Home remedies...it is a one-shot collection I’ve been doodling with over the past few weeks. It’ll contain canon/non-canon material, and I suppose this is the first one.
This wasn’t the plan. The original first one was supposed to be something else entirely, but I’d like to know about Della and Gladstone’s relationship later on.
You’re late.”
“I know.”
Gladstone makes an internal footnote. Della Duck is rarely, if ever, on time. It is a mild contract to his vaguely punctual manners. He steps aside as she enters his home, wearing a sheepish but not at all guilty grin. His house, yes, he owns a house, smells of peppermint and clovers. He bows slightly, and leads her down the hall, pass the kitchen, into his personal study. Yes, he owns a personal study in his home.
Della chatters. It is a defense mechanism against anxiety, or when restlessness has taken its toll on her. She twiddles her fingers, pinching the skin beneath the feathers, “Uncle Scrooge says we may have to wait another month to set out again,” she sighs, “I would have gone yesterday if I could.”
“And what of the ankle biters?”
“Don’t pretend you care.”
“Heh. I can’t say I’m fond of drool, bottle fixing, and diaper changing.”
“You wouldn’t have to do that. Donald changes the diapers anyway.”
He does not hide his amusement. All conversations, silly gestures are transparent when Della is near, and she chuckles beside him, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Careful, cousin, this is real cashmere.” He stops at the door, pushing it open, and stretches his arm outwards for her to enter. Della reads the bold letters inscribed above the redwood doorframe.
“Fortuna Faitrix?"
"The fortune of life," he explains as he pushes her through the door, "now, hurry, I have a meeting with the mayor at three."
Uncle Ludwig's study is expansive and unending. Gladstone does not require such specificity. A fine sheet of dust collects at the bottom of his single book shelf. He taps his bottom lip with his finger, "What was the title again," and leans against his desk. The curl of his lips tells Della his thoughts are decisively not on the book he has promised to lend her.
"Gladstone, I don't have time -," a book not completely aligned with the others on its middle shelf slipped off, and landed on its cover, "oh…is this it?"
He shrugs, "Could be, pick it up, will ya'?"
She rolls her eyes and takes the book into her hand," Tales of Lunacy and Fortune," she gasps softly as she flips the pages. Sunlight bolds the incredibly tiny script, "How old is this book?"
"Eh?" He checks his watch, "Got it from an old coot at a garage sale some years back."
His attention lingers on his watch, and hers sticks to the pages. Her neck cranes to read more, to swallow more, and his growing impatience doesn't deter her.
"Excuse me?"
"What? Oh, right, this is the book, thanks."
Gladstone huffs and presses a hand behind her back, "As wonderful as it is to see you, cousin, but I have to leave…now."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
Della does not protest when he shoves her out of the study, and she walks beside him as they ready to leave the house. She can tell he's about to go out. A lucky clover is tucked in his cashmere jacket, and his hair is generously slicked back today.
"The casino?" She eyes him warningly, "You know, you could be doing so much more with that luck of yours."
"Didn't I tell you? I have a luncheon with the mayor."
"At the casino."
Grey clouds cover the sun when they step outside, but the air is thick with humidity. Della tucks the book under her arm, and stares at him worriedly. He sends her a cross look, and she punches him in response.
"Hey, hey, careful with the merchandise!" He clutches his arm in pain, "I don't want it to get wrinkled, and I bruise easily."
"Oh please, Donald takes these like a champ."
"Donald is as hot-headed as Aunt Hortense."
She laughs then. There is nothing soft about her voice. It's coarse, forgivably rough, and Gladstone, despite his annoyance, hears a sly chuckle or two of his own.
"Take care of yourself, Gladstone."
"I don't need to when I've got luck on my side."
"I know, I know." Her expression strains between its present flightiness and a sullen nervousness that isn't her, but she shakes her head softly with a sigh, "But still…take care, cousin, or else, I'm gonna give you a good one right in the kisser."
He pops his collar, "Now, you're sounding like Donald."
“You can bluster all you want, Gladstone,” she walks in the direction where the old mansion sits gallantly above the city, “but I know you care. I know you.”
“Yeah, yeah, and so does everyone else.” Shimmering wax leaves his new car glistening in the driveway, “See ya’ cuz, don’t get lost in the Bermuda Triangle.”
“And if I do, I trust you’ll find me with your luck, won’t you?”
“Heh, don’t worry, my luck has never failed me, and never will.”
Coarse laughter fades into the air as she disappears onto the crowded sidewalk. Gladstone grips the top of the open door with his hand, staring at her retreating figure. He considers offering her a ride, but thinks better of it. The mayor waits for him at the casino.
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