#dralla

“What?” She glances at her shoulder and scoffs, “Oh, yeah, I saw the bullet. It grazed me, Darkwing.”

Her insufficient explanation fails to reassure him. He wraps through her pouting, rolling eyes, and Damn it, DW, I can do it myself. The process lasts no more than a minute, and he surveys his work, releasing his hold on her shoulders when the binding fits his satisfaction. Once finished, sits on the ground near the unconscious villain, and he follows suit, sighing. A grimace ties to his lips, and for some inexplicable reason, she feels responsible.

“You could’ve died.” He says quietly, “And that…is why I work alone.”

“I could die crossing the street. I could die going to sleep tonight. You think this is my first time?”

“Is it?”

She reminds herself to not shrug, “Yes,” he smacks his lips, “but I have been stabbed by the undead, if that counts.”

“Being stabbed isn’t the same as getting shot.”

“And I didn’t get shot.” Her annoyance starts to show as she heaves, “A graze is very different from a shot, just as it’s very different from getting stabbed.” A ghost of a scar lingers on her left shoulder blade. Too many details can reveal her identity, and although she trusts him to not let her die, extending it to her secret identity is deadly.

Hand covering his eyes, he shakes his head, “If you had followed my plan to -,”

“Your plan was bust the moment Pinstripe discovered the doll was a dummy,” she corrects him sharply. As the sting makes way to his face, she huffs, trying to dodge the incoming guilt, “Look, a good place will always be filled with holes the second an enemy becomes unpredictable. Improvisation was necessary.”

“It could’ve killed you.”

“And it saved you.”

A moment passes, then two. After four he crosses his arms and spits to the side. The villain groans in pain, and Della senses this is the time to inform the cops where they are. It is also the moment she notices the rips on his sleeves, and the stiffness in which he sits.

“Do you need gauze?”

“Will I have to thank you for that too,” he spits.

She reaches for the roll and imitates him to the best of her ability. Pinstripe’s favorite knife is habitually sharpened, and the blood flowing freely from his left arm doesn’t surprise them. But it does leave a ghastly stain on his dark violet uniform, and as she tightens the gauze, patting it gently, she suspects this particular uniform may have to be retired.

“I wouldn’t expect it.”

“Do we leave him for the cops?”

Pinstripe is in a daze on his back. Drool escapes his mouth and forms a pool around her his head. She frowns in disgust, “We should make sure the cops can find him. His goons led them on a goose chase to the north side.”

As she retrieves her grappling hook from underneath her cape, she fights the tremor lodging in the middle of her spine as his eyes trail after her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve done it before.” And she has. She will not tell him more than that.

“It’ll increase the bleeding, and make a mess everywhere.” He looks away, debating, “I can drive you in my car, and from there, we can notify the police together.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, “You want to share.” His humility precedes him greatly; to where him portraying a sense of it is unthinkable, “For my sake, lets not. It’s easier this way. Duck Avenger flies in Italy, as you know.”

“You can’t say I didn’t offer.” His accent is flippant. He may want to say more, Della realizes. His bill seems to pucker in a way she never thought possible for someone like him. He wants to say more. He will not relent into more, “At least let me drive you on your way. It’s ridiculous to take the long way home.”

The gauze quietly grows crimson in the night. Letting the wound grow worse will do her no favors. Fine. Taking him up on his offer would not be the dumbest thing she has done tonight. She confirms with a nod and a smile, giving him freedom to guide them down the fire escape. Rusted metal squeaks, threatens to collapse in their palms, but it is stubborn and holds until her boots slam onto a dirty rain puddle.

In his car, which is impressive in retrospect, she lets the drum of his engine lull her to a short nap. He remains pensive, refusing acknowledge Pinstripe’s unconscious body behind them.

Della slips under the radar. Apologizing is the morally acceptable action, and she feels inclined to do so as darkness begins to sprinkle drops on her. It is not appeasing. She takes hold of stubbornness and lets her mind wander under the engine’s drumming helm.

She keeps her thanks in her left pocket for later.

--

All tragedies start as an idea. The idea may be fatalistically stupid or extraordinarily clever, neither is required. An idea alone is useless.

An idea given action becomes dangerous.

The Spear of Selene is a 2,700-year-old idea. It has cost past civilizations nothing except for distorted lore and long forgotten pasts.

Della is fifteen when she discovers The Spear of Selene in one of her uncle’s book. Its contents are written in ancient Greek, and she can recall the smooth bumps under her fingers as he passes her hand across the pages. A ripple of excitement climbs up her spine as she rushes to find her uncle.

He glances at the book with a dim smile on her face, “Ah lass, many have tried and failed, even I. No man has come close to catching the faintest glow of Selene’s spear.”

His motivation tactic is surprisingly thorough. Scrooge has a tendency for this. He dares people into action, and a mischievous gleam crinkles in his eyes as he resumes his work. His challenge lies thick in the air, and Della smirks under the mischievous gleam fermenting in his eyes. He resumes his work with an annoyed burst of energy; his accountants have always been vultures.

