#rewrite!

Her son was still asleep.

The house was bright with the afternoon light, sun spilling in from all of the windows. It was one of the things she loved most about her home, how much light it was able to bring in. From the big wide windows in the piano room, to the tiny one overlooking the staircase. Even though it was small it filled the room with brightness. Even the sliding glass doors brought in the sunshine, although she almost never opened the curtains anymore. The light touched everything in the house, the empty stairwell, the miscolored walls, the dozens and dozens of cardboard boxes stacked precariously on top of one another.

Sometimes the memories floated up from where she had tampered them down, catching on a thought floating in her head and coming up to the surface. The light in the house made her think of the windows, and the windows made her think of the piano, the one piece of furniture she was leaving behind, and the piano made her think of the day they bought the house.

She had been pregnant by then, just beginning to show. They had told their respective parents earlier that month on the first trimester mark, and all four had been pleased. It felt good to earn Takashi’s parents approval, it may have only come from the child growing in her, but she was happy to have it. Anything would beat the icy stares and cold judgement that they had when he first brought her home for dinner.

The day they bought the house was also the day they found out they were having a girl. Cold gel on her belly and a monitor pressing against her, and there was a picture of their daughter. She still looked more like an alien than a baby, but she had little fingers and little toes, and her doctor said that the baby was a girl. She couldn’t have been more excited.

She had been hesitant about buying the house at first, scared of the possibilities. Could they afford the house with everything the baby might need? Was the house too big, was it safe enough for their child? Takashi had assured her that everything would be fine, but the doubts were still egging at her, even on this final day that they could possibly turn back. It was the piano that changed her mind. The piano, and her daughter.

As she stood in the doorway of the room that had the piano, she rested a hand on her stomach. Her mind was still reeling from the knowledge that there was in fact a little person in her, a little person that would grow into a little girl for her to love and cherish and raise.

She had never learned to play the piano, but this little girl would. She would sit at the piano with long black hair, straight like her fathers instead of wavy like her own. This little girl would have her eyes, and a perfect smile. She would grow up in this house, and her parents would be with her for every step of the way.

Takashi had come up behind her and she had turned herself into his arms, declaring there and then that this was their home now. They signed the papers only an hour later in their realtors office, and she had been in her final month of pregnancy when they finally had moved in. There had been some water damage, and Takashi hadn’t wanted to risk mold around her and the baby. She had been a whale by the time they finally got into the house, waddling around unpacking cardboard boxes so very similar to the ones adorning the house now.

It had felt right then, like the real beginning to her life. Everything had made sense. Now the brightness of the house was overwhelming, the sun hitting her eyes and leaving black blurs in her vision. She kept most of the curtains shut, and there was no one there who would open them back up for her.

Still, the light kept creeping in.

Stop thinking about that. Get back to what you have to do.

I left some food in the fridge for you downstairs. It's STEAK... your favorite! Love you, XOXO.

She circled that final O and peeled the sticky note off of the pack, placing it on the wall by the doorway next to the rest of her little messages to her son. Sunny did better when he had reminders of things, and the bright neon of the stickies tended to catch his eye long enough to engage his curiosity. She patted the note twice to ensure it was stuck on firmly, and then she started her mental checklist again.

Pack up the last of our things. Check.

Call the landlord to start setting up the apartment. Check.

Make sure the moving men knew to leave the piano. Check.

Leave Sunny a list of chores. Check.

Make sure Sunny has what he needs and knows how to get it. Check.

Everything was laid out exactly as it should be. Everything was taken care of. So why did she have a foreboding feeling? Why did she not want to leave? She had wanted to leave this house for the last four years, she had craved escaping the grief and pain that tainted the walls. Now she was finally at the precipice of getting exactly what she wanted, and fear was holding her in place.

On a whim she called out that she was leaving to the empty dead house. Sunny did not wake. Sunny’s door did not open. She hadn’t expected it to, but she hoped it would. He might have come downstairs and give her a hug goodbye, he might have given her some sign that he was aware she even existed at all.

Except he wouldn’t, and it was better to pretend that it was just because of the house. Once she got him out of this house it would all be okay again, and to get him out of the house, she needed to leave and set up their new home.

With that thought at the forefront of her mind, she picked up her handbag and walked to the door. It was heavy when it opened, it had always been heavy, but now it was a struggle to even get the knob to turn. But turn it did, and soon she was standing in her yard, the front door closing behind her with an ominous click. That sound always sent a shiver racing down her spine. It was the same noise as when the men closed Mari’s casket. A simple quiet snick, efficient in its brutality.

