The plane slows to a stop in front of McDuck mansion. The landing has to be one of the smoothest anyone can remember, Launchpad taking extra precautions and doing his absolute best not to crash into anything. Even though it went against everything he knew, protecting his employer was at the top of his list of priorities.
Near the entrance to the large home, Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth can be seen patiently waiting, a wheelchair next to them. The pilot had radioed them the situation, not giving all the intimate details, but enough to prepare them. The housekeeper wears a look similar to a parent ready to scold their child, her arms crossed. Duckworth floats a foot off the ground beside her, his typical neutral expression masks the concern he feels growing inside.
They move to the back of the plane and reach it right as the door to the Sunchaser’s belly starts to open. The first thing they can see as the door descends is Launchpad climbing down from the cockpit to the lower level. As it lowers more, Donald and the four ducklings are the next to be seen, all crowding around a pile of blankets on the left side of the plane. Between them, the two can just make out a body sitting there, one a different shade than the rest of them: a red tinge in color.
The spy rolls the wheelchair up the ramp as they enter in the plane. Webby’s head turns at the sound of them ascending, and runs over, giving her grandmother a swift hug, “Granny!”
Mrs. Beakley doesn’t deny the embrace, though she is a bit surprised. Her granddaughter doesn’t hug her after every mission; this experience must have shaken the girl, especially the way she clings exceptionally tight. What disturbs her is the alarming amount of red stains that litter the tiny duckling’s body. The blood is not her own, which both soothes and worries the older duck.
“Webby, fill me in on the details. What are we dealing with here?” Quick to get down to business, the housekeeper and undead butler pause in the plane’s opening to listen to the child before continuing.
The girl’s eyebrows furrow together as she recounts the events, “He was struck by a swinging boulder at least twice his size. After he landed from the initial hit, he slid across the rocky mountainside before falling close to a hundred feet down into the jungle.”
Mrs. Beakley mirrors her granddaughter’s expression.
Duckworth places a hand to his mouth, “Oh dear!” That’s quite an ordeal, especially for someone of their employer’s age.
The spy urges the duckling to continue, “And the injuries?”
Webby’s eyes are staring off at nothing in particular, a troubled and distant look in them, “When we found him...” She’s quick to catch herself. Her grandmother isn’t asking for the story of what happened, only for the necessary information to know how to proceed.
She gives her head a quick shake to clear her mind, a determined look resting on her face, “Head trauma, most likely a concussion. Dislocated shoulder, Dewey already set it. Broken leg that’s also been set. Broken ribs as well as several large lacerations and bruising. No signs of internal bleeding as of now, but I haven’t been able to tell if the broken ribs are stable, and I’m worried about them moving around.”
“Has he lost consciousness?” Duckworth inquiring now.
“Yes. Several times, each lasting longer than the last.”
The woman nods in understanding, and they continue their trek to reach the small group.
The triplets stand at the rich duck’s feet, each varying in the amount of crimson staining on their tiny bodies. They turn at the sound of footsteps and move a few steps back to make room. Launchpad has joined the family, standing on Scrooge’s left while Donald kneels next to him on his right, his sleeves missing and bearing the most red streaks other than his uncle.
The two finally can get a look at their employer, and they don’t like what they see. He sits upright, leaning against a pillow along the plane’s wall, half covered by a white quilt. His left arm is in a sling, and several stitches can already be seen across his opposite arm and forehead. Despite the family having cleaned most of the wounds, his normally white feathers are a red-brown in color, mixed with dirt and blood.
He looks...tired. Undoubtably in a considerate amount of pain, but the way his normally bright and cheerful eyes after an adventure sit halfway closed and drooped, make the entrepreneur look his age. There’s a small smile on his beak at conversing with his family around him in a soft tone, but his employees can see how worn down he is.
Having spent several years living with Scrooge McDuck, they had yet to see him look quite like this. The only instance that came to mind was directly after losing his niece. Self-blame tore him up inside, and he went through a major depressed state for quite a while. Though most of the pain was emotional in that instance, they had yet to see him in such physical turmoil in all the years they spent working for him.
His grin fades at seeing the two come to his side. Mrs. Beakley releases the tight grip she holds on the wheelchair’s handles in favor of placing her fists on her hips, glaring down at him.
Certain he’s going to get an earful of his behavior and how he put the children at risk, Scrooge seeks to at least delay the outburst until he’s had time to rest. Raising his good hand just slightly, his brows furrow together, “22, ah knoo ye have a speech prepared fer me, but just this once, can it wait?”
He doesn’t expect her to listen to him, she never has in the past. She takes a breath, closing her eyes for a moment as her body relaxes with the exhale. When her eyes open again, her scowl has relaxed just slightly, turned down eyebrows lifting and kneading together just a tad to show her concern, “Let’s get you to bed.”
He blinks in pleasant surprise, at both her willingness to drop her anger for the time being, and the worry displayed in her expression. It’s not something he’s accustomed to witnessing.
Beakley pulls the wheelchair closer as Donald removes the blanket covering the injured duck’s legs. She can see the makeshift splint now, and although the leg would need a proper cast, she’s impressed at how well the family has already taken care of him.
The spy and pilot kneel to the floor to assist in lifting the battered body. Scrooge’s right arm is wrapped around his nephew’s neck again as his left leg draws up to help him stand. He’s terribly stiff from the long ride in the same position and is unsure if his injuries are causing the pain he feels or if it’s the arthritis.
Launchpad assists from the left, careful of the wounded arm, and Beakley helps Donald on the right as they lift the old duck off the plane’s floor. The movement makes the pain heighten once again; Scrooge’s face squeezes together, gritting his teeth as a grunt of discomfort escapes him.
Finally, he’s back on his...foot, though the three lifting take most of his weight. Dewey runs to the wheelchair’s handles, ready to move it if need be. Slowly, they ease the avian over to it and sit him down. A cough and breath of air is released as he settles. After moving his feet up on the footrests, the spy wheels him backwards off the padded area and down the ramp of the Sunchaser, his family close behind.
