#she’s exhausted her feet hurt she hasn’t had a proper meal in months

[duck-writer]

Borrowed Time’s Up Ch.3

You can read Ch.1 Here and Ch.2 Here  

Story Summary: 

Einherjar : (pronounced "in-HAIR-e-yar"; singular einherji, pronounced "in-HAIR-yee") are great heroes who have died with bravery on Earth; soldiers in Odin's eternal army; they train in Valhalla for Ragnarök, when the bravest of them will join Odin against Loki and the giants in the battle at the end of the world.

While Huey's busy with a Junior Woodchuck's thing and Louie paired off with Webby for an Urban scheme adventure, Dewey and Scrooge head towards the Underworld for an adventure of their own. They drag Donald along and he did his best to stay on the plane...because he knew that if he stepped foot inside, it was a one way trip.

But he's Donald Duck, and he can't ignore the cry of help from his kid.

~~~~

“You should still be in bed,” Mrs. Beakley told Webby. 

The young duckling jumped a bit, one of the few moments of rarity when she was so lost in thought, she wasn’t aware of all her surroundings. She immediately felt bad for letting down her training. “Sorry, granny...” 

Mrs. Beakley looked at her granddaughter up and down and noticed the cup of tea in her hand. She wouldn’t blame Webby for being out of usual habits. It was a tough and strange time at McDuck Manor. So she offered her a gentle smile. “I’ll let it slide this time. But I will remind you that a proper night’s sleep is crucial for your growth, Webby.”

Webby tried to smile back but it fell almost instantly. Looking at Scrooge’s study door before her gaze went back to her grandmother, she asked, “Does he sleep?”

Mrs. Beakley took her time answering. As much as she wanted to shield her granddaughter of things, she’d promise to be more honest about serious matters. At the moment, she was witnessing a lot of realistic hardships happening to her friends and basically family. “Mostly when exhaustion eventually takes hold. It’s not healthy. But...given the situation, we can be forgiving.” 

“We’re all trying to help. There’s a lot of books on the matter but without knowing specifics, it’s hard to help Uncle Donald.” Webby told her. 

“I know. And I also know you children are doing a lot more than any mere child can.”

Webby frowned in the way her grandmother said that. The words were good, but the tone seemed to imply more.” Granny?”

Mrs. Beakley sighed and knelt to meet her granddaughter’s eyes, “The problem with almost always winning...is when you don’t.”

“I don’t understand...” Webby frowned a bit more. 

“I know you will all do your best to fix this. Or to get him back. You’ve seen Scrooge and Donald and myself...and you kids have even done a lot of amazing things...”

“But?”

 “But there are moments when...” Looking into Webby’s sweet innocent face made it very hard to tell her this important life lesson. She nearly caved and came up with something else, but she steeled herself and forced the words out. “There are moments, dear Webbigail, when life is just...not fair. Even to heroes.” 

Webby didn’t like that lesson, but she couldn’t deny that it might be an important one to understand. Looking from the cup of tea she was holding back to Scrooge’s door, she said, “Am I doing enough to help them, Granny?”

Beakley smiled at her granddaughter, “Yes. In these times it can be so easy to fall apart. And there’s nothing wrong in it. They will need strength, for whatever comes, and you shall give them plenty. Why don’t I give this to Scrooge and you go set things out for breakfast. It’s the most important meal, and we must be stricter with everyone to make sure they remember.” 

Webby saluted with new resolve, “Yes, Granny!”

~~~~~~~~

Huey was found by Webby and told that breakfast would be soon. As much his appetite hasn’t been what it used to be, he knew the importance of the first meal. He told Webby he was going to go look for his brothers to get them to come down for breakfast. 

Since learning about Uncle Donald, he hadn’t seen his brothers as much as he used to. It’s been a whirlwind of emotions and time feels weird for him. Like it’s being dragged through molasses and yet it goes from morning to night in a blink. 

He misses his uncle a lot. As sad as he got from time to time growing up and thinking his mother had passed away...he never met her. As they got older they didn’t ask about her as much, but whenever they did their Uncle Donald answered whatever questions they had about her. (Well, without specifics. Technicalities could be a stinger, but they held their merit)

Right now it feels like no one was speaking about their uncle. As if he were a taboo subject no one wanted jinxing them. 

Looking in their room, he found Dewey passed out on the floor surrounded by books and notebooks. 

Huey couldn’t help but smile sadly at him. Though part of him was jealous that Dewey had been there, had gotten a goodbye and a hug as well...he wouldn’t stay upset. Dewey was hurting as much as the rest of them. 

Nudging his brother awake, he told him it was time to eat. “Dewey...come on, bro. Breakfast.” 

