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waveypedia · 6 years

Text

Family

(this fic is crazy long sorry bout that. over 7k words!!!!)

The void is just that - a void. Empty, dark, endless space for miles beyond what Lena can see. Nothing above and nothing below. She floats, but if she tries to move she can walk on the empty air. Not that there’s any point in walking, mind you, because the void is so blank and symmetrical that however long Lena walks, it feels like she’s only been walking in place. She doesn’t know if she’s moved at all, since everything looks, feels, and sounds exactly the same.

She’s alone, which is odd. Magica has made millions upon millions of shadows in her century of life, and they had to go somewhere after they were vanquished. But she has fifteen years of life and a personality over them, and somehow that sets her apart in her own little world.

Maybe if she walked far enough, for long enough, she could find them. But however bored she is, Lena has no interest in that. She’s different. She would never be accepted among the shadows even if they could communicate.

Even among her own kind, she has no family.

There isn’t much to do other than to hover and think. Which is good, because she has a lot to think about.

Lena thinks about her time with Magica, about all the little spells she’s picked up, the lava lamp that calmed her down during panic attacks, the dizzyingly relaxing feeling of waves lapping at her ankles. She thinks about soft, too-big sweaters recently snuck out of the laundromat and fake-sweet candy from the theater vending machine. She thinks about random snippets of conversations, overheard and not, that float randomly in and out of her head.

But mostly, she thinks about family.

She thinks about Webby, the way she always laughed at Lena’s jokes no matter how dumb, her overjoyed smile when she blew up the fist bump at the Beagle Boy party. She thinks of Huey, of his insistence that she wear a coat when she starts snowball fights in the mansion’s ginormous lawn. She thinks of Dewey, his boundless energy and the way he always roped her into dumb pranks on his poor uncles. She thinks of Louie, of his sly tongue and morally grey ways that reminded her of herself but when his boundless love for family made her pull away. She thinks of Launchpad, of his contagious love for a show she would have never cared about otherwise and the way he always treated her just like another kid, another friend. She thinks of Duckworth, of the way there were always extra pajamas and blankets waiting for her, mysteriously exactly her size, even if she wasn’t going to sleep over. She thinks of Donald, of the band posters collecting dust that she snuck off, the way he ruffles her feathers with a wary care, but a care all the same. She thinks of Beakley, of tight, quick hugs and extra plates of steaming hot pancakes placed discreetly in front of her when Magica hadn’t let her eat in a few days. She thinks of Scrooge, of his hopeful, world-changing promise despite his knowledge of her lineage. His desperate cry as she was yanked away from the living world echoes in her ears.

Lena hugs her knees to her chest, her head spinning with longing and anxieties. She meant something to them. She had to, for them to treat her the way they did. But she knows she can never go back. They never knew the truth about her.

Well, Scrooge did. But over and over Lena internally debates whether it was an act of love or desperation.

She fights endlessly to be free of her new blank reality, but she’s not sure if she has a family to go back to.

Lena spares more than a glance at the piece of paper lying abandoned on the dining room table. Huey has gone to the bathroom, leaving his math homework vulnerable to her curious eyes. The problems are far beyond the basic math Magica has allowed her to learn. She slowly traces the detailed solution with her eyes multiple times, but it makes no sense.

She wrenches her gaze away. Not worth the trouble. She doesn’t need math.

Curiosity and shame burns in her stomach, and she snatches another glance.

Still incomprehensible, just like Aunt Magica’s ancient Italian spellbooks.

Lena scowls. It’s not like she expected anything else, but it still hurts.

A hand lands gently on her shoulder and she jumps nearly a foot in the air, heart in her throat. Huey only gives her a gentle smile, turning a blind eye to her panic. He lays a finger on the paper. “To find the angle measure, you need to place the measure of the opposite side over the adjacent one.” He points to the sides in question. “Graphing calculators have functions for trigonometry inverse, so you need to press the second button and then the tan one…”

Later, Lena tunes out Aunt Magica’s lecturing about how she made no progress in her visit to McDuck Manor and reviews the problem. She changes the numbers. She checks her answer. It makes sense.

She can’t hide the tiny but triumphant smile that sneaks its way onto her beak. Victory burns in her stomach, blazing away the midnight chill. Magica stops her lecturing to indignantly snap at her, but the smile stays.

Lena goes over the problem in her head again, changing the numbers over and over. She can solve it flawlessly by now. She’s done it so many times the steps slide into place like a well-oiled machine. It’s almost boring, but it’s much better than wallowing in her pity.

She’s thankful for Huey for teaching her. Even though the moment was embarrassing, him knowing that she doesn’t know math, the problem has spared her a lot of boredom.

Lena slips into the yard as quietly as she can. The triplets are playing tag together, shouting and laughing, their breath making misty clouds in the cold air. She’s looking for Webby, or Scrooge’s Number One Dime, anything that will get Magica off her back. She’s not particularly interested in the nephews, nor does she intend for them to notice her. If she steals a certain important artifact of Scrooge’s, the fewer people that know she is even here the better.

But she’s out of luck. To her surprise Dewey breaks his swerving path away from Louie to barrel towards her at the edge of the yard. As he brushes past her, he grabs her hand, pulling her along.

Lena’s too surprised to react. Her legs move out of instinct, and when she realizes what happened she’s running alongside Dewey. He’s looking at her, his face split into a huge grin and his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Come join us, Lena!”

A hundred lies rise to Lena’s tongue, most of them having to do with Webby. But she realizes that she’s enjoying herself, and the thought of Dewey’s face falling at her dismissal puts a wedge beside her heart. So she swallows them and smiles back, running alongside the boy in blue.

They keep holding hands, the warmth of each other’s touch pushing them on, neither really aware of it. They only break apart when a cackling Huey veers straight for them and they dive apart, fits of giggles breaking their panicked facade.

Months later, Lena’s still not sure why Dewey chose to invite her. She was Webby’s friend, not his. Webby wasn’t even there. She never did see Webby that day. But the game, and the cozy hot chocolate afterwards, was worth the beating from Magica.

Lena’s phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number. hey, wanna come over? we’re watching a dwd marathon and having a takeout taste test. my idea

Her heart squeezes. Out here, in the dreary rain, soaked to her skin while Magica practices complicated spells with a magical umbrella, Darkwing Duck and takeout food sounds like heaven.

Making sure Magica isn’t watching, she reaches for her phone. sorry, u have the wrong number.

Usually she would leave it at that, but Webby’s voice echoes in her head. She always says that strangers are just friends you haven’t met and the internet is full of them. You should always be kind to strangers because they could be your new best friend! That’s how we became friends!

She pulls the text conversation back up and adds, have fun!

Lena stares at her phone for a minute longer, but there’s no response. Typical. They probably deleted the conversation already. She shuts her phone off and tucks it away in her pocket.

It buzzes again.