Being home is a relief, though now he wishes he hadn’t made quite so many steps in the mansion. He hadn’t considered stairs being a problem at the time the mansion was being built. Each bump is painful, but eventually they make it to his bedroom on the second floor. There are medical supplies laid out on his bed as well as Duckworth’s briefcase containing his stethoscope and other instruments.
Scrooge is careful in choosing his employees, but especially the ones who live with him. Basic medical training and knowledge is a requirement for the butler and housekeeper. The main reason being the stingy duck refused to go to a hospital unless absolutely required. If he can save a penny and have his own workers care for him, even if it isn’t top of the line, he’d take it in an instant.
Thankfully Duckworth had a small medical background, he isn’t a doctor by any means, but had much of the same knowledge of a nurse. Mrs. Beakley also had received medical training when she first started working for S.H.U.S.H. Together they took care of Scrooge McDuck to the best of their abilities.
The spy has shooed Donald, Launchpad, the triplets, and Webby out of the room, ensuring they would take good care of the old duck. They could visit later after his injuries had been properly dressed, and they could clean themselves up in the meantime. Despite their worry and objection, they have little choice but to oblige as the door is shut in their many faces.
Mrs. Beakley prepares the disinfectant wipes while Duckworth takes his stethoscope from the open case. Being a ghost doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t physically touch or hold objects; it just requires more concentration on his part. By focusing his essence into a particular body part, like his hand, he could easily pick up items as if he were still alive.
With stethoscope and watch in hand, Duckworth floats over to his employer as Scrooge gulps his nerves down.
“I’m going to take your vital signs, Mr. McDuck. It’s imperative we ensure your condition is stable and not in need of urgent medical attention.”
The housekeeper does little to muffle her reply, “Most people would consider this an urgent need.” She’s obviously upset he hasn’t already gone to a hospital.
Scrooge lifts his good arm onto the handle of the wheelchair, palm up, as his butler takes his pulse, “Ah’m fine. Just a wee bit banged up is all.”
The elderly woman’s eyes squint behind her glasses as she brings her supplies over to him, “Yes, just a ‘wee bit.’ I didn’t realize how much a concussion can affect one’s common sense! You have multiple broken bones, a dislocated shoulder,” she’s stuttering slightly as her rage starts to build again, “Y-you’re too old to be this injured! How you’re still alive is beyond me!”
Scrooge’s eyebrows lower as he hears her accusations. Didn’t she say a few minutes ago this could wait until later?
She holds a small container of wetted gauze and antiseptic solution in hand, separating one piece from the rest before holding it up to the stitched-up laceration over his forehead, “...And yet.”
He winces away at the contact, though without far to go in the wheelchair he has little choice but to accept it as she continues, “...I can’t help but be grateful you are.”
He blinks in surprise, “...Bentina...”
At this angle, she can barely see the dark bruising over his ribcage, and after cleaning the head wound, she gently, yet forcibly, makes him lean the opposite direction to get a better look, moving his arm away. He immediately groans in pain at the stretch in his torso, but she ignores the cry for now. The spy’s eyebrows furrow as she runs a few fingers over it, feeling the bones shift slightly under her touch and ignoring a rather loud bellow, “This is what concerns me the most.”
Sweat runs down his forehead, gritting his teeth and mumbling faint curses in his native dialect, “Curse me kilts, yer just like yer granddaughter!” The injury had actually felt a bit better after being stitched up, but now was aggravated once again, making his body tremble.
To his dismay, his pained exclamations go unheard yet again as his butler floats to the opposite side. At the sight of the damaged ribs, the undead man’s face grows more concerned, “Dear me! That injury is severe, Mr. McDuck, and right along your lungs! If you have any breathing problems, you must inform me straight away!” A groan in acknowledgment is all Scrooge is able to manage.
Finally allowed a moment’s respite, Scrooge is allowed to straighten himself again as Beakley goes back to her cleaning, leaving that particular wound for last. Duckworth places the end of his stethoscope over the rich duck’s chest, listening to his elderly heartbeat as well as breath sounds. Any abnormality heard would be grounds to send Scrooge directly to a hospital, whether he likes it or not. Any internal injuries are far too advanced for himself and Mrs. Beakley to care for themselves.
Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he moves the cold, round, metal end down to the bruised ribs and along the laceration, a suppressed grunt sounding amplified in his ears. He’s looking for any muffled sounds in the lung where the broken bones are located, indicating the sharp pieces could be puncturing tissues and causing internal bleeding. To his pleasant surprise, he finds none.
Moving along, the butler grabs the thermometer next, “Open your beak, Mr. McDuck.”
A glare meets his gaze; his boss has clearly not lost his temper. The patient speaks, “Duckworth is all this really nec-”
Said undead being takes the opportunity to plunge the thin device into the old duck’s beak, glare ever increasing. For now, he ignores his employer’s anger and retrieves his small flashlight. Focusing his energy into his fingertips, he creates a more solid mass in order to gently lift the cheapskate’s head up by his chin.
Taking the flashlight, Duckworth flashes the device back and forth, in and out of the dark turquoise eyes, testing the pupil reflex. Scrooge stares reluctantly back at him, squinting a bit at the brightness. His employee’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, glancing between both eyes.
The thermometer’s alarm sounds, and it’s removed from his beak. The ghost reads it, “You have a fever, and your pupils are not dilating correctly, indicating a possible concussion. Have you had any trouble with your vision?"
Scrooge’s mood has calmed once again to the tired demeanor, further pushing Duckworth to highly suspect a brain injury at the mood swings, “Some. Just...dizzy mainly.”
The butler lists off a few more symptoms, “Headache? Brief memory lapse? Nausea?”
A simple blink in response, confirming his inquiries.
