspicions of my new mates being a bit steaming, so they scarper after they make sure i'm okay.

just made my day that this chaotic lads on tour decided to do a side quest to help a wheelchair user off the train lmaoooo

#it's always a gamble if you're gonna get helped or ignored #and tbh it massively skews towards helpful

7 notes · View notes

prettypangolins · 1 year ago

Text

Well I went Outside properly for the first time in years, and for the first time using my wheelchair to try and get somewhere. And? It was awful. I have zero intention of doing it again.

For a start, they've removed all the ramps from the train stations, excluding the ones in the two at the end of the line, and one at the station a town over. Apparently this was for 'health and safety' reasons. The assistance request I'd made yesterday didn't go through. It was unclear where to even wait for the train to stop. The ramp was kinda steep too, so if my housemate hadn't helped I'd have needed to ask the guard for help.

I could not have gone fucking anywhere without someone with me.

The WHSmith in the train station was arranged in such a way that I couldn't navigate it. I had to ask my housemate to buy me a snack.

For the bus the ramp was steep - the driver had to get out to lower it and put it back up after me, so if I'd been on my own I'd have had to go into the bus proper and then go fucking back to get my ticket (the driver's door opens into the bus). There was a weird barrier swinging thing as well, which was stiff as fuck and got in the way when I was trying to get out. At least the bus stop by the train station wasn't too bad, and the paving there was smooth. It was old, rough tarmac at the destination stop.

Now, the fucking STATE of the pavements between the bus stop and cinema was just... no. The drop kerbs were really rough to go over - one was so bad that we actually just stayed in the road because there was no way to actually navigate that kerb. It's so fucking clear that the people putting them in give the minimum effort possible. It's insulting. It was also just so exhausting that my housemate pushed me.

Finally reached the cinema, and found that the counter where you buy overpriced food was high up. The front foyer was smooth tile, which is good, but as soon as you went through towards the screens it was fucking CARPET. Horrible to try and push on. By this point I'd fuckin had enough. I needed to pee but they had the radar key thing, and I'd left my key in my bag, and I'd left that with my housemate. A member of staff went to get a key from the front.

Oh, and the door to the disabled toilet? HEAVY. Really, really heavy. I had to fucking kick it. I have no idea how anyone who can't use their legs would manage. Fucking awful.

I have no idea how the cinema screen door was - I remember them being heavy - because my housemate again helped with that. At least there was only a small incline to get to the seats, but the fucking carpet oh my GOD.

Obviously I didn't have any choice as to where I sat but oh well. As an aside, if I didn't have my loops with me I would have gone into shutdown and/or had a meltdown. The volume in the cinema was way too fucking loud, and having to sit through 35 minutes of shitty adverts made me want to scream. I will NOT be going to the cinema again in its current form.

Using the loo on the way out, I had to ask my housemate for help with the door. I also needed help getting back to the bus. And then getting on the bus. And then, well...

Going to the cinema the bus was quiet. Coming back it was not quiet, and the design was a bit different. There was a fucking pole IN THE WAY, no space to navigate around it because people were sat there with their massive rucksacks, and no fucking space to navigate opposite the wheelchair space because some woman had decided to leave her rollator in the way and didn't have the presence of mind to realise that moving it would be a good thing to do. I was ready to do bloody violence at this point. The bus driver was breaking sharply, so I kept tipping back. Getting out was horrific, damaged my chair, something fell off but idk if that was the bus or my chair, and yeah fucking... The ramp was put down. The driver hadn't got the bus to kneel. The ramp was STEEP. Like... dangerous. AND THE BUS WASN'T CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE KERB so there was a fucking gap on the right-hand side. Just... fuck sakes. Both my housemate AND the driver had to help.

The train station staff were good, I was let through and on ahead of other people (the assistance request had finally gone through), but the entry and doorway to the seating part of the carriage was narrow. The flip-down seats got in the way. To get off, the guard needed to get the ramp out the cupboard, but there was so little space it was just... more damage to my wheelchair. Oh, I also saw the new station on the line and it pissed me off so fucking much. They have textured/ridged tiles which mark the way to things like the exit, the shelter, the lift, etc for blind people. And I'm just like FUCKING WHY because a wheelchair on those?? Awful. They've just... fucked over wheelchair users because... what? Why? Blind people are higher up in the hierarchy of worthiness? It's a more visible intrusion getting in the way of peopel so they'll win more 'we're so good at accessibility!' points??? Just so fucking inconsiderate. I bet people just *love* dragging their suitcases over that too. (At my home station there are little metal things laid into the platform that don't get in the way of anything wheeled because they're a narrow little trail rather than a whole fucking wheelchair-width disaster of ridged tiles placed at randomly alternating angles.)

It's just so fucking awful out there. There's no way to do anything you want to do without being constantly reminded that you're second-class and unworthy of actual thought or consideration. The message is that no one wants you there, you shouldn't try to existi in this space because it's not for you. So much of the stuff is a pathetic token gesture. It's so HOSTILE. (Like the disabled toilet in the actual hospital which has a door too heavy for even an abled person to manage easily.) I am fucking pissed off.

So yeah, I could get where I wanted to go, it was technically 'accessible' but I had to have help the whole way and what in the fresh fucking fuck.

P.S: the Barbie movie was worth it.

#i did have a good time!#but it was NOT thanks to anything apart from the movie

3 notes · View notes

bannedbookreader · 1 month ago

Note

For the fic writer asks - 6, 12, 18 and 24!

Thank you!

6; so I was really curious about this, but copying all of The Grand Investigation of Tom Bronson into word counter caused it to crash three times

12; does family themes count as a trope?

18; I have an entire section I cut from the last chapter for a variety of reasons. Spoilers I guess?

“Yeah Yo-yo, we got the groceries.” Tom sighed into his phone. It wasn't easy holding the overly full reusable totes on his lap while also pressing his phone to his ear.

“Everything?”

“As much as we could.” Tom glanced back at Grant with a slightly exasperated look. It was hard to tell at the angle and with Grant’s face mask, oversized sunglasses, and hood, but he seemed to be smirking.

“What does that mean?!”

“It's December! Vegetables aren't exactly fresh this time of year.”

“You didn't get the vegetables?!”

The wheelchair hit an uneven slab of concrete, almost sending the groceries they did have flying. Tom managed to keep the canvas bags on his lap while Grant saved his phone from shattering. Instead of returning the phone to Tom, Grant held it to one of his cauliflowered ears.

“Can y'all argue about this later? It's hard enough getting through this part of town with this damn chair when we don't have to worry about bags of food.”

Tom had no idea what Yolanda said but Grant gave a quick, somewhat dismissive goodbye before passing the phone back.

“I kinda like the chair.”

“Hm?”

Tom shifted slightly, still getting used to talking to someone directly behind him. “It beats being stuck in the Brownstone recovery room. And Pops has given me some tips.”

“Tips?”

“He showed me how to do a wheelie. Kinda looking forward to it when I get my arm strength back.” Tom grinned.

“Sounds like fun I guess.”

“Even if it's not fun it seems helpful. Though José keeps showing me videos of wheelchair users that are like, extreme sports athletes? I have to keep reminding him I can barely push myself right now let alone do a flip!”

“I mean, you could probably do a flip if we pushed you off a ramp. The issue is the landing.”

Tom barked a surprised laugh. “Pops would lose his damn mind!” He could picture it clear as day, prompting more laughing. He hadn't laughed this much in a long time. It shook his shoulders before it was replaced by a choking rattling cough. Tom struggled to get any air in as he doubled over, crushing the bags against his chest, tears were being pushed out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Grant pushed the emergency inhaler into Tom's hands, already shaken and ready to go.

The nasty taste hit the back of Tom's throat but seconds later he was able to take a shaky breath.

“Fuck me,” Tom groaned, his head tilting backwards against the chair's backrest. The bag crinkled again, this time in relief.

“I already did.” Grant tried for humor, but only got a snort in return.

“Careful, if I laugh I might fucken die.”

Grant’s gloves were soft as they brushed the tears from Tom’s face. “Recovery is a fucking bitch,” he adjusted his hand so that Tom’s cheeks was laying against the fuzzy palm, “but you're doing great.”

“Sometimes it doesn't feel like it.”

Grant stood up from where he was kneeling, “I know that. But Tommy, <i>you died</i>. And Hell, what were you doing this time last month?”

Tom considered, “I think I started physical therapy?”

“And before that?”

“Are we gonna take this thought exercise all the way back to April?”

“But you get my point?”

Tom smirked up at Grant, “It would be hard to miss it.”

24; I'm not really sure how I recharge? I guess just by chilling? Maybe engaging with art in another way like craft videos (Moria Elizabeth is cute) or webcomics (Mil-Liminal by raptorjules and Keystone by wellofhavoc are my favorites right now) or any number of things. Sorry for not having a proper answer

1 note · View note

optionalcausality · 6 months ago

Text

Timeline of the Back Pain Saga of 2024 (so far):

Mostly for my own records, and I will try to expand this further.

Monday, April 22: First day with symptoms. Back pain and a fever of over 101° F.

Thursday, April 25: Urgent Care diagnoses it as a UTI and gives me a weeklong prescription for antibiotics. I am told that if the fever stays high or the pain worsens, I should go to an Emergency Room.

Thursday, May 2: The fever breaks for about 16 hours before returning, this time as a low-grade fever.

Saturday, May 4: I realize that I am no longer able to get out of bed unassisted due to how terrible the back pain has become.

Monday, May 6: My dad helps me pack and prep for a hospital visit, and accompanies me to the ER. There are several hospitals in the area, but the one we choose is on a comparatively straight path from my apartment that minimizes starts/stops due to intersections or freeway on ramps. I receive IV antibiotics and am imaged (CT scan). I am to be kept over night so that I can get an MRI early in the morning, as one of the MRI machines had been undergoing scheduled maintenance and had a backlog to clear.

Tuesday, May 7: The MRI happens. I remain in the Emergency Department, but am assigned a room because I use a CPAP machine and the hospital CPAP is terribly noisy. Physical Therapy evaluates me and I am fairly mobile, able to walk with a walker, get out of bed with assistance, and sit upright in a wheelchair.

Wednesday, May 7: Diagnosis comes back - discitis/ osteomyelitis of L4/L5 vertebrae. A biopsy is scheduled.

Thursday, May 8: A biopsy is done one to get a tissue sample of the L4 vertebra. I am going to be in the hospital for a while.

Note: My parents and sister have been visiting periodically while I'm in the ED.

Friday: My sister realizes that it's very unusual for someone who is post-procedure to not yet be admitted to Inpatient. Some very polite questions later, I am assigned a room in the hospital proper. I attempt to stand, succeed, and my back then reacts with more than two hours of painful spasms. My mobility is not at all what it previously had been.

#long post cw #managing mental health #managing physical health #the back pain saga of 2024 #musings and mundanities #the passage of linear time #'s makes a comment or says something' tag

1 note · View note

otcsacramento · 1 year ago

Text

Sacramento dispensary

Unlocking The Ideal Experience: Tips For Selecting The Ideal Cannabis Dispensary

With the legalization of cannabis in many places, the number of cannabis dispensaries has skyrocketed. But not all dispensaries are created equal.

