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Sometimes she could feel it coming on. Most times it hit her out of nowhere.
The circuit board slipped from her numb, stiff fingers and clattered to the floor, pieces shattering and rolling across the hardwood. The soldering gun was just the right shape to stay in her hand as she slid heavily down the wall to collapse next to her desk, legs splayed.
“I feel like I’m drowning,” she whispered to the dark room.
Speaking it shifted something loose in her, and sent a wave of lockdown through her limbs, and her free hand fell limp next to her. The fingers holding the soldering gun lay trapped beneath the tool's weight on the ground.
The family had found itself in a rare stasis between trips as Scrooge had spent the last week working on a big (boring) project that required time in the office, and everyone was taking their downtime in stride. Donald had completely refinished the outside of the houseboat, Huey had done a book-swap with Violet and was quickly becoming an expert in Aramaic, Louie took over the downstairs TV on day one, and Dewey and Webby kept getting told off by Beakley for putting holes in the walls. Something about lead catapult pellets? Della hadn't heard the beginning of it. She'd spent the week locked in her room, parked at her desk listlessly tinkering with old scrap circuitry and waiting for inspiration to strike.
She used to be so good at this.
Before.
Holy hell, her room was messy. She should clean it. It used to be cleaner when she and Donald shared. No one was here to tell her what to do, she wasn’t even sure how clean rooms were supposed to be. Is this what other peoples’ rooms looked like? She always said she would pick up later, when she had time, but she’s got nothing but time. Time enough to work on yet another stupid project, so why isn't she cleaning? She could make dinner with her family. She could be out with the kids. She could be re-wiring that preamplifier in the Cloudslayer Launchpad knocked out last month.
She sat.
She stared at a crushed can of Pep in the middle of her floor. She had been helping Huey build a dungeon for their family game of tabletop Legends of Legend Quest from recycled scrap metal (complete with working fog machine and magnetic levitating portal), and the can was destined to be the base of the final tower for the session’s boss battle. At least, it was, until Uncle Scrooge had found the key to a sarcophagus buried in a real life dungeon under an active volcano beneath a labyrinth of lava caverns, a trip deemed too dangerous by the adults, and the kids were banned from going. Donald offered to babysit, and, having gone so long without a good old-fashioned dungeon crawl, Della had been secretly so excited at the idea of a death-defying adventure with just her and her uncle, like the good old times.
So she forgot. By the time the Cloudslayer touched down again a week later and she and Uncle Scrooge had emerged, heavily singed but victoriously holding aloft their prize, the kids had played without her.
Great parenting, Della. Your kids don’t need you, you’ve seen it for yourself. Donald did a great job raising them, and now they’re empathetic, thoughtful, fully-functioning people. People who wouldn’t just bail and forget about plans. Oh yeah, and just go ahead and forget about ten years worth of dreams of teaching them to adventure. Uncle Scrooge had that one under control from day one, apparently. He taught you, there’s nothing new you can teach them.
You were just his trial run.
Her throat closed as the realization hit her. You’re excess. You’re superfluous. They don’t even need you as a pilot because even the worst pilot in the world could replace you and they'd still jet around the world just fine.
How long did it take Scrooge to hire him on? She wondered what the listing would have looked like.
Replacement needed immediately! Responsible freelance pilot, stupid enough to fly in dangerous conditions, but capable of following the most basic of instructions and not disappointing everyone with every choice ever made ever. Wages non-negotiable.
The smell of burning finally slowly dragged her eyes down to her hand where the soldering gun, still hot, was slowly scorching a hole into the hardwood floor.
She couldn’t make her hand move.
It's fine. It’s no worse than all the other ways she fucked up her room through the years.
Her room.
They hadn’t even kept her room. Sure, ten years was a long time, but somehow she’d always imagined that they’d keep it intact in a belief that she’d be home soon. Maybe they’d leave it as a reminder of the mother, sister, niece who’d gotten herself lost, so when she finally made it home she'd be able to throw herself into her same old bed, same old pillows and same old blankets piled high. She'd lay, spread eagle on the covers and see all her old posters and maps and books.
But they’d cleared it. Her clothes had been packed, every poster, map, blueprint, journal, and gadget tossed in boxes and stowed, for some reason, in Scrooge’s Other Bin. Just like her, locked out of sight until that night she turned up unexpectedly. She’d spent her first night back sleeping in one of the guest rooms, tucked up in PJs she’d swiped from Donald’s houseboat. The kids had turned up with one of her old duffle bags (she was sure she’d lost that, like, fifteen years ago) and she’d made do until the next day, when movers had brought back box after box of the rest of her belongings.