Hope blooms in Lena’s chest. She yanks her phone back out, reading the text with hungry eyes.

lena, right? it’s louie

Lena stares at the text, stunned. She isn’t sure how to respond at first. She may have hoped for this, but she never in a million years would have expected it. oh sorry my b. how did you get my number? webby doesn’t have a phone

Louie’s already typing when it sends. i have my ways. u coming or not? i gotta tell hue how much food to order

Lena glances at Magica. She’s still preoccupied.

She waits until she’s snuck off to the local grocery store, hidden among the frozen broccoli, before responding. yeah totally. see u in a few.

see ya.

Other people are staring. It’s to be expected, as she’s a lone drenched teenager in a family grocery store. But instead of slinking off into the shadows like she usually does, Lena tucks her phone away and smiles. She walks with her head held high, heading straight for McDuck Manor.

The thought of food makes Lena’s stomach growl. She hasn’t eaten in however long she’s been here. She has no way of telling time.

Shadows don’t need food, but starving is never pleasant. Being in the void means she has little to take her mind off of the hunger gnawing at the edge of her stomach. The thought of food, especially good food, makes it ache even more.

But the memory is worth it. She had a wonderful night out of the cold rain, away from Magica, snuggled in Webby’s soft blankets and eating heaps of pizza and french fries. She had felt more relaxed than usual, despite the looming eclipse and how Magica’s plans were starting to take form. They worried her.

The fear still lingered at the back of her mind, but Lena was able to push it far away and focus on the here and now, eating junk food and laughing at the TV with her family.

Family.

The word came into Lena’s train of thought naturally. But she wasn’t sure if it belonged.

They were a magnificent family, everything she had always wanted. But she never belonged.

She could only hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change in the future.

Lena would have never tried entering through the garage if she knew someone lived there.

At first, her entry went smoothly. There was a swinging door beside the traditional garage door, with a lock that was very easily picked. That was when what she thought was her good luck ended.

She slips through piles of old newspapers and priceless artifacts alike, rushing through so Magica couldn’t get a good look at anything and make her steal something. Spotting a small door next to a tarnished silver mirror that probably held three separate curses, she took her chance and swings it open.

The next room is only like the first in its clutter. But instead of hard-earned treasure, old burritos are scattered about. Vague, off-center posters cover the walls and a small string of Christmas lights hang from the loft. Magica mutters disgustedly in the back of Lena’s head, but her curses fade in comparison to Lena’s current predicament.

A duck, one Lena only recognizes after her panic begins to ease, is lounging on a hammock in front of the TV. She recognizes the theme song - Darkwing Duck - from her TV night a few weeks ago, but it doesn’t click at first.

Lena stares, and he stares back.

After a moment, Launchpad grins wide as can be and gestures to an open spot on his moldy hammock. “So, come to hang with Launchpad, eh? Wanna watch Darkwing Duck with me? It’s a good episode! DW has to team up with the Justice Ducks to stop the Fearsome Five and save St. Canard!”

Lena doesn’t know what half those words mean. “Actually, I was kind of looking for Webby…?”

Launchpad visibly deflates, and something inside Lena flinches. “Last I checked she and the boys were doing their schoolwork. That’s why I’m here, you see. Mrs. Beakley doesn’t like it when I accompany them. Says I’m a distraction. But hey, I get to watch Darkwing Duck, the greatest TV show of all time!” He brightens, his blinding smile returning full force.

Lena doesn’t know if it’s the prospect of being an outsider or being kicked out all the time, but before she realizes what she’s doing she’s sitting on the hammock too. “I think I’d be a distraction too.”

Launchpad’s smile is even brighter than before as he rambles on and on about the show, thinking faster than he can talk and stumbling over his words more than once. Most of it is unfamiliar, going in one ear and out the other, but seeing Launchpad so happy somehow makes Lena happy too.

Lena never knew the pilot particularly well, but while he was always kind to her before, after that he always had a bright smile reserved specifically for her.

Seeing that smile, and remembering it now, gave her the same warm feeling she got all those months ago when she first summoned it.

Sometimes Lena forgets just how big McDuck Manor is. She sticks to the first few floors, and anywhere those four kids go they fill up the empty space with laughter and love. She usually sticks close by their sides. But she turns an unfamiliar corner on her way to the bathroom and suddenly she’s on her own in a hall with a ceiling dauntingly high above her head. It stretches down past where she can see, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

She turns in a tight circle around herself, but the way she came seems to have disappeared, lost in an endless array of symmetrical doors and hallways.

Panic sets in. Her breathing becomes short and fast, and the halls crumble around her as she slumps to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.

For a good few moments, it seems like she’s going to die there. She could wander the halls forever and never find her way out. Magica doesn’t make herself known, not even to lecture her or to guide her out so she can carry out her master plan.

Then, suddenly, the world is sharply focused again. A voice, unfamiliar and stiff but not at all brusque, speaks up behind her.

“Miss Lena?”

Lena gasps and does a not-so-graceful twirl as she shoots to her feet. She quickly sets her flailing, shaking hands on her hips and for the first time gets a clear picture of her companion.

He’s not normal. She knows that right off the bat. He’s transparent and emits a faint, deep blue glow. He could be a ghost, but as Magica de Spell’s niece/shadow, she knows that’s not by a long shot the only possibility.

She’s staring, her mind whirring like a rushing stream. This supernatural dog, that she’s never seen before, here in Scrooge McDuck’s ultra-protected mansion, knows her name. He found her when she was lost in his endless halls.

Maybe he knows Aunt Magica. Panic shoots through her. Her back is as straight as a board.

The dog must sense her concern, as he bows slightly to her. “I am Duckworth, Mr. McDuck’s butler. And yes, before you ask, I am aware that I am a ghost, thank you very much.”

Lena relaxes, only ever so slightly. At least she knows he’s not with Magica.

...but if she hasn’t seen him all this time, but he knows her, what if he’s seen her secret conversations with Magica?!

All her worst fears, everything Magica has warned her about, come rushing up to the surface and she nearly bursts into tears again.

A ghostly hand hovers over her shoulder. “Miss Lena, I believe you were looking for the bathroom?” His voice is gentle but composed. If he had not been watching her the entire time, Lena would have thought that he hadn’t noticed her panic.

Sniffling and wiping her eyes, Lena nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

Wordlessly, the ghost butler opens a door completely symmetrical to the rest, revealing the familiar hallway from which she had come. Lena nearly laughs, she’s so relieved.

“I suspect you do not need me to show you the rest of the way?” Duckworth confirms, startling her out of her giddy exhaustion.

Lena nods, managing a smile at the dog as she passes. He simply nods his head and closes the door silently behind her. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the vast unknown that is Scrooge McDuck’s mansion.

She sees Duckworth a few days later, as he brings some tea sandwiches while Mrs. Beakley is cleaning upstairs. Webby introduces Lena to him, and he simply nods politely. They meet a few times after that, and neither ever brings up their tear-filled first interaction.