Finding the ideal cannabis Dispensary Sacramento can greatly impact your overall experience. In this article, we'll explore some easy-to-follow tips for selecting the perfect dispensary to meet your needs.

Location Matters

One of the first things to consider is the dispensary's location. It's ideal to find a dispensary that is conveniently located near your home or workplace.

This way, you won't have to travel far to get your cannabis products. Check online maps or directories to find dispensaries in your area.

Check For Proper Licensing

A legitimate cannabis Sacramento dispensary should have all the necessary licenses and permits to operate legally. The state or local authorities issue these licenses.

To ensure you're purchasing from a reputable source, ask to see their licenses when you visit the dispensary. Licensed dispensaries are more likely to adhere to quality and safety standards.

Product Variety

The ideal dispensary should offer a wide range of cannabis products to cater to different preferences.

Whether you're looking for flowers, edibles, concentrates, or topicals, a dispensary with a diverse selection will allow you to explore different options. This variety can enhance your overall cannabis experience.

Knowledgeable Staff

Dispensary staff should be knowledgeable about the products they sell and should be able to answer your questions. They can guide you in selecting the right strains or products based on your needs.

Friendly and helpful budtenders can make your dispensary visit a pleasant and educational experience.

Quality Control

Quality is of utmost importance when it comes to cannabis products. A reputable dispensary should carry products that undergo thorough testing for potency and contaminants.

Look for dispensaries that source their products from reputable growers and manufacturers who prioritize quality control. High-quality products can provide a more enjoyable and safe experience.

Reviews And Recommendations

Before visiting a cannabis dispensary, it's a good idea to read reviews and ask for recommendations from friends or fellow consumers.

Online reviews can provide insights into the dispensary's reputation, product quality, and customer service.

Personal recommendations from people you trust can also help you find a Dispensary near me that aligns with your preferences.

Pricing And Discounts

Cannabis products can vary in price, so it's important to consider your budget. Some dispensaries offer loyalty programs, discounts for medical patients, or daily specials that can help you save money.

Compare prices and promotions to find a dispensary that offers competitive pricing without compromising on quality.

Atmosphere And Ambiance

The ambiance of a dispensary can greatly impact your overall experience. Some dispensaries have a more clinical feel, while others have a relaxed and welcoming atmosphere.

Choose a dispensary that aligns with your comfort level and preferences. Feeling comfortable in the dispensary can enhance your overall experience.

Accessibility And Safety

Consider the dispensary's accessibility and safety. It should be a well-lit and secure place where you feel safe during your visit.

Accessibility features like parking and wheelchair ramps are important for ensuring that everyone can access the dispensary easily.

Conclusion

Selecting the ideal cannabis dispensary can take some time and research. With these tips in mind, you can find the perfect dispensary for an enjoyable experience.

flickr

At Off The Charts, we provide a wide selection of cannabis products and knowledgeable staff to make sure you find the ideal product for your needs.

Visit us today for an unbeatable dispensary experience! Contact us to learn more about our Best Cheapest weed sacramento products and services.

Find us on Google map (Off The Charts Sacramento)

#Dispensary near me #Dispensary sacramento #Sacramento dispensary

0 notes

cripple-punk-dad · 2 years ago

Text

Here's something I've noticed: able-bodied people in general do not actually know what the proper etiquette is for pushing someone in a wheelchair. So, here's what I call Wheelchair 101:

-DO NOT EVER PUSH OR EVEN TOUCH SOMEONES WHEELCHAIR WITHOUT THEIR EXPLICIT CONSENT. If they are unconscious and alone, treat them like any other unconscious and alone person (i.e check for a pulse, etc.)

-If you see someone struggling to get up a ramp in a wheelchair, I know I personally would not want someone to ask if I wanted help getting up a hill. This one is more personal but air on the side of not asking.

-Don't ask them why they're in a wheelchair. If they offer that information, great, but don't ask. It's none of your business.

-If someone asks you to push them, and you want to, then make it very clear when you are starting to push them, and make it very clear when you are stopping and letting go. I.e tell them, sign it to them, etc.

-If you are pushing someone in a wheelchair, don't be reckless and go fast. If they say slow down, slow down. If they say go, go. You are not the navigator or the steering wheel, you're the engine.

-For the love of God don't say shit like "Wow you're so light/heavy/etc." That's extremely fucking rude.

-Don't say something like "pushing wheelchairs is fun" (yes this has happened to me). Disabled people do not exist for you. We are human beings, not a joy ride.

-this should be obvious but don't ask if you can try a disabled persons wheelchair or ride on it. That's rude.

-Don't push someone even if they're going "too slow". Even if they're in the way. Just don't push someone without permission please god

Again, obviously do not ever start pushing someone if they don't ask you to first. Don't assume that they want or need your help.

Other disabled people feel free to add, also these things apply whether you're a stranger or a family member to a person in a wheelchair.

#disabled #disability #disabled user #wheelchair #wheelchair user #crippld punk #wheelchair etiquette #disabled rights #disability rights

5K notes · View notes

normal-with-adhd-is-a-joke · 2 years ago

Text

"you're only disabled because society doesn't accommodate you" is a useless concept at best for a lot of us and actively harmful at worst.

My disability keeps me from having gainful employment. I have to lie down for about 10/12 hours every day so I can't have a moving job like shelf stocking or cashiering. I also have brain fog and social anxiety/autism that keep me from keeping a cognitive job (like programming) or a social job (like taking phone calls). Even if I was able to qualify for any of these jobs I couldn't sustain work for more than 2 hours each day without getting seriously ill.

"You can have gainful employment if you're given the proper accommodations" is an ableist concept when applied to me. I can't, I've thought through every possible way I could and the option just isn't there. Trying to force me to would damage my body and worsen my disability. This is just an example, but there are a lot of things like this. I can't do most sports. I can't run. I can't weightlift or pole dance, two of the things I was planning to learn to do before I became disabled. "You can do anything with enough help" frankly just hurts me to hear because there are things that I would love to do that won't be accessible to me unless my body changes.

So yes, do things to make the world more accessible to me. Lower the counter heights, fight for wheelchair ramps, and keep the elevators clear for me. But don't assume that I'm capable of anything. I'm disabled, meaning I'm not able to do the things you can, regardless of how much help I get.

I wish all "social model of disability is applicable to all disabled people" people a very shut the fuck up.

#cripplepunk #cripple punk #spoonie #actually disabled #ableism tw

31 notes · View notes

princessozera · 4 years ago

Note

How do you think the brothers would act around a wheelchair bound MC or possible amputee MC? Would ramps and other handicap amenities be placed in the House of Lamentation or the School? How would the general demon populace react? Would MC be seen as weak? Would Diavolo bring MC’s service animal on first arrival or brought after? (If they have one) If not, would MC be provided with one if they were struggling to adapt? Sorry, I haven’t seen any hc for MCs who aren’t able bodied. Thank you.

GN! MC

Word count: 1K

Brothers with an MC that's a wheelchair user

Starting with the Devildom residents and RAD students; neither an MC in a wheelchair nor a amputee MC would be considered any weaker than other humans.

I’ve never talked about it, and it isn't popular fanon, but I do imagine the citizens of the Devildom being really diverse in their body types/ structures/ just differences because they're not all just demons and incubus/succubi. And even if the citizens are all demons, they duke it out so often I doubt that they only have "Alive, and with every limb" or "dead", so the Devildom probably has a few things to allow wider accessibility that is so normal they don't think about it anymore.

Diavolo really wants this program to work out, and Lucifer does good research, so RAD would definitely have ramps installed before MC arrived. The issue is, I don't think they'd be able to understand the practical issues until after MC is there.

By this I mean, yes, RAD has ramps installed, all with proper angles, but remember, RAD is HUGE. They probably didn't consider how long it would take to get from floor to floor or how exhausted you'd get, but before the week is up, Diavolo has a group of engineers install a couple of elevators around RAD that only you have access too.

Diavolo would be at your disposal 24/7 to hear your advice and requests for changes. He, Lucifer, and Barbatos will frequently ask you how things are going, if you need help, checking the state of the ramps and elevator system, and keeping an eye on you in case they suspect you don't want to badger them about smaller issues.

Diavolo had a team to change the DDDs to be usable in the human realm, you CAN'T convince me he wouldn't have a team of engineers/ builders/etc at his beck and call to handle any issue you talk to him about, especially those first few months.

While RAD is ready, with a few modifications, the real issue comes with the rest of the Devildom and even the House Of Lamentation because they were so focused on the modifications to RAD, they forgot the entire Devildom is like a million years old with infrastructure older than the Styx river itself.

Diavolo would immediately get a team to work on modifications for the wheelchair so it can maneuver over the cobblestone paths more easily, and would ask if you'd rather he buy you better wheels from the human realm until he can get you a better solution. (Honestly, he might consider finally upgrading the Devildom's roads and walkways so they don't look like they're from Victorian England).

Diavolo most likely summoned MC without their service animal because neither he or Lucifer really understood it's purpose, but would bring it to the Devildom without a second thought if MC asked (or, you know, if they end up having a panic attack because I can't imagine waking up in a strange location surrounded by tall ass MFs would let anyone feel completely at ease)

That being said, Lucifer would have to do a bit of research to make sure the dog's health wouldn't be damaged in the Devildom, and all of the brothers would need to be taught to leave the service dog/animal alone.

If it turns out the service animal can't stay in the Devildom for extended periods of time, Diavolo would absolutely look into which Devildom animals can be trained to be service animals. He'd probably look into it even if regular animals can survive in the Devildom, and honestly, he might play around with the idea of little D's acting in place of service animals.

As for some of the brothers:

Mammon would probably be a little overprotective and awkward at first.

He DEFINITELY still tried to take your wallet but then felt like an asshole.

He would try to baby you for a a little bit, not because he see's you as weak, but because he doesn't know how to handle the situation.

Mammon is the type to think he's helping by always grabbing the wheelchair and pushing you around whenever he sees you and you have to directly tell him not to do that.

Satan would be intrigued on how the human realm deals with disabilities, especially after taking a liking to you. He'd dive head first into researching, taking particular care to study how your country handles it.

Expect to not see him for 3 days.

Will have a ton of questions for you, if you'll indulge him, it's mostly to cross reference what he's read and get your account of the theoretical vs practical application of laws, accessibility tools and such.

Satan would get really heated over some of the bullshit laws and treatment of people with disabilities and it would probably become one of the things that could easily trigger the full extent of his anger. (I'm looking at you, US, legally allowing companies to pay people with disabilities less than minimum wage).

As for an amputee MC, if you wanted, Satan and Solomon would try using spells and magic to make their own prosthetic for you, my line of thinking is using formerly alive materials so that it could react to subtle muscle movements and react like a regular limb (like wood, coral, etc.)

Other little things:

For the visually impaired, the cobblestone paths would be painted bright colors near the steps and roadways to help guide MC, voice recognition and voice to text would be added to the DDDs. The Devildom would also add braille to their signs and encourage all the stores and textbooks to have options with large font or braille.

Levi with a light sensitive MC; once he knows the issue and what can harm MC, his actions are subconscious so he doesn't actually realize he's doing it. Double checking the anime and video games he recommends, checking all of the movies his brothers want to put on for flashing or strobing lights. Asking Beel to fix the lights around the House Of Lamentation whenever they start to flicker, and such.

