Pants leave the old duck as he regains his breath, coughing weakly here and there. Scrooge just barely succeeded in restraining himself from giving his third nephew a swift kick across the plane's belly. He releases his death grip on Donald's arm, who promptly rubs it with a wince. He lowers his left leg once again. His injured hip had been throbbing at the movements, but that pain had been numbed in comparison to what his kin were doing to him. He attempts to force himself to relax for a brief moment.
Dewey and Huey have moved aside, the broken leg now successfully splinted. They're some pride showing in their faces, but mainly they're just happy to have escaped unscathed. Scrooge glances at his lower limb. It seems straighter now than before; the two had done a good job, they should be proud of themselves, just like he is.
Breath now returning, his gaze rises back to his great nephews with a long blink, ``...good lads...'' It's all he can manage right now. But it's enough. The two give a small sympathetic smile back to him.
With that taken care of, Webby and Donald are ready to move on, whether he is or not. His first nephew is already lifting his bad arm up and away again. A whine wants to force its way out, but he puts an end to it before it even begins. They mean well, he knows, but the exhaustion of the whole ordeal is seriously catching up to him. He'd already lost consciousness more than once and can't promise he won't again. The concussion still makes his stomach twist and turn with every passing second, and there's no way he could walk a straight line with the dizziness that plagues him. Lying more on his right hip again to give Webby access to the injury, he uses his good elbow for support, but it's already trembling under his weight.
The girl duckling puts a towel on the floor in front of her to soak up any fluid and opens up a fresh water bottle. Donald kneels next to her, one leg on either side of his uncle, almost straddling without putting his own weight on the other. He delicately holds the bad wing out of the way with his right hand and places his left on Scrooge's right ribcage to keep him in place and prevent him from moving away.
With the old duck pinned in a sense, Webby starts to pour the water over the wound. The oldest nephew immediately tightens his hold as the injured avian starts to thrash weakly with a groan between his clenched teeth. The boys see the struggle and assist their uncle in restraining, Dewey holding down the legs that have started to kick and Huey running around to the other side. He kneels next to the rich duck's right side near his head, holding his shoulder in place and helping in any way he can to prevent any further injury.
Webby's brows furrow, she hates having to see her hero recoil in pain by her own hand, but she knows it's what is best. He would tell her not to hesitate if he were in his right mind. She steels her nerves, fighting her conflicting emotions, and continues. Her fingers circle around the inside of the cut and between the skin flaps, cleaning out any dirt and debris that might have gathered. A breathless gasp meets her ears as water and blood pool together on the floor.
The pain is too much. Scrooge wants to tell her to stop, he can't take it anymore. He's ashamed of himself; the toughest of the toughies fighting a wee lass over a boo-boo. But this boo-boo hurts like he couldn't imagine. The ribcage possesses only a thin layer of skin and hardly any fat deposits over it, making it an extremely sensitive spot on the body to begin with. As if the cut wasn't enough, every time her small fingers move back and forth, he could feel the bones shift around inside. The assault to his already broken body makes his supporting arm finally give way and he lands on top of Huey beside him, forcing Donald and Webby to adjust their positioning as the bloodied mess pools onto the blankets beneath him. Blast me bagpipes, this is worse than me arm!
The oldest triplet is knocked over by the force of his great uncle falling on him and he lands on his rump, the entrepreneur's head landing in his small lap as a cough leaves him again. Huey is unsure what to do for a moment as his uncle's now free hand squeezes the quilts below them. He's almost certain he saw the dark turquoise eyes were moist when they widened with the pained wheeze; he's never seen the old man cry before.
His uncertainty is replaced by his older brother instincts. Many a night has he calmed his younger brothers after a nightmare or provided support when they had fallen and scraped a knee. He's dealt with this before, it was no different, the subject was simply older than he in this situation. He just needs to calm the other down.
He places his tiny right hand over the larger one tightly clinging to the blankets. It's cool and clammy to the touch. His other is placed on the man's head, gently running his fingers through the tufts of soft feathers there and combing out any debris or dried blood clumps. He's careful to avoid any cuts that are still actively bleeding.
The action is supposed to be soothing, but from his position he can see his Scrooge's eyes open wide in surprise. The back of his head is to the boy's stomach, and the child can only see his left eye as it searches, seemingly unsure how to react. No one had ever done this to him before. He'd lived his whole life without being comforted, and he isn't exactly sure how to respond to the gesture.