Now that she has all of eternity to do nothing but reflect on her short, angsty life, Lena wishes she connected with Duckworth more. He was always kind to her, and his steady, professional nature made her feel a bit more grounded. Even though she is a shadow and he is a ghost.

If she goes back, she has to change that. She will.

If they accept her, that is. They know she’s Magica’s shadow now. They know she betrayed them.

Lena pushes her fears aside and wraps her arms around herself in a tight hug, a small smile tight on her beak. She pulls her hands back to toy with the echo of a fraying friendship bracelet around her wrist.

Soon, for better or for worse, her fears will come to pass. She just has to keep biding her time and growing her strength.

For now, all she can do is wait.

And remember.

“Lena.” The sharp British voice, accompanied by a firm hand on her shoulder, stopped Lena in her tracks.

She glanced up to see Mrs. Beakley looking down at her, gaze unreadable. In her hand was a coat, deep magenta and long enough to reach Lena’s ankles.

“It’s getting cold,” the housekeeper begins, holding the coat out to Lena. “I will not stand for a child under my care playing outside without a coat.”

Stunned, Lena reaches for the coat and pulls it around her. It’s warm and mysteriously fits like a glove. It’s a bit long, but she has a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Beakley bought it that way on purpose.

She wants to refuse it. She knows Aunt Magica will tear it up once she gets home, unless she can stash it under her bed in time. Besides, she doesn’t want to accept a gift from Mrs. Beakley. She has given Lena kindness, which will be paid back in inevitable betrayal.

But Mrs. Beakley is holding the coat out to her expectantly, and when Lena looks her in the eyes she just can’t refuse. There’s something in her face, somewhere between stern and motherly, that makes Lena’s arm shoot out without prompting and her fingers wrap around the coat.

As soon as she touches it she melts. Because oh, it’s soft. Softer than her trusty sweater just snuck out of the laundromat. Softer than Webby’s feathers and her recently washed blankets Lena loves to “borrow”. Softer than the couch in front of the TV that the boys can sometimes coax her to.

She can hear Magica’s voice in the back of her head, whispering it’s a trap and don’t trust her and she’ll regret this when she finds out what you really are. The whispers turn her blood to ice, and she clutches the fluffy coat tighter. She’s never needed it more.

As she tugs it to her chest and hesitantly tucks it around herself Mrs. Beakley’s beak curves upwards, ever so slightly.

Lena misses that coat. She hid it in one of the closets, behind a stiff coat of Scrooge’s hidden away in the back, so Magica couldn’t tear it up later. That night, lying alone in her cold bedroom, she tried not to imagine the warmth of the coat, lost to the closets of a manor just out of reach.

She’s neither not nor cold now, but the comfort of that coat would be nice. It wouldn’t hurt.

Except it does now, because she doesn’t know if it’s been found or if one of the only things she’s ever owned is still hanging quietly in that closet. Waiting for its owner to grab it off the hook and run outside laughing, breath making frosty puffs in the cold air.

The uneasiness came first when Lena rung the bell, only to be met with static. Mrs. Beakley was usually extremely prompt at answering, even when she had other things on her mind. The lunar eclipse was in less than a week and Magica was growing impatient. She was taking over Lena’s body more often than not.

She let Lena go to McDuck Manor on her own after a perilous speech about not wanting to scare Scroogey off so soon. Lena grit her teeth, remembering it, and strides up to the mansion’s gate.

It swings open, unprompted.

Lena’s stomach twists, but she continues to the door. It swings open as well, at the hand of the ghost butler Lena has rarely spoken to. She winces at the memory of the last time they were alone together, but at the moment she’s more worried about Mrs. Beakley.

Frowning slightly, she gives him a small wave and opens her mouth to ask about Webby and Mrs. Beakley. He points her in the direction of the pool before she could speak.

She wishes she could tell him something, anything, but with Magica breathing down her neck she has no chance. She thanks him in a voice barely above a whisper to hide the way it’s trembling and hurries outside.

There is no one on the deck, so Lena enters the houseboat. She doesn’t bother to knock, but immediately regrets it when the only duck inside is the triplets’ uncle she barely talks to.

He’s lying awkwardly on the couch with some ice on his hand, reading a fishing magazine upside down. He glances up, surprised, but manages a smile. “Hey, kiddo. What brings you here?”

Lena toys with the end of her shirt. She could still barely understand him, and so tries to avoid him at all costs. That made any inevitable encounters awkward. “Looking for Webby. Where is she?”

“On an adventure,” Donald sighs, a resigned expression settling on his face. “Hopefully not dead.”

Fear flares in Lena’s stomach. She quickly schools her face into a neutral expression. The less Aunt Magica knows she cares about her best friend, the better. But she must not have cleared her face fast enough because Donald’s wary smile softens and he scoots over as much as he could, patting the seat beside him with his fishing magazine. “Ah, I’m sure they’re fine. Scrooge does his best, and the kids are accomplished adventurers themselves. ‘Sides, Mrs. B is with them this time, so they’ll be even safer. Webby most of all.”

Lena numbly takes the seat beside him, all too aware of how easily Magica could take over her and bring harm to this already injured nephew of Scrooge. “That’s where she is?”

Donald nods. “I think this is her first adventure with the kids. Webby is ecstatic. Although all of the kids seemed a bit distracted this morning.”

Lena nods back, only half listening. She leans back against the couch. “Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Soon,” Donald replies instantly. “Around the eclipse.”

Lena’s heart stops in her throat. At first, pure panic at the mention of the eclipse. She fears she’s been outed. Then, relief, because her secret is safe. Then, panic again because they would be home, in Magica’s reach, during the eclipse. And she knew it.

What little hope of somehow stopping her aunt she had flies out the window. Hot tears prick at her eyes and she gasps sharply, trying to hold them in.

Instantly Donald’s fishing magazine is on the floor and his spare hand is gently rubbing circles on her back. “Try to breathe,” he instructs gently. “Focus on my voice. In, out. In, out. In, out. You’re doing great.”

Lena matches his breathing pattern, focusing on nothing else. Her breathing slowly returns to normal and she slumps against the back of the couch, all the energy flooding out of her.

Donald smiles comfortingly at her. “You’re okay now, Lena.”

She knows she isn’t, that she never could be, but then realizes that he was right. She feels better. A lot of the fear is gone.

“Do you have panic attacks often?” he asks, light but serious enough that she knows not to dodge the question.

She nods slowly.

“When you have them, focus on five things you can see, five things you can touch, five things you can taste, five things you can smell, and five things you can hear. Keep counting until it goes away. Don’t focus on anything else. Try to breathe as deeply as you can,” he instructs.

Lena nods again.

Pulling out his phone, the uncle pulls up a couple of warmly colored apps. “There are some great apps that help with panic attacks. Most are free to download. I can text you a link if you’d like.”

Lena beams. “That would be nice.” She hands him her phone to type in her number, ignoring Magica screeching in the back of her head.