He takes a not needed breath out of habit, placing his hands on his hips, “You have several critical, though so far unfatal, injuries, Mr. McDuck. Your vitals are stable. However, if you want to make sure you remain in the land of the living, you are going to need a lot of rest.”
The housekeeper decides to step in, her eyes boring holes into the old man, “And no adventuring.”
The rich duck slumps in the wheelchair with a hmph, “Ay, ah knoo.”
The spy seems satisfied with his answer, for now, “Good. Then let’s finish cleaning you up and let you get some rest.”
Mrs. Beakley makes quick work of cleaning the rest of the lacerations before promptly bandaging them with gauze and wraps, all but the largest on the side. A wrap around the rich duck’s middle would not be beneficial and could actually cause more harm than good. After cleaning it, ointment is applied to help heal, and nothing more is done.
Duckworth has already made a cast for the broken leg and put it in place, removing the scuffed spats in the process. It feels a bit more enveloping than the makeshift one the boys made, but at least it’s stable. A proper sling also holds his injured arm, providing much more support than the previous ones had.
With Scrooge finally properly bandaged, the spy pushes the wheelchair closer to the bed, turning his back to the wall and facing the door, “You wait here for a moment. I’m going to grab a few things.”
She leaves the room as Duckworth packs up his supplies on the bed. The apparition places everything back in its original space before closing his briefcase and turning to make his leave, “We shall change those bandages in the morning, but for now get some rest, Mr. McDuck. Don’t hesitate to call upon me if you should need any assistance.”
His employer gives a nod, the exhaustion evident on his features, “Thank ye, Duckworth.”
As the phantom leaves, he opens the door for Mrs. Beakley who has returned with a few items in hand: a small tray with a bowl containing what looks like soup, and his pajama shirt fresh from the dryer. She places the tray on the nightstand near his bed, not missing the wary stare sent her way, “I realize you probably don’t have much of an appetite but do try and drink a little broth if you can.”
He can’t bear the thought of eating anything at this moment, his stomach still rolling along with his vision, but he may try and take a few spoonful’s later, after the liquid stops steaming, if it would satiate his caretaker.
The grandmother straightens out the shirt in her hold before bringing it to the injured duck, “Here, I just washed it so it should be nice and warm.” She’s well aware of the amount of blood he had lost, seeing the towels and blankets on the Sunchaser. He will need to drink a lot of fluids to replenish his supply, hence the soup. But in the meantime, a warm, clean shirt and lots of blankets should help the chill running through him. She’d seen him shiver on more than one occasion, but he’s never mentioned anything, though she isn’t surprised.
She helps him slip the shirt over his right arm, assisting him in leaning forward, and then simply drapes it over the opposite shoulder. A pleasant tremor runs through his frame at the warmth the shirt holds, and he’s reminded how much he appreciates his housekeeper.
Beakley then pulls the covers of his bed away, plumping the pillows before turning back to him. He holds out his good arm for her to grip, knowing full well the large woman could carry him easily. She has done so on a few missions in the past, to his embarrassment. But he’s a bit uneasy at being carried like this, afraid of how his body might ache.
Thankfully, she moves to support him instead, and helps him lift out of the chair. His broken body screams in protest at every moment, forcing strained grunts out of him. The younger avian can feel the smaller body trembling in her grip as they turn him to sit on the side of the bed. She helps move him backwards to rest on the pillows before helping ease his legs up. He lets out a groan as his body settles against the softness of his mattress and pillows, Mrs. Beakley covering him with the blankets. He feels a bit more at ease now; hours of trying to hide his pain from the children has only added to his exhaustion.
His caretaker eyes him, trying to remember if there was ever a time she’d seen him in such physical agony on any of their missions. She starts to collapse the wheelchair, “Sitting up a bit more like that might help the pain from your ribs. Think you’ll be able to sleep?”
Scrooge isn’t one to voice his pain, to give it power over him, but he can already tell any sleep would be in vain with the way his body punishes him every motionless second. He slightly shakes his head, so little if Mrs. Beakley hadn’t been looking closely, she wouldn’t have noticed. But she does, he can tell because her eyes grow softer, like when she talks about her granddaughter.
Placing the chair under an arm, her mind is made up, “I’m going to the store to get you some pain medication.” Eyes widen dramatically, and she interrupts him before his complaint begins, “I’ll use my own money. It will be good to have some around the house anyway with this accident-prone family.”
He relaxes just slightly but looks away. The thought of spending money just so he could rest comfortably seems so wasteful. But at least she wouldn’t be putting it on his bill.
No objection is made, and she takes that as his approval, “I’ll be back soon. Your family were taking turns in the shower last I saw them, but they shouldn’t be far away, and Duckworth is here as well if you need anything.” He dips his head, eyes placed directly in front of him as she takes her leave.
Finally, alone. He sighs and reclines further into his pillows, careful of laying completely flat. Eyes open to nothing in particular. The room is just starting to darken as the day begins to end. The family had left very early that morning, but it felt like weeks since he last laid in his bed. His body is cradled perfectly, and normally he’d already be asleep. Eyelids flutter to a close in an attempt, and he sits still for a long while.
The old body twitches and a sharp pain jolts up his side. Scrooge grunts and his eyes open once again. It’s impossible to stay comfortable, the constant throbbing is too much for him to truly relax. A groan mixed with a sigh leaves him in exasperation. Seems he’ll have to wait for Mrs. Beakley to return after all.
The mirror across the room catches his eye, and a very tired, elderly duck stares back at him. It takes a moment to realize it’s himself. Lifting his head, he examines the bandages wrapped around his skull and the dark circles under his eyes, one darker than the other. So, this is what his family sees, has seen, of him for the past eight or so hours. What he’s viewing now is the version of him that’s been cared for, cleaned. If this alone disturbs himself, he can’t imagine what terrible image his family must have of him in their minds.