That’s the sound that happened when they finally took my baby away. That’s the sound that happened when they shut the world forever on her beautiful face. She never shut any of the doors in the house anymore in an effort to avoid that sound.

She hurried to the car and slammed the door shut, the vibration of it rolling up her arm and cancelling out the noise of the casket door closing. A shaky breath flew out of her mouth and she gripped the steering wheel, letting her head fall against it.

It’s all fine. Everything is fine. You’re overreacting to a little noise. It’s just an overreaction.

She grabbed her purse and began to dig through it, the jingly sound of her keys coming from its depths. Once she found them she jammed the key into the ignition, about to turn it when it happened again. A crackly voice in her head, speaking in slow gravely Japanese. The voice of her Baasan stuck in her mind, stalling her hand from turning the key.

You shouldn’t leave him alone.

It was a ridiculous thought. She had left Sunny home alone plenty of times. It wasn’t anything new or out of the ordinary. Sunny probably wouldn’t even get up, except to use the bathroom and eat. She would be back in three days, and then they would be able to move on with their lives. There was nothing to worry about. She turned the key, and Baasan spoke up again.

Three days? You told yourself one, then two at most. Now Three? What on earth could you possibly need to do that would keep you away from your son for three days. He’s fragile now, you know.

Plenty of things Baa-Baa She rationalized. She had to lay out the furniture, call an inspector, get food for the fridge, and make sure everything would be just the way it should be for Sunny’s arrival. There was lots to do, and she needed all of that time. It wasn’t like she had left Sunny in a ditch without shelter or care. He was in his home, the only home he had ever known, with food to eat and a warm bed.

Ah yes, a single steak. Certainly enough for three days. He’s going to starve while you are gone. Why do you want to starve your son?

She wasn’t starving him. She...she wasn’t. Sunny barely ate anymore anyway. Uncertainty wound itself around her shoulders. She had left him a steak in the fridge, and the microwave was right by it to warm it up. She had even sharpened the knife for him.

Leaving your only son with a sharp knife alone in the house. What a choice .

She shook her head, unable to shake the thoughts from her head. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, and she threw her body around, pulling out of the driveway and speeding down the road. Her Baasan’s voice screamed in her head

Turn Back. Turn Back, damn you. Go back, he needs you. You left out a knife, a knife you sharpened. You didn’t sharpen any of the others. Why did you leave that knife out? Do you want him to hurt himself?

“No!” She shouted into the empty air, startling herself. Her hands jerked, and the car jerked too, pulling into the other lane. An oncoming vehicle blared its horn, and she overcorrected, going half off the road. The man in the other car gave her the finger as he whizzed past, and she laughed, a strangely broken sound. Why would she want to hurt Sunny? He was her baby, her little one. The last little one she had, the only family she had. All she had now was her son, and she would never let anything hurt him.

“I’m doing this for him,” She said to herself, her voice placid and sweet, “It’s all for him. Once he’s out of that house things will be better. It’ll be all better,”

Why couldn’t she believe herself? She wasn’t lying, she wanted this for Sunny.

You want it for you. You want to be rid of that place, rid of the memories and everything you lost. Whatever it takes you’re leaving that all behind and it will be like none of it ever existed. That’s for you, not him.

But Sunny wasn’t one of the things she wanted to leave behind. Sunny was coming with her. But that didn’t explain why he wasn’t here sitting in the car with her. Baasan tried speaking up one last time.

Turn Back. You can take it back before he even wakes up. Throw that knife out into the backyard. Let it rest next to where your son hung his sister.

Where your baby hung herself. He needs you. He needs his mommy.

No. No, it was fine.

Sunny didn’t need her. What Sunny needed was a fresh start. Sunny needed to get out of that house, that horrible house filled with ghosts- alive and dead. Sunny needed her to be his mother, to make decisions when he couldn’t. Sunny needed his mother to help him, and she would. She would fill this new house with new furniture and new clothes, and she would become a new person. A kinder person, a better person, someone who could forgive his mistakes. Someone who could love him. Someone who could see him without hating him.

Sunny would be fine. Sunny would sleep all day and all night like he always did. He was a caterpillar in a cocoon, and she was going to help him finish his metamorphosis. Leaving this house, his chrysalis, would help him to transform. He would emerge as her beautiful boy again, her quiet darling, her Sunny. She put on her turn signal and started up the drive once more, this time with no hesitation at all.