((Thank you for this request! I might add on later or do a second part because this was really interesting and I kind of want to expand on other disabilities too. This was a little rushed, so if I do make a second part I'll make sure to do more research))

#Ozera Request #Obey Me #obey me headcanons #obey me shall we date #om swd #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me mammon #obey me diavolo #obey me rad #obey me MC #obey me house of lamentation #om lucifer #om mammon #om diavolo #om leviathan #om MC

515 notes · View notes

totallynormalfanficauthor · 4 years ago

Text

Scarecrow

Pairings: Jack Skellington/Sally

Summary: Sally’s first Halloween. She gets scared and runs to the graveyard to be alone, only to realize... she’s not so alone like she thought.

---

This was it.

It was finally here.

Her first Halloween.

Sally was very excited for this, to say the least. She knew how important Halloween was here, how it was the one thing everyone spent 364 days a year preparing for. She knew how much Halloween meant to everyone, and she admired the way they all tried their very best and put forth all their effort in making the holiday as terrifying- but fun- as possible.

And she was thrilled that she was finally going to get to witness it.

Sally looked up from the book she was reading and glanced across the room to the clock. It was almost 6:30, and she could see from the orange light shining through her window that the sun was beginning to set. It was almost time.

She shut her book and stood up off her bed, careful to not look out her window as she walked across the room to place the novel back on its shelf. As excited for tonight as she was, she had no idea what to expect, and wanted all of it to remain a surprise. So she avoided looking outside today.

The ragdoll left her room, walking straight down the large curved ramp and turning the corner to head into the laboratory. Doctor Finkelstein was already in there, sitting in his wheelchair off to the side at a large metal table. He seemed to be tinkering with something, but Sally couldn’t quite make out what it was.

“Horrible evening, Doctor”, she greeted as she approached, smiling. He turned to her momentarily, caught slightly off guard by her cheerful tone. Normally she wasn’t this happy to see him.

Turning back to his work, he replied, “Evening, Sally. Do you need something?”

She tilted her head. “Oh, no. I was just wondering if you wanted me to make you something to eat before I leave.” The doctor nodded.

“Yes, I suppose you should-...wait..” He turned towards her again. “-leave?”

Sally hesitated at the change in his tone, suddenly feeling nervous. “....Well, yes. It’s Halloween tonight, remember? The celebration? I was just-”

“You’re not going.” He cut her off. “And that’s final.”

The smile fell off her face. “w-what?”

“You’re not going, Sally. You know the rules. You are not to leave this tower for any reason, especially not alone. I know you’re not ready for Halloween. You are to stay here tonight.”

“But...I thought..”

“No buts, Sally!” He snapped. “Don’t even try and argue. You’re staying here, understand?”

Sally closed her eyes, furrowing her brows and looking away. She had hoped that maybe he would let her go out tonight, seeing how big of a deal Halloween is. Then again, she should’ve known better.

“...Alright...I-I understand..”

“Good. Now, how about you run along and make some soup for me, then? I’m starving.”

She nodded obediently, opening her eyes but not making eye contact. She felt bitter, disappointed and sad.

“Of course…right away…”

The ragdoll turned around, leaving the lab and heading straight to the kitchen, not looking back.

---

Sally shut the door to the kitchen behind her as she entered, leaning on it for a moment as she went over in her head what exactly just happened. She really hadn’t expected him to react like that. And it hurt.

She shook her head. She had been waiting far too long for this night to let Finkelstein ruin it! No no, she was going out there- one way or another.

Sally stood up straight and walked across the room to where her cauldron was, reaching into the cabinet as she passed to pull out the necessary ingredients. But on her way, she grabbed an extra ingredient. Deadly Nightshade.

If the Doctor wasn’t willing to let her go on his own, she had no choice. She had to poison him. There was no other way.

It wasn’t the worst thing to do… after all, it only knocked him out for a few hours, plus, this definitely wasn’t the first time she’s done this. It should make just enough time for Sally to slip away and possibly even make it back before he woke up. Maybe...if she got lucky...he’d never even know she was gone.

She began mixing her soup together, throwing in all her necessary ingredients and even adding an extra spice here or there. After making sure it was ready to be mixed, Sally opened the Deadly Nightshade bottle and plopped a large helping right on top. Grabbing her spoon, she mixed inside the cauldron, but she knew she wasn’t quite done. The scent of poison was very strong, and would be recognized right away.

To cover it up, she quickly added some frogs breath to her deadly concoction. The nightshade smell might be strong, but this was definitely stronger, and overpowered it immediately.

Feeling satisfied with the meal she had prepared, Sally took a large spoon and filled a bowl with it. Lastly, she added a seasoning of tiny spider eyes on top for good measure.

“Doctor? Your soup is ready” She called as she re-entered the lab. He looked up from what he was doing, pushing the experiment away to make room.

“Finally! Bring it right over here, my dear.” He instructed. Sally did as she was told and brought the bowl over, placing it down in front of him. The Doctor picked up his spoon. “Thank you. That will be all, for now. You’re excused.” She nodded to him, turning around as he brought the spoon up to his lips and took a sip. He didn’t suspect anything.

And, 3….2…..1…

Thud!

Sally smiled deviously at the sound. She whipped back around and sure enough, Finkelstein’s head had hit the table. He was knocked out cold.

She ran over and grabbed a blanket that was folded on a nearby stand, and brought it over to drape around him, so that he wouldn’t be cold, and more comfortable. After all, he could be asleep for a while.

At last, that was over with. She glanced at the clock- 7:05. The sun had set by now, and it was finally time to go.

Confidently, the ragdoll strolled over to the door. But she found herself hesitating before opening it.

“Remember, Sally,” she whispered to outloud, “this is the night you’ve been waiting for. Everyone’s favorite night of the year. You’ve already poisoned the Doctor….there’s no backing out now”

Finishing her thought and taking a breath, she finally pulled the door open, flinching as the breeze hit her. She felt excited, yet, strangely on edge. Almost like..something here didn’t….feel quite right. But she tried her best to push that away and ignore it, as she moved forward, beginning her walk towards town.

---

The wind was awfully chilly tonight. The sky was unusually dark, too. Sally looked around. Everything in town felt… different.

Except for a creaky gate or distant scream cutting through the air every so often, it was completely quiet. Too quiet. The moon above her was round and full, and she couldn’t help but momentarily stare as shadows danced around it’s bright surface.

She wandered the streets, glancing nervously around her as she went. The more she walked, the more uneasy she felt.

‘Where is everyone?’ , she wondered. From what she could barely make out squinting in the shadows surrounding her, there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. ‘And, more importantly, where exactly am I?’.

When Sally left the tower, her plan was to head straight into town square. So, that was where she had tried to go- but unfortunately, her only light source was the moon, which didn’t provide too much on it’s own. And now it seemed she couldn’t tell where she was.

‘Oh, dear… perhaps I took a wrong turn....’

A sudden movement behind her caught the corner of her eye. She whipped around quickly for a better view, but saw nothing.

“Hello? Is someone there?” She called. No response. Only darkness. Sally shivered, fear crawling up her back. It felt like someone was watching her. But from which direction? Was something staring right at her? Or...was it… behind her..? She turned around again, making a circle, but she still didn’t see anything. Or anyone. Confused and afraid, she continued walking.

But she had hardly been walking very far, when she heard another noise. But this time, she could tell- it was behind her. Sally stopped, frozen. She was too frightened to turn around. But.. maybe whatever it was, she didn’t need to be afraid of it? Perhaps it was just another citizen or… a cat or something. She gathered up all of her courage, and was about to turn around, when something grabbed her arm.

Sally shrieked loudly and ripped her arm away from it as fast as she could. The thing let go of her immediately, to her surprise, causing her to stumble forward as she tried to get away. As soon as she got proper footing on the ground again, Sally raced out of there at full speed, running into the darkness and not looking back.

She wasn’t quite sure where she was going, or where she was. But eventually, she became exhausted and had to stop. She crouched over with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Once she could breathe again, the ragdoll stood up straight and finally looked around. Wherever she was, it was much clearer. The sky seemed brighter here, and finally she could see better. When she looked closer at what was ahead, she finally recognized it and knew why it looked familiar: it was the gate to the graveyard. Sally had been to the graveyard a few times in the past. She found it to be a rather comforting spot, where she knew she could be alone. People didn’t seem to visit there often. And if there was one thing she needed right now, it was to be alone.

She shivered again as another breeze passed through her long hair. Without hesitating, she walked straight up the small hill and through the gate.

Even if it was darker than normal, everything else seemed the same here. The tombstones where all the same as she remembered and the spiral hill stood tall and proud where it always was. The moon was shining brightly above it.

Sally strolled over to a gravestone and sat down on top of it. She sighed, playing with her hair. Tonight was supposed to be fun! So why was she just.... afraid?

‘Maybe there's something wrong with me..’ she wondered, ‘maybe I just..don't belong here…’ Tears started forming in her eyes. ‘I’ll never find my place here… but what am I to do? This is the only home I have...it’s all I’ve got. Surely, I can’t just.. Go away? Leave?’ She began to sob, getting off the tombstone and sliding down it so that she was now sitting on the ground, crying. ‘It’s not like anyone would miss me if I did… I don't.. have… a single...friend..’

Sally covered her face with her hands, making her cloth-like skin damp. She was very upset. Tonight was supposed to be the greatest thing and yet, she never felt so out of place.

A few minutes passed before she looked up again, still weeping. At first glance everything seemed the same, and she thought for a second about maybe getting up soon to try and make her way back to town. But then she noticed something. Something that almost made her cry harder. Movement. Sally wasn’t alone like she thought she was, and once again her fear returned. Someone was walking towards her. She could tell now, it was a figure. A very… tall and skinny figure. She almost thought they looked… familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She squished herself back against the tombstone, shaking.

As the figure came nearer, she was able to get a better look at him, and could see him more clearly now. This definitely wasn’t someone she recognized- in fact, Sally had never seen this guy at all. He was a tall, scarecrow looking man. His body, arms and legs were all made out of straw, and he had a pumpkin head that appeared to have features carved out of it, in a sort of jack-’o-lantern style. He wore a purple shirt, closed in the middle held together by stitches. The ends of his long sleeves were ragged and ripped, as were the tails that draped down from the back of his shirt.

He approached her, holding his hands behind his back. Sally pushed further against the stone, trembling in fear.

“Please…” she cried, “Don’t...hurt me..”

The strange scarecrow man didn’t reply. He just blinked, slowly. Sally sat there, unsure what to do. Was he going to try and scare her? Well, he was already doing that. Should she just make a run for it, maybe? Or just stay put?

Before she had time to figure out what to do, the scarecrow man removed one of his hands from behind his back and held it out to her. He was offering to help her up.

Sally looked back and forth between his outstretched hand and his face. Her mouth went agape, as the gesture took her off guard. But.. maybe this was a good thing? It was certainly a more friendly thing to do… maybe this mysterious scarecrow man wasn’t out to get her after all. But then again, did she really trust him enough to take his hand?

She sniffed, wiping a tear off her cheek. It felt rude to just sit there and ignore him. Besides, had he really done anything wrong yet? What reason did she really have to be afraid right now? People in Halloween Town were typically very sweet anyway.