His encounter with the youngest triplet plays back in his head, the boy’s unnerving eyes staring ahead of him, and his words, “...seeing you all...bloody and hurt! That picture’s stuck in my head!” The way his haunted gaze fell on the red stains of his hands and sleeves.
And then his brother, Dewey, muttering Scrooge’s name over and over in what was certainly a nightmare about him. How the boy woke and tried desperately to get his uncle’s blood off the tiny hands.
Even his eldest nephew had returned to calling him Unca Scrooge in the moment they questioned his mortality.
The wealthy duck is ashamed of what he put his own family through. He needs to have a talk with Donald and the boys, about all this, to put their minds at ease, and hopefully make amends with his nephew. Perhaps afterwards the sailor would privilege him enough to keep referring to him as Unca Scrooge. He prefers that.
A thought strikes him. There’s another person in this house that doesn’t call him by his favored name. She was along when the accident happened as well, in fact he remembers the duckling being visibly upset by his side when he first regained consciousness. She hasn’t been truly herself for quite a while, though Webby seemed to be ok after the ordeal, but was she hiding anything? Is she alright?
Scrooge’s eyes focus on himself in the mirror again, and straining himself slightly, he sits up. The girl had been the one to sew up his side; he slides his shirt to the side to see the damage done, moving his bad arm slightly as well. The dark bruise is a bit startling to see firsthand, brows furrowing. The stitch work is what surprises him the most though; it looks like it was done by a professional! A smile reaches his beak in pride, “Not bad, Webbigail!”
“Thanks, Mr. McDuck!”
The sudden reply makes him jump and shout in surprise. Glancing around in confusion, the lass is nowhere to be seen. Had he misheard that? No, he was old, but he still had his wits about him!
A thought hits him and he sends a half-hearted glare to the vent on his ceiling, tone that of a disapproving parent, “Webby, c’mon oot.”
The vent is removed, and the girl jumps to the ground, landing only a few feet from his bedside.
The impressed and prideful feelings he’s having for his niece will have to wait, “What on earth were ye doin’ up there?!”
The duckling has her pajamas on, and her body is clean of the crimson stains that littered it before. She must have showered, as her hair is still damp. She twirls a finger around a piece as she stares at the floor, “Sorry, Mr. McDuck. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just worried; and then Granny left to go to the store. I was afraid of something happening to you when no one was watching. Like, what if your stitches come loose and you start bleeding again? Or if your room gets too cold and you get a chill? Or what if you had to pee and tried to get up but fell?!” Her face now contorted into a face of anxiety and concern.
The girl’s rambling is making Scrooge’s head swirl, and he holds his right hand up to quiet her, “Whoa, whoa, lass! Calm doon!”
She relaxes her posture once again, her gaze dropping to the floor. He doesn’t like seeing her so disheartened, it’s not something that should be on Webby’s face.
Not fighting the small smile that creeps onto his beak, he attempts to cheer her up, “I appreciate yer concern, dear, but ah’m alright.” It doesn’t have the desired effect, her face still fallen.
He blinks, looking up at the ceiling where the vent has been pushed aside. The smile widens, “Though I have tae say, havin’ someone ‘up there’ lookin’ oot fer me is a comfortin’ thought.”
The duckling looks up, beak slightly open and eyes hopeful, yet unsure.
“Almost like a guardian angel of sorts, eh? ‘Spose ah should be thankin’ ye,” a wink in her direction, and a smile climbs to her features once again, it’s a relief to see.
Her tiny body straightens, “Of course! I have to keep a look out and make sure no harm befalls you in my Granny’s place!”
She sees the bowl of broth left behind by her grandmother, now cooled and no longer steaming, “Oh! Do you want some soup? I can help you!”
Before he can resist, she’s picking up the tray and walking it over to him, only a few feet away. He doesn’t have the heart to deny her again, and strains to sit himself up. Seeing his struggle, she sets the tray down at the end of the bed and helps him into a more upright position.
Webby brings the tray back but falters on deciding where to set it. She doesn’t want to put any extra weight on the weak body. But her mind seems to make itself up, and she puts the tray back on the bed for a moment before hopping up next to the old duck and placing the platter on her own lap.
With his arm in a sling, Scrooge wouldn’t be able to hold a bowl in one hand and use a spoon with the other. The duckling is quick to resolve that, scooping up a spoonful and blowing gently to make sure the temperature isn’t too hot.
Already seeing what she’s planning, the rich duck sputters in awkwardness, “W-Webby, ye donnae hav-”
But it’s too late, she’s already offering it to him, along with a “It’s alright, I don’t mind, Mr. McDuck!” in her high, chipper voice.
He hadn’t missed that the first time, but it’s just as grading on him now, the fact that she’s still referring to him as ‘Mr. McDuck.’
His gaze flicks between the spoon held at his beak and the girl’s dark eyes staring back at him. They look empty and sad, though she wears a smile on her face. He knows she wants to be helpful, but he’s still unsure if his stomach can handle anything. Seeing her face turn downtrodden if he turns her away yet again would be too much to bear. He doesn’t like seeing her upset.
He is feeling a bit parched, perhaps some soup would do the trick. Swallowing his pride, he opens his beak and allows her to hand feed him the broth. The warmth is soothing, and not too hot. He swallows as she returns the spoon to the bowl for more.
After a few spoonful’s, he decides now is the time to speak up. They’re alone, it’s time to address what he’s been meaning to for quite a while but has been too anxious to. He swallows any inhibitions along with the soup and asks the question he already knows the answer to, face turning to one of confusion, “Ah’ve bin meanin’ to ask, lass, is there a particular reason why yer callin’ me that?”
A surprised blink meets him as he accepts another spoonful, and she’s a little taken aback. All at once, she’s twirling a finger around her hair again, not meeting his gaze, “O-oh, you mean ‘Mr. McDuck?’”
Her demeanor is instantly different, and he frowns. The soup is forgotten for the time being, and she’s quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words, “...I guess it started again after...that time on the Sunchaser...”