“You sure you don’t need anything else, Mr. McDee?”

“No, no, that’ll be all for today, Launchpad. But remember, we leave for Birdbados tomorrow at—”

“At eight! You got it, boss, I’ll be here on the dot.”

Leaning out of Webby’s window in a way that would send Uncle Donald into a panic if he saw him, Dewey watched the exchange between his great-uncle and his chauffeur in the driveway with an interest born from extreme boredom. 

Huey was at a Junior Woodchuck meeting and Louie was watching Ottoman Empire, so Dewey had figured it would be the perfect time to talk strategy with Webby regarding their ongoing investigation into Della Duck. 

But in the month since Ithaquack, and discovering that the Spear of Selene was no spear at all, their investigation stalled out. They had no leads, no theories, no clue as who Della Duck actually was, why she left, or what the Spear of Selene even was. All they knew was what it wasn’t, and they had the word of a goddess insisting Della was a good person, with photos in a magical sphere to back her claim. 

Dewey had been hiding the sphere in Webby’s room, out of deep well of guilt and self-preservation. The boys generally knew better than to burst into Webby’s room unannounced, lest they risk a halberd hurled their way, so Dewey knew it would be safe there, away from his brothers’ prying (and rightful) eyes. He’d gotten better at stuffing his gnawing shame into a little lockbox that was joined by his lingering fears that his mother never wanted them, and shoving it deep down into some tucked away corner where he didn’t have to think about it. 

Tonight, rather than acknowledge for the umpteenth time that their investigation was going nowhere fast, Dewey joined Webby in her room and alternated between poured over the photos in the sphere that he’d already memorized to the last detail, and absently staring out the open window. From Webby’s room, he could see nearly all of Duckburg spread out below them like a sepia tapestry, skyscrapers glimmering in the light of the setting sun. 

Beside him, Webby was sprawled upside down against a mountain of stuffed animals, firing arrows from a small crossbow at the target on the opposite wall. They hadn’t spoken for several minutes, and the quietude was as comfortable as it would be between him and his brothers. 

The breeze was cool on Dewey’s face as he watched Launchpad drop Scrooge off at the front door, before driving the limo over to the second garage, the one that wasn’t housing any cursed objects. It was also where Launchpad lived, which Dewey had always thought a little strange. 

Launchpad was like a beacon in terms of personality. He shone with joy and easy confidence, offering smiles and hugs and pats on the back to Dewey or any of his siblings, whether they were afraid to jump off the high dive at the public pool or leap over a gaping chasm in a medieval Thrushian mining tunnel. His garage was...not a reflection of that. 

The garage was dingy and almost cold, especially when compared to the man who supposedly resided there. Scrooge’s limousine took up much of the floor space, and there were entire carts full of tools and replacement parts against the far wall. What little space Launchpad had carved out for himself was done almost as an afterthought, a footnote of a living space. The couch was ratty, and the rug beneath it faded and threadbare. The ancient television set only played VHS tapes and didn’t have cable, and the lightbulb in the refrigerator flickered when opened. He didn’t have a bed, but on the rickety second level there was a hammock with a bench press beside it, and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above it, some of them missing and only the putty residue remaining. 

Beside a handful of drooping posters, there were almost no personal touches. No homey feel to anything in the garage, or anything to indicate that a person like Launchpad lived there. Launchpad, who Dewey had watched take the limosuine’s engine apart down to the last nut and bolt, and put it back together in the span of fifteen minutes. Launchpad, who was pilot and chauffeur to the richest duck in the world, who only attracted the greatest oddities into his circle. But none of that was reflected in the space that was supposedly Launchpad's own. 

Dewey never had the luxury of “alone time” on the houseboat, and even with a mansion at their disposal it could be difficult to find a space his brothers wouldn’t intrude upon. They still shared a bedroom, the TV room was communal, and there were only so many doors one could open at random in their great-uncle’s home before one of them turned out to be a portal to another dimension. He could hardly take a nap without being bothered, much less record the next Dewey Dew-Nite.

Once, he expressed his frustrations to Launchpad, off-handedly and immediately forgotten about, in the way one does when irritation runs their mind. Later the next day, Launchpad took Dewey out for burgers at Hamburger Hippo, a St. Canard fast-food chain that was steadily expanding to Duckburg. 