After hesitating one more moment, Sally shakily reached out and took his hand. It was exceptionally larger than hers. He squeezed her hand gently and pulled up right away, helping the ragdoll to her feet. Being unbalanced on her leaf filled legs, she stumbled for a moment, knocking into his chest before she pushed herself away and stood up straight.

Now that she was on her feet, Sally could get a better look at his face. She must admit, for someone who looked like a scarecrow, he was strangely… attractive. Her eyes widened a bit as she stared at him, unsure what to do now. She tried to swallow the knot in her throat.

“Who...wh-who are you…?” she squeaked out. But again, the man didn’t reply. Instead, he let go of one of her hands and brought his up to her face, using his thumb to gently wipe the tears out from under her eyes. Sally blinked. She could feel her face heating up at his touch, her cheeks going pink but her expression remained shocked. Who is this guy? The way he ran his thumb down her cheek was awfully.. soothing. Strangely enough, he was starting to make her feel better- and yet he hadn’t even spoken two words.

He moved away from her face and reached down to take her hands again. Sally just gawked at him, still not knowing what to do. Seriously, who is this guy? Can’t he at least give her his name?

She was about to open her mouth to speak again, but she was interrupted by another noise, coming from the direction of town. Music. Both her and the scarecrow man looked up. He turned his head to glance at the graveyard exit momentarily, before he once again flipped his attention back to Sally. ‘That must be the band playing…’ she figured, ‘I knew there had to be others around..! Somewhere..’

The music itself was slow, and eerie sounding, but also very peaceful and quite pretty. She turned back to the man in front of her. Maybe she could use this as an excuse to leave? That the music... meant she needed to go back to town now? She opened her mouth to say something, but found no words wanted to come out. Part of her almost felt like, despite how afraid she had been, she didn’t want to leave this man. Just from the way he was acting and how he treated her- helping her up and such- made Sally almost feel safe.

Suddenly, he stood up straight, catching her attention. He took one of her hands and brought it up around his neck, holding the other in his own, then placed his free hand around her waist. Sally straightened her back, her face flushing a bit more. She knew what this was- a dancing pose. He wanted to dance with her. To the music that was drifting in from town. And that’s exactly what he did.

He took a few swift steps backward. Sally, in too much awe to do anything else, followed his lead. They moved backward, then came forward again. He turned to the side, spinning the two of them in a circle before going backwards again. He repeated the same movements, all to the tune of the music, and Sally followed them, staring at him with wide eyes the whole time. Her mouth was open in shock. One minute, he had been simply helping her off the ground, and now, they were dancing. Together. It gave Sally butterflies. She couldn’t help but note that he seemed to be a rather good dancer, oddly enough. Meanwhile she was struggling with simply trying not to step on his feet as they moved, but he didn’t seem to mind.

He spun them around again one last time, dipping her down as the music died. She tightened her grip around his collar so as to not fall, though it probably didn’t matter anyway, since he had a good hold on her himself. He brought her back up after a few seconds and Sally blushed as she stood up straight, smoothing out her dress and flicking some hair back over her shoulder. Then she turned to look back at him. The scarecrow man was just standing there now, watching her.

He moved closer, tilting his head. Sally stared back at him. He moved his hand toward her, and she noticed, reaching out to grab it. She was about to, when suddenly, a loud voice exploded over a megaphone into the air, startling the both of them.

“Places, Everyone!”

The scarecrow man blinked suddenly. He quickly glanced from Sally, towards town then back at Sally. He nodded to her once, then turned around and began walking away. Sally watched him leave, gasping as she reached out. She didn’t want him to leave, not yet!

“W-wait!” she called, “don’t go..!”

But he was already gone.

---

Sally crouched behind a tree, watching all the other citizens do their thing. After the scarecrow man left her in the graveyard , she had found no other reason to stay there, so she had headed back into town. Upon arriving, she discovered everyone was in town square, taking part in some sort of ‘celebration’. They were singing some sort of song. Now this was more like it. Not knowing any of the lyrics or what to do, Sally had taken a seat off to the side behind a tree to watch. This was all so interesting, everyone looked very happy.

“This is Halloween, everybody scream!” “Won’t you please make way for a very special guy?”

Sally watched in amazement as a man tugged on a rope connected to a straw horse, bringing it inside town as he marched toward the fountain. There seemed to be something ontop the horse, but she didn’t quite have a good enough view to see what it was. She stood up, peering further around the tree. When she saw what it was on the back of the horse, she brought her hand up and covered her mouth instantly in surprise. It was him. The scarecrow man.

He picked up a torch and lit himself on fire, dancing and spinning on top the horse and everyone continued singing around him. Sally was completely frozen. If this man was important enough to be the center of the Halloween celebration, why had she never seen him before?! Who IS this guy?!?

Sally continued watching in complete awe. The scarecrow man did a flip, diving straight into the fountain.

“In this town, we call home, everyone hail to the pumpkin’s song”

She leaned forward, waiting to see the orange of the pumpkin head rising out of the fountain. Maybe if she paid close attention, she could figure out who he was and maybe even get the chance to speak with him.

The water rippled, and a figure rose out of it. But.

It wasn’t the scarecrow man.

Sally felt her heart stop. It was Jack. Jack Skellington.

He rose out of the fountain and everyone cheered around him. Sally slunk back behind the tree and covered her face. Jack, Jack SKELLINGTON, their KING… the man Sally knew she really admired, and the one she had COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN about because she was so focused on the mysterious scarecrow… he.. WAS the scarecrow!

She almost couldn’t believe it. Yet there he was… plain as day.

As Jack stepped down from the fountain, people crowded around him, showering him in praise. Sally just watched from a distance, not knowing what to do at all. Should she go up to him? Ask him about it? But what if it wasn’t her place to approach him..?

“-Everyone, everyone!” the Mayor shouted, “head to the town hall! We shall go over the awards and prizes there!”

She watched as everyone turned and followed him towards the large building, chatting it up and laughing as they went. Sally almost wished she could be apart of it.

As everyone went along and passed her, she noticed… someone wasn’t among them. Jack. She turned around just in time to see him slinking away in the opposite direction. She was confused. Where was he going? and.. . why?

She wasn’t sure but, she decided then and there that she needed to talk to him. She needed some answers. Taking a deep breath, she got up, and sneakily followed him.

They were almost back toward the pumpkin patch before she decided to speak up. Sally was planning on silently following him, but, unsure with where he was going or when he’d stop, she made her move.

“.....Jack!” the ragdoll called his name. He stopped walking, giving Sally a chance to catch up. She walked up behind him, hands behind her back. The skeleton turned around. At first, his facial expression looked a bit surprised, maybe even annoyed. But as soon as he saw who it was that called to him, he smiled.

“Oh, horrible evening, Sally. It’s nice to-” “-It was you, wasn’t it? In the graveyard.” she felt a little bad interrupting him, but, right now she just...needed answers. Jack’s smile fell, but came back only a second later.

“Yes. It was. I was just on my way to my post for the beginning of our song, that’s all. The graveyard is a bit of a shortcut.”

Sally’s face went pink again as she spoke to him. “I thought for sure you where coming to...to scare me..”

“Well, I’ll admit, when I saw another person there, that was my original intention. I was going to sneak up on you. But then I came closer, and I noticed..” his smile fell a little. “...you were crying.”

She turned her head away from him, embarrassed. “Oh.. yeah. I-I just...wasn’t having a very good night.”

“I’m sorry… would you like to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you..it’s alright…”

The two fell silent. Sally was still looking away from him. She knew what she wanted to ask next, she just hesitated first.

“....Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you dance with me?”

She found the courage to look him in the face again. She found his smile returning as he gazed at her, answering her question with no problem.

“Dancing always makes me feel better.” He tapped her shoulder. “Tell me, did it work?”

Sally stared up at him, once more taken aback. He really did care, didn’t he? She found herself smiling too.

“Yeah, actually.. It really did...thank you..”

“Of course… though, I do apologize, I hope I wasn’t too forward. I’d never wan’t to make you uncomfortable”

“Oh, no!” she shook her head. “Not at all! I was just confused. Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Maybe I wouldn’t have been so afraid if you had..” “Ah, yeah… sorry about that..” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I tend to not...talk very much in my Pumpkin King form. Just a habbit, I suppose..”

“It’s alright. Like I said I… was just confused. Thank you for telling me.”

He nodded once to her, then turned and glanced at the moon, noticing how late it was getting.

“Hm… I should get going…” “To where?”

Jack smiled at her again, finding it cute how curious she was.

“I like to hang out in the graveyard after a busy Halloween sometimes. It’s very peaceful to sit ontop the hill there.” “Oh…”

He paused for a moment, like he was thinking about something, and then he turned back towards her with another smile. “Would you like to join me?”

Sally blushed. “Oh..! Are you sure…? I don’t want to bother-” “Of course I’m sure. Some company would be a pleasure right now. What do you say?”

The ragdoll looked at him and smiled. Her heart began to swell, her face continuing to tint pink.

“...Sure. Thank you.”

“Of course. Let’s be off then.”

The continued down the trail together now. Sally couldn’t help but stare up at him. As they reached the gate, there was just one more thing she knew she needed to say to him.

“Happy Halloween, Jack.”

“Happy Halloween, Sally.”

#the nightmare before christmas #Jack x Sally #fanfiction #fanfic #jack skellington #pumpkin king #scarecrow #sally #dr finkelstein #the mayor #graveyard #this was meant to be posted yesterday but yea #thx for reading!#happy halloween

78 notes · View notes

shadowluverworks · 5 years ago

Text

Remissionem - Chapter 6 {Finale}

Remissionem: Latin, meaning the cancellation of a debt, charge or penalty; forgiveness of sins.

I hope you all enjoyed!!

Chapter 6: Than Ever Before

The plane slows to a stop in front of McDuck mansion. The landing has to be one of the smoothest anyone can remember, Launchpad taking extra precautions and doing his absolute best not to crash into anything. Even though it went against everything he knew, protecting his employer was at the top of his list of priorities.

Near the entrance to the large home, Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth can be seen patiently waiting, a wheelchair next to them. The pilot had radioed them the situation, not giving all the intimate details, but enough to prepare them. The housekeeper wears a look similar to a parent ready to scold their child, her arms crossed. Duckworth floats a foot off the ground beside her, his typical neutral expression masks the concern he feels growing inside.

They move to the back of the plane and reach it right as the door to the Sunchaser’s belly starts to open. The first thing they can see as the door descends is Launchpad climbing down from the cockpit to the lower level. As it lowers more, Donald and the four ducklings are the next to be seen, all crowding around a pile of blankets on the left side of the plane. Between them, the two can just make out a body sitting there, one a different shade than the rest of them: a red tinge in color.

The spy rolls the wheelchair up the ramp as they enter in the plane. Webby’s head turns at the sound of them ascending, and runs over, giving her grandmother a swift hug, “Granny!”

Mrs. Beakley doesn’t deny the embrace, though she is a bit surprised. Her granddaughter doesn’t hug her after every mission; this experience must have shaken the girl, especially the way she clings exceptionally tight. What disturbs her is the alarming amount of red stains that litter the tiny duckling’s body. The blood is not her own, which both soothes and worries the older duck.