She smiled at the memory in spite of herself.
Dewey had spent that day running around in her oversized jacket and goggles, telling everyone he was a space invader. Huey’s eyes had turned to saucers at the sight of all her JWC resource books and journals and had spread them out on her newly re-assembled bed to copy them into his own. She'd caught Louie going through boxes of her old photos, quietly snapping copies of them on his phone camera.
Ha. Back when she was new and still novel.
Now she’s a useless layabout, not even able to finish her own fuckaround project. If she was more competent, she would have drawn out real plans. But real prints needed draft paper, and she’d upended a take-out soda cup over hers last week and hadn’t gotten around to digging out new ones.
And here she was, sitting on the ground, surrounded by broken bits of metal and glass, slowly burning a divot into the floor. Well done, Della. Ace pilot. Top of her class, indeed.
There was a great commotion of little feet down the hall- Dewey and Webby’s voices shouted some sort of warcry, accompanied by Huey and Louie’s screams, followed by the sound of something shattering. Ah, Deathdarts Wednesday then, (when did it become Wednesday?) Footsteps and laughter clattered past her closed door, fading down the halls of the mansion.
I shouldn’t be here. The thought started small and quiet, just a radar ping in the back of her mind. I shouldn’t be here.
Everything that she had worked for so hard for a decade. Useless. Every birthday spent alone in the dark. A deficit to the team. Mornings spent watching the sun rise after the moon’s two week cycle of black night. A waste. Two months nursing an infected leg, finding somewhere to bury her own limb so she didn’t have to look at it every day. I should have stayed. They didn’t even care enough to tell my kids about me.
I should go.
But she didn’t want to go. She wanted so badly to stay, and somewhere in her, she knew it wasn’t true, that her family wanted her and loved her regardless of everything. Despite everything wrong with me. But they had spent a whole lifetime without her, they would be fine if she had stayed away.
Uncle Scrooge would probably be sad to lose her again. Yeah, but he’d bounce back quickly, she supposed. He was fine the first time she got lost and he’d be fine this time too. The kids haven’t known her long enough to miss her too badly. Besides, they’d probably appreciate one less person telling them what to do. Mrs. B would have one less person's mess to tidy, and she certainly never held back in telling Della how much work she is to clean up after.
Donald. Her brother would miss her. No amount of self-hate could lie to her about that. Those first few months had felt like something was gouged out of her, and even after all those years alone, she would still find herself opening her mouth to ask him a question, tell him a joke, make fun of something he’d said years ago, and she’d realize she was alone and her brother was a world away.
No power in the universe could tell her he didn’t feel the same way.
But he had adapted. He did it. He grew up when she never could, worked real jobs to raise her kids, and still had time to travel with Uncle Scrooge. He had moved on, and he would be able to do it again. She was the one that got in the way of his new life.
She didn’t want to go.
"Please help me," she whispered.
Her phone pinged up on her desk, and she slowly blinked up as the illuminated screen cast her ceiling in a faint blue light.
Her head fell back against the wall as she lay boneless, looking up at the light. The air was so still. Just like–
It pinged again.
Probably Mrs. B reminding her to clean up the blanket fort in the tv room from yesterday. Shit, she’d gotten distracted helping Louie design a logo for his business. She dragged her free hand over her face, rubbing her eyes.
Ping!
Maybe it was Launchpad needing coordinates for another “Boring Old Business Trip” Uncle Scrooge had asked him to pilot. To be fair, she had stolen his plane and left him stranded in the arctic on the last business venture she flew.
She reached up from the floor to set the soldering iron on its stand on her desk, yanking the cord out of the wall to let it cool.
Ping!
She fumbled blindly on her desk, retrieving her phone.
Ping!
Her homescreen, a picture of her and the four kids wrestling a fully clothed Donald into the pool, lit up with a stream of texts from Louie.
-MOM
-WEBBY AND DEWEY RAIDED OUR LAST HIDEOUT IM BARRICADED IN THE TV ROOM BUT I DONT HAVE LONG
-THEY’VE GOT HUEY TIED UP IN THE ATTIC
-(hes fine they gave him chips)
-I NEED YOU TO HIDE ME YOU KNOW THE MANSION BETTER THAN ANYONE PLEASE HELM ME THEURE ALMOSTTHROUH THE DOOR gET MEOUT
She smiled despite herself as her thumbs started flying.
