The sudden quiet is a bit unsettling. Louie stands from his chair to peek over the balcony again at his family below. His great uncle is covered by a thick white blanket from feet all the way to his shoulders, eyes closed and head resting back on the pillow behind him. His uncle sits a yard or two away to the rich duck's right, leaning against the plane's side, head hanging, and hands folded over his middle, obviously asleep from the snores emanating from him. Huey's on the opposite side, sleeping on his left with back to the plane's wall. Dewey and Webby lay in the middle of the plane, a couple yards away from Scrooge. The middle child sleeps on his back, arms and legs sprawled out and away from his body in a starfish like position. Webby rests on her front, head turned to her right and away from the others resting on one hand.
It seems safe to go back down. The youngest triplet can feel his own tired body longing for a rest, he'd like to join the others in their slumber. But there's something else that pulls him towards them, something he's been trying to avoid.
He turns to Launchpad, hands in his pocket, ``I'm gonna go down there, you ok up here by yourself?''
The pilot nods, ``All good here. We still have a little less than 5 hours to go yet.''
Louie nods his head in return and turns to go down the ladder. He's not concerned leaving the other alone, the main reason he had come up here was to be away from the bloody scene below. Launchpad is more than capable of keeping them on the right path, as he's proven many times before. Landing of course is a different story, but one they wouldn't have to worry about for several hours.
As he reaches the ground floor and turns back to where his family sleeps, he almost jumps at seeing the dark turquoise eyes watching his every move. He must have wakened the old duck; he had thought he was being quiet though. Placing his hands back in his hoodie pocket, he silently walks over to his great uncle, pausing at his covered feet.
He speaks quietly to not wake the others, ``Hey, you're awake? How ya doin'?''
Scrooge doesn't move, his voice low but soft, ``Bin better.''
Louie's green eyes show concern, though his face tries to mask it in his usual neutral stare. His gaze sweeps around the rich duck, but with the blanket covering, he can't see any of the injuries, except the large gash on the left forehead that's quickly forming a black eye. It's the first time he can really look at his great uncle again without his stomach churning at the sight of blood, though he avoids looking straight in the eyes. There are still some red-brown smears over the other's face and head in places, but not nearly as severe as it had been, ``Looks like they patched ya up.''
Scrooge's beak dips slightly, ``They did well, teh lot o' them.''
The youngest triplet's gaze falls to the ground and away, as if contemplating something. This isn't the first time he's been avoiding looking directly at the rich duck. Anytime his eyes fall on the one before him, it's brief and uncomfortable, as if it pains him to look at the other.
His great uncle can read him despite his efforts to hide; it's the same expression a young Donald used to wear when he felt guilty. The wealthy loner isn't the best talking about feelings, and speaking in general isn't the easiest thing right now, but it seems the boy needs to get something off his chest, ``Is there somethin' ye want tae talk aboot?''
Louie is taken aback by the question, but sighs in defeat and pads over to the Scottish duck's right side, sliding down the plane's wall and taking a seat beside him, knees drawn up to his chest. For a while neither of them says anything.
Scrooge straightens his posture a bit, wincing. The blanket loosens around him and he lowers it to his lap, laying his good arm overtop it. His head turns towards the duckling beside him, ``What's on yer mind, laddie?''
Louie's eyes glance at him in his peripheral vision. With the blanket moved, the boy can see several bruises and scrapes littering his great uncle's torso, as well as the long row of stitches on his upper right arm and left still in its sling. He purposefully sat on this side to avoid the gory, stitched and bruised ribcage, but his hesitance to face his great uncle is no longer just because of the injuries that have now stopped leaking the red liquid.
``I...'' His voice faulters as he searches for the words he wants, ``I feel...bad...''
``Yer nae well?''
Bangs shake with their owner's head, ``No, I mean...I feel bad for you...''
Scrooge blinks, ``Fer me? Ye donnae have tae pity me fer what happened.''
Louie shakes his head slightly again, ``It's not that. I mean, yea I feel bad about you getting hurt but,'' he pauses again, eyes glancing around on floor in front of him, ``I feel bad because, the first thing that came to my head was, `at least it wasn't Uncle Donald.'''
The old duck is silent next to him, and the boy's legs draw closer to his frame as he cradles them, resting his chin on his knees. He feels as if the man next to him must be offended by the statement, but still nothing is said. He can't bear to even peek at Scrooge now, not wanting to see the pained expression that was surely on the elder's face.