“Webby, fill me in on the details. What are we dealing with here?” Quick to get down to business, the housekeeper and undead butler pause in the plane’s opening to listen to the child before continuing.

The girl’s eyebrows furrow together as she recounts the events, “He was struck by a swinging boulder at least twice his size. After he landed from the initial hit, he slid across the rocky mountainside before falling close to a hundred feet down into the jungle.”

Mrs. Beakley mirrors her granddaughter’s expression.

Duckworth places a hand to his mouth, “Oh dear!” That’s quite an ordeal, especially for someone of their employer’s age.

The spy urges the duckling to continue, “And the injuries?”

Webby’s eyes are staring off at nothing in particular, a troubled and distant look in them, “When we found him...” She’s quick to catch herself. Her grandmother isn’t asking for the story of what happened, only for the necessary information to know how to proceed.

She gives her head a quick shake to clear her mind, a determined look resting on her face, “Head trauma, most likely a concussion. Dislocated shoulder, Dewey already set it. Broken leg that’s also been set. Broken ribs as well as several large lacerations and bruising. No signs of internal bleeding as of now, but I haven’t been able to tell if the broken ribs are stable, and I’m worried about them moving around.”

“Has he lost consciousness?” Duckworth inquiring now.

“Yes. Several times, each lasting longer than the last.”

The woman nods in understanding, and they continue their trek to reach the small group.

The triplets stand at the rich duck’s feet, each varying in the amount of crimson staining on their tiny bodies. They turn at the sound of footsteps and move a few steps back to make room. Launchpad has joined the family, standing on Scrooge’s left while Donald kneels next to him on his right, his sleeves missing and bearing the most red streaks other than his uncle.

The two finally can get a look at their employer, and they don’t like what they see. He sits upright, leaning against a pillow along the plane’s wall, half covered by a white quilt. His left arm is in a sling, and several stitches can already be seen across his opposite arm and forehead. Despite the family having cleaned most of the wounds, his normally white feathers are a red-brown in color, mixed with dirt and blood.

He looks...tired. Undoubtably in a considerate amount of pain, but the way his normally bright and cheerful eyes after an adventure sit halfway closed and drooped, make the entrepreneur look his age. There’s a small smile on his beak at conversing with his family around him in a soft tone, but his employees can see how worn down he is.

Having spent several years living with Scrooge McDuck, they had yet to see him look quite like this. The only instance that came to mind was directly after losing his niece. Self-blame tore him up inside, and he went through a major depressed state for quite a while. Though most of the pain was emotional in that instance, they had yet to see him in such physical turmoil in all the years they spent working for him.

His grin fades at seeing the two come to his side. Mrs. Beakley releases the tight grip she holds on the wheelchair’s handles in favor of placing her fists on her hips, glaring down at him.

Certain he’s going to get an earful of his behavior and how he put the children at risk, Scrooge seeks to at least delay the outburst until he’s had time to rest. Raising his good hand just slightly, his brows furrow together, “22, ah knoo ye have a speech prepared fer me, but just this once, can it wait?”

He doesn’t expect her to listen to him, she never has in the past. She takes a breath, closing her eyes for a moment as her body relaxes with the exhale. When her eyes open again, her scowl has relaxed just slightly, turned down eyebrows lifting and kneading together just a tad to show her concern, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He blinks in pleasant surprise, at both her willingness to drop her anger for the time being, and the worry displayed in her expression. It’s not something he’s accustomed to witnessing.

Beakley pulls the wheelchair closer as Donald removes the blanket covering the injured duck’s legs. She can see the makeshift splint now, and although the leg would need a proper cast, she’s impressed at how well the family has already taken care of him.

The spy and pilot kneel to the floor to assist in lifting the battered body. Scrooge’s right arm is wrapped around his nephew’s neck again as his left leg draws up to help him stand. He’s terribly stiff from the long ride in the same position and is unsure if his injuries are causing the pain he feels or if it’s the arthritis.

Launchpad assists from the left, careful of the wounded arm, and Beakley helps Donald on the right as they lift the old duck off the plane’s floor. The movement makes the pain heighten once again; Scrooge’s face squeezes together, gritting his teeth as a grunt of discomfort escapes him.

Finally, he’s back on his...foot, though the three lifting take most of his weight. Dewey runs to the wheelchair’s handles, ready to move it if need be. Slowly, they ease the avian over to it and sit him down. A cough and breath of air is released as he settles. After moving his feet up on the footrests, the spy wheels him backwards off the padded area and down the ramp of the Sunchaser, his family close behind.

Being home is a relief, though now he wishes he hadn’t made quite so many steps in the mansion. He hadn’t considered stairs being a problem at the time the mansion was being built. Each bump is painful, but eventually they make it to his bedroom on the second floor. There are medical supplies laid out on his bed as well as Duckworth’s briefcase containing his stethoscope and other instruments.

Scrooge is careful in choosing his employees, but especially the ones who live with him. Basic medical training and knowledge is a requirement for the butler and housekeeper. The main reason being the stingy duck refused to go to a hospital unless absolutely required. If he can save a penny and have his own workers care for him, even if it isn’t top of the line, he’d take it in an instant.

Thankfully Duckworth had a small medical background, he isn’t a doctor by any means, but had much of the same knowledge of a nurse. Mrs. Beakley also had received medical training when she first started working for S.H.U.S.H. Together they took care of Scrooge McDuck to the best of their abilities.

The spy has shooed Donald, Launchpad, the triplets, and Webby out of the room, ensuring they would take good care of the old duck. They could visit later after his injuries had been properly dressed, and they could clean themselves up in the meantime. Despite their worry and objection, they have little choice but to oblige as the door is shut in their many faces.

Mrs. Beakley prepares the disinfectant wipes while Duckworth takes his stethoscope from the open case. Being a ghost doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t physically touch or hold objects; it just requires more concentration on his part. By focusing his essence into a particular body part, like his hand, he could easily pick up items as if he were still alive.

With stethoscope and watch in hand, Duckworth floats over to his employer as Scrooge gulps his nerves down.

“I’m going to take your vital signs, Mr. McDuck. It’s imperative we ensure your condition is stable and not in need of urgent medical attention.”

The housekeeper does little to muffle her reply, “Most people would consider this an urgent need.” She’s obviously upset he hasn’t already gone to a hospital.

Scrooge lifts his good arm onto the handle of the wheelchair, palm up, as his butler takes his pulse, “Ah’m fine. Just a wee bit banged up is all.”

The elderly woman’s eyes squint behind her glasses as she brings her supplies over to him, “Yes, just a ‘wee bit.’ I didn’t realize how much a concussion can affect one’s common sense! You have multiple broken bones, a dislocated shoulder,” she’s stuttering slightly as her rage starts to build again, “Y-you’re too old to be this injured! How you’re still alive is beyond me!”

Scrooge’s eyebrows lower as he hears her accusations. Didn’t she say a few minutes ago this could wait until later?

She holds a small container of wetted gauze and antiseptic solution in hand, separating one piece from the rest before holding it up to the stitched-up laceration over his forehead, “...And yet.”

He winces away at the contact, though without far to go in the wheelchair he has little choice but to accept it as she continues, “...I can’t help but be grateful you are.”

He blinks in surprise, “...Bentina...”

At this angle, she can barely see the dark bruising over his ribcage, and after cleaning the head wound, she gently, yet forcibly, makes him lean the opposite direction to get a better look, moving his arm away. He immediately groans in pain at the stretch in his torso, but she ignores the cry for now. The spy’s eyebrows furrow as she runs a few fingers over it, feeling the bones shift slightly under her touch and ignoring a rather loud bellow, “This is what concerns me the most.”

Sweat runs down his forehead, gritting his teeth and mumbling faint curses in his native dialect, “Curse me kilts, yer just like yer granddaughter!” The injury had actually felt a bit better after being stitched up, but now was aggravated once again, making his body tremble.

To his dismay, his pained exclamations go unheard yet again as his butler floats to the opposite side. At the sight of the damaged ribs, the undead man’s face grows more concerned, “Dear me! That injury is severe, Mr. McDuck, and right along your lungs! If you have any breathing problems, you must inform me straight away!” A groan in acknowledgment is all Scrooge is able to manage.

Finally allowed a moment’s respite, Scrooge is allowed to straighten himself again as Beakley goes back to her cleaning, leaving that particular wound for last. Duckworth places the end of his stethoscope over the rich duck’s chest, listening to his elderly heartbeat as well as breath sounds. Any abnormality heard would be grounds to send Scrooge directly to a hospital, whether he likes it or not. Any internal injuries are far too advanced for himself and Mrs. Beakley to care for themselves.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he moves the cold, round, metal end down to the bruised ribs and along the laceration, a suppressed grunt sounding amplified in his ears. He’s looking for any muffled sounds in the lung where the broken bones are located, indicating the sharp pieces could be puncturing tissues and causing internal bleeding. To his pleasant surprise, he finds none.

Moving along, the butler grabs the thermometer next, “Open your beak, Mr. McDuck.”

A glare meets his gaze; his boss has clearly not lost his temper. The patient speaks, “Duckworth is all this really nec-”

Said undead being takes the opportunity to plunge the thin device into the old duck’s beak, glare ever increasing. For now, he ignores his employer’s anger and retrieves his small flashlight. Focusing his energy into his fingertips, he creates a more solid mass in order to gently lift the cheapskate’s head up by his chin.

Taking the flashlight, Duckworth flashes the device back and forth, in and out of the dark turquoise eyes, testing the pupil reflex. Scrooge stares reluctantly back at him, squinting a bit at the brightness. His employee’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, glancing between both eyes.

The thermometer’s alarm sounds, and it’s removed from his beak. The ghost reads it, “You have a fever, and your pupils are not dilating correctly, indicating a possible concussion. Have you had any trouble with your vision?"

Scrooge’s mood has calmed once again to the tired demeanor, further pushing Duckworth to highly suspect a brain injury at the mood swings, “Some. Just...dizzy mainly.”

The butler lists off a few more symptoms, “Headache? Brief memory lapse? Nausea?”

A simple blink in response, confirming his inquiries.

He takes a not needed breath out of habit, placing his hands on his hips, “You have several critical, though so far unfatal, injuries, Mr. McDuck. Your vitals are stable. However, if you want to make sure you remain in the land of the living, you are going to need a lot of rest.”

The housekeeper decides to step in, her eyes boring holes into the old man, “And no adventuring.”

The rich duck slumps in the wheelchair with a hmph, “Ay, ah knoo.”

The spy seems satisfied with his answer, for now, “Good. Then let’s finish cleaning you up and let you get some rest.”

Mrs. Beakley makes quick work of cleaning the rest of the lacerations before promptly bandaging them with gauze and wraps, all but the largest on the side. A wrap around the rich duck’s middle would not be beneficial and could actually cause more harm than good. After cleaning it, ointment is applied to help heal, and nothing more is done.

Duckworth has already made a cast for the broken leg and put it in place, removing the scuffed spats in the process. It feels a bit more enveloping than the makeshift one the boys made, but at least it’s stable. A proper sling also holds his injured arm, providing much more support than the previous ones had.

With Scrooge finally properly bandaged, the spy pushes the wheelchair closer to the bed, turning his back to the wall and facing the door, “You wait here for a moment. I’m going to grab a few things.”