“I get panic attacks too,” Donald says, not looking up from the phone. Lena’s head shoots up in surprise. “So do Huey and Louie. Scrooge doesn’t anymore, but he used to.” He pauses his typing and glances at her, smiling warmly. “You can always come to one of us if you need help, you hear?”

Lena nods. She doesn’t know if she would, but it feels like a steady, comforting weight in a world that has turned upside down and been stomped to pieces.

She never took him up on his offer. She had many more panic attacks in the short span of days after that, but Magica was always there, always getting in her head and freezing her in place before she could escape. She nearly had one locked in the cage with Scrooge, but then he offered her a place in his family, and, unknowingly, a brief reprise from a world of fear until Magica banished her to her current living quarters.

She pulls out her phone. The time and dates are screwed, since there is no satellite connection. Figures There is no internet either. But she pulls up her text messages and found Donald’s. The list of apps is right there.

She wishes she could download them in the void.

Lena stares at the duck in front of her and tries not to think about Magica’s excited whispers in her head or how she’s been avoiding him at all cost. She shakes his hand, having no other option. His grip is firm, while hers must be like a limp noodle if it’s not shaking from how terrified she is.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it. His face is impassible, unreadable. That only makes it worse.

She wasn’t sure what else she was expecting. Definitely not huge smiles and warm hugs.

At least he’s not trying to kill her for being Magica’s demon spawn working inside his very home to take him down.

That thought sends shudders down her spine, and a little worry finds its way through the cracks of his neutral facade.

Lena swallows and forces herself to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, uhh, sir.”

He nods back ever so slightly, tipping his trademark top hat. “It’s nice to meet you too, lass.”

Webby breaks in, elbowing Lena hard in the side in her excitement, and it takes all she has to not wince. “Mr. McDuck is the richest duck in the world! He goes on super cool adventures all the time!!! He’s a hundred and fifty years old and he-“

“I’m sure the lass knows all that, Webby darling,” Scrooge breaks in, looking amused.

Webby grins, embarrassed. “Of course! Sorry Lena! I didn’t mean to doubt your intelligence, you’re super smart and all.”

Webby’s familiar banter, and the reminder of her best friend’s presence, gives Lena just enough courage. She puts a hand on her chin in an overexaggerated thinking position. “Oh, I dunno, never really heard of ya.” She shoves her hands deep in her pockets and grins at Webby, who giggles.

Scrooge’s smile is growing, and he raises an eyebrow. “Aye, is that so? Never seen the million billboards around town with my face and name plastered all over them?”

Lena’s unable to keep her grin from her beak as she shakes her head. “Nope, never.”

Scrooge chuckles at that, a full-on guffaw. He elbows Mrs. Beakley, who looks less than pleased at the gesture. “I like this one.”

Lena is floored by the gesture. Weeks of carefully avoiding Scrooge McDuck like her life depended on it (which it very much could). And she made him laugh! Their very first interaction and she made him, the famous old miser, the heartless villain of every one of Magica’s tales, laugh.

This is it. This is the last straw. She can’t help Magica kill him now.

She immediately pushes those thoughts away before Magica could notice.

It’s not like she has a choice, anyway.

Webby has taken hold of her hand, and she shakes it gently. “Hey Lena, you okay?”

Smiling stiffly, Lena nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just zoned out, Webs.” She winked at her best friend. “It’s not every day you meet the richest duck in the world, after all.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was,” Scrooge countered, raising an eyebrow.

Lena crosses her arms, smiling. “I believe Webby. She knows quite a bit about you, believe it or not.”

Scrooge laughs again, and something warm and steady settles in Lena’s gut.

She wraps an arm around Webby’s shoulder and forces herself to laugh along.

And, to her surprise, it comes naturally.

—

If there’s anything Lena wants to finish, it’s her conversation with Scrooge.

She wants more than anything to be a part of his family, to be able to interact with him and make him laugh when her inevitable betrayal isn’t making her awkward.

She wants to know if he’ll keep his promise when he’s not under the threat of death.

She hopes with all her heart she will. Unlike his fellow capitalist billionaires making their fortunes off of lies and the backs of others, Scrooge McDuck is an honest man, a man of his word. That’s something she’s always admired about him, even years before she knew him. If a dirt poor duckling from Scotland can immigrate to a completely new country and become the richest duck in the world without cheating others out of a single cent, then maybe the little shadow, created only for petty revenge, can join the family she sabotaged.

Lena is terrified of confronting him, but the curiosity eats her up every day.

As she bides her time, feeling herself grow stronger and stronger, she’s even more anxious and terrified for the moment when she can finally re-enter the living world. The moment when she’ll have to face her newfound family for the first time with them knowing the truth.

Lena longs for it and desperately pushes it away at the same time.

—

Lena has come close to telling Webby her secret more than once.

Right from the beginning, Webby is her best friend. Webby has been nothing but kind to her, and Lena has repaid her in half-truths and backstabbing.

She thinks about this a month before the eclipse, as Magica’s hazy plans take form and when Webby is coincidentally late to their meeting. One good thing about the eclipse nearing is that Magica is too busy perfecting her plans down to the last detail to pay much attention to Lena.

She wallows in her predicament as she waits, half-finished milkshake in hand and watching the door.

Maybe Webby finally realized who she is and is ditching her. Maybe Webby got tired of her reluctant, wary ways, or sensed something is off. Maybe their friendship is over.

Lena is overjoyed when the doors swing open and Webby comes running right up to her table, panting slightly. She tries, and fails, to hide how happy she is at the sight of her painfully loyal best friend.

“Sorry Lena,” Webby pants. “Huey had a Junior Woodchuck meeting that ran late.”

Lena waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

It’s obviously not nothing, but there’s no way she can tell Webby that.

Webby studies her for a minute, not quite accepting her answer, before nodding cheerfully. “Okay! You hungry?”

“As a horse!” Lena replies instantly, pulling out her wallet. It’s not a lie. Magica has been a bit too busy for food these days.

“I think I’m going to get a hamburger,” Webby says decisively. Lena laughs. “You always do.”

“And you always only get fries,” Webby counters. “I dare you to get something different!”

Lena grins. “Is that a triple dog dare?”

“You bet!” Lena’s not totally sure Webby knows what a triple dog dare is. Dewey might have taught her at some point.

Dare or not, it’s a nice excuse to get some actual food.

She leans back to scour the menu, pretending she hasn’t already read it multiple times trying to get her mind off all the ways Webby could have ditched her while she was waiting.

What kind of friend are you?! Webby would never assume you ditched her.

No good friend would go into a friendship intending to stab their friend and family in the back.

Lena flinches hard, and Webby’s arm is around her waist (since she can’t reach her shoulders, Lena now realizes) in an instant. “Lena? Is everything okay?”

Lena nods shakily. “Everything’s fine, Webs. I just had… a bad dream last night, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Oh?” Webby turns to face her, still on her tiptoes, eyebrows raised. It’s an open invitation that Lena can’t refuse. Once she started talking the words poured out too fast to stop them if she wanted to.