They found themselves back at the garage, and Launchpad put on some movie made before Dewey was even born, with robot cops and bad special effects and lots of explosions, and it was one of the best days he’d had in recent memory. Launchpad made a big bowl of popcorn and let Dewey have control of the remote, and after half an hour Launchpad fell asleep with his head tipped against the back of the couch, snoring every fifth breath. 

Dewey finished the movie and then put on another, because even when asleep Launchpad’s presence was a reassurance, and his siblings didn’t go out of their way to bother him once. 

While the garage wasn’t anything impressive, especially when compared to the mansion next door, it retained a special significance after that day. Launchpad still looked as out of place as ever, and that sense of not belonging would continue to dog at Dewey, like the discordant note in an otherwise perfect symphony. But they kept having movie nights there, even inviting his siblings a few times, and when full of life and laughter, fairy lights aglow, it didn’t feel quite so dreary. It wasn’t where Dewey would’ve imagined Launchpad living, but the unexpected had become the expected since Uncle Donald put Scrooge’s address in his GPS, and it was easier to accept the strangeness rather than let it keep surprising him.

But as Dewey stared idly out the window, Launchpad did something that surprised him. 

Launchpad didn’t take a nap in the front seat of the limousine or head into the mansion to score a free meal, as he was wont to do. Instead he clambered out of the limo and popped open the trunk. Dewey knew that Launchpad kept some of his own things in there, spare shirts and tools and the like, but now he retrieved what Dewey swore was a Quackypatch backpack, judging by how sickeningly bubblegum pink it was.

Dewey snorted at the sight of it, but watched as Launchpad slung the backpack over one shoulder, closing the trunk with his other hand. He locked the limousine and disappeared into the belly of the garage for several long moments that each lasted a small eternity. Eventually, Launchpad walked back out leading a massive, dark purple motorcycle Dewey had never seen before.

Launchpad put on a matching helmet and peeled out of the driveway with his usual disregard for safety or speed limits. He disappeared over the edge of Killmotor Hill until the distant roar of his motorcycle was all that remained, growing more distant by the second. 

In that moment, Dewey realized how little he knew about Launchpad.

The man who drove them to school every morning and back home every afternoon, always stopping for ice cream when they asked and especially when they didn’t. Launchpad, who would laugh at his own bad jokes, and pulled off death-defying stunts in everything from planes to subway cars, and got nightmares if he watched scary movies. These were all things Dewey knew; that they all knew, but which gave little insight into the man himself.

“Hey...Webby,” Dewey said slowly, unsure of what he meant to ask.

She looked up as she was in the midst of firing another arrow, throwing off her aim and embedding it in the ceiling. 

“Yeah, Dewey?” she replied. He didn’t know what face he was making, but even while upside down it was apparently worrying enough for Webby’s own expression to draw back in concern. 

“You’ve lived here the entire time Launchpad’s been Uncle Scrooge’s chauffeur, right?” Dewey asked hesitantly. He and his brothers tried to refrain from bringing up the long, lonely years that made up most of Webby’s childhood, but there was no helping it now. 

“Yeah,” Webby said, averting her gaze to unsuccessfully hide the shadow that fell across her features. She busied herself with notching another bolt into her crossbow. 

Dewey tapped on the sphere in his lap, internally debating over whether to continue. He knew that once he broached the subject, there would be no going back. 

The answer had the possibility of being laughably simple. Webby might be able to summarize it in a sentence, it was so simple. Or it could turn into the next Della Duck, thrilling and all kinds of terrifying, and without an end in sight. 

“What do you know about him?” Dewey asked, because if he was anything, he was stubborn. 

Webby dropped her crossbow in an instant, somersaulting backward off her piles of stuffed animals and jumping to her feet.

 “Ooh, what do you want to know? I have years of research —are you interested in the Glasgow chapter, or maybe the Terror of the Transvaal? Or-or the King of the Klondike!" 

Dewey knew the start of a Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck rant when he heard it, and he quickly turned away from the window, waving his hands in the hopes of cutting Webby off before she really got on a roll. “No, no, I meant Launchpad. What do you know about Launchpad?”

Webby froze, already poised to take The Secret Files of Webbgail Vanderquack off the shelf. “Um…”

“He’s worked here for years, right?” Dewey insisted, rising from his seat by the window sill. He clutched Selene’s sphere tightly to his chest with one hand. “You’ve gotta know something!”