She leaves the room as Duckworth packs up his supplies on the bed. The apparition places everything back in its original space before closing his briefcase and turning to make his leave, “We shall change those bandages in the morning, but for now get some rest, Mr. McDuck. Don’t hesitate to call upon me if you should need any assistance.”

His employer gives a nod, the exhaustion evident on his features, “Thank ye, Duckworth.”

As the phantom leaves, he opens the door for Mrs. Beakley who has returned with a few items in hand: a small tray with a bowl containing what looks like soup, and his pajama shirt fresh from the dryer. She places the tray on the nightstand near his bed, not missing the wary stare sent her way, “I realize you probably don’t have much of an appetite but do try and drink a little broth if you can.”

He can’t bear the thought of eating anything at this moment, his stomach still rolling along with his vision, but he may try and take a few spoonful’s later, after the liquid stops steaming, if it would satiate his caretaker.

The grandmother straightens out the shirt in her hold before bringing it to the injured duck, “Here, I just washed it so it should be nice and warm.” She’s well aware of the amount of blood he had lost, seeing the towels and blankets on the Sunchaser. He will need to drink a lot of fluids to replenish his supply, hence the soup. But in the meantime, a warm, clean shirt and lots of blankets should help the chill running through him. She’d seen him shiver on more than one occasion, but he’s never mentioned anything, though she isn’t surprised.

She helps him slip the shirt over his right arm, assisting him in leaning forward, and then simply drapes it over the opposite shoulder. A pleasant tremor runs through his frame at the warmth the shirt holds, and he’s reminded how much he appreciates his housekeeper.

Beakley then pulls the covers of his bed away, plumping the pillows before turning back to him. He holds out his good arm for her to grip, knowing full well the large woman could carry him easily. She has done so on a few missions in the past, to his embarrassment. But he’s a bit uneasy at being carried like this, afraid of how his body might ache.

Thankfully, she moves to support him instead, and helps him lift out of the chair. His broken body screams in protest at every moment, forcing strained grunts out of him. The younger avian can feel the smaller body trembling in her grip as they turn him to sit on the side of the bed. She helps move him backwards to rest on the pillows before helping ease his legs up. He lets out a groan as his body settles against the softness of his mattress and pillows, Mrs. Beakley covering him with the blankets. He feels a bit more at ease now; hours of trying to hide his pain from the children has only added to his exhaustion.

His caretaker eyes him, trying to remember if there was ever a time she’d seen him in such physical agony on any of their missions. She starts to collapse the wheelchair, “Sitting up a bit more like that might help the pain from your ribs. Think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Scrooge isn’t one to voice his pain, to give it power over him, but he can already tell any sleep would be in vain with the way his body punishes him every motionless second. He slightly shakes his head, so little if Mrs. Beakley hadn’t been looking closely, she wouldn’t have noticed. But she does, he can tell because her eyes grow softer, like when she talks about her granddaughter.

Placing the chair under an arm, her mind is made up, “I’m going to the store to get you some pain medication.” Eyes widen dramatically, and she interrupts him before his complaint begins, “I’ll use my own money. It will be good to have some around the house anyway with this accident-prone family.”

He relaxes just slightly but looks away. The thought of spending money just so he could rest comfortably seems so wasteful. But at least she wouldn’t be putting it on his bill.

No objection is made, and she takes that as his approval, “I’ll be back soon. Your family were taking turns in the shower last I saw them, but they shouldn’t be far away, and Duckworth is here as well if you need anything.” He dips his head, eyes placed directly in front of him as she takes her leave.

Finally, alone. He sighs and reclines further into his pillows, careful of laying completely flat. Eyes open to nothing in particular. The room is just starting to darken as the day begins to end. The family had left very early that morning, but it felt like weeks since he last laid in his bed. His body is cradled perfectly, and normally he’d already be asleep. Eyelids flutter to a close in an attempt, and he sits still for a long while.

The old body twitches and a sharp pain jolts up his side. Scrooge grunts and his eyes open once again. It’s impossible to stay comfortable, the constant throbbing is too much for him to truly relax. A groan mixed with a sigh leaves him in exasperation. Seems he’ll have to wait for Mrs. Beakley to return after all.

The mirror across the room catches his eye, and a very tired, elderly duck stares back at him. It takes a moment to realize it’s himself. Lifting his head, he examines the bandages wrapped around his skull and the dark circles under his eyes, one darker than the other. So, this is what his family sees, has seen, of him for the past eight or so hours. What he’s viewing now is the version of him that’s been cared for, cleaned. If this alone disturbs himself, he can’t imagine what terrible image his family must have of him in their minds.

His encounter with the youngest triplet plays back in his head, the boy’s unnerving eyes staring ahead of him, and his words, “...seeing you all...bloody and hurt! That picture’s stuck in my head!” The way his haunted gaze fell on the red stains of his hands and sleeves.

And then his brother, Dewey, muttering Scrooge’s name over and over in what was certainly a nightmare about him. How the boy woke and tried desperately to get his uncle’s blood off the tiny hands.

Even his eldest nephew had returned to calling him Unca Scrooge in the moment they questioned his mortality.

The wealthy duck is ashamed of what he put his own family through. He needs to have a talk with Donald and the boys, about all this, to put their minds at ease, and hopefully make amends with his nephew. Perhaps afterwards the sailor would privilege him enough to keep referring to him as Unca Scrooge. He prefers that.

A thought strikes him. There’s another person in this house that doesn’t call him by his favored name. She was along when the accident happened as well, in fact he remembers the duckling being visibly upset by his side when he first regained consciousness. She hasn’t been truly herself for quite a while, though Webby seemed to be ok after the ordeal, but was she hiding anything? Is she alright?

Scrooge’s eyes focus on himself in the mirror again, and straining himself slightly, he sits up. The girl had been the one to sew up his side; he slides his shirt to the side to see the damage done, moving his bad arm slightly as well. The dark bruise is a bit startling to see firsthand, brows furrowing. The stitch work is what surprises him the most though; it looks like it was done by a professional! A smile reaches his beak in pride, “Not bad, Webbigail!”

“Thanks, Mr. McDuck!”

The sudden reply makes him jump and shout in surprise. Glancing around in confusion, the lass is nowhere to be seen. Had he misheard that? No, he was old, but he still had his wits about him!

A thought hits him and he sends a half-hearted glare to the vent on his ceiling, tone that of a disapproving parent, “Webby, c’mon oot.”

The vent is removed, and the girl jumps to the ground, landing only a few feet from his bedside.

The impressed and prideful feelings he’s having for his niece will have to wait, “What on earth were ye doin’ up there?!”

The duckling has her pajamas on, and her body is clean of the crimson stains that littered it before. She must have showered, as her hair is still damp. She twirls a finger around a piece as she stares at the floor, “Sorry, Mr. McDuck. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just worried; and then Granny left to go to the store. I was afraid of something happening to you when no one was watching. Like, what if your stitches come loose and you start bleeding again? Or if your room gets too cold and you get a chill? Or what if you had to pee and tried to get up but fell?!” Her face now contorted into a face of anxiety and concern.

The girl’s rambling is making Scrooge’s head swirl, and he holds his right hand up to quiet her, “Whoa, whoa, lass! Calm doon!”

She relaxes her posture once again, her gaze dropping to the floor. He doesn’t like seeing her so disheartened, it’s not something that should be on Webby’s face.

Not fighting the small smile that creeps onto his beak, he attempts to cheer her up, “I appreciate yer concern, dear, but ah’m alright.” It doesn’t have the desired effect, her face still fallen.

He blinks, looking up at the ceiling where the vent has been pushed aside. The smile widens, “Though I have tae say, havin’ someone ‘up there’ lookin’ oot fer me is a comfortin’ thought.”

The duckling looks up, beak slightly open and eyes hopeful, yet unsure.

“Almost like a guardian angel of sorts, eh? ‘Spose ah should be thankin’ ye,” a wink in her direction, and a smile climbs to her features once again, it’s a relief to see.

Her tiny body straightens, “Of course! I have to keep a look out and make sure no harm befalls you in my Granny’s place!”

She sees the bowl of broth left behind by her grandmother, now cooled and no longer steaming, “Oh! Do you want some soup? I can help you!”

Before he can resist, she’s picking up the tray and walking it over to him, only a few feet away. He doesn’t have the heart to deny her again, and strains to sit himself up. Seeing his struggle, she sets the tray down at the end of the bed and helps him into a more upright position.

Webby brings the tray back but falters on deciding where to set it. She doesn’t want to put any extra weight on the weak body. But her mind seems to make itself up, and she puts the tray back on the bed for a moment before hopping up next to the old duck and placing the platter on her own lap.

With his arm in a sling, Scrooge wouldn’t be able to hold a bowl in one hand and use a spoon with the other. The duckling is quick to resolve that, scooping up a spoonful and blowing gently to make sure the temperature isn’t too hot.

Already seeing what she’s planning, the rich duck sputters in awkwardness, “W-Webby, ye donnae hav-”

But it’s too late, she’s already offering it to him, along with a “It’s alright, I don’t mind, Mr. McDuck!” in her high, chipper voice.

He hadn’t missed that the first time, but it’s just as grading on him now, the fact that she’s still referring to him as ‘Mr. McDuck.’

His gaze flicks between the spoon held at his beak and the girl’s dark eyes staring back at him. They look empty and sad, though she wears a smile on her face. He knows she wants to be helpful, but he’s still unsure if his stomach can handle anything. Seeing her face turn downtrodden if he turns her away yet again would be too much to bear. He doesn’t like seeing her upset.

He is feeling a bit parched, perhaps some soup would do the trick. Swallowing his pride, he opens his beak and allows her to hand feed him the broth. The warmth is soothing, and not too hot. He swallows as she returns the spoon to the bowl for more.

After a few spoonful’s, he decides now is the time to speak up. They’re alone, it’s time to address what he’s been meaning to for quite a while but has been too anxious to. He swallows any inhibitions along with the soup and asks the question he already knows the answer to, face turning to one of confusion, “Ah’ve bin meanin’ to ask, lass, is there a particular reason why yer callin’ me that?”

A surprised blink meets him as he accepts another spoonful, and she’s a little taken aback. All at once, she’s twirling a finger around her hair again, not meeting his gaze, “O-oh, you mean ‘Mr. McDuck?’”

Her demeanor is instantly different, and he frowns. The soup is forgotten for the time being, and she’s quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words, “...I guess it started again after...that time on the Sunchaser...”

There it is. He knew that was the reason, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to bring it to light.

"This is a family matter; you are not family!" Brows furrow. Disgust with himself as well as shame rises within him. That such a happy child could be affected so much by what he, her hero, had said to her, that the very life in her tiny body seemed to vanish until all that remained was an empty shell.

No words are said. Scrooge McDuck is not one for reconciliation; typically, he avoids such situations at all cost. However, what if such words were the last the duckling ever heard from him on the matter? If he hadn’t survived the accident? Is that how he truly wants her to remember him by, the man she so looked up to and idolized, but could never see her as anything more than his housekeeper’s granddaughter?

Her hands lower to the tray along with her line of vision, and she’s the first to say something, “I know you told me I could call you ‘Uncle Scrooge’ but...after that I just...”