“I was… at your place. Having movie night with you and the boys. We were having a great time, but then the sun turned black and the sky turned blood red. The city started falling apart. I think someone was attacking it. The mansion started falling apart, so we all ran outside. The city was in blazes and ruins. Smoke was everywhere, and everyone was gone. People were screaming and crying for help in the rubble, so the boys ran off to help before we could stop them. Their voices became part of the chorus of distress. Then it was just you and me, and this… this person landed in front of us. I never got a clear look at he- them, but they were huge. They threatened us, but I don’t remember what they said, just that it was really upsetting. It made you furious, so you attacked them and the two of you rolled down the hill in battle. I don’t know why I didn’t help you, but I just kept waiting for you to return. Neither of you did. Slowly all the screaming people just stopped screaming and I was left alone on the hill with the smoldering city.” Lena pressed her face into her hands, hot tears streaming into her hands.

“Hey.” Webby gently lifts Lena’s face out of her hands, cupping her chin in her hands. She ignores the tears trickling off Lena’s face onto her hands. “It’s okay. That’s not going to happen. There are two hundred and twenty-three magical defenses on the Money Bin and the manor each. I counted.”

Lena chuckles softly through her tears. “Of course you did, Webs. I love that.”

Webby lifts a thumb and gently wipes away one of Lena’s tears. “Besides, we have Gizmoduck, all of Gyro’s crazy inventions, a family of seasoned adventurers, a former spy, and so much more. Besides, the citizens of Duckberg can fight. And also, Scrooge secretly keeps Ragnarok at bay every day, so they’d have to get through him first and that’s no easy feat. Don’t tell him I know, though!”

Lena blinks. “He does what now?”

“My point being,” Webby continues, gazing straight up at Lena with those huge, adoring, irresistible puppy dog eyes of hers. “Is that your dream has a very, very, very, very, very, very very, veeeeery-”

Lena grins. “All right Webs, I get it.”

“-Very small chance of happening,” Webby finishes. “Please don’t worry, you crazy angel. Everything will be okay.”

Lena smiles, unable to say anything. Webby is so sweet. This interaction has done wonders. But at the same time it’s done nothing, because her only shot at warning Webby has fallen on its face and been stomped into the dirt.

Oh, Webby, it will happen. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…

Lena sobs, tears streaming down her face, as she recalls her outing with Webby. She tried to warn her, she really did.

And Webby never believed her.

Every day she wonders and worries if Webby is okay. If she survived the Shadow War. If she didn’t have to spend time in the hospital from her fight with Magica, whom she knows from experience is horrifyingly powerful even in hand-to-hand combat.

If she still wants to be friends. If she still wants to be family.

Lena sniffles, and takes a long moment to dry her tears on her sleeve. They just keep coming. If the family really does hate her, she can’t leave with much of her dignity if she’s sobbing.

Time to find out if I have a family or not.

Heart in her chest, every hope and fear fresh in her mind, Lena closes her free hand tight around the ghost of her friendship bracelet and begins to chant, low and unsteady. Her voice wavers and cracks, and her tears start up again like a geyser. She can’t remember all of the words, so she subs in what she hopes are similar syllables.

She calls to the front of her mind every memory, every moment she spent with Webby and her family, all her time worrying and thinking about them. How much she loves them.

The bracelet begins to glow, blindingly blue, and Lena squeezes her eyes shut as tight as they can go.

She’s falling, gravity suddenly reclaiming her. But as soon as she realizes she’s in freefall, her knees hit carpet and she stumbles hard, falling on her stomach.

Onto ground.

Solid ground.

Real, solid ground, from the world of the living.

There are shouts and cries around her, and someone is clutching her tightly. Footsteps, loud from hurry, retreat and then come back. People are crowding around her, touching her, hugging her.

Lena forces her eyes open.

The first thing she sees is Huey’s red shirt, his neat stitching and three shiny, small buttons near the top. He’s bawling his eyes out as he shuffles through the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, rambling about probabilities and spontaneous activity and quantum physics.

Dewey is next to him, eyes huge and bright, his smile wide enough to split his face. His hair is all ruffled up, more than usual, and his hands are tight around her neck in a hug.

Louie is on his other side, his phone in hand. He’s excited, talking fast to her, but she doesn’t register his words. Only his voice, high with excitement and cracking with emotion.

Launchpad is ruffling her hair with his too-big, too-rough hand, but she doesn’t mind because it’s Launchpad. He’s grinning at her with that special smile of his, and she grins back. He says something about catching her up on Darkwing Duck, even though it’s been over for years. But she doesn’t mind, because it means time with Launchpad, and that’s more than fine.

Duckworth hovers behind Dewey and Louie, not quite out of sight but not in the center of attention either. He has a small smile on his face, and he nods more than politely when their eyes meet. “Welcome home, Miss Lena.”

A hand lands on her shoulder, shaking, and Lena glances up to see Mrs. Beakley beaming down at her. There might be tiny tears in her eyes, or it might just be the reflection from the candlelit chandelier above. Her hand squeezes Lena’s shoulder in a way that says so much more than any words ever could, shaking but steady at the same time.

She doesn’t need to look back to know the hand rubbing her back is Donald’s. It’s comforting but firm in a way that’s trained and experienced. He stops rubbing for a moment to squeeze her tight in a hug. He whispers something in her ear, but his voice is even more garbled and thick than usual. She just leans closer, into the hug.

Only when he releases her and walks back around to face her, setting a hand on Huey’s shoulder and wrapping Dewey and Louie in his other, does she realize Scrooge has been one of the people hugging her from behind. He tips his hat to her, smiling. “I’m glad to see you made it, Lena. A promise is a promise. Welcome home, dear.”

Lena bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying, but it’s no use. She’s been sobbing hard this entire time.

One last person is still hugging her tight, and Lena doesn’t need to turn around to see who it is. She shifts her position so one of her arms is free, and reaches around to hug Webby back. Her best friend’s beak is buried in her side and she’s sobbing hard.

Lena finally finds her voice. It’s low and quiet, and sounds weird without the strange echo and emptiness of the shadow void. “Hey, Webs. It’s okay. I’m back.”

Webby only sobs harder. She unlaces one of her arms and offers her hand to Lena, who gratefully accepts it. The other hand never leaves her side. They hug each other tight, and the family closes in around them. Even Duckworth joins in the group hug.

All of Lena’s fears about acceptance and family melt away. She grins hard, tears still streaming down her face. But for once they’re tears of joy, not fear or pain. She’s happy, happier than when she first met Webby or when Scrooge offered her a place in his family. She’s finally free.