Webby tugged self-consciously on a lock of her hair. “I think he lives in St. Canard?”

“That’s it? You know my great-grandmother’s shoe size but all you know about Launchpad is that he lives in another city?” 

Dewey’s chest felt like a barren cavity, scraped clean by guilt and the horror of the realization that he had neglected another family member with his carelessness. He never thought to ask about his mother growing up, and now he faced the possibility that she may have abandoned them. Launchpad opened his heart and his home to them, and Dewey took and took and didn’t look back. 

Webby shrugged, wringing her hands in the small, shame-faced way she did when someone pointed out how very not normal she was. “All my focus has been on researching Scrooge and his family, and there’s just so much history that I—”

Dewey interrupted, unwilling to let her flagellate herself further. 

“No, no, Webby, it’s not your fault. I’m just mad at myself.” It was an understatement, but true enough. He sighed, plopping down on the floor beneath the window. He hugged Selene’s sphere so tightly his sternum ached. “I mean, Launchpad calls me his best friend. And I don’t know a thing about him. Not even his shoe size.”

He and Webby exchanged small smiles, though Dewey’s came haltingly. 

Webby placed her book back on the shelf and joined him silently on the floor. 

“So. What’s the plan?” she asked, leaning forward to meet his eyes. 

“What plan?” 

Webby rolled her eyes, expression so dry she must’ve picked it up from Huey. “The plan to learn more about Launchpad, obviously!”

Hope ballooned inside Dewey, but it was quickly tempered by the long list of failures they’d already suffered around their investigation of his mother. 

Dewey chuckled weakly. “I don’t think I’m very good at this research stuff.”

Webby nudged Dewey’s shoulder with her own. “Maybe not. But this time there really isn’t that much research involved. Launchpad’s right here, and he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

While part of Dewey hated how transparent he was, it was comforting to know Webby had joined Uncle Donald and his brothers in the list of people that he could read him with such ease. 

“Yeah,” he said. He eased up his grip around the sphere, letting his stiff arms relax. “Yeah, you’re right. All the time in the world.”

“And,” Webby began pointedly, “there’s no reason to keep your brothers in the dark this time.”

Dewey groaned, mostly to annoy Webby, though guilt sat heavily in the bottom of his stomach. 

“I’m serious, Dewey!” Webby said, shoving him lightly, which in Webby’s case meant he didn’t go flying across the room. “No secrets this time.”

He carefully schooled his expression into something appropriately conciliatory. He tightened his hold on the sphere once more. “No secrets,” he repeated. 

It turned out that their plan to learn more about about Launchpad would be more challenging than they expected.

Dewey and Webby brought Huey and Louie into their circle the following day, via a hushed conversation in the boys’ room after breakfast. Huey was appropriately aghast at the realization that he knew so little about the only member of their family always willing and eager to wear his matching roadtrip shirts. Louie’s reaction was less extreme, though he admitted to a curiosity regarding the pilot that only grew when Dewey described Launchpad’s motorcycle.

At first, it felt like common sense for their investigation to be clandestine. They could only imagine two potential outcomes: that Launchpad lived some bizarre double life they knew nothing about, as had become a trend in their family, or he was a perfectly average weirdo. 

They already knew that online searches for Launchpad would come up with very little. There wasn’t a trace of him to be found on social media posts that weren’t their own, and those were all photos of them on adventures or lazing around the pool. That wasn’t strange in of itself, and it didn’t tell them anything about Launchpad other than him maybe not having an interest in social media.

Collectively, they were hesitant to present too many of their questions to Beakley or Scrooge, already knowing how paranoid their guardians could be, often rightfully so. 

What did Launchpad do before he started working for Uncle Scrooge? (Huey)

Did Scrooge know Launchpad from his old adventuring days? (Webby)

Was Launchpad’s nice guy act part of some longer con? (Louie, only half joking)

Who on Earth gave Launchpad get his pilot’s license? (also Huey)

Was Launchpad a good person? (Dewey)

Webby had vague memories of Launchpad’s first day as Scrooge’s chauffeur, around two years ago. They four of them were clustered on Louie’s bottom bunk, heads pressed close together in a manner anyone would deem as suspicious were they to look in on them. 

“I was hiding in the vents when he came inside to meet Mr—Uncle Scrooge,” Webby said, stumbling a little, because it had only been a few weeks since she started calling him that in front of the boys. “My Granny introduced them. I...I think they knew each other. Her and Launchpad.”