“Ye felt ye didnae have teh right anymore, that ah had taken it from ye,” he finishes for her.

Her violet eyes glance up at him again, but he’s the one not meeting her gaze now. His stare lingers on the blankets covering his body, “...Ah gave ye teh opportunity tae be a part of our family in one moment, and then took it away in teh next.”

Slowly, the old eyes move to meet hers, sincerity in them that the girl had never seen before, “Ah understand. Webby, darlin’...what ah said tae ye back then, was downright disgraceful. Ah’m ashamed it came outta me own beak. Ah’ve no excuse.”

The tiny duck stares unmoving, hope and uncertainty covering her expression. Listening intently, and only blinking when absolutely necessary, she’s taking in every word, every detail, and etching it into her mind. The feel of the expensive sheets beneath her, and the pounding of her own heart against her rib cage, as if trying to break free. From the smell of soup in the air, to the tremble in the man’s voice.

The old avian continues, “And ah was dead wrong. Yer every bit a part of this family as me, Donald, the triplets...ye always have bin. Ah’m...”

A pause, this is unknown territory for him. Is he doing this correctly? Is he saying the right things? He has to be; she’s still here and hasn’t run from the room in tears. He forces himself to press on, “Ah’m sorry.”

He swears he sees her eyes become even more glittery for a split second, and she’s moving the tray aside. Is she making a run for it? Did he mess up again?! He has to finish, has to get everything out, “Can ye ever forgive me?”

The words barely leave him before he’s pushed backwards into the pillows with a grunt, a sudden weight on his chest. A blink as he analyzes the situation: the small body is pressed against his own, careful not to do damage; tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck; a face buried in his good shoulder, and his pajama shirt feels damp underneath it.

This isn’t the outcome he was expecting, but maybe it isn’t a bad one.

His face grows concerned as a muffled sniffle reaches his ear, and a hiccup runs through the tiny body. His good arm wraps around the girl, resting on her back, as he tries to rouse her, “Webby?”

“Yes.”

Another blink, “Hm?”

She moves away just slightly to look at him, tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, but there’s a smile on her face, “Yes, I forgive you.”

His turn to grin, edges of his beak turning up as relief floods him. The light fills her dark eyes once more.

He hadn’t paid much mind to her in all the years she lived in his mansion before the boys returned. Although they shared a home, they had their own lives, and hardly ever crossed paths. Getting to know the girl that he’d seen many a time down the hallway for a brief moment or unabashedly staring up at him in awe with those wide, innocent eyes of hers whenever she had the chance, had been one of the best decisions of his life. Losing her because of his own foolishness would have been too much to accept.

Webby wipes her eyes quickly, the joy and acceptance returning in them; they had been hollow for far too long. She sniffles and forces one last hug on the other, snuggling her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, “I was so worried today would be our last adventure, that we’d leave things like that, that you’d never wake up. I’m so happy you’re ok, Uncle Scrooge.”

His smile broadens. Bless me dime, how ah’ve missed that. His arm embraces her in return, hand rubbing her small back in his own silent agreement, “Ah’m nae perfect, Webby, but ah promise, ah’ll never deny ye ever again.”

She sits back, life-filled eyes still watering as she smiles at him.

Wiping her face once more, she turns around to the tray of soup again, “Oh, here,” she brings the platter to her lap as she straddles his waist.

Before she can scoop up more, he holds up a hand to stop her, “A-ah’m grateful, lass, but ah donnae think ah can handle much more.” His hand rests on his stomach, indicating the upset.

She blinks at his hand before registering what he means, “Oh, right, the concussion. Sorry,” she smiles meekly up at him, though she’s not offended.

He shakes his head back at her, “’s alright. Thank ye fer takin’ care a me.”

The girl jumps off the bed, taking the tray along with her, “I’m gonna go put this in the fridge for later!” She turns to leave at his approval, closing the door behind her and leaving the old man to smile happily to himself.

Webby walks down the hallway, intent on returning to the other’s side, and nearly runs into a showered Donald who was only a few steps away, “Woah, sorry!”

He’s just as startled as she, and damp feathers shake with their owner’s head, “No, I’m sorry for surprising you."

They stand there for a moment, his hands fiddling together, as if contemplating whether he should ask the question in his head.

Webby watches him closely, “You ok?”

He dodges her question and asks his own, nodding towards the door she’d just exit from, “Is he awake?”

A nod, “Yup, just waiting for Granny to come back from the store with the pain medicine,” she frowns, “He’s still hurting pretty bad.”

Donald mimics her expression.

The girl studies him a bit longer, a smirk tugging to her face; he’s so easy to read. She had been planning on returning to Scrooge’s side until Mrs. Beakley returns, but seeing as someone else would like to pay the old duck a visit, she decides instead to nonchalantly walk past him, “Well, I’m off to the kitchen to put this soup away, see ya!”

Webby knows full well Donald has more on his mind than just a simple visit, and she’s happy to leave the two to it, only upset she wouldn’t be able to witness it herself.

It seems the older duck was hoping to sneak into his uncle’s room unseen, so she leaves to allow him the feeling of obscurity. He’s grateful for her willingness to leave her hero’s side and waits patiently for the girl to turn the corner before facing the door once again.

The avian had been trying to buck up the courage to actually go in for quite some time, pacing around the corridor and kicking himself. But he hadn’t realized that the young duckling was already keeping the injured duck company and is relived he waited so long. Now that Donald knows Scrooge is alone, this is his chance to talk one on one with the other, to make amends.

A hand reaches out and rests on the doorknob, careful not to make a sound. He’s mind is screaming to just rip the door open and get it over with, trying to convince himself it won’t be as bad as he thinks. Is he...trembling? Clearly his anxiety is taking control of the situation. Eyes screw together for a moment as he takes a calming breath, forcing his shoulders to drop in mock relaxation. Finally, his body complies, and he turns the knob.

Scrooge’s eyes open to the sound of the door opening again. Webby is certainly fast when she wants to be, a smile gracing his features at the thought of the girl running to the kitchen as fast as possible to all but throw the soup bowl in the refrigerator before running back, most likely spilling some of the broth along the way.

He glances in the direction of the sound, grin still present on his face, “Back already, Webbiga-?”

The smile is immediately ripped off his appearance. The black figure in the doorway, letting the light in to his dark bedroom, it’s much too tall to be the duckling returning from her errand. Though he can easily recognize the form, and his body is already starting to sit up in his startled state, “Donald?” His voice faulters in pain at the wince running through his broken body, gritting his teeth against it.

The shadow floats into the room, closing the door behind him and shutting out the light once again, leaving them both in darkness, “No, no, don’t get up!” The tone concerned and uneasy as it moves towards the bed.

Scrooge lets out a groan as he eases himself back onto the pillows without a fight. Their eyes adjust to the blackened room, and are able to make out each other’s features, both of equal uncertainty and discomfort.

Donald’s gaze moves about the dressings and bindings covering his wounded uncle, the sight much easier to witness than that of the gory, crimson-filled scene a mere 8 hours ago. The man is more conscious as well, which puts his own psyche at ease. He decides to try some small talk, to ease into the conversation he has in mind, “Looks like Mrs. B and Duckworth did a good job bandaging everything. How’re ya feeling?”

A scowl in response. Scrooge is still trying not to breathe in an attempt to numb the pain from sitting up in such a forceful way. He doesn’t trust his own voice not to give it away, trying desperately not to make a sound. Surely the other can tell that he’s hurting? That simply cleaning the wounds did little help to mask the ensnarement his body is subject to? Perhaps his nephew does know, but is being sarcastic? Still, his own agitation is flaring at the younger duck’s possible naivety, and his gruff voice sounds out in between his silent grunts, “Is that supposed tae be a joke?!"

A flinch. The sailor’s face showing a brief expression of hurt before looking away, one hand coming to scratch behind his head.

The rich duck is left to blink in surprise, his body finally settling against the bed and pain numbing again to a more tolerant level. The logical part of his brain, now able to work properly, realizing Donald did indeed know of his discomfort, but was simply attempting to show his concern. Replaying his reply over in his head, he mentally curses at the harshness of his tone.

A heavy sigh, the old duck frustrated with himself, he offers up an awkward apology, “That’s...nae what ah...a-ah didnae mean...”

His nephew shakes his head to silence the other, still keeping eye contact with anything but the one on the bed, “No, it’s fine. It was a dumb question.”

The subject is dropped just like that, and they sit in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. The rich duck grips the blankets at his side, fiddling with them in uneasiness. Neither of them is quick to resolve the tension building in the air, and normally now would be the time Scrooge would take his leave, not knowing what else to do or say. Donald would normally be the one left behind as the two would mentally argue at themselves for letting it end like that.

However, the Scottish duck can’t escape in this situation, quite literally trapped in his own home. His nephew shows no signs of abandoning the hope of a decent conversation as he turns and sits on the bed at his uncle’s knees. Clearly this is going to happen, and it’s going to happen now, whether either of them like it or not. Donald’s face is unreadable, starring at his webbed feet on the carpeted floor.

Scrooge contemplates yelling at the other to leave, even if just to relieve the awkwardness of this situation, though he quickly dismisses the thought. He doesn’t truly desire the sailor to leave, just to say what’s on the other’s mind. Why is so hard to talk to his own nephew?

The elderly avian had been waiting for a moment such as this all day to address what had happened that morning; to apologize for what he had said. Although happy to see Donald come through his door, he also felt his own inhibitions surface at having said opportunity suddenly available. He was almost hoping for a bit more time to find the right words and gain the knowledge of how to approach the situation.

Scrooge nearly jumps when the younger of the two abruptly begins the conversation on his own accord, tone unsure and brief, “Look, I...I just wanted to...say thanks.”

A blink, “Eh? Fer what?”

A timid smile, almost invisible to the naked eye, as he glances in the other’s direction, “For saving my life.”

The confused avian’s beak opens slightly in surprise. This is not what the conversation was supposed to be about. But before he can say anything in retaliation, Donald continues on, “If you hadn’t ‘ve pushed me outta the way...”

His gaze on the floor again, his expression turns troubled as the memory runs through his mind. The boulder swinging down the hill at breakneck speed, intent on bloodshed. He remembers staring up at the rocky face as if it would be the last thing he’d ever see, memorizing every detail as it seemed to happen in slow motion. The sailor had been on several dangerous missions in the past, but in that one moment of impending death, when the threat of the future of his nephews could easily have slipped from his fingers, and he could have never sought after reconciliation with the man who had raised him, Donald froze. But he wasn’t ready to die.

Donald had seen Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s first steps, first words, first difference in personalities. He’d been there for potty training, nightmares, and education. But would he live to see their first car? Their first crush? Their graduation? Their children?

And Uncle Scrooge, the old miser who had taken him and Della in when their parents died to raise as his own, the man he had come to know behind the gruff exterior, the hero he had looked up to when growing up; was Donald really going to die and leave the already broken duck behind believing he despised the old man for his sister’s disappearance?

No, Donald had too much to live for. He can’t die now. The sailor wasn’t ready to freely give away the fate of the triplets to the next of kin, and he can’t depart this world to leave the wealthy duck like so many had already. But as that stone rushed towards him, and all those thoughts entered his head at once, he found himself stuck in the same spot, unable to move a muscle.