-second lower cupboard on the right has a false back on an air vent behind the documentary VHSs. Opens in, dont forget to cover your tracks by closing the cupboard and putting the vhss behind you i dont want webby finding it. go right, right, through the closed grate, pass four then left. Dont know if my old rope is still there but youll have to climb to the second floor. Sixth on the right, ill leave the vent open for you.
Della watched the message go from sent to delivered to read, and couldn’t help but laugh. Electricity coursed through her and she pushed herself to her feet with a sudden rush. She snagged the screwdriver, dragging her desk stool across the room to the air vent. It only took a moment to haul herself up and unscrew the air vent. She flicked her phone flashlight on and leaned into the vent as far as she could, lighting his eventual way. Sure enough, there was a great banging, and she found herself faintly impressed at the creativity of the swears echoing down the vent as her youngest appeared around the corner, dripping sweat and clambering full speed on his hands and knees.
“Mom!” he gasped, arms darting out towards her.
“Hey there, kiddo.” Woah, her voice was rusty. “Tappin’ out of the wargames for the night?”
He nodded, still breathing hard as she swung him out of the vent. He buried his face in her scarf as she dropped from the stool to the ground with a loud thunk. She winced, adjusting Louie in her arms as she lifted her metal foot to look at the new dent in the floor.
Eh. Worth it.
She sat them on her unmade bed, listening as he listed the atrocities Dewey and Webby had committed against them in great detail and with many tears.
“...and Webby said possession of that many ounces of formic acid isn’t even legal! But do they have to follow the Calisota state laws? No! And now we’re the criminals ‘cause Dewey found it in Huey’s backpack!" He threw himself back into her pillows, heaving a great sigh.
“Well, have you called a war council meeting?” Della asked, “‘Cause if Huey drew up the declaration like you said, I'll bet he lined that document up with bylaws as they relate to state laws. And If Webby did actually stamp the declaration of harmful intent with that signet ring- which, by the way, is all sorts of rad, how did she even…never mind. If she did that, then it makes it-”
“An official breach of Calisota State Law!” Louie finished with her, shooting up like a rocket.
“And therefore under the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court and all their appropriate punishments.” Della snapped finger guns at him.
“What even are appropriate punishments?”
“Well, nobody commits war crimes against my kids and gets off easy. I think I’ve got a book on the International Criminal Tribunal around here somewhere if you want to take a look for inspiration.”
“Nah,” he yawned, “We can tell Huey at breakfast, he’ll probably… oh, no!”
Louie’s eyes grew wide, and Della almost laughed as he yanked his hood up. The clattering of feet careened all the way up the hall, skidding to a halt right in front of her door. She had just enough time to shove her son under the covers and topple a (probably) clean laundry pile on top before the door was thrown open. Dewey and Webby burst in, dart guns drawn as they scanned the room.
“Hey, munchkins!” Della leaned back on the Louie-laundry, doing her best to act casual. “Annihilated the opposing forces yet?”
“We haven’t neutralized every soldier yet,” Webby reported darkly, “There’s still one hostile active.”
“Hey, Mom!” Dewey ran to hop up on her bed. “Have you seen Louie?” Man, that kid was so fucking cute.
“Hm, you know, I don’t think I’ve seen him since dinner.” Della shrugged, reclining back further. She crossed behind her head. “I heard someone falling off the roof a few minutes ago, though. Might have slipped off the eaves headin’ towards the houseboat.”
Webby snapped her night-goggles over her eyes as she dropped into a crouch.
“Houseboat! On it!”
She dashed to the door, and Dewey turned to follow before skidding to a halt, staring at something beside her.
“Uh, Mom?” He drew nearer, pointing. “Why is Louie’s phone on your bed?”
“What?” Oh, shit. “This old thing? Oh, honey, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation!”
As he approached apprehensively, she reached blindly behind her, shoving the phone under the blankets. She grasped the corner of her pillow.
Dewey’s eyes bulged.
“You wouldn’t quarter an enemy, would you? You said we're Team Adventure. We made anklets and everything!”
“Of course not!” She gasped, “Why would I ever betray you? You’re so clever and strong and just the bravest little warrior. And I have a question for you.”
He crawled up her bed, eyes wide, and leaned in close as she whispered in his ear.
“Where do you think you got it?”
And she walloped him over the head with the pillow, sending him sprawling off the bed in a heap.