Though as Webby's cleansing reaches the deeper sections of the wound, all thought is replaced by pain again, and his eyes close tightly with a grimace and a grunt. Huey can faintly feel the hand beneath his open just slightly to release the blankets and allow his own hand inside the tight squeeze. The body atop his stifles as many sounds as possible and attempts to keep motionless, head turning more towards the floor beneath them and inadvertently closer to his own frame. Huey chooses not to say anything, to protect what little pride the old man has left. He was just happy to help in whatever way he could.
Finally, the tortuous cleaning stops as the girl moves on to her curved needle, ``I'm gonna start sewing this up now, Mr. McDuck. Please try to hold still.'' She doesn't want to stab any more than she has to or cause more damage to the avian beneath her whose thrashing has started to still.
Webby receives a soft grunt in response, and starts with the innermost muscle layer, using the needle much like one would if you were to sew up a hole in a piece of clothing. Each puncture makes a tiny red stream form to join the already flowing river as she pulls the meat back together. When too much blood blocks her view, she uses some gauze from the first aid kit to dab it away and continues her needlework. Her patient trembles but sits surprisingly still. What makes her move faster however, are the now quick, shallow breaths forming beneath her quaking hands.
Donald notices the odd breathing rate now, too. His eyebrows furrowing as he cranes his head over to look at his uncle, ``Scrooge?''
No verbal answer, just more rapid breathing. Dewey peeks over the sailor's shoulder to see what's happening, the legs he was holding down have stopped fighting him.
Webby finishes the muscle layer and urgently moves on to the second, the subcutaneous layer, trying to finish as soon as possible. The bleeding has dramatically lightened already, but each new puncture still causes more to form. She can see the old duck is starting to turn a bit more pale. She needs to get this bleeding under control.
Huey gives the body on his lap a light shake to get a response as he tries to see the other's face. Eyes are tightly closed, beak open to pant, but no reply. The cold hand is still tightly squeezing his own, but he feels it would go lax if he moved away, ``I think he might have passed out again!''
Blood loss, fainting, shivering, paleness, rapid breathing; Donald can easily recognize the shock is getting worse. He frowns, ``I don't like the way he's breathing. How's it coming, Webby?''
Said duckling can feel the pressure now, her hands shaking as she works. It's not easy to sew a cut when it's moving so much! The ribcage rapidly expands and deflates, moving the laceration as it does. She keeps her face focused to not let on how much she's panicking inside, ``I'm almost done with the hypodermic layer, then I just have the skin left!''
There's a wheeze starting to form in the breaths. Donald's brows knead together even more, ``He's having trouble.''
The eldest triplet's fingers never cease combing the thick feathers, still attempting to calm the one beneath him, ``If we had an oxygen mask, that might help!''
Dewey is already standing and turning to the flight deck, ``Launchpad! Do you have an oxygen mask in here?!''
The pilot's head turns to shout back, ``I have one up here in the cockpit, but I think there's a portable one in the back!''
The middle child puts his hands up towards the other, ``Don't move, just keep flying! Tell me where it is!''
``The locker where the medical supplies are kept; there's a compartment built in the back; it should be in there!''
The youngest triplet turns around and walks to the balcony in time to see Dewey running to the back of the plane in search for the locker, ``Why do you need a...''
He cuts himself off, stomach dropping at the sight. He can see the limp figure on the floor, face hidden by his uncle kneeling over it. He can barely see Huey on the floor, his face is upset. Webby is across him on the other side, her back to Louie, thankfully hiding whatever she's working on. The once white towel on the floor at her feet, now a crimson color, doesn't help his queasiness.
Dewey carries a mask in one hand and trails a dark green tank behind him. He stops next to Huey and they start turning the knobs on the tank. Donald uses his free hand to lift the oxygen mask up to his own face, testing to see if it's working. It must be, as he hands it back to the other triplets who begin fidgeting with what he assumes is his great uncle's face. The view is still hidden, and he can feel his anxiety starting to well up.
Launchpad turns his head to the green triplet again, ``What's going on?''
Louie ignores the question, and yells out his own to the group below, leaning over the balcony railing to try and see, ``Is he ok?!''