His frank dismissal perturbs and excites her. This is where everything begins to fall.

Seasons change consistently over the past decade. The same can be said for the lunar phase. Her meticulous planning and unbridled ambition sustains her during extraneous nights of charting geographical maps. Her eyes sting above ancient Greek texts, and she records the lunar phases over the span of ten years, searching for the dreaded blue moon night. The constellations are brightest on this night, and she knows the time has come.

Her idea is not her own. It is old and used, charred and burned, bitterly stain with the tears of its forefathers, and she takes it by the reigns and makes it hers.

“Della, are you sure about this?”

She will remember this day. This day will sear its cold edge onto her delicate memory, and it will haunt her, as it should, from then on.

Twenty-five and unafraid, she ignores the warnings her predecessors have left behind.

“Donald, this going to be no different from any other mission we’ve gone on.” Uncle Scrooge has gone ahead of them, but she warns him of the peculiars of The Halls of Selene. She is a brilliant goddess, mysterious and forlorn, and if the scripts are accurate, Della knows they are, vengeful is on the list.

In less than two hours she will realize the wrath of an angered god.

--

“Donald, do you see it?”

A sigh above, “Yeah, I can, where are you?”

“Higher up than you, I think.” They lose each other in the maze of the temple. Selene’s temple is breathtaking and mind numbing. A terrible beauty it is, Della observes.

She hears the cling of coins in the distance. Uncle Scrooge must have found the offering room, at least. A momentary detour for the duck; she wants him to enjoy his time here as well. Her finger grasps at stone, climbing up to the spear’s pedestal is faster than she things. They have avoided the majority of the booby traps, and battled with the undead handmaidens, their skeletal remains now piles of crumbled dust.

Glory resonates in her soul as she reaches the top. It’s ghastly blue light swarms around them, illuminating the room far brighter than any jewel could.

“Seriously, we could’ve gone to the park for all of this,” Donald says behind her. He is deliberate in his climb, ever watchful of another attack from above, or to his greatest chagrin, to the side, “and didn’t you hear what that old oracle said?”

“You mean the crone who warned us about meeting our inevitable demise?” Her childish giggles baffles him, and she blinks down at him, watching as his perplexed expression strains into one of annoyance, “Donald, you can’t tell me it doesn’t excite you!”

“I’m more excited about living.” The distance between steadily declines. His annoyance easily gives way to anger, and anger is adrenaline for him.

“I promise Daisy will forgive you.”

“Yeah, but she won’t forgive you for keeping me for so long.”

“True!”

Gasping, they reach the top where the glow is brightest. Their eyes quickly adjust, and she strides to the spear on its golden spot. The crystal tips glow dully, but it’s a beautiful dullness that alarms them. It’s an all around frightening experience. Della loves it.

“There it is Donald,” she whispers. So caught in the overwhelming emotion of this discovery, of its very presence before them, so ready and willing, Della covers her mouth.

“Yes, yes, I can see it.” He crosses his arms and huffs, “A stick. A glowy stick.”

“A glowy stick of unimaginable power, Don,” she claps her hands like a child in a candy store, “a glowy stick only the greats could describe based on their expectations, and trust me, it has exceeded every last description. Ha, suck on that hemlock.”

She should pause. She should think. Preferably, she would do both, but Della does neither. She grips the cool surface of the spear’s metal body, and raises it off its pedestal.

What happens after she cannot describe in great detail. She is standing, proud and elated. She stares down and sees her uncle. He is holding something, something in his hand, and he is not smiling. She looks to Donald. Fear ripples his expression, but Donald is always afraid.

Donald is always afraid. Donald is always there. Until he isn’t. Until he moves, and she feels her body falling to the side, spear slipping from her fingers.

“Donald?”

He knows. Looking at him, he knows what is about to happen without truly understanding it himself, but a light so bright, so blinding, so hungry engulfs him.

And suddenly, there is one.

“Donnie?”

--

“Donnie?”

“Donnie.”

“Huey!”

No. This cannot be happening. This is not happening. It is Della. It is happening, and you must hold on. He feels so small in her arms, so small and tiny. This terrible smallness has not been felt since he was two, and it has been so long, Della thinks, since he has been two.

“Della?” Another voice comes up from elsewhere, maybe behind. Della cannot tell. She doesn’t care, “Della, you need to let go.”

Why is she breathing so hard? A million thoughts try to connect to each other in her head. None of them can. She is holding something firmly, and her brain reacts, forcing her eyes to see at last. Her hands have gripped his arm so tightly she fears bruising, and how small they are, in her arms. She releases them cautiously, shaking her head, and she raises her eyes to meet his.

Tears are ready to spill over the rim, and he stares into them, unsure and afraid. He is afraid, poor child, and doesn’t understand.