Webby shrieked “Traitor!” from the doorway, launching just a second too slow as Della barrel-rolled off the bed and under her lunge (she made a note to adjust the kid’s technique later). She skidded to her knees just in time to snatch the back of Webby’s vest. Caught off balance, Webby flailed, and Della took the opening grab her son in her other hand and roll them both backwards, head over heels like bowling balls out the door. She leapt to the doorway after them.
“As legal guardian of three quarters of all militia personnel, I demand parlay! Both parties are ordered to abandon posts and lay down arms, effective immediately until a breach of contract can be discussed and the offending parties appropriately prosecuted, if found guilty.”
“But it's almost midnight!” Webby flashed her watch, eyes wide. “Combat ceases until the following Wednesday at 12:01!”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to wait till next Wednesday, 12:01 to draw council.” Della shrugged.
“What about at breakfast, huh?” Dewey wiggled a little dance. “No weapons drawn.”
“Get your uncle to make French toast and it's a deal.”
“Done.”
“Now begone, foul fiends!” Della cried, “Take your soldiers and retreat back to your camp to wallow in abject misery at your cruel transgressions.”
“Goodnight Mom, I love you!”
“Love you too!”
They hugged her goodnight, and after smothering them both in kisses (making sure Deweys’ were extra slobbery, of course) she sent them running on their way.
She closed the door quietly behind her before crossing to kick the window open, letting in a breeze. Breathing in the fresh night air, she threw herself onto her bed.
“Are they gone?”
“Neutrality has been achieved. Also, I think we’re having French toast for breakfast.”
“Sweet.” Louie’s voice was muffled under the blankets and laundry. “As long as Uncle Donald doesn’t set the fridge on fire. Again.”
“Bah, it's been at least three weeks since last time, I’m sure it’ll be fine!”
Della squirmed out of her scarf, jacket and belt, tossing them on the floor. They were joined by her metal leg with a thunk. She swapped her shorts for a pair of PJ pants she dug out of the clothes pile, and the Louie-lump scooted over to make room for her as she wiggled all the way under the clothes-covered blankets.
“Alright, kid, what are we watchin’ tonight?”
It was dark under the blankets. Louie’s phone screen dimly lit up their little tent as he shimmied backwards into her. She wrapped an arm around his middle, curling into him.
“There was this huge controversy, ‘cause they had Johnny on Hot Funs, but they had this big reveal that they’d also invited Randy, and didn’t tell them the other was coming. Big drama, all over the internet.”
Louie dragged a pillow under their makeshift tent for them to share.
“I’m so ready!”
The screen light shifted as he queued up the video.
“Did they have weighted blankets before you left?”
“Huh?”
Louie shrugged.
“How come you always sleep with, like, a million blankets and clothes on your bed?”
“Um.” Della fiddled with the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I don’t know. I guess I just spent so long without any blankets or anything. And I couldn’t sleep for too long, or else my gum would fall out of my mouth, or I’d swallow it. And sometimes I still wake up now looking for it in the middle of the night.”
“Is that why you’re not sleeping?”
“It’s…it’s just a nice reminder that I’m… you know, where I’m supposed to be…down here. With all you guys!"
She forced a laugh, squeezing him tight. He pulled her other arm under his head.
“Yeah, you should definitely check them out,” he said, flicking up a new tab on his phone, “Look, you can get them in different weights. Huey saved all his money from his Junior Woodchuck Cookie sales one year to get this one, and he said it really helps him stay asleep.”
He pointed with his thumb. “Look, they’ve got it in the same colors as the Sunchaser.”
She swallowed a lump growing in her throat.
“And if you order it now it’ll probably be here by the time you go to bed tomorrow… at like four a.m.”
“Can you send that to me?”
“Done.”
Her phone pinged somewhere outside the blanket nest.
“Thanks, honey.”
Louie switched tabs back to their video. His thumb hovered over the play icon.
“Mom, you’d tell us if you weren’t okay, right?”
She went stiff.
“Psh! Of course I’m okay! Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“I know the others don’t notice, but you pass out on the couch a lot, so you’re probably not sleeping a ton. And I never see you in the kitchen unless Huey's baking something super sugary. And I don’t know if I’ve seen you drink water. Like, ever.”
“Jeez, since when are you such a health-nut?”
“To be fair, Huey noticed the water thing. Water’s for plebs.” He shrugged. “But you’re also holding my shirt super tight.”
She quickly let go of where she’d been twisting the front of his sweatshirt in her fingers. She shoved her hand under