Donald turns his head to him, ``He passed out again! He was breathing a little funny but he's fine now!''
Louie breathes in relief. For a second, he thought they were losing the old codger. He watches for a bit longer, before turning back to his seat next to the pilot, ``He's ok.''
The phrase repeats in his head, as if still convincing himself. Launchpad looks concerned but turns his head back to the sky before them.
Dewey glances at his elder brother next to him, who returns the worried expression. Their uncle hadn't been completely honest with their youngest sibling. Louie was exceptionally emotional, and Donald had tried to reassure him that everything was under control. But the truth was even after they had fitted the mask around Scrooge's beak, his breathing still has yet to return to normal. Fog forms in the front of the clear mask with every breath, the same troubled expression on his face.
Webby finishes her last stitch on the skin and cuts the extra length away. The black stitches stick out on the white feathers, but at least the bleeding has mostly stopped now. The feathers themselves turned out to be quite bothersome in trying to get her needle around, but at last the gash is back together. She puts down her instruments and picks up the water bottle again, rinsing her work clean once more. The blood stains are still present as well as the deep bruise, but the injury itself looks much better. A clean towel dabs up the moisture and dries the feathers. The duckling sits back with a sigh, her face now finally showing her concern as she looks up at the sailor.
Donald leans over to look at her work before smiling back to her, ``And you said it wouldn't be pretty.''
Webby gives a small, half-hearted smile in thanks. The duck lowers the injured wing once again and moves away to sit next his nephews.
With the laceration now being left alone, the family notices the rich duck's breath starting to slow down. Each breath gets deeper and his whole body seems to relax, the pained expression now moving to a neutral one, and the grip on Huey's hand softens.
The eldest triplet continues running his left hand through the soft feathers on his great uncle's head, ``That's better. I think he's ok now.''
Donald stretches before reaching for the needles and tools beside Webby, ``Good. Let's keep cleaning the cuts while he's out.''
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Donald's steady hands work to bring the thin skin back together on his uncle's forehead. Several minutes have already ticked by since Scrooge lost consciousness once again, this one is lasting longer than the other rather short ones before. Despite their worry, the group is actively taking advantage of it by cleaning the rest of the wounds scattered across his body. Ice packs are resting along the stinted leg to prevent anymore swelling from starting and ease what's already inflamed. Most of the small cuts just needed cleaning, and Webby takes the initiative by rinsing them out with the water and then drying them afterwards with a towel.
Before moving along, Webby examines the large bruise over the left hip, lightly pressing around the bone. Nothing moves with her probes and the bones feel normal, though there is definitely some swelling around the joints. It's most likely a deep tissue injury, and the bone might be bruised, but at least it doesn't seem broken. With Scrooge's age, his bones should be brittle; it's a miracle more of them aren't shattered.
Finished with the wounds here, Webby moves up to where the rest of the group are sitting. Dewey sits next to the green oxygen tank, making sure it doesn't tip over. Donald's sitting on his knees as he sews up the cut on Scrooge's head, which rests in Huey's lap.
The red garbed boy strokes the long feathers on the side the man's face to keep out of the way of his uncle's work; they're much softer than he'd expected.
The girl duckling dampens a fresh towel and pats at the back of the rich duck's head. Most of the small cuts there have clotted already, but she's gentle. He most likely hit there when he landed, and it's surely sensitive.
The old codger's face twitches and they all notice, he's been immobile since he lost consciousness. Webby finishes her cleaning and removes the towel. The sailor takes one last chunk of skin as he starts the last stitch and there's a flinch in reaction. Two dark turquoise eyes open slowly, and he hurries to complete it. The blue pools are unfocused at first and simply blink in reaction to him tying it off and cutting away the excess.
As Donald sits back, the eyes suddenly widen as their owner's mind becomes aware of his surroundings. His breathing increases slightly, and he then notices the mask around his beak. The hand holding Huey's lets go and grabs at the mask as his breathing picks up to a panic; he's unsure of what's happening. Years of living on his own has made him expect the worst and awakening in this strange situation makes his mind assume he's in the presence of an enemy. He can't show weakness; he attempts to sit up in his confusion.
The eldest triplet seizes his hand before he can remove the mask and makes him pause in his movements, ``No, no, no! It's ok, you're ok. Take deep breaths, in, and out. In, and out.''