There it is. He knew that was the reason, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to bring it to light.
"This is a family matter; you are not family!" Brows furrow. Disgust with himself as well as shame rises within him. That such a happy child could be affected so much by what he, her hero, had said to her, that the very life in her tiny body seemed to vanish until all that remained was an empty shell.
No words are said. Scrooge McDuck is not one for reconciliation; typically, he avoids such situations at all cost. However, what if such words were the last the duckling ever heard from him on the matter? If he hadn’t survived the accident? Is that how he truly wants her to remember him by, the man she so looked up to and idolized, but could never see her as anything more than his housekeeper’s granddaughter?
Her hands lower to the tray along with her line of vision, and she’s the first to say something, “I know you told me I could call you ‘Uncle Scrooge’ but...after that I just...”
“Ye felt ye didnae have teh right anymore, that ah had taken it from ye,” he finishes for her.
Her violet eyes glance up at him again, but he’s the one not meeting her gaze now. His stare lingers on the blankets covering his body, “...Ah gave ye teh opportunity tae be a part of our family in one moment, and then took it away in teh next.”
Slowly, the old eyes move to meet hers, sincerity in them that the girl had never seen before, “Ah understand. Webby, darlin’...what ah said tae ye back then, was downright disgraceful. Ah’m ashamed it came outta me own beak. Ah’ve no excuse.”
The tiny duck stares unmoving, hope and uncertainty covering her expression. Listening intently, and only blinking when absolutely necessary, she’s taking in every word, every detail, and etching it into her mind. The feel of the expensive sheets beneath her, and the pounding of her own heart against her rib cage, as if trying to break free. From the smell of soup in the air, to the tremble in the man’s voice.
The old avian continues, “And ah was dead wrong. Yer every bit a part of this family as me, Donald, the triplets...ye always have bin. Ah’m...”
A pause, this is unknown territory for him. Is he doing this correctly? Is he saying the right things? He has to be; she’s still here and hasn’t run from the room in tears. He forces himself to press on, “Ah’m sorry.”
He swears he sees her eyes become even more glittery for a split second, and she’s moving the tray aside. Is she making a run for it? Did he mess up again?! He has to finish, has to get everything out, “Can ye ever forgive me?”
The words barely leave him before he’s pushed backwards into the pillows with a grunt, a sudden weight on his chest. A blink as he analyzes the situation: the small body is pressed against his own, careful not to do damage; tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck; a face buried in his good shoulder, and his pajama shirt feels damp underneath it.
This isn’t the outcome he was expecting, but maybe it isn’t a bad one.
His face grows concerned as a muffled sniffle reaches his ear, and a hiccup runs through the tiny body. His good arm wraps around the girl, resting on her back, as he tries to rouse her, “Webby?”
“Yes.”
Another blink, “Hm?”
She moves away just slightly to look at him, tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, but there’s a smile on her face,
“Yes, I forgive you.”
His turn to grin, edges of his beak turning up as relief floods him. The light fills her dark eyes once more.
He hadn’t paid much mind to her in all the years she lived in his mansion before the boys returned. Although they shared a home, they had their own lives, and hardly ever crossed paths. Getting to know the girl that he’d seen many a time down the hallway for a brief moment or unabashedly staring up at him in awe with those wide, innocent eyes of hers whenever she had the chance, had been one of the best decisions of his life. Losing her because of his own foolishness would have been too much to accept.
Webby wipes her eyes quickly, the joy and acceptance returning in them; they had been hollow for far too long. She sniffles and forces one last hug on the other, snuggling her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, “I was so worried today would be our last adventure, that we’d leave things like that, that you’d never wake up. I’m so happy you’re ok, Uncle Scrooge.”
His smile broadens. Bless me dime, how ah’ve missed that. His arm embraces her in return, hand rubbing her small back in his own silent agreement, “Ah’m nae perfect, Webby, but ah promise, ah’ll never deny ye ever again.”
She sits back, life-filled eyes still watering as she smiles at him.
Wiping her face once more, she turns around to the tray of soup again, “Oh, here,” she brings the platter to her lap as she straddles his waist.
Before she can scoop up more, he holds up a hand to stop her, “A-ah’m grateful, lass, but ah donnae think ah can handle much more.” His hand rests on his stomach, indicating the upset.
She blinks at his hand before registering what he means, “Oh, right, the concussion. Sorry,” she smiles meekly up at him, though she’s not offended.
He shakes his head back at her, “’s alright. Thank ye fer takin’ care a me.”
The girl jumps off the bed, taking the tray along with her, “I’m gonna go put this in the fridge for later!” She turns to leave at his approval, closing the door behind her and leaving the old man to smile happily to himself.
Webby walks down the hallway, intent on returning to the other’s side, and nearly runs into a showered Donald who was only a few steps away, “Woah, sorry!”
He’s just as startled as she, and damp feathers shake with their owner’s head, “No, I’m sorry for surprising you."
They stand there for a moment, his hands fiddling together, as if contemplating whether he should ask the question in his head.
Webby watches him closely, “You ok?”
He dodges her question and asks his own, nodding towards the door she’d just exit from, “Is he awake?”
A nod, “Yup, just waiting for Granny to come back from the store with the pain medicine,” she frowns, “He’s still hurting pretty bad.”
Donald mimics her expression.
The girl studies him a bit longer, a smirk tugging to her face; he’s so easy to read. She had been planning on returning to Scrooge’s side until Mrs. Beakley returns, but seeing as someone else would like to pay the old duck a visit, she decides instead to nonchalantly walk past him, “Well, I’m off to the kitchen to put this soup away, see ya!”
Webby knows full well Donald has more on his mind than just a simple visit, and she’s happy to leave the two to it, only upset she wouldn’t be able to witness it herself.
It seems the older duck was hoping to sneak into his uncle’s room unseen, so she leaves to allow him the feeling of obscurity. He’s grateful for her willingness to leave her hero’s side and waits patiently for the girl to turn the corner before facing the door once again.