“Unca Donal’?” Dewey muttered as he bolted up and tried to roused properly from sleep. When he noticed it wasn’t his uncle who woke him, but his brother, he looked down at his feet. “Oh....um, I’ll catch up.” 

“Hey, no. Breakfast will be ready soon and we need fuel for the day. Come on, I’ll wait.” Huey told him. 

“You don’t have to...” 

“But I want to.” 

Dewey looked up at the other, his eyes shining with unshed tears and full of sadness, “You’re just being nice to me...”

“Well, yeah. I’m your brother. Others are hurting too. But you and me...and Louie too, we were raised by Uncle Donald. Everyone else had families and lives outside of him but to us, he was our past life before all of this. No one gets my pain better than my brothers. I need you, so...I think you need me too.”

Dewey’s bill trembled before he hugged his brother tightly, “I miss him so much...”

“Me too.”

“Is Louie mad at me?” 

Huey frowned deeply at that but he could guess why Dewey thought that. “No. He’s mad at the situation.”

“Feels like he’s mad at me.” Dewey muttered as he hugged Huey tighter. Huey returned the embrace and just held Dewey for a moment. Dewey quietly said, “There’s a lot of information, but little seems to head towards an answer. What if there isn’t one? What if we’ve lost him for good?”

“Hey, come on now. We’re Ducks! And we got Scrooge and everyone else on our side. We...we’ll get him back.” Huey told Dewey with as much conviction as he could muster. Even if he had moments of doubt since Dewey wasn’t wrong. They hit more dead ends than he’d like, but they couldn’t back down! They had to get him back!

~~~~~~~~~~

Scrooge was exhausted. 

He hasn’t been this tired in such a long time. 

Not since he was forced to accept the horrible thought that his darling Della had been lost.

It was so strange to think. With Della, there had been no body to bury. There hadn’t been a service either. He refused to believe she was dead...even after he had to stop looking for her. 

With Donald...there had been a body. 

And a grave. 

Donald had dug it himself, buried his own body, and carried on as an Einherjar. 

Scrooge wondered if Donald had some sort of service for himself. Probably not. All signs seemed to point that the only reason he cared for himself for a long time had been for the boys. 

The boys...

Scrooge should really check on them to make sure they were okay. To give them hope and courage, and make them believe he’ll fix this. 

Except...he was low on hope. And maybe low on courage as well since he fears if he makes promises they’ll sound empty. 

A knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts. It was probably Beakley bringing him some food or trying to get him to rest. He blinked away any possible bit of sleep that he could before calling out, “Come in.” 

It wasn’t Beakley, but Louie. 

“Lad...” Scrooge was immediately out of his chair and heading towards the young duckling. He inspected the youngest triplet and took in as much as he could. Louie seemed alright physically, but the bloodshot eyes and bags under them probably rivaled his own. “Stupid question but...how are you?”

A few tears escaped Louie’s eyes and he roughly wiped them away. “I went to Storkules for help...”

That caught Scrooge’s interest. He was well aware that everyone was doing what they could to help. This was an interesting angle, but Scrooge already knew it would lead to another dead end, horrible pun unintended. 

“He wouldn’t let me go. He’s still not back and I don’t know if I should take that as good news or if Storkules decided to just stay in the Underworld with Uncle Donald.” 

Scrooge sighed and guided Louie to take a seat. “The land of the dead is...complex. There are...many. Storkules most likely went to the one we went to, but there’s high chance Donald won’t be there.” 

Louie’s eyes widened, “What do you mean? Did you get him out? I mean, what other reason would Uncle Donald not be in the Underworld anymore?” 

“Storkules is Greek. And yes, the Underworld we lost Donald to was the Greek version of the Underworld. Hades is far more reasonable than Zeus, more so in the winter months...but Donald most likely didn’t stay long in his domain, lad.”

“I...I don’t understand.” 

“I haven’t figured out what happened yet, but your Uncle Donald became an Einherjar. That is someone who dies bravely. Heroically! But they are of Norse origin. Though there might have been an attempt of negotiation, I don’t think asking Storkules will...well, he’ll do his best and who knows what he’ll learn. But...I think this will be a bit more difficult, Louie.” Scrooge told him gently. 

Louie’s bill quivered as he tried, and failed, to not cry. “Not having mom around was hard. But Uncle Donald went far and beyond for us...more than we knew apparently. I...I can’t...I don’t want to live a life without him! He’s supposed to be here! He’s supposed to teach us how to drive and how to shave! He’s supposed to help Huey with those insane college applications he’ll start filling out a year earlier than Dewey and me! He’s supposed to cheer Dewey on whenever he made it to whatever audition he gets to try out for! He’s supposed to be there for me! Forever!” 

Scrooge pulls Louie into a protective embrace and lets him cry. He joins him because Louie’s points made him realize just how much he’s missed out and how much more he’ll miss now. 