“Mrs. Beakley and Launchpad?” Louie replied, voice as incredulous as his and his brother’s expressions. 

“They don’t run in the same circles whatsoever!” Huey exclaimed, despairing. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen them say more than five words to each other,” Dewey said, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. 

“Do you think they’re...friends?”Huey asked hesitantly. 

Webby shrugged, looking uncomfortable as she rubbed her arm. “I don’t think Granny has friends.”

“Does Launchpad?” Louie commented. 

Dewey glowered at him. “I’m his best friend.”

“We don’t count.”

“I don’t think we can ask Mrs. Beakley about this,” Huey said quickly, forestalling the argument building between his brothers. “Can we?”

“Ugh, I don’t know, man!” Louie muttered, flopping backward onto his pillow 

Webby shook her head. “Not if we want answers. Granny will be suspicious about us asking right away.”

“You’re also a terrible liar.”

“Hey!”

In the end, with no covert avenues to explore, they decided that the quickest way to get their answers would be to simply ask Launchpad. But even this proved deceptively tricky.

The more they paid attention, they more they realized that despite being a walking natural disaster, Launchpad attracted very little attention when he wasn’t crashing. He had the strangest knack for blending into the background and going unnoticed, his lighthearted comments and bad jokes forgotten in the wake of Scrooge’s grandeur and Uncle Donald’s constant over-protectiveness and the craziness of their general lives. 

And when Launchpad did talk more, it was never about himself. He was never short on stories, but more often than not they’d be about someone he met in flight school or the grocery check-out line, or an adventure someone else had told him about. One of the only definitive things he’d ever said about himself was that he was a pilot, and that had been ages and a trip to Atlantis ago.

They decided to simply start asking Launchpad more personal questions, giving him more attention when he was around, to little success.

When asked for his opinion on movie night, he replied, “Anything’s good, as long as it’s not scary.”

A question about his childhood was met with a vexingly brief summary. “Oh, growing up it was just me, my parents, and my little sister, Loopy. You’d love her! She’s a genius when it comes to anything with an engine, taught me everything I know!”

There were strange reports coming out of Duckburg’s sister sister of St. Canard, stories of parks coming to life and trying to drag their visitors underground, giant windup toys robbing banks, petty criminals found bound and beaten under convenient streetlights, babbling about dark wings and nonsense. 

The boys had yet to even visit the city, Uncle Donald refusing any job posting that would move their houseboat within spitting distance of Audubon Bay. Webby hadn’t gone because she never left the mansion until they showed up.  But the boys never had much interest in St. Canard, unlike Cape Suzette, with its crystal blue waters, seaplanes, and pirate history. St. Canard had the highest crime rate of any city in of Calisota, and the news was always showcasing their dirty, dingy streets and skyscrapers draped in smog. For three kids seeking adventure, St. Canard was less than the ideal destination. 

But now that they knew Launchpad lived there, it had become the most interesting city in the world practically overnight. 

“What’s St. Canard like?” they elected Huey to ask, clustered behind him in casual poses as Launchpad gassed up the plane. 

Launchpad shrugged.

 “Like any big city, I guess. Just more crime,” he said. But then he crouched and looked them in the eye one by one with a seriousness uncharacteristic of him. “You kids know not to go there alone, right? There are some real weirdos over there.”

  And so it went that their questions were resplendent with vague, impersonal answers, and Launchpad never elaborated on those “weirdos” he mentioned. It would almost be annoying if Launchpad weren’t still so earnest and easygoing, apparently oblivious to their attempts to pry into his life.

This pattern continued for about two weeks before they finally made a modicum of progress.  

They returned from their jungle expedition in Wronguay in the early hours of the morning, which meant that the rest of the day was reserved for rest and relaxation and nothing else. Webby and the boys woke up around noon, just in time to see Scrooge off as he left for an abbreviated visit to the office.

In the ensuing hours, and after a hearty breakfast-for-lunch, Huey suggested having a campout. Their fun would have to be confined to the mansion grounds, but they were so expansive and still so novel for the triplets that it wasn’t a bad thing. They gathered all the necessary supplies, of which Scrooge had in abundance, as well as all the junk food they could find.

Scrooge returned in early evening, looking tired and frustrated, but his expression warmed upon seeing them stacking sleeping bags in the foyer.

“Going on another expedition are we?” he asked wryly, leaning on his cane as he stood by Huey, who was counting their supplies on a clipboard. 