Louie needs to explain, he can't just leave things there as much as he wants to stop already, eyes starting to well up, ``If Uncle Donald was the one that got hit...if he had...'' He cuts himself off with a sniff, but Scrooge knows what he meant. If he had died.
Donald is certainly younger than himself, but also is not on good terms with Lady Fortuna. Would the sailor had survived the same ordeal he went through? It was a miracle he survived. Donald was the only parent the boys had ever known, and without him, what would become of them?
Louie lifts his head a little, ``He raised us, if something happened to him...I don't wanna think about life without him in it...But I'm so,'' he grabs the feathers on the sides of his head tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, ``disgusted with myself for even having a thought like that! Being relieved that it was you and not him!''
Hot tears are flowing down his cheeks now, and he wraps his arms tightly around his knees once again, ``I never wanted anything to happen to you, Uncle Scrooge.'' His eyes stare off ahead of him, a haunted look in them, ``And then seeing you all...bloody and hurt!'' He looks at his crimson stained sleeves and hands as one reaches his face, ``That picture's stuck in my head! I feel so guilty! How could I ever think something that terrible?!''
The green eyes shimmer up at him as the boy finally looks at his great uncle, wounds and all, expecting to see disappointment. Instead, the boy sees a small smile.
Scrooge's eyelids lower slightly, ``The same thought ran through my head.''
Louie's eyes widen, ``W-What?''
The rich duck takes a breath, ``The last thing ah want is one `a ye gitten hurt. Ah'd do anythin' in me power tae keep that from happenin', even if it means puttin' meself at risk.'' The elder can't be upset with the boy for being thankful his guardian was spared; he was never mad at the duckling to begin with.
Louie blinks a few times, tears still actively running down his flushed cheeks as he wipes at his nose with his sleeve with a sniff. He looks away again, still not completely convinced he shouldn't be ashamed of himself, and that the other isn't angry at him.
His great uncle continues, ``Louie, we cannae help what runs through our heads sometimes, but ye have nothin' tae be sorry fer. Ah knoo ye didnae mean any harm.''
The young duckling looks back up at him, seeing the same warm smile that was there before. The old duck really isn't upset? Not hurt or offended by what he had said? What the other had said runs through his own head; Scrooge would gladly trade his own life if it meant keeping his family safe. He has no regrets.
Louie sniffs again, and scoots closer to the bigger avian's side, before leaning his head against the right wing, avoiding the large gash. His tiny arms wrap around the rich duck's, clinging to the other.
Scrooge blinks in surprise at the outward affection, he's not the best at this either. But his smile returns, and he pats the boy's knee next to him, ``There, there, laddie. `s alright.''
They stay like that for a long time, neither saying anything more. Soon the sniffles at his side stop, and the boy's breathing becomes deep and regular. Scrooge glances down, seeing the duckling's eyes are closed, fast asleep. He smiles again, laying his head back with a sigh. Eyes close to try and rest once more, unaware that the sailor's snoring had ceased a while ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He's running through the jungle, jumping over dead trees and avoiding the large green leaves that hang in his path. Small branches grab at his face and leave scratches, but he can't worry about that now.
His webbed feet carry him as fast as they can until they reach their destination: a small clearing in the usually dense forest. Here he pauses, taking in what lies in wait for him, what he's been searching for. A bloodied and broken body that he never thought could look so...mortal. He runs to the body, quickly looking for any signs of life. There is none.
He pants in exertion and disbelief. Dead. He's dead. Impossible! Scrooge McDuck had already lived well past his life expectancy. The death-defying stunts he pulls on a day to day basis only keep him more alive! He shouldn't be dead, can't be dead! But there's no breathing beneath his fingers, and his white feathers are actively soaking up the crimson stains. There's no heart beating in the chest. He's kneeling in a pool of his great uncle's life source.
As if they were ghosts, his family manifests beside him, all expressing the same horror as he is. His younger brother his sobbing in between his vomiting episodes in the bushes at the gore of the scene. His older brother is paging through his beloved book in his shaking hands, as if trying to believe there still might be some glimmer of hope. Though there's tears running down his face as he refuses to acknowledge what's before him. Webby's hot tears drip onto their elder's face as she cradles his head, trying desperately to hold back her sobs.
Suddenly he's pushed away, falling on his posterior as he retreats backward a ways. His uncle kneels to the ground, facing away from him, body leaning over the motionless one. His shoulders tremble in between sobs, he's never seen his uncle cry so hard before.