She finally has a family.

daaaaang y’all a fic giant sighting! 7.2k words! for comparison, my fics are usually 1k-1.5k words. i’m trying to work on making them longer but i never expected this lol

it’s a completely wild ride i’m sorry

i’m not a person to ask for validation but i thrive on it and this is something i put a lot of time into, so i would really like it if you leave comments/reblogs/likes. especially since tumblr doesn’t have a read count like ao3. it means a lot to me. i love writing, and i love writing long fics, but if i keep putting this writing that i put my heart and soul into all i do and get little to nothing back, it’s a bit disheartening.

i don’t want to end on that note, so love you all!!! <3 <3

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humanityinahandbag · 7 years

Text

Five More Minutes: DWD Drabble

A Darkwing Duck fanfiction for squidsfeather and (sort of) for sonichearts (you requested a self doubt fic, and I realized while writing this that there was some of that here, but honestly I’ve already got another one going that’s just all self doubt so you’re getting two… Fun times!)

Anywho…

Let’s get into this!

Five More Minutes: In which Darkwing Duck hates clocks, time, and the general boredom and insufferable anxiety that they provide.

Drake Mallard was not a duck known for his patience. Nor was he known for his exceeding talent at waiting while the clock ticked on without him. His years alone, living in a spacious and barren room on the very top of a hollowed out bridge, had allowed him to use the available space to scream at any pitch he’d wanted whenever frustrations ran high. And he’d done that.

Quite a lot.

It was so much easier than venting to a too expensive shrink about his inability to handle boredom. Or anxiety. Or frustration. Or much anything at all that impeded his ability to run smoothly and rapidly and on his own singular schedule.

If anyone asked what Darkwing Duck’s weakness was, he’d say it was the passing of time. For the boredom it brought, and the chances it took away. He was rarely standing still, rarely giving himself a moment to breathe.

He preferred it that way..

(All the time)

(Most of the time)

(Some of the time)

Stillness was for suckers and losers and people who wandered aimlessly through their mundane and meaningless lives. Not for superheroes. And certainly not for terrors who flapped in the night.

So when he’d thought about making a change in his life-

“You’re kidding.” He had few friends outside of work -actually, scratch that, he had no friends outside of work- and so it wasn’t the best day when the only one he considered something of an acquaintance had decided to test those very thin bonds by snorting at him. “You’re doing what?”

Eddie Egbberta wasn’t even really an acquaintance. He was the man who handed Drake Mallard his coffee three times a week over the counter of the local cafe. They exchanged occasional conversation and kept personal information to a minimum. Which was fine with Drake.

He knew exactly three things about Eddie; he enjoyed coffee, he was constantly pondering upon the state of his gayness, and his least favorite color was magenta because, as he’d put it, the word was created by the very rich to paint their own walls and tie up our tongues.

Eddie, in return, knew three things about Drake; he was irritable, he took his coffee black, and he had the patience for exactly nothing.

It was the latter that had Eddie clutching to the counter for support.

Drake sniffed, pushing down the already secured coffee lid. “I told you-”

“You’re adopting!” Eddie drew back, grabbing another cup and filling it halfway with skim. The cashier shouted back something about a pumkin spiced something and Eddie nodded their way before setting to work. “I just…” he jammed the cup under the foamer and switched on the nozzle. The air was clogged with the whrrrr. “You do know that kids take like… time, right?”

“I sort of guessed.”

“And you have to like… stand still for two fucking seconds-”

“Uh huh-”

“And you need patience-”

“Is there something you’d like to say?” the sweater vested duck shot back, his tone gone sour. “Please do.”

“It’s just…” Eddie drew the cup away and poured decaf into the cup before sprinkling it with something that smelled like a candle. “You don’t seem like the type. You know?”

For a moment, it isn’t Drake Mallard standing there. It’s Darkwing Duck. And he’s holding his coffee cup tight enough to burst. “What’s the type.”

“You know…” Eddie doesn’t notice the tension between writing a name on the newest coffee. “Someone who has an actual house. And who isn’t a total hot head who brings back his coffee if his goddamn name is spelled wrong.” Apparently he hadn’t forgotten the incident from a month ago, for which he’d been totally justified. Names were important things and his wasn’t Blake. Eddie finished scribbling and capped his pen. He called out “CHARLOTTE” before picking up a new cup. “You’d also have to be someone who buys juice boxes,”

“I hate juice boxes. They’re just sugar in a container.”

“You hate everything.” He poured in whole milk and started up the steamer. “How’s that gonna work for a kid.”

Drake Mallard looked down at his cup again. There was no sleeve, and it was beginning to sting his hand. Darkwing Duck recedes. “Yeah,” said Drake, who was in almost no mood to fight. Maybe because yelling at a barista in the middle of a crowded coffee shop sounded like his own personal nightmare.

Maybe because, in a way, the barista was kind of, sort of, definitely right.

“Hey man,” Eddie handed the candle coffee off to another customer, who looked between them curiously before dragging themselves slowly away, an ear still half glued to their conversation, “let me know what you do. But like… my sister just had a kid, dude, and you gotta be ready to just sort of… sit there. You know? Just sort of listen to the clock and let things happen.”

“Right…” said Drake. And then; “Uh… see you next week.”

Eddie waved him away.

Drake would not be returning the next week. Instead, he’d use it to wallow in his own self deprecation while the clocks around him tortured the silence with their awful tick tick tick and Drake followed along with them, knowing full well that if this was to be his life, then maybe he’d end up just scarring some poor child and being the worst father to ever grace the earth. He was becoming everything he ever hated. Everything that frightened him. Everything that he’d always promised himself he’d never become. He was too good for the mundane, for the adequate, for the dreadful normalcy that some people settled with.

This was settling.

Yet, somehow, the paperwork managed to be filed and the interviews managed to get done, and he stood in front of the orphanage doors, feeling his wrist watch ticking away, and wishing he had just five more minutes-

(just)

(just five more)

-to make this decision before he dove into what might have been the worst choice he’d ever made. But he was notoriously bad at waiting for things. And so it may have been merely his fear of boredom and time that drove him to cross the threshold and stand in the office and catch a little girl who ran towards him.

(I’ve gotta take care of myself)

(now that I’m going to have a new adopted daughter to worry about)

She calls him Mr. Mallard for a month. And he hates it, but he says little towards it. Whatever makes her happy. She’s been in and out of homes, lost a grandfather, and god knows who her parents were. The last thing she needs is to look at him as a replacement father. If she wants to call him Mr. Mallard for the rest of her life-

“Dad…” she says one night, so shyly it might have just broken his heart and made a home in the cracks, “can we repaint my room… I hate pink…” He’d gotten the room ready for a little girl and might have gone overboard and he’s so deep in the middle of regretting it that he barely notices what she’s called him until he’s catching on and remembering just how breathing worked.

Drake Mallard finds it odd that he suddenly wishes the clocks would stop. That they’d tick on, but time wouldn’t, and that he could have five more minutes with his new title burrowing its way down and infecting every exploding cell in his chest.

He corals her to the car and they buy green paint that day. Soon there are baseball posters and a blue duvet and stacks of comic books, and she’s clinging to his waist looking around her new little hovel and squealing thanks dad into his shirt and he’s looking around with her and deciding that, yes, this was much more suitable.

This was all more suitable.

“No problem, honey,” he says.