Until hands, ones he was all too familiar with, grabbed ahold of his body and brought him into reality. Though before his own body came back to him, the hands were already pushing against him and he was flying through the air a short distance away. It was then when his body collided with the ground and rolled that he became aware of himself again, and just who had saved him from his certain demise. Instinctually, his head flipped up to see his savior, eyes glued to the scene playing out before them.

Scrooge, the elderly duck who had been visibly in pain that day, surely because of an old arthritic wound, had moved faster than Donald had ever seen him move before. At one moment the entrepreneur had been a good distance away with the children, and the next he was standing in the exact spot the sailor had but a moment before.

His arms were still outstretched before him, panting heavily, body in a pained stance, and expression that of panic. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, Donald’s face contorting into one of terror at the sudden realization of their change in position. The rich duck never once turned to face the oncoming threat; gaze stuck on his nephew.

But the sight that would forever haunt Donald was the second before the rock had struck. As the pair exchanged a look, his uncle’s blue-green eyes glancing over his frame rapidly and intently, as if insuring the other was unharmed, Scrooge’s expression fell into what the sailor could only describe as relief. Relief that his child was ok, and acceptance for his own fate.

Donald’s eyes only grew larger at the sight. The old body seemed to relax for a moment, before the stone connected with its target, and the sickening sound of bones crunching and cracking as the rich duck’s body gave way under the boulder’s weight echoed in the forest and in the minds of the family witnessing.

The sailor shakes his head to clear the trauma from his mind, finally turning to look at the entrepreneur, “Why’d you do it? After this morning and...everything that’s happened...I thought you’d scold me for not getting outta the way in time, but...you haven’t even brought it up.”

Scrooge is watching him closely; eyebrows furrow together at his question. His good arm moves behind him and pushes his painful torso up with a wince, “Donald...lad...”

His nephew is ready to push him back down, when he stops the younger duck with a hand to the cheek, his eyes sincere and concerned, “Do ye really think ah’d let anythin’ happen tae ye?”

The sailor looks at him for a moment, studying the other and contemplating his response, before frowning and turning his head away, out of the other’s reach. As much as he wants to believe that, how can he?

Scrooge’s hand faulters in the air at the rejection, before lowering it to his chest, heart aching at the memory that pries itself back into his mind. He’d be a liar to say he’ll always keep his family safe; he’ll always protect them. How can he so freely speak those words after what happened to Donald’s own twin sister? His gaze lowers to the sheets, shame rising within himself. He won’t meet his nephew’s disappointed eyes.

10 years. It’s been 10 years and they haven’t spoken at all about that day. Their silence is only doing more damage to the relationship the old duck has been trying to repair. This can’t continue; it’s not healthy. The only way to truly mend the bond that was severed is to put them both in a vulnerable spot, to strip away their guards, break down their walls, and really talk.

Scrooge sighs heavily. Relaying his own feelings, let alone talking about them, has never been easy. From a young age he learned to turn off his emotions after being backstabbed time and time again in his search for riches. Becoming a cold-hearted sourdough may have been lonely at times and pushed anyone who tried to get close to him away, but being alone was easier than dealing with the betrayal from anyone using him to get rich themselves.

However, after years of being distant and emotionally cut off, he found it difficult to reverse the effects. When his niece and nephew came to live with him several years ago, he hadn’t realized how harshly he came across. He was certain they had hated him. Though after a long period of time raising the two, something began to stir inside that he’d thought long dead. Money was no longer the only thing that brought joy to his life, smiles weren’t so rare, and laughter not so unnatural.

Scrooge had made huge strides since his days in the Klondike, but that didn’t mean his emotions came as easy as anyone else. They still seemed out of reach most of the time; he’d catch himself being too cold often when it was already too late and trying to find the words to translate his feelings were near impossible.

Clearing his throat, which felt much to dry, he launches head-first into what he can only hope will be a discussion with a positive outcome, “What...What happened back then...”

Donald’s eyes flick to him in their owner’s peripheral vision, arms crossed in uncertainty.

Scrooge’s eyebrows furrow in agitation, “Ah should’ve seen it comin’. Ah raised ye kids fer 20 years! Ah should’ve known she’d take it as soon as ah turned me back!” Because that’s what ah would’ve done.

The sailor almost chokes in surprise, not expecting this to come up now of all times. His uncle must be delirious from his concussion. Why does he want to talk about this now?! Donald hoped they’d never have this conversation, that if they ignored it for long enough, their relationship might still go back to the way it was before.

But he knows that’s ridiculous. He’s had a decade to sort through his own emotions about what happened, but never put much thought into it. The sailor was thrown into parenthood immediately after the incident and had to put his own emotions aside.

Then there was Scrooge, who wallowed in his own self-loathing and blame for the past 10 years. Della had taken the rocket, but he had built it. It wasn’t enough to just lose his niece in that one act, but he also lost his nephew and great nephews too in the same moment. His life, full of happiness and family, suddenly broken and lonely.

Donald had thought many a time of coming back to the mansion, talking things over with his uncle, or even pretending nothing happened and simply moving on. But every time the thought came in his head, he talked himself out of it, still too confused about his own feelings of the situation. Of course, there’s disbelief, disapproval, betrayal, anger, and sadness to name a few. But hatred? No. He doesn’t hate his uncle, nor his sister.

He believes Scrooge shouldn’t have built the rocket at that time, but Della had been the one take it. Their uncle didn’t force his sister to leave, he didn’t even tell her about it. She had been the one to find out and taken it in secret. Was he upset with her? Yes, but that was Della. She was always the risk taker of the two, the adventurous one. He can’t hate her for that.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the injured avian continues in his admission, “...Ah’ve thought it over so many times. Ah knoo ah shouldnae ‘ve encouraged her, not when she was expectin’ three wee ones! Ah should’ve seen past mah own excitement an’ done what was right, not go an’ taunt her with teh world’s greatest adventure in history!”

The wealthy duck’s anger is rising. He’s still not meeting his nephew’s gaze, and his good hand is moving about erratically with him. Gripping the skin between his beak and forehead in exasperation, his voice rising slightly, he all but growls out the words, “Of course she would take it, ah took the blueprints and practically laid it in her lap! She was always good at sniffin’ out surprises, it didnae matter how well ah hid it! Ah shouldnae ‘ve built that blasted rocket in teh first place!” His fist shakes the bed as it connects beside him.

Donald blinks, taken aback by his outburst and now the trembles that have started in his uncle’s body. The feathered head is lowered, but the sailor can still make out the tears welling up in Scrooge’s dark eyes. He’d been listening silently to the old man’s rages, taking in everything said.

Scrooge’s voice struggles to keep steady, “...Ah searched for that accursed Spear for so long...”

He still clearly recalls the day the members of his Board had quite literally dragged him out of the room as he was yet again attempting to make contact with the lost rocket. Too much time had gone by, they had said, there was no hope. But he knows it was the funds that drove them more than anything else to put an end to his desperate search.

Money had been the last thing on his mind, even when his Bin had lowered to levels he hadn’t seen in nearly a century. Every coin; he knew where every coin in that Bin had come from, and the story behind it. It was more than just money, it was his memories, his souvenirs of the past. At one time, they meant more than anything to him. But he had willingly given them away, quite literally burned them in the rockets he sent out to find his lost niece. Money could be made again, and more memories could replace the ones that would be forgotten. It would all be worth it, he kept telling himself, if he could just find her.

He swallows, “...but ah failed."

His head lifts, finally meeting Donald’s own teary-eyed gaze, “When ah saw that boulder comin’ at ye...”

The sailor is reminded of the creaks in the branches at the weight of the stone rushing towards him, the way the world seemed to take pause and hold its breath.

Scrooge’s head shakes just barely back and forth, “Your needed here, Donald.”

The memory of being pushed and meeting the unforgiving ground, sliding and earning scrapes in the process.

“Teh boys need ye, ah-“ he cuts himself off, a bit too soon for the sailor’s liking as he notices Scrooge’s hand trying to gesture to himself. Ah need ye. The pause is short as the wealthy duck’s face grows grim, “Ah can’t fail them...you, a second time.”

The relieved face of his uncle just before the sound of bones snapping haunts Donald’s mind.

He watches in awe as he witnesses the mighty Scrooge McDuck, the Master of the Mississippi, the Buckaroo of the Badlands, the Terror of the Transvaal, the King of the Klondike, the Richest Duck in the World, cry for the first time in his life. Donald had been convinced he physically couldn’t, but stares at the tear that roles down his uncle’s face before dropping onto the blankets below.

His mind is racing, and memories are flooding it, “Donald, ah knoo ye worry fer them, but ye can-” “I can what? Trust you?! I think you’ve made it very apparent that I can’t! Do you know how sad it is that I trust children more than I trust the adult with them?!”

His eyebrows furrow together, coming back to the present time. Scrooge had literally sacrificed himself to protect Donald, knowing full well the danger that awaited him. The sailor thinks back, many a time has he seen and been subject to the old man using himself as a shield to protect his family. If the wealthy duck had been on the Spear of Selene when Della had launched it, would he then too have put himself in harm’s way to keep her safe?

After everything he’s witnessed, after his life being saved, can he, does he, trust his uncle?

He does.

Donald would unquestionably put his own life in his uncle’s hands, knowing he would be safe. Scrooge would do anything to protect the one’s he loves.

Tears spring forth in the younger duck’s eyes, falling freely down his face and onto his sleeves. The young duckling that had lived in this very house and spent the majority of his life with his uncle resurfaces, and before the older half of him can put a stop to it, he’s throwing himself at the other in a tight embrace.

A grunt escapes the elder duck as they fall back onto the bed together, landing on the pillows. Scrooge’s body aches and throbs painfully under his nephew’s weight, and the tight hug makes his ribs cry out, but he only returns the embrace with his good arm as a relieved smile forms on his features.

The sailor’s tears wet the both of them as he sniffles out, “You’re needed too. The boys...and I need you. I thought you died today, and it was my fault! Don’t you ever put yourself in danger like that again! I missed ya, Unca Scrooge.”

That’s enough to bring yet another tear down the entrepreneur’s cheek. He’d been afraid he’d never hear that again. His embrace tightens, snuggling his face closer to the younger duck, “...And ah you, lad.”

Donald’s voice is small, timid like a shy duckling, “...ya think, maybe, I can stay in the pool a while longer?”

A grin against his cheek, “Teh longer teh better.”

-----------

Mrs. Beakley sighs as she finally returns to the mansion. The line at the check-out was long, everyone apparently needing something at the same time. Now that she at last had the pain meds, she filled a glass of water and made her way to her employer’s room, passing a living room full of sleeping ducklings along the way.

Reaching the bedroom, she turns the handle quietly, in case the old duck has already fallen asleep. As her eyes adjust, she’s startled at the sight that awaits her: Scrooge McDuck, sleeping on his back, right where she left him. In his right wing, Donald Duck, snuggled up to his uncle’s side, head resting on the elder’s chest and arm draped over him in an embrace, fast asleep.

The spy doesn’t hide the smile that comes to her face. It’s good to see the two have finally made up it seems. Perhaps it wasn’t the rich duck’s pain that kept him awake, but rather his own conscience. Careful to wake the sleeping duo, she pulls the door shut once more, leaving them to their peaceful slumber.

24 notes · View notes