The boy makes the old duck focus on him. Huey breathes with him, in and out. The eyes are large in alertness, but he watches the child closely, and follows his instruction, forcing his lungs to take longer, deeper breaths to calm himself.
Scrooge's eyes lower and blink as his body starts to relax, his mind returning to him. He lowers himself back to the boy's lap; he's not among enemies, he's among family; he can lower his guard. His hand remains on the oxygen mask, but he doesn't remove it, yet.
Huey strokes his head again, ``Good. Just breathe.''
He glances around him, noticing other family members looking down at him. Dewey sits next to the boy in red, holding on to what he assumes is the oxygen tank his mask is connected to. Webby sits next to the middle child, holding a crimson stained white towel. Donald sits next to her and beside himself. His own body is in an arc of sorts and wrapped around his first nephew. He doesn't know how he got like this. Of course, he recalls the events that transpired earlier, his aching body making it hard for him to forget, but he doesn't remember feeling faint.
Donald watches his uncle closely. Eyes glance around the room and at each of them, before finally locking with his own. He can see the confusion in them, silently asking `what happened?' He answers the old man's wordless question, ``You passed out again while Webby was stitching up your side. You started having trouble breathing, so we found this oxygen tank and hooked you up to it.''
Scrooge's eyebrows furrow in what seems to be annoyance; he doesn't like being doted over. Before anyone can stop him, he pulls the oxygen mask off his beak, and starts to push himself up to a sitting position with a grimace. His kin bark at him to stay still and lay low, but he ignores them until he can finally rest against the pillow leaning on the Sunchaser's side. He lets out a breath before addressing his family, ``...Oh quit yer worryin'. Ah'm fine.'' His body rests heavily against the plane's wall as his head spins with the sudden vertical position. Eyes close to keep the world from revolving before them.
The family can say little to sway the stubborn duck, they all know from experience. Instead of insisting he should lay back down, they decide to finish what they started. Scrooge had been laying on his right side, which prevented any wounds on that portion of his body from being cleaned. There are still a few small cuts that need attention, but the biggest one is the large laceration on his upper right arm. The gash had already made a bloody stain on the blankets where he had previously been lying a short time ago, and most of his feathers on that side are now a dark crimson color.
Webby is the first to start dabbing away at the smaller scrapes here and there, making the old duck open his eyes at the sudden probing, but he does nothing to stop her. Dewey turns the oxygen tank off, seeing as his great uncle was bound and determined not to use it anymore. But instead of returning it to the medical locker, he lays the tank on its side and pushes it only a short distance from them in case they would need it again. Huey readjusts the ice packs that have moved away from the broken leg to cover it again as Donald moves closer to inspect the bleeding arm.
The cut isn't life-threatening, but deep, and would definitely need some stitches. Putting more towels underneath them, the sailor takes his bottle of water and starts to dump it over the wound, instantly sending a crimson river flowing down the other's arm. Scrooge flinches, mainly from the sudden cold water running down his arm as he glares at his nephew, who promptly begins cleaning out the gash with searching fingers once again.
The rich duck grunts, leaning a little away from his kin, ``Must ye git every nook `n cranny?!''
A scowl reaches his, ``I'd hate for you to lose your arm from infection after I missed all the dirt in here and then closed it up!''
An eyeroll with a groan in frustration, but Scrooge doesn't snap back.
Even though they argue, Donald can honestly say he's happy his uncle is putting up a fight again, it means he's starting to feel a bit more like himself. The sailor worried when his usually tenacious uncle never once retorted to them. As much as he wants to sigh in relief and even hug the man for the simple reassurance that the old cheapskate's still alive, things still aren't right between the two of them. He knows it, and he's sure Scrooge is aware of it as well, but neither are the best at talking about their feelings. Thankfully that could wait for now, there were more pressing matters that needed to be dealt with.
He picks up the instruments again, hoping these would be the last stitches he has to do for a long time. He brings the needle to the muscle layer first, taking a decent sized chunk to start bringing back together. His uncle winces and grunts at the sharp stabbing but tries his best to remain still. Being able to physically feel your muscles being tied together is a strange sensation, and one that is not exactly comfortable. The old duck shifts a little, trying to distract himself as his nephew continues down his line of sutures.