Her hands stop at his. She can’t think, and someone’s hand is on her shoulder. She wants to shake them off. It doesn’t seem right to do so, and she needs to tend to Huey. She’s frightened Huey.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah…are – are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You’re not, Dels. She clasps his hands fittingly. A mark will not be left on a single feather, “Huey, I’m sorry. It’s…um…a lot has happened, hasn’t it?”

He scrutinizes her expression. He has reached an age where questioning authority is sensible if not necessary to shape his viewing of the world, “Mom, you’re not okay.”

It is easier to lie. Soothe the pain with pretty words that will wash away their concerns. Huey is not the type of child to lie to. He is smart and will overthink. His brain snatches words, tossing them overhead and under until their meanings are plain to read.

“No. I’m not, but I’m glad you are.” She wrap her arms around him, angry at the tears spilling down her cheeks, “And…what you did back there, for Dewey, was so unimaginably brave. I’m proud of you.”

“Della?”

Oh right. He’s still here. Della wipes her eyes and stands, “Thanks Drake, you didn’t have to do -,”

“Uh…what are old friends for?”

The children watch from the sidelines. Their wide stares lock on her, asking more questions she feels read to answer, but she feels the deadline is already passed.

His fingers linger on her shoulder. A thin, jagged edge scar is all that remains of the wound. When his fingers press on the shoulder, the accompanying pain is completely absent, and is replaced with a faint tingle.

Huey could have died. But he didn’t. She could have died. But you didn’t. Her head spins. Her feet are grounded, and she looks at the three children huddled near her. Drake’s daughter stands near Launchpad.

She remembers her uncle’s stories. She remembers siting at his side as he recited him. His tone thrilled them, leaving them hanging at the edge of the rugs.

They don’t like each other. Della’s social awkwardness set people on edge. Drake says what he wants without caring 45% of the time. It makes for a confrontational event where they’re almost kicked out of the library. They part with sarcasm and angry looks, but somehow, somehow, in the hustle that is their argument they exchange phone numbers.

Somehow, through odd events of the criminal kind, they end up working together, and Della finds that this Drake Mallard isn’t as boring as she thought he was. Drake finds that this Della Duck isn’t as egotistical as he thought she was. So they exchange letters.

These letters span months – years, dependent on when Della meets the boys’ father. Romance isn’t up for discussion. It isn’t like that, but after Della is honorably discharged from the Air Force, they meet up in St. Canard. She is ready to go into laying. Her brother is overseas in the Navy.

Drake isn’t there when the boys are hatched, but he is there with flowers and an edible arrangement. He also brought bottles and a bath tub.

Huey is the runt, and Della confides to him about her worries. She’s determined. He doesn’t come with her to doctor appointments, but he’s a listening ear for her. He helps her out with groceries, more as the basket pusher and making sure the kids don’t roll off.

He’s still her friend. It’s still friendly, but they note the intimacy of how close they are. She tells him things she doesn’t tell Donald, and he knows there are things she keeps from him.

There are close touches, sharing looks, and a breathless, gasping moment in the laundry room when she trips over a sandal and lands in his arms. A shared look, a paused moment.

“The boys…Dels…”

“They’re down for their nap.”

When it becomes more, she initiates it, and he’s scared.

“Drake, I am not a child, and the boys like you!”

So they date. They take it slow. It is still intimate. They don’t disclose their relationship to their family. Della doesn’t think to, and Drake doesn’t mind. Grandma Duck knows Della is seeing someone special only because of her grandma powers. He reads bed time stories to the boys. He bathes them under Della’s strict instructions. He feeds them too when he’s babysitting. They cuddle while watching mysteries.

Louie’s first word is his name. Donald doesn’t know this. Louie looks at him and says ‘Rake. He doesn’t try to contain his excitement, “Della, Della, he said Rake! He knows who I am!”

“That’s great! That’s Momma’s smart boy. Ow, Dewey, no, don’t chew on Momma’s hair, sweetie.”

There’s a picture of them going out in St. Canard. Yes, my headcanon is that Della does have a St. Canard apartment, but spends a lot of time in Duckburg. It’s why most people don’t know about their relationship.

Della doesn’t tell him about The Spear of Selene. If she did leave willingly, she deeply regrets it, but feels her reasons are justified. If it was an adventure gone wrong, there’s still regret.

There’s a picture of them together. Going out to the zoo.

Their friends turned lovers, and it ends all too early. There are a lot of could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve left dangling between them.

But Della disappears. Donald immediately takes the boys into his care. Her apartment, their home in the making, is abandoned, and he feels he doesn’t have a place to say anything, so he doesn’t. He moves forward. He doesn’t exactly move on. He becomes a super hero. He becomes a dad, and this experience is new, different, and terrifying. But he loves it all the same.

He sees the boys on television. He can only stare and see that these boys grew up well and strong. Dewey’s a dancer it looks like. It’s been over 10 years since he’s seen them last. He’s happy for them. He misses what they could’ve had, but he’s happy.

He does have regret. He feels he should’ve done more. But he didn’t. Can’t change the past.