As if sensing his thoughts, Donald's face whips around to glare at him. Salty tears run down his beak as his face turns from sorrowful to enraged. His voice shouts, ``YOU!''
Dewey flinches.
The sailor's voice has never been so accusing. His uncle stands and walks to him, ``You just had to make us all keep going, even after that trap was sprung!''
The middle child's face pales.
His younger brother lifts his head from where he'd buried it in his hands, flushed and bright red, ``I knew it was too dangerous! But you never listen to me!''
His older brother lowers the book, eyes glaring holes into his own, ``There were so many things that could have gone wrong. Anyone could have seen that! Why didn't you think before you made us all follow you!''
Dewey shakes his head, ``No...I-I didn't know this would happen! No one could have known there was another boulder!''
``Dewey...'' Webby sniffs, stroking the head feathers on Scrooge's head. Her glance moves to his own, ``You should have been more careful. You know how old he was! Look what you did!'' Her voice is trembling, and he can feel his heart break as he follows her gaze to his great uncle's body.
His body is shaking as he takes a step back, tears welling up in his bright blue eyes, ``No...I didn't...it was such a simple trap! We've been through so many worse ones!''
Donald stomps closer, making him move back quickly before falling over a branch and onto his backside once again. His uncle towers over him, ``Why do you think he even went on adventures anymore at his age?! It's because of you!''
Eyes widen in disbelief as the sailor continues, ``You always want to go on all these dangerous missions, and he just wanted to impress you! He didn't want you to think he was boring or too old! Now look what happened!''
Tears are starting to run down his face, ``Uncle Donald-''
``Don't call me that!''
He flinches, cowering away from the other.
The older duck's eyes narrow in disgust, ``This is your fault!''
Dewey's head shakes, ``No!''
``He's dead because of you!''
"NO!''
``His blood is on your hands!''
Dewey's eyes peer down to his trembling hands, seeing the red substance staining them, ``NO!''
A gasp is heard as the middle child sits up in a cold sweat, lungs heaving to try and get much needed air back into them. A hand grips his chest as he leans over slightly, staring at the red metal floor of the Sunchaser. The nightmare shook him to his core, he hasn't dreamt like that in a long while.
His face feels wet and he rubs the back of a hand over it. Tears are actively running down his face, but the sight of the dried blood on his fingers, now brightened by the sudden moisture, makes his breath pick up again. He gasps for air as he urgently tries to wipe away the crimson stains covering his person. His hands move up and down his sleeves and over each other trying to rid themselves of the offensive color in vain. More tears come to his eyes as the substance clings to his body, and he covers his head, eyes squeezing shut to block out the image.
``Dewey?''
His head pops up at his name, eyes wide. He follows the source of the sound to find his great uncle staring back at him, face full of surprise and concern.
That's right, Scrooge didn't die. He wasn't still laying in a jungle somewhere waiting to rot or be ravaged by animals, and his family hadn't blamed Dewey for the accident.
The rich duck still sits where the middle child had left him in the land of the conscious, on the blankets and leaning against a pillow on the plane's side. A thick quilt covers him from the waist down, leaving his upper body bare. Louie sits next to him, knees pulled up to his chest and leaning against Scrooge's right wing with his arms tightly wrapped around it, fast asleep.
Dewey tries to calm himself as his mind starts to come back, taking deeper breaths. His hand wipes away his tears, hoping his great uncle hadn't seen them, ``Uncle Scrooge?'' The wetness leaves red stains across his face, only leaving more evidence behind.
Scrooge's eyebrows furrow together even more. He had seen the lad crying, in fact he'd seen everything. The duckling, sleeping peacefully for quite some time, had started becoming restless. His body would twist back and forth, his deep breaths now a pant, face screwed into something resembling pain. The old duck could have sworn he heard the child mutter his own name at least once, and then the tears had started. He was about to try and wake the boy up himself from what was surely a bad dream before the blue eyes suddenly popped open and the small body sat up.
He had thought that would be the end of it, but then witnessed Dewey trying desperately to remove the blood from his hands and clothes. Afraid the boy was going to hurt himself in his panic, he called out to him.
Scrooge could sympathize with the blue triplet, he himself struggled with night terrors. Making many enemies along the years has made his mind expect tragedy to befall himself or worse, his family. Many a time has he dreamt his kin were in danger and woke swinging at nothingness in his bedroom.