He tries those names on his tongue a few more times.

His parents never called him that. Sweetheart, sweetie, honey, dearest. He hadn’t cared then. There was barely any love lost, and he hadn’t thought it was important when he’d lived under their roof. The history has them feeling a little clunky coming out of his mouth, so he practices them often. Like it would erase the lack of them from his own pithy youth.

He matches them against the ticking of the clocks on the stove, and he uses them as often as he can, revealing in the little ways it makes her face light up just so until she looks less like a duckling in a new and scary environment and more like someone he’d lived there long enough to acclimate into the idea of nicknames and bedtime stories and juice boxes in the cupboard.

Drake Mallard sort of loves that he can call someone sweetheart.

And he sort of also loves the grape juice boxes, too.

She tells him that she loves him first. Mostly because he forgot to say it. Or rather, thought that he had. He had sort of assumed that his fast paced caregiving was the same as love. That his never-ending movement (cook, clean, dress, bathe, repeat) would be sufficient.

He was a man of action, after all. And movement to him meant everything. Meant that not a moment was wasted. Wasn’t that just enough? To know that not a second was wasted on you? To know that-

“Night, dad,” she says, tugging at the hem of her pajamas. There’s a spot of toothpaste on the edge of her bill and her soft feathers are still a little wet and warm from the bath. He’s on the couch, and she’s supposed to already be asleep, but she had gotten up and snuck down the stairs and flopped down to reach her arms as far around his waist as they could go. In the background, the newscaster talked about Darkwing Duck before switching to a story on a car wash shutting down after its money laundering was caught by a pizza boy on an afternoon run.

He almost doesn’t hear her over the interview of Pizza Boy who’s name was Todd and who’s appearance was just as Todd-ish as you’d expect, from the swept bangs to the smacking of his stale gum.

Still, somehow, he catches it.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

Except he does.

“Love you too, Gos.” And then: “aren’t you supposed to already be in bed, Little Miss!” because the first rule about being a superhero is not letting them know when you’ve been broken. Or stunned. Or when you’re so positively drowning in love and you can’t seem to speak.

He watches her scamper back up the stairs and hears her shuffle around before all is quiet and he can mute the television and just sort of listen to the clocks turn around him.

He could have had five more minutes of that. Just to hear her voice say it again.

It hits him sometime after midnight while he stares at the ceiling.

He’s a father.

The mundane becomes the one thing that sets his heart hammering.

He tells her good morning over breakfast and tells her he loves her just after he finishes buttering the toast, just so he can hear her say it back and know that it wasn’t just a dream.

“Love you too, dad,” she calls back, mouth full of jam and toast, feet already out the door. Honker was no doubt waiting for her, ready to watch her crash and burn from a distance, and equally as prepared to console her once the punishment of a long, worthy grounding was provided.

He had someone to ground. Which he shouldn’t love as much as he did. But…

She sounds like she’s practically done with him. Like she’s already exasperated with her father over something he’d said or done.

He loves that, too.

He adds a few more clocks to his house. And one to his lair.

He’s not as afraid of them anymore.

He brings her to the coffee shop. Sort of to show off, and sort of because she had been nagging him for hot chocolate and they had the most mediocre cup around. Which just meant one less thing he had to make when he was feeling particularly lazy.

Eddie is still there. And he’s still making coffee. And when he looks over at the counter, shouting out the name on the cup -GOSALYN MALLARD- he catches Drakes eye and nearly drops the cup. “Oh my god!” he smiles. “He returns!”

“He returns,” Drake agrees. “So… can I take-” he motioned to the cup.

Eddie squinted at him. “This is yours…?” He checked the name again.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Wow, they got your name really wrong.”

“No, it’s not-”

“It’s mine! Mine! Right here!” The girl had gone off to harass someone while she scoured for napkins, and is back in full force, clinging to his vest and popping up over the counter to grab at the treat.

“Gosalyn, what do we say?”

She has the good sense to look mildly shame faced before muttering “please” and Eddie hands it over and down to her, eyes looking more and more like those knots you found on trees.

“Oh…” said Eddie. “Oh-”

“This is Gosalyn.” Her scarf was slipping and Drake leaned down to fix it. “Gosalyn. This is Eddie. He makes coffee.”

“Hi Eddie who makes Coffee,” said Gosalyn, who was about as interested in all of this as she could bear to manage. “I’m going to find cinnamon.”

“Just stay close!” She scampered away and Drake sighed. “If she breaks anything, I’m not paying for it.” It didn’t sound like a joke.

Still, there were more important things than the implication of a ruined store. Eddie looked at the red headed girl, and back to the duck in front of him. “So that’s your-”

“Uh huh.”

“You actually-”

“I did.”

“You did.” Eddie looked over at the girl again, who had gotten a good deal of cinnamon into her cup, and an even greater deal onto the floor and into the purse of some lady who’d been foolish enough to look away. “Oh holy shit. You did. You actually-” Eddie smiled, huge. “You’re a dad!” He blinked. “Oh man. You’re a dad.”

Drake tries to keep the sourness at bay, but he’s almost too giddy with the declaration and whatever bitterness sat there got up and left. “I’m a dad.”

“Hows it feel.”

“Weird.” Drake said. “Different. Terrifying.”

“I mean… I didn’t think you’d actually…” he shook his head. “Hows the old Drake Mallard patience keeping up.”

Drake snorted into his coffee, dragging back a long gulp. “You’d be surprised.” He saluted the barista before whipping his head around and barking “Gosalyn, what have we talked about” and the old Drake Mallard patience roared into view again.

Some things never changed.

But, as Eddie recalled, the single bachelor hadn’t been able to stay in the coffee shop for long. The tables by the windows and the few chairs by the promotional coffee stands were never things he used, and he’d rushed out right after his hand had touched the cup- out to do god knows what.

Now he sits at the table and jokes with the little girl and lights up when he’s able to make her laugh. She makes faces and every so often there’s a mention of a zombie or alien or something that he rolls his eyes at but plays along with enough that she keeps going, unswayed and encouraged.

The clocks tick on around them, and the old stereos blast some awful acoustic songs, and the smell of artificial pumpkin is thick in the air, and the daughter and father sit by the window an hour after they’ve finished their coffee, and time just keeps ticking on.

There are new socks in the laundry and shoes by the door, and as the months pass his orderly life is disrupted in every which way. He has calendars now, hanging in the kitchen, and marked with school functions and baseball games.

His time in the cape has to be given certain hours, and he has to learn how to back away and let the police actually do something because yes, he’d love to help out, but his Gosalyn (his Gosalyn) had made the semi finals and was basically carrying her entire soccer team on her back, and he needed to be in those stands to watch.

So he was.

She scored three goals and only got into two fights, which made up for a success.

He remembers once that he’d promised himself that his life would be anything but mundane.

While he’s busy picking up shoes and vacuuming the rug, and packing apple slices in little baggies for the morning, he wonders how he let himself think something so ridiculously stupid.