Donald would almost prefer it if Scrooge was sleeping again now. The way he recoils and fidgets is not making this an easy job. At least when he was unconscious, he held still. The sailor feels bad for the young duckling that had to sew up the large laceration on the rib cage half an hour ago.
In the midst of his uncle's writhing, his needle unintentionally pushes deeper than planned, drawing out a bigger trail of the red fluid. A yip rewards him as the body flinches away a few good inches, snarling, ``Take it easy!''
He's blamed for it, of course. He hisses back, ``Well stop your squirming!''
The old codger snarls back at him, ``Ah'm only squirmin' because yer bein' too rough!''
There is no gentle way to sew up a laceration; it's not going to be painless. Donald's eyes narrow as he draws out his trump card, ``Would you rather we have Mrs. B take care of this when we get back?!''
Immediate silence...followed by a few grumbles under the Scottish duck's breath in his Gaelic tongue.
Scrooge knows better than to have his housekeeper, Mrs. Beakley, dress wounds. The woman was a secret agent and a better bodyguard than he could ever hope for, but she was not known for her gentle nature. On the few occasions the world's richest duck had been injured, she lived up to her ruthless and merciless nature. Sure, his wounds had healed well and were properly taken care of, but the pain involved in her rehabilitation techniques were worse than the initial injuries themselves. Even her own granddaughter, Webbigail, had learned at a young age to dress her own scrapes and cuts les she fall victim to her grandmother's unforgiving methods.
At the housekeeper's name, Webby visibly winces at the thought. Her reaction only seals Scrooge's hesitation at having Mrs. Beakley sew up and dress his injuries. Instead of arguing or retorting more, he looks in the other direction and holds his body as still as he is able. His attempts prove to be beneficial for his nephew, who finally finishes the muscular layer and can move on to the second layer.
The girl duckling has moved to Scrooge's left side to be out of Donald's way, though she continues her cleaning by leaning over and carefully patting the cuts. There's a particularly sore looking mark over his right collar bone, and she gently dabs away at it, trying in vain to clean the gravel and dirt from the scrapes. He winces with a strained grunt, whether from her or the sailor's doing one can't be sure, but her dark eyes still flick up to his in sympathy, ``Sorry.''
He shakes his head just slightly, a bit unnerved at the look in them, ``Don be, `s nae yer fault.''
There's an awkward silence at that. No one replies as it seems everyone is lost in their own thoughts. The rich duck notices how the many pairs of eyes that were looking at him just a second ago, now glance away as their owners pretend to be busy with whatever they can occupy their hands with. He furrows his brows; what's going through their heads?
With his mind distracted, he fails to notice his nephew move to the skin layer on his wound, and before he knows it, the gash is already completely sewed up. Donald leans away with a sigh, ``There. Now at least you won't bleed out before Mrs. B can get ahold of you.''
Scrooge stifles a groan. There's sure to be many choice words filling his ears when they get back. He'd rather his kin have left him in the jungle.
But at last, his wounds have been tended to, at least until they get home. For now, they can relax and try to forget about what had happened. The entrepreneur feels a shiver starting in his frame again. Blood loss is cruel to the body. He'd tried to ignore it as best he could before, but now it's proving to be too much.
Donald notices the trembling right away, finds a thick blanket, and promptly covers his uncle with it, tucking it in around him. Scrooge wants to retort at being babied but can't find it in him as the warm quilt gradually rises his body's temperature. His nephew places a hand on his forehead, mindful of the stitched-up cut, and hums in thought, ``You still feel like you have a fever. Try to get some sleep.''
The rich duck blinks slowly back in response; his body feels heavy.
After cleaning up the mess they had made, the two boys and Webby all but passed out in various locations along the plane's floor. They were utterly exhausted, merely running on adrenaline this whole time to make sure the rich duck would survive. Donald had sat down a little way away from Scrooge, leaning against the plane's side. It was obvious he was having trouble staying awake as well, his eyes closing longer at every blink, head lowering.
The old duck can't but feel pride in his kin. They had taken such great care of him already, ignoring their own needs. He adjusts a little, trying and failing to get comfortable as the dull pain relentlessly throbs throughout his frame, his shivers only exasperating it. A few minutes pass before the soft snoring informs him of his nephew succumbing to the fight. He closes his eyes as well, trying to at least rest and ignore his body's complaints.