The avian had been trying to buck up the courage to actually go in for quite some time, pacing around the corridor and kicking himself. But he hadn’t realized that the young duckling was already keeping the injured duck company and is relived he waited so long. Now that Donald knows Scrooge is alone, this is his chance to talk one on one with the other, to make amends.
A hand reaches out and rests on the doorknob, careful not to make a sound. He’s mind is screaming to just rip the door open and get it over with, trying to convince himself it won’t be as bad as he thinks. Is he...trembling? Clearly his anxiety is taking control of the situation. Eyes screw together for a moment as he takes a calming breath, forcing his shoulders to drop in mock relaxation. Finally, his body complies, and he turns the knob.
Scrooge’s eyes open to the sound of the door opening again. Webby is certainly fast when she wants to be, a smile gracing his features at the thought of the girl running to the kitchen as fast as possible to all but throw the soup bowl in the refrigerator before running back, most likely spilling some of the broth along the way.
He glances in the direction of the sound, grin still present on his face, “Back already, Webbiga-?”
The smile is immediately ripped off his appearance. The black figure in the doorway, letting the light in to his dark bedroom, it’s much too tall to be the duckling returning from her errand. Though he can easily recognize the form, and his body is already starting to sit up in his startled state, “Donald?” His voice faulters in pain at the wince running through his broken body, gritting his teeth against it.
The shadow floats into the room, closing the door behind him and shutting out the light once again, leaving them both in darkness, “No, no, don’t get up!” The tone concerned and uneasy as it moves towards the bed.
Scrooge lets out a groan as he eases himself back onto the pillows without a fight. Their eyes adjust to the blackened room, and are able to make out each other’s features, both of equal uncertainty and discomfort.
Donald’s gaze moves about the dressings and bindings covering his wounded uncle, the sight much easier to witness than that of the gory, crimson-filled scene a mere 8 hours ago. The man is more conscious as well, which puts his own psyche at ease. He decides to try some small talk, to ease into the conversation he has in mind, “Looks like Mrs. B and Duckworth did a good job bandaging everything. How’re ya feeling?”
A scowl in response. Scrooge is still trying not to breathe in an attempt to numb the pain from sitting up in such a forceful way. He doesn’t trust his own voice not to give it away, trying desperately not to make a sound. Surely the other can tell that he’s hurting? That simply cleaning the wounds did little help to mask the ensnarement his body is subject to? Perhaps his nephew does know, but is being sarcastic? Still, his own agitation is flaring at the younger duck’s possible naivety, and his gruff voice sounds out in between his silent grunts, “Is that supposed tae be a joke?!"
A flinch. The sailor’s face showing a brief expression of hurt before looking away, one hand coming to scratch behind his head.
The rich duck is left to blink in surprise, his body finally settling against the bed and pain numbing again to a more tolerant level. The logical part of his brain, now able to work properly, realizing Donald did indeed know of his discomfort, but was simply attempting to show his concern. Replaying his reply over in his head, he mentally curses at the harshness of his tone.
A heavy sigh, the old duck frustrated with himself, he offers up an awkward apology, “That’s...nae what ah...a-ah didnae mean...”
His nephew shakes his head to silence the other, still keeping eye contact with anything but the one on the bed, “No, it’s fine. It was a dumb question.”
The subject is dropped just like that, and they sit in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. The rich duck grips the blankets at his side, fiddling with them in uneasiness. Neither of them is quick to resolve the tension building in the air, and normally now would be the time Scrooge would take his leave, not knowing what else to do or say. Donald would normally be the one left behind as the two would mentally argue at themselves for letting it end like that.
However, the Scottish duck can’t escape in this situation, quite literally trapped in his own home. His nephew shows no signs of abandoning the hope of a decent conversation as he turns and sits on the bed at his uncle’s knees. Clearly this is going to happen, and it’s going to happen now, whether either of them like it or not. Donald’s face is unreadable, starring at his webbed feet on the carpeted floor.
Scrooge contemplates yelling at the other to leave, even if just to relieve the awkwardness of this situation, though he quickly dismisses the thought. He doesn’t truly desire the sailor to leave, just to say what’s on the other’s mind. Why is so hard to talk to his own nephew?
The elderly avian had been waiting for a moment such as this all day to address what had happened that morning; to apologize for what he had said. Although happy to see Donald come through his door, he also felt his own inhibitions surface at having said opportunity suddenly available. He was almost hoping for a bit more time to find the right words and gain the knowledge of how to approach the situation.
Scrooge nearly jumps when the younger of the two abruptly begins the conversation on his own accord, tone unsure and brief, “Look, I...I just wanted to...say thanks.”
A blink, “Eh? Fer what?”
A timid smile, almost invisible to the naked eye, as he glances in the other’s direction, “For saving my life.”
The confused avian’s beak opens slightly in surprise. This is not what the conversation was supposed to be about. But before he can say anything in retaliation, Donald continues on, “If you hadn’t ‘ve pushed me outta the way...”
His gaze on the floor again, his expression turns troubled as the memory runs through his mind. The boulder swinging down the hill at breakneck speed, intent on bloodshed. He remembers staring up at the rocky face as if it would be the last thing he’d ever see, memorizing every detail as it seemed to happen in slow motion. The sailor had been on several dangerous missions in the past, but in that one moment of impending death, when the threat of the future of his nephews could easily have slipped from his fingers, and he could have never sought after reconciliation with the man who had raised him, Donald froze. But he wasn’t ready to die.
Donald had seen Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s first steps, first words, first difference in personalities. He’d been there for potty training, nightmares, and education. But would he live to see their first car? Their first crush? Their graduation? Their children?
And Uncle Scrooge, the old miser who had taken him and Della in when their parents died to raise as his own, the man he had come to know behind the gruff exterior, the hero he had looked up to when growing up; was Donald really going to die and leave the already broken duck behind believing he despised the old man for his sister’s disappearance?