“You bet!” Dewey announced, brandishing two large flashlights like swords. “We’re going on a hunt for the dangerous and elusive garden peacock.”

 “Now, don’t you go pestering poor Angus!” Scrooge said, shaking a chastising finger, though his beak was still curled in a smile.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Scrooge, Dewey was just messing around,” Webby assured him as she pulled her backpack on.

“Besides, there’s no way he’ll actually go looking for him,” Louie said. “Not after he freaked out over Angus bursting into the tent last time.”

“I told you, I didn’t freak out. He just startled me!”

Webby directed Scrooge’s attention away from the bickering siblings by tentatively approaching him. “Did you wanna come with us, Uncle Scrooge?”

Scrooge chuckled, reaching down to gently ruffle her hair. 

“Ach, I’d love to, lass, but this adventurer need some rest in a proper bed. Why don’t you ask Launchpad?” he suggested before her expression could fall to disappointment. “He should still be outside.”

As if he’d been waiting for Scrooge’s cue, Launchpad stuck his head around the front door.

“Hey, Mr. McDee—”

"Launchpad!” Dewey crowed. He took a running start at the pilot. 

Seeing the duckling making a beeline for him, Launchpad quickly entered the foyer proper and opened his arms wide. Dewey jumped, landing in Launchpad’s outstretched arms. Launchpad chuckled, not breaking stride as he lightly tossed Dewey in the air. 

The reactions of the other three children were a little belated, but it didn’t take long for Louie and Webby to run over to Launchpad as well. They clung to his legs and made it that much more difficult for him to walk, laughing all the while. Huey stood off to the side, snickering but on the lookout for any chance of Launchpad losing his balance.

But Launchpad it seemed had mastered the art of the living jungle gym, and made a show of groaning at all of the added weight, though he didn't falter once.

 “Geez, what’s Mrs. B been feeding you kids, bricks?” he asked incredulously. 

With little effort, he walked over to Scrooge with the three giggling children hanging off of him.

“Launchpad,” Scrooge acknowledged his pilot serenely, despite the ridiculous display before him.

“Hey, Mr. McDee,” Launchpad said again, as cheerful as ever. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out, in case you needed anything else.”

“No, that’ll be all for—”

The children’s voices rose in protest.

“Nooo, you can’t leave!” Dewey said.

“We’re going camping!” Huey added.

Launchpad’s his smile was apologetic. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got work.”

“You just told Scrooge you were done for the day,” Louie said mulishly.

Scrooge butted in, his driver’s rueful expression striking a chord of sympathy in him, “A man can have a second job, kids, leave him be.”

“A second job?” Dewey repeated as Launchpad carefully set him down. He noticed a familiar bubblegum pink strap over one of Launchpad’s shoulders, and pointed at it. “Is that what you need the backpack for?”

“Huh?” Launchpad responded. He craned his head over one shoulder, as if he’d never noticed it before. “O-oh, yeah! I’ve got my chauffeuring uniform and my-my security guarding uniform in there!”

None of them noticed Scrooge stiffen as he made to climb the stairs.

“Ooh, what are you guarding?” Webby asked. Her eyes were wide as she released Launchpad’s leg and stood up, clasping her hands in front of her chest.  “A secret cloning facility? The headquarters of a covert spy organization? Ooh, or-or—”

“How about the deadly Silverbeaks Mall?” Launchpad suggested, and Webby pouted.

Before any of the kids could try to further coerce him into staying, Launchpad’s phone began to play the Pelican’s Island theme song. He fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen for only a handful of seconds before bursting into motion.

“Sorry, guys, that was my-my other boss! I’ve gotta get going before I’m late,” he said, quickly stepping backward to the door. “We’ll do something fun tomorrow, I promise. Later, Mr. McDee!”

He waved once before ducking through the front door, the roar of his motorcycle starting up not a moment later and fading away swiftly.

The kids sulked for only a moment longer before they got back in the camping spirit, facilitated by Huey reading aloud through his checklist one more time. But Dewey paused in the middle of strapping his sleeping bag to his pack when he noticed Scrooge hadn’t moved from the foot of the stairs. His great-uncle was sporting a strange expression, his brow furrowed as he stared at the door Launchpad had disappeared through.

“Everything okay, Uncle Scrooge?” Dewey hedged as he approached him.

Scrooge blinked, and the spell broke. “What—oh, yes, Dewey, I’m fine. Just more tired than I realized.”