However, even familial problems can make his dreams turn against him. When they had lost Della, his nightmares were so severe he had become an insomniac just to escape from them. Eventually he managed to sleep again, once the exhaustion had caught up, but those dreams still haunt him to this day, and return every now and then.
He doesn't like thinking about the times when his cursing, screaming, and even crying had attracted Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth to his room, thinking he was being attacked. If he was not already awake, they would have to physically shake him to save his poor trapped mind. Even though they saw him at his weakest, trying desperately to cease his tears and rubbing his forehead to calm his psyche, they never held anything against him. They would offer their assistance, knowing they would be turned down, and act as if nothing happened the next day to preserve their employer's pride.
The rich duck tries to soothe his great nephew, ``Seems ye had a nasty one.''
Dewey's panting is starting to return to normal, but his sniffles are still very much active, ``...yeah...'' His arms rest on his knees, glancing over at the other with sad expression.
Scrooge pats the spot next to him, in front of Louie, beckoning him over. The middle triplet hesitates for just a moment before accepting the invitation, crawling the short distance onto the padded spot and laying down next to his great uncle. His back lay to the plane's side and away from the older duck's prying eyes. His younger brother's feet tuck underneath his back. His head rests on Scrooge's lap, facing away from him.
They sit for a bit, the older duck shifting just slightly to accompany more weight onto his broken frame, holding back a grunt but allowing the wince to show as his great nephew couldn't see it at this angle. Finally settling again, his arm rests out of the way to give the two triplets room.
Dewey holds still, lifting his head slightly when the body adjusts underneath him, and trying to convince himself he wasn't harming it. When it stills, he lays back again, tears still dripping onto the blanket beneath him, but starting to dry up.
His mind starts to wander, why is Scrooge still awake? He'd have expected him to be passed out or at least resting peacefully by now. Everyone else is sleeping around them, thankfully not hearing his outburst. His voice is quiet, so much so it can barely be heard, ``Did I wake you up?''
His great uncle's straining ears manage to pick it up over the Sunchaser's engine, ``Nae. Haven't slept a wink.''
Dewey's head turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Scrooge give a small smile, almost a sad one. He doesn't want to tell the child how his body aches. How the pain is so intense he can't find solace in sleep, even though every fiber of his being yearns for it. He can't tell the hurting duckling that having the two of them lean against him is causing even more pain to wrack his battered body. No, he keeps that to himself. There are more important things to worry about.
Dewey reaches with a hand to feel what lays under the blanket, trying to determine where exactly his head rests. He's on the broken leg, but above the splint, in the corner of his eye, he can see his great uncle's face twitching at his touch. He removes his hand, ``I'm not hurting you, am I?''
The smile widens a bit, ``Nae, donnae worry aboot me.''
It seems convincing; Dewey turns his head back and sighs.
His dream's memory returns, the body before him, his family in tears, the blood on his hands. He lifts one to look at the red stains.
Scrooge watches him, ``Ye wanna talk aboot it? Yer dream?''
Dewey tucks his hand to his chest and shakes his head. He doesn't want to relive that.
The rich duck accepts it and doesn't enquire anymore, leaning his head back to rest, he almost misses the soft, trembling, voice.
``...I'm sorry.''
Lifting his head again, he tries to look at the duckling's face, who's turned it closer to the blankets, ``Eh? `Sorry'? Fer what?''
The tears have started anew, wetting the quilt atop his legs. The boy trembles, ``For what happened; it's my fault. I-I insisted that we keep going even after that trap w-was sprung...we could have found another way around; we could have been safer...but I m-made us all keep going...and then Uncle Donald...and-and you...''
He doesn't want to hear anymore, ``Dewey. Donnae ye even dare blame yerself fer this. `s nae yer fault. It was jus' an accident.''
The middle triplet buries his face into the blanket further, tiny hand gripping it tightly as he sobs, ``...but...but I-''
``Ah donnae wanna hear it! With all teh adventures we've bin on, that death trap was a walk in teh park. We've been through much worse! Teh fact no one's gotten hurt yet is a bit miraculous.''
Dewey sniffs and turns to look at him. Again, those glistening blue eyes stare up at his face, ``You're not mad? You don't blame me?''
Scrooge lets out a small chuckle, making his ribs scream at him, but he ignores their cry, ``Of course not! If it was anyone's fault, it was me own fer not gittin outta teh way in time!'' He sighs, ``These old bones arennae as quick as they used ta be.''