Launchpad thinks it all fate. “I’m telling you, DW,” he says, drying dishes and putting them on the rack by the sink, “you were meant to be a father!”

“Eh,” says Drake.

“No! Really! My nan used to say that, you know. That we’re all just sort of meant to be things.”

Drake seals another baggie of apples. “Eh,” he says again.

He doesn’t think anyones meant to be anything. He was meant to be a father as much as he was meant to be a hero. He fought for the latter until he’d made his mark.

As he climbs the stairs and pokes his head into her room, he sort of realizes that he might have fought for this, too.

Drake sees that there’s nothing settling about coming home to a noisy house. And that there’s nothing dreadful about using this newly formed dad voice that he saves for commands about room cleaning and vegetable consuming. And that there’s nothing awful about stacking folded clothes on a bed only to have them be unfolded and scattered everywhere.

Or being caught up in a hug.

There are mornings -rare mornings- where nothing happens. Where it’s maybe just too rainy outside, or there’s no soccer games on television, or Darkwing Duck hasn’t been needed in a week or two, so the news is glossing over the usual soft stories, and their house finds itself quiet.

An odd occurrence. But not an unwelcome one.

He’s gotten very good at spotting them.

Opening his eyes, Drake Mallard looks up at his ceiling, hears the pit-pit-pit on the window, and sinks further back into the pillow.

The doorknob is jiggled softly, ticking as its turned, and the red pigtails appear first, before the rest of the face finds itself peering round the corner. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s dragging her blanket behind her and slides carefully into the rain darkened room. They both know he’s not asleep. Or, at least, he assumes she knows by the way she jostles his mattress climbing up it.

He doesn’t mind. Every once in a while, he doesn’t mind.

She (quietly, carefully) tries to wrestle with her own blanket and is (mostly) successful until there’s a foot in his side and a hand sort of pinching his arm, and she gives up completely and lets the blanket flump to the floor before delicately (or as delicate as a thirty pound gosling with a clumsy streak could manage) lifted up his blankets and burrowed beneath with him. There wasn’t much room. He had a King bed coming along, but had never had much need for it since before he’d had a child and had spent most his time outside.

And yes, an entire year in might have been a little long to wait but sue him, old habits died hard.

She pushed herself all the way under the covers until only the top of her head poked out. Her feet -which were freezing and he’d have to enforce some fascistic mandatory sockwear after this- stuck against his knees before she settled back. It didn’t escape him that she left a great deal of room between them.

Or as much as she could leave without her feet shoved against his knees.

He should have kicked her out. There wasn’t much room. And old him, the I’m-Not-a-Father-I’m-an-Eternal-Bachelor him, the one-year-prior him who still sort of lived in his brain and occasionally came out on especially foul days, might have found any reason to. And the exasperated father who’d bloomed overtime was just as absolutely peeved by the loss of his stretching space.

This was a rainy morning though. A tired, slow morning. And the tiny thing in front of him, so absolutely small compared to the hugeness of her importance which never ceased to amaze him-

he had a child

he, Drake Mallard, had a child

a living, breathing, dependent child

a real life, absolutely adoring, loved him to pieces child

-had crawled out of her bed on a Saturday, ignoring every comic most likely stacked in a messy pile on her nightstand, just to be with him. There was something so effortlessly wonderful about that.

A year. A whole year. And he still marveled.

He moved. She stiffened, thinking she’d woken him. As if that mattered. His arms, thick with sleep, wound around her and pulled her farther under the covers with him, clutching her to his chest. The bottom of his bill rested on the top of her head. “Hey, Slugger,”

She wiggled, bumping into him, leaving what might have been a nice bruise for later, before twisting around and pushing her face into his chest. He felt her yawn before snuggling more securely against him. “It’s raining.”

“It is.” She smelled like coconut shampoo from the bath he’d practically thrown her into the night before. Her downy feathers, still so soft at her age, were fluffed, and he dragged his fingers through the ones at her neck. He remembered when he’d lost his downy finally at the age of eight. The pediatricians he’d taken Gosalyn to for her annual boosters all said that hers would fall out eventually, and it wasn’t unusual for some children to hold onto theirs longer than others, and he didn’t let them know that he secretly wished she never would, because oh god, he’d only had her for a year and she was already going on ten, and there was so much he’d missed at the hands of those who’d raised her before he had-

“Can we have pancakes?”

His mind paused. “What?”

“Can we have rainy day pancakes?” her mouth sounds like its full of sleep. She pushed her face against his pajama shirt. “You smell like smoke.”

“Fire last night.”

She regarded it with a casual nod. And then: “So can we have pancakes?”

He thought for a moment. Thought a moment more. And then he grabbed her up quickly and blew a raspberry in the fold of her neck. Gosalyn shrieked, laughed, and batted at his face between her cackles of uncle uncle! “Yes, we can make pancakes,” he pulled her close again, feeling her tiny body vibrate with little continuing giggles. “Just… five more minutes.”

“Daaaad.”

“Five more minutes, Gos.”

He wanted to tell that to time. Look it in the face and hold onto his little downy child and say five more minutes over and over again until this moment stuck a permanent tac in itself and let them be.

There’s a defeated sadness in the reality that it can’t be.

By some miracle, though, she at least settles. Groaning and complaining, but wiggling closer and sighing deep. Her ear is over his chest. He wonders what his heart must sound like to her. Wonders if she used to do this with her grandfather- sitting on the couch with her ear just over his heart. Wonders if its a kid thing. Or just a her thing.

Old Drake Mallard wags a finger at him from somewhere far, far back in his mind, motioning to the smallness of the twin bed and the ticking away of the time. Not acceptable! Spoling her! Martial rule! You’re Darkwing Duck, not a mundane suburban parent! There are things to do! People to save! Time is wasting! Time! Time is wasting!

Oh hush, says the new part of his brain. Father Drake, which evolves a little more each day, and who has started sprouting a pink apron over his daily ensemble, leans on an imaginary wall and crosses his arms, and ignores the clock. What’s five more minutes. Right?

Which was true enough.

Gosalyn wasn’t off trying to destroy something. There was no sound of breaking china or the screams of furious neighbors. No teacher calls about baseball in the hallways. No screaming matches between the two of them about the absolute parental rule he had over their home.

She’s falling back asleep, pancakes temporarily forgotten. Her breathing was soft, staggered with little snores. Her chest rising and falling between beats, and her legs twitching out every so often. He didn’t want to call it peaceful. God knows he hated the word.

It was… still.

That was the word he’d use.

Everything was just… still.

The flicker of the clock ticking, the careful and steady rain and the smothered sunlight through he shutters, the yowling of a siren farther off, and the soft, soft, soft breathing of the little girl.

He pulled her close and drew her in and matched his breathing to hers.

Five more minutes.

What was five more minutes.

#darkwing duck #darkwing dad #TAKE THIS #two down #sort of???#Darkwing Duck fic #it's sort of... all over the place #but you can have it #:)

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