~~~~

“Hi.”

Della jumped up and held the picture of Donald and the boys protectively against her chest. When she saw it was just Launchpad, she slumped back into her seat. “Not the best time to be sneaking up on people.”

“I knocked,” Launchpad stated. 

Della noticed that his usual upbeat aura that was always with him was gone. Blinking and shifting her focus back to the moment she nodded, “Right. Sorry. Guess...guess I was far off...”

“It’s cool. I get it.” Launchpad said gently. He pulled out a chocolate bar and offered it to her. “Donald would always have snacks. Sometimes healthier, but for the sad times it was always chocolate.”

She blinked away the tears and accepted the offering. “Thanks...” 

“Do you mind the company? I get you may want to be alone, but...no one should be alone. I can be quiet. If you don’t wanna talk, I mean,” Launchpad offered. 

The offer was so sweet, and she just felt like bursting out crying. But she was Della Duck! So she wanted to appear stronger than she was at the moment. Like many times on the moon when an attempt to get home failed or backfired. She had tried so hard though, and now that she was home...a lot of the fight and stubbornness she felt on the moon was gone. So her laugh quickly became a sob. 

Launchpad hesitated a bit but then dared to hug her. When she latched on to him and cried harder, he rubbed her back and tried to offer as much comfort as possible. 

“I miss him too.” 

[lorenzosal]

baby steps || self-para

What the fuck is he doing?

He's in way over his head. He bit off more than he can chew. Sure, Lorenzo is no stranger to that feeling, but a fucking baby?! He did it, he managed to make the dumbest decision of his life.

As he looks at her, tiny chubby fist closed tightly around a rag doll, guilt spreads over his chest and wraps a ghostly hand around his throat; he loves her, he does. He loves her more than he ever loved anything in his entire existence, but he can't give her the life she deserves. No one can, he tries to tell himself, in hopes that's enough to soothe him. Her stupid parents surely couldn't give her any better than what she has now. She has a roof over his head, she has other people looking after her. She has a doctor, proper baby food, clean water, toys.

He still can't shake the feeling that he completely obliterated any chance they both had at a good life.

He's not cut out to be a dad. Technically, no one expects this from him, of course, he's only an older brother, but that doesn't mean the expectation isn't there anyway. He's the one taking her to doctor appointments, he's the one who's been protecting her for the past four months, he's the one who's been hearing her screaming non-fucking-stop for hours every night for no apparent reason. He's the one she makes grabby hands at, when she's crying.

His back hurts, but he's not sure whether it's from the bed railing digging into it, or the past couple months of holding a baby. The floor isn't comfortable, but it's where she wants to be, so it's where he is. The doctor here said it's best if she spends time on the ground, anyway, so she can feel more secure to try to stand. She's supposed to be toddling already, and she's not.

She's not walking. And she cries all the time, and she can't speak sentences longer than five words and she's not happy.

She's not happy.

He'll never be able to make her any happier than this. Concrete floors, thin mattresses, old rag dolls made from scrap fabric. He'll never be able to go for a car ride with her, he'll never be able to introduce her to her first fast food meal, he'll never be able to scoop her into a shopping cart and walk too fast in the aisles of a grocery store just to make her laugh. That's the older brother things he should be doing, instead of doctor visits, and sleepless nights, and trying to protect her from the end of the world.

And it's ridiculous because the apocalypse isn't his fault, and yet, he mourns the loss of a normal life with a sister he would never have otherwise. It's the first time, since the beginning of the end, that he curses the world for turning to shit. The same world that brought him a sister in the first place. It's this paradox that's killing him nowadays, drilling into his head and pulling him this way and that, melding into a pulsing headache that never leaves his temples.

She looks at him, with those big doe eyes, and cracks a toothy smile. He only knows he's smiling back because the headache goes away for a split second.

She's five feet away, playing with her doll. She's reaching an age where she doesn't like to be cuddled all the time -- the mothers in Colony 17 told him this was normal toddler behavior --, and he didn't expect to be so upset about it. She'll cry if he picks her up, she'll cry if he fusses, she'll cry if he leaves her alone. Five feet of distance is their safe middle ground. He sits on the floor with his back against the bed, his legs spread out on the concrete, Sofia just out of reach in front of him.

She chucks the doll down and away from her with a quiet thump, before struggling over and up. Up, up, up, until she's standing.