To his relief, the middle child smiles just a bit, turning his head back again, ``Thanks, Uncle Scrooge.''
He smiles in return, lifting his good hand and placing it on the boy's head, ruffling the head feathers, ``Don' ever blame yerself fer what happened. You'll only make yerself miserable.'' Ah should knoo. He blamed himself for their mother's absence for years, and still struggles with it.
The triplet beneath his caressing hand relaxes, ``I won't.''
It's as if he can feel the guilt leaving the duckling's body, a soft sigh escaping. Soon the child is motionless beneath him, hopefully back to a more peaceful slumber.
Right as he's about to try and rest again himself, a sniffle reaches his ears. Following the sound, the old duck's head turns to his left where he's met with the tearful sight of the oldest triplet. ``Huey?''
The boy's amber eyes flick to his, meekly meeting his eye contact. The red garbed duckling must have awoken at some point during his and Dewey's conversation, or perhaps even before that. He's sitting up in the same location where he had previously been sleeping.
Huey's eyes travel between his siblings and his great uncle, before the rich duck invites him over with a small gesture of his head. The oldest boy is quick to accept and moves to join his family. He's careful to avoid the wounded arm, and instead mirrors Dewey, laying on his right side on the padded spot. His head rests on the Scrooge's left leg, back facing the old duck, but snuggles a bit closer than his brother.
The injured avian adjusts to having even more weight on his battered body, trying not to wake the other two sleeping children. His smile still present, he addresses the oldest triplet, ``What's teh matter?''
Huey is a bit more outspoken of his own feelings than his two brothers and Scrooge isn't surprised when his question is immediately answered, ``I just wish I could help more. Seeing you hurt like this makes me want to fix the problem, but I don't like accepting that I can't fix everything. I couldn't set your dislocated arm even though I knew what I was doing, I can't sew up wounds like Webby and Uncle Donald, and I can't fix the pain that you're still in. We don't have any painkillers!''
Scrooge shakes his head just slightly in disbelief with the ever-present smile still sitting on his face, ``Huey, ye knoo ye cannae fix everythin'. Sometimes ye have tae accept that.''
Even though he can only see the back of the boy's head, he can tell it's disappointed. He continues, ``But ye've already helped me so much. Ye helped Dewey fix me arm, and ye were smart enough tae find supplies tae make a splint fer me leg! Without ye ah'd be in a great deal more pain. Might nae `ave made it home.''
Huey contemplates that. He was the one who directed his younger brother how to fix the dislocated arm. If they hadn't fixed that, then it's entirely possible getting Scrooge back to the Sunchaser would have been more difficult. Being in constant overwhelming pain, and having to ride on your nephew's back, would not be an ideal way to travel. Plus had he not have suspected a break in the entrepreneur's leg, Scrooge could have insisted he walk out of the jungle, and only do more damage to it and the rest of his body. Lastly, he assisted Dewey in stabilizing the broken leg until they reach home. Huey hadn't fixed everything, but he did make a difference.
A tiny smile pulls on the boy's small beak, ``Thanks, I...guess I did help.''
As the revelation hits the oldest triplet, a hand is placed over his own on the rich duck's leg, Dewey having reached out to his older brother.
Scrooge's eyebrows raise, he thought the boy was asleep, but had apparently been listening to their conversation.
Huey's first finger moves on top of his brother's hand in appreciation, wordless consoling passing between the siblings. His eyes close, ``We're really glad you're ok, Uncle Scrooge. We were scared you were...'' He cuts himself off just a moment, swallowing, and nuzzling closer to his great uncle, ``We just met you. We don't wanna lose you.''
The Scottish duck's beak parts slightly and he blinks in surprise. At the eldest duckling's confession, Dewey replicates his brother's actions and snuggles closer, turning his head towards the blanket beneath him to be closer yet. Scrooge's bewilderment is only heightened as he feels the youngest triplet, dormant for nearly an hour and half, tighten the hold on his trapped right arm and tuck the small beak closer still.
Suddenly he's blinking rapidly. Tears are stinging at his eyes, and he has to put a stop to them before it's too late. There's an ache in his chest, a welcomed one. Scrooge hasn't felt this...loved in a long time. He has to control his body's trembling before the boy's catch on. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he calms his emotions, ``Ye won't, lads. Ah promise.''
Dewey smiles. The hand on his head continues to caress his head feathers, providing calming sensations. He won't bring attention to the shakes he feels in the stroking fingers.