No, Donald had too much to live for. He can’t die now. The sailor wasn’t ready to freely give away the fate of the triplets to the next of kin, and he can’t depart this world to leave the wealthy duck like so many had already. But as that stone rushed towards him, and all those thoughts entered his head at once, he found himself stuck in the same spot, unable to move a muscle.
Until hands, ones he was all too familiar with, grabbed ahold of his body and brought him into reality. Though before his own body came back to him, the hands were already pushing against him and he was flying through the air a short distance away. It was then when his body collided with the ground and rolled that he became aware of himself again, and just who had saved him from his certain demise. Instinctually, his head flipped up to see his savior, eyes glued to the scene playing out before them.
Scrooge, the elderly duck who had been visibly in pain that day, surely because of an old arthritic wound, had moved faster than Donald had ever seen him move before. At one moment the entrepreneur had been a good distance away with the children, and the next he was standing in the exact spot the sailor had but a moment before.
His arms were still outstretched before him, panting heavily, body in a pained stance, and expression that of panic. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, Donald’s face contorting into one of terror at the sudden realization of their change in position. The rich duck never once turned to face the oncoming threat; gaze stuck on his nephew.
But the sight that would forever haunt Donald was the second before the rock had struck. As the pair exchanged a look, his uncle’s blue-green eyes glancing over his frame rapidly and intently, as if insuring the other was unharmed, Scrooge’s expression fell into what the sailor could only describe as relief. Relief that his child was ok, and acceptance for his own fate.
Donald’s eyes only grew larger at the sight. The old body seemed to relax for a moment, before the stone connected with its target, and the sickening sound of bones crunching and cracking as the rich duck’s body gave way under the boulder’s weight echoed in the forest and in the minds of the family witnessing.
The sailor shakes his head to clear the trauma from his mind, finally turning to look at the entrepreneur, “Why’d you do it? After this morning and...everything that’s happened...I thought you’d scold me for not getting outta the way in time, but...you haven’t even brought it up.”
Scrooge is watching him closely; eyebrows furrow together at his question. His good arm moves behind him and pushes his painful torso up with a wince, “Donald...lad...”
His nephew is ready to push him back down, when he stops the younger duck with a hand to the cheek, his eyes sincere and concerned, “Do ye really think ah’d let anythin’ happen tae ye?”
The sailor looks at him for a moment, studying the other and contemplating his response, before frowning and turning his head away, out of the other’s reach. As much as he wants to believe that, how can he?
Scrooge’s hand faulters in the air at the rejection, before lowering it to his chest, heart aching at the memory that pries itself back into his mind. He’d be a liar to say he’ll always keep his family safe; he’ll always protect them. How can he so freely speak those words after what happened to Donald’s own twin sister? His gaze lowers to the sheets, shame rising within himself. He won’t meet his nephew’s disappointed eyes.
10 years. It’s been 10 years and they haven’t spoken at all about that day. Their silence is only doing more damage to the relationship the old duck has been trying to repair. This can’t continue; it’s not healthy. The only way to truly mend the bond that was severed is to put them both in a vulnerable spot, to strip away their guards, break down their walls, and really talk.
Scrooge sighs heavily. Relaying his own feelings, let alone talking about them, has never been easy. From a young age he learned to turn off his emotions after being backstabbed time and time again in his search for riches. Becoming a cold-hearted sourdough may have been lonely at times and pushed anyone who tried to get close to him away, but being alone was easier than dealing with the betrayal from anyone using him to get rich themselves.
However, after years of being distant and emotionally cut off, he found it difficult to reverse the effects. When his niece and nephew came to live with him several years ago, he hadn’t realized how harshly he came across. He was certain they had hated him. Though after a long period of time raising the two, something began to stir inside that he’d thought long dead. Money was no longer the only thing that brought joy to his life, smiles weren’t so rare, and laughter not so unnatural.
Scrooge had made huge strides since his days in the Klondike, but that didn’t mean his emotions came as easy as anyone else. They still seemed out of reach most of the time; he’d catch himself being too cold often when it was already too late and trying to find the words to translate his feelings were near impossible.
Clearing his throat, which felt much to dry, he launches head-first into what he can only hope will be a discussion with a positive outcome, “What...What happened back then...”
Donald’s eyes flick to him in their owner’s peripheral vision, arms crossed in uncertainty.
Scrooge’s eyebrows furrow in agitation, “Ah should’ve seen it comin’. Ah raised ye kids fer 20 years! Ah should’ve known she’d take it as soon as ah turned me back!” Because that’s what ah would’ve done.
The sailor almost chokes in surprise, not expecting this to come up now of all times. His uncle must be delirious from his concussion. Why does he want to talk about this now?! Donald hoped they’d never have this conversation, that if they ignored it for long enough, their relationship might still go back to the way it was before.
But he knows that’s ridiculous. He’s had a decade to sort through his own emotions about what happened, but never put much thought into it. The sailor was thrown into parenthood immediately after the incident and had to put his own emotions aside.
Then there was Scrooge, who wallowed in his own self-loathing and blame for the past 10 years. Della had taken the rocket, but he had built it. It wasn’t enough to just lose his niece in that one act, but he also lost his nephew and great nephews too in the same moment. His life, full of happiness and family, suddenly broken and lonely.
Donald had thought many a time of coming back to the mansion, talking things over with his uncle, or even pretending nothing happened and simply moving on. But every time the thought came in his head, he talked himself out of it, still too confused about his own feelings of the situation. Of course, there’s disbelief, disapproval, betrayal, anger, and sadness to name a few. But hatred? No. He doesn’t hate his uncle, nor his sister.