He's seen her do this a few times now. It's a familiar dance, she stands, she giggles, she wobbles, she topples over and cries when her butt hits the ground too hard. He can't get her to go anywhere past the standing, she seems determined to drive him insane.

"Careful, Sofia, you're gonna hurt yourself again," he sighs, his voice sounding alien to his ears. His tone is exhausted, weighed down by the billionth sleepless night in a row, tainted with anger and guilt and grief.

And then, she walks.

It's not so much a walk as it is a wobble. Lorenzo almost misses the first step, a clumsy lift of one leg that almost knocks her off balance. Almost.

The next step comes, her little arms raising up to help balance herself. Lorenzo wasn't drunk before, but he suddenly feels stone cold sober. He sits up, his arms ready to catch, though she's still barely out of reach. She looks up at him, leans too far to one side, compensates by leaning to the other, and smiles.

A toothy smile, takes over her whole face, makes her eyes squint, the brightest thing he's seen all year. One strand of frizzy hair falls over her forehead and she takes the time to push it away messily -- like it's a casual occurrence for her recently one-year-old self, to just stand around, pushing her hair away, mildly annoyed. She does it like it's easy, like they haven't been practicing this for months, like her brother hasn't been stressing over this moment for weeks now.

"If you fall now, you little shit--," he trails off, his hands sprawled mid-air, ready to catch her if one wobble is too far.

"Little shit," she babbles back to him, toothy grin back on her face. Because she's his sister, of course she can curse before she knows how to walk.

Oh, he loves her.

Another leg lifted, another step forward. Sofia's eyes simply sparkle with all the determination of someone who got the hang of it, and this is it. She's walking.

And for a split second, he can see a glimpse of their future and he doesn't care how ridiculously corny that sounds. He can see her running around these dumb gray hallways, he can see scraped knees and bouncy curls, he can see laughter and chaos and happiness. She doesn't know anything else. She doesn't know long drives, or late night trips to McDonald's, or the joy of sitting inside a shopping cart piloted by an unhinged older brother, but she doesn't have to. He'll tell her all about it, some day, about how he misses the idea of all of these things. But they'll have other things. They'll have inside jokes, and shitty almost-not-quite-chocolate milk, and giggles past curfew time. 

She toddles over one, two, three more steps until she's crashing into his arms. Her giggle is a squeal too close to his left ear but he doesn't flinch away. He squeezes her close with all of his might, arms easily looping around her tiny frame, and when she tries to wriggle away in protest, he only squeezes her closer. He doesn't care if she picks a fight, he needs this. Because she's here. She's safe. She's happy.

And she's fucking walking, now.

"Good walk, little bunny," he laughs, and it comes out shaky. He squeezes his eyes shut tight when he feels the unfamiliar burning of tears, and he knows it's too late to blink them away. Because of course he'd be crying over Sofia's first steps, after not shedding a single tear for the past few years or lord knows how long

She sighs and seems to settle for the hug, slumping into his arms with a content sound. He knows it's probably weird, to be crying over this, and to be crying in front of her. He remembers how confusing it was, to see his own parents cry. He doesn't want to dump his emotions into her tiny undeveloped brain like this, he doesn't want her to feel like she needs to be taking care of him, so he sucks it up and he rubs the wetness from his cheeks and he clears his throat.

He loosens his grip on her, and she pulls back almost immediately. Her chubby fists grip onto his shoulders for balance as she keeps herself upright, doe eyes blinking up at him curiously. That's the only way she's ever looked at him -- curious. Like she doesn't hate him. Like she doesn't care what he's done, or what he will do. From the very first time he picked her up, she's just this, curious.

One of her hands raise and gives him a hearty, much-too-hard thump on his cheek, presumably an attempt at an act of tenderness, and he laughs again.

Oh, he loves her.

And he's not letting this kid live a life that's anything short of extraordinary.

[besidemethewholedamntime]

love worth its weight

I wrote a thing and I don’t even quite know how. This is part 1 of 2 and I know it’s angsty but I promise part two has a happy ending. Part two will hopefully be up tomorrow!

I hope you guys enjoy!

{To read on ao3}

                                                        -x-

Their daughter is born and it hurts.

It hurts more than anything ever has in her life. Not physically, not the expected kind of pain usually associated with giving birth, but something indefinably more.

It hurts so much that in those precious first few minutes where her daughter is laid on her chest and their skin touches and the life that she has nurtured inside her for all these months is suddenly looking up at her with the entire universe held in the blue of her eyes, Jemma can almost not bear to look. She relinquishes her to Fitz after a few minutes, sure that if she waited any longer she wouldn’t be able to let go at all.