He believes Scrooge shouldn’t have built the rocket at that time, but Della had been the one take it. Their uncle didn’t force his sister to leave, he didn’t even tell her about it. She had been the one to find out and taken it in secret. Was he upset with her? Yes, but that was Della. She was always the risk taker of the two, the adventurous one. He can’t hate her for that.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the injured avian continues in his admission, “...Ah’ve thought it over so many times. Ah knoo ah shouldnae ‘ve encouraged her, not when she was expectin’ three wee ones! Ah should’ve seen past mah own excitement an’ done what was right, not go an’ taunt her with teh world’s greatest adventure in history!”
The wealthy duck’s anger is rising. He’s still not meeting his nephew’s gaze, and his good hand is moving about erratically with him. Gripping the skin between his beak and forehead in exasperation, his voice rising slightly, he all but growls out the words, “Of course she would take it, ah took the blueprints and practically laid it in her lap! She was always good at sniffin’ out surprises, it didnae matter how well ah hid it! Ah shouldnae ‘ve built that blasted rocket in teh first place!” His fist shakes the bed as it connects beside him.
Donald blinks, taken aback by his outburst and now the trembles that have started in his uncle’s body. The feathered head is lowered, but the sailor can still make out the tears welling up in Scrooge’s dark eyes. He’d been listening silently to the old man’s rages, taking in everything said.
Scrooge’s voice struggles to keep steady, “...Ah searched for that accursed Spear for so long...”
He still clearly recalls the day the members of his Board had quite literally dragged him out of the room as he was yet again attempting to make contact with the lost rocket. Too much time had gone by, they had said, there was no hope. But he knows it was the funds that drove them more than anything else to put an end to his desperate search.
Money had been the last thing on his mind, even when his Bin had lowered to levels he hadn’t seen in nearly a century. Every coin; he knew where every coin in that Bin had come from, and the story behind it. It was more than just money, it was his memories, his souvenirs of the past. At one time, they meant more than anything to him. But he had willingly given them away, quite literally burned them in the rockets he sent out to find his lost niece. Money could be made again, and more memories could replace the ones that would be forgotten. It would all be worth it, he kept telling himself, if he could just find her.
He swallows, “...but ah failed."
His head lifts, finally meeting Donald’s own teary-eyed gaze, “When ah saw that boulder comin’ at ye...”
The sailor is reminded of the creaks in the branches at the weight of the stone rushing towards him, the way the world seemed to take pause and hold its breath.
Scrooge’s head shakes just barely back and forth, “Your needed here, Donald.”
The memory of being pushed and meeting the unforgiving ground, sliding and earning scrapes in the process.
“Teh boys need ye, ah-“ he cuts himself off, a bit too soon for the sailor’s liking as he notices Scrooge’s hand trying to gesture to himself. Ah need ye. The pause is short as the wealthy duck’s face grows grim, “Ah can’t fail them...you, a second time.”
The relieved face of his uncle just before the sound of bones snapping haunts Donald’s mind.
He watches in awe as he witnesses the mighty Scrooge McDuck, the Master of the Mississippi, the Buckaroo of the Badlands, the Terror of the Transvaal, the King of the Klondike, the Richest Duck in the World, cry for the first time in his life. Donald had been convinced he physically couldn’t, but stares at the tear that roles down his uncle’s face before dropping onto the blankets below.
His mind is racing, and memories are flooding it, “Donald, ah knoo ye worry fer them, but ye can-” “I can what? Trust you?! I think you’ve made it very apparent that I can’t! Do you know how sad it is that I trust children more than I trust the adult with them?!”
His eyebrows furrow together, coming back to the present time. Scrooge had literally sacrificed himself to protect Donald, knowing full well the danger that awaited him. The sailor thinks back, many a time has he seen and been subject to the old man using himself as a shield to protect his family. If the wealthy duck had been on the Spear of Selene when Della had launched it, would he then too have put himself in harm’s way to keep her safe?
After everything he’s witnessed, after his life being saved, can he, does he, trust his uncle?
He does.
Donald would unquestionably put his own life in his uncle’s hands, knowing he would be safe. Scrooge would do anything to protect the one’s he loves.
Tears spring forth in the younger duck’s eyes, falling freely down his face and onto his sleeves. The young duckling that had lived in this very house and spent the majority of his life with his uncle resurfaces, and before the older half of him can put a stop to it, he’s throwing himself at the other in a tight embrace.
A grunt escapes the elder duck as they fall back onto the bed together, landing on the pillows. Scrooge’s body aches and throbs painfully under his nephew’s weight, and the tight hug makes his ribs cry out, but he only returns the embrace with his good arm as a relieved smile forms on his features.
The sailor’s tears wet the both of them as he sniffles out, “You’re needed too. The boys...and I need you. I thought you died today, and it was my fault! Don’t you ever put yourself in danger like that again! I missed ya, Unca Scrooge.”
That’s enough to bring yet another tear down the entrepreneur’s cheek. He’d been afraid he’d never hear that again. His embrace tightens, snuggling his face closer to the younger duck, “...And ah you, lad.”
Donald’s voice is small, timid like a shy duckling, “...ya think, maybe, I can stay in the pool a while longer?”
A grin against his cheek, “Teh longer teh better.”
-----------
Mrs. Beakley sighs as she finally returns to the mansion. The line at the check-out was long, everyone apparently needing something at the same time. Now that she at last had the pain meds, she filled a glass of water and made her way to her employer’s room, passing a living room full of sleeping ducklings along the way.
Reaching the bedroom, she turns the handle quietly, in case the old duck has already fallen asleep. As her eyes adjust, she’s startled at the sight that awaits her: Scrooge McDuck, sleeping on his back, right where she left him. In his right wing, Donald Duck, snuggled up to his uncle’s side, head resting on the elder’s chest and arm draped over him in an embrace, fast asleep.
The spy doesn’t hide the smile that comes to her face. It’s good to see the two have finally made up it seems. Perhaps it wasn’t the rich duck’s pain that kept him awake, but rather his own conscience. Careful to wake the sleeping duo, she pulls the door shut once more, leaving them to their peaceful slumber.