It hurts because the loop isn’t broken and she’s seen the future, knows what’s in store for this piece of her soul that’s only spent a handful of minutes in an already unforgiving world. She’s risked everything, done things she never would have deemed herself capable before all of this, and she would have done it all over again if it ensured that the future she had lived was gone and a better one was now able to take its place.

Except it hasn’t, and in looking at her daughter all she can see is how she’s failed her already, before she even has a name.

Right now, at this very moment, shards of broken earth are flying past the window and the stars are visible but they aren’t beautiful.

She tried not to listen to the stories, tried not to think about what would happen if they didn’t break the loop – didn’t even prepare for the possibility. Except now it’s come to pass and she’s floundering, treading water but she’s running out of energy, doesn’t think she has it in her to swim anymore.

They name her Sarah. It means Princess. Jemma think of the stories, of the fairy-tales they will never read to their daughter, of Snow Whites and Cinderellas and princesses who got their happy endings even when it felt like their own world was ending.

But at least they still had a planet to stand on. At least the earth didn’t crumble beneath their feet.

Sarah is not an easy baby. She is never sated. It doesn’t matter who gets up with her in the night – whether it is Jemma or Fitz it makes no difference. Sarah doesn’t care. She cries and screams as if it will solve all of her problems. She uses the only voice she has.

And, Jemma wonders, who are they to deny her this? It’s all so laughably simple. In a world where there isn’t really a world at all, and everybody is fighting to stay alive to fight some more, their daughter only cares about where her next meal is coming from, being changed, being held. She only cares about herself in that deliciously innocent way babies do and it’s nice to experience in this new age something so normal.

It’s nice to experience, it is, but it’s also exhausting and Jemma sometimes looks into the endless eyes of her daughter and feels the heavy shroud of guilt around her heart begin to suffocate her because all she can think is I failed you and you don’t even know.

As already foretold, Sarah begins to worship the ground Fitz walks on. She toddles after him in constantly altered clothes, the current object of her fascination held tightly in an unforgiving toddler fist. He narrates what he’s doing, and so her first word is ‘wrench’ and the way Fitz beams at Jemma with a pride so unlike anything else ever seen before makes it worth any tiny, small nugget of jealousy buried deep within her stomach.

It’s so easy for him, or at least it appears to be. How does he look past it? How does he free himself from the guilt, disentangle himself from it long enough to beam at Sarah the way he does, twirl her around the way he does? Jemma knows it’s not so simple, hears him crying in the shower under the running water so Jemma won’t hear. He comes out with red-rimmed eyes and a hoarse voice and holds her tightly while he sleeps. But that’s with just the two of them. He never shows it in front of her.

It’s not to say that Jemma doesn’t forget when she’s with Sarah, because she does. She’ll help her daughter with her spelling, or her maths or science (because even with the end of the world, there’s no reason to neglect a proper education) and won’t even notice the guilt because it feels like how it’s supposed to feel. That’s what parents do: they help their children with their schoolwork.  Jemma will be working and Sarah will appear and ask her the weird and wonderful things that children do and Jemma won’t even feel that twinge of failure because how can she have failed when her beautiful daughter is standing right in front of her and making science puns with that grin and gleam in her eyes which means she’s definitely her father’s daughter?

How can she have failed to have saved her when she’s right here?

It gets easier and harder all at the same time.

It gets easier because when you live with guilt for so long it becomes a part of you, and you know longer have to consciously remind yourself to carry this weight, no longer have to remind yourself why your heart is so heavy. By now it’s ingrained in somewhere deep within your bones. It’s a part of your very soul and the relief to just carry it, to not have to think about it, is immense.

But it gets harder because the end gets closer. Jemma knows. She’s seen the drawings, heard the prophecies, knows what Robin told Fitz, knows what it did to him… the giant countdown clock is ticking and soon it will reach zero but she breathes fine because it’s not for her daughter. It’s for her.

And this is the good and right way, isn’t it? This is how it’s supposed to be, after all, parents going before their children.

Jemma’s thought it over, a lot. Thought about Sarah the most. Thought about that if this is it, if this is really how she goes then it has to mean something and she makes Fitz promise it to her. It has to mean something, her death. It can’t be for nothing. It has to be for the good, for the future, for the hope that eventually, somehow, they’ll try again and get it right.

It has to be for their daughter. It has to be so they can save her.

And so she isn’t scared, at least not in the way she ever thought she would. For the time she’s had with Fitz, for the time she’s had with Sarah she is infinitely grateful for. Eventually it won’t be this way.

She just wishes that this time they could have saved the world, because she isn’t ready to go.

{To read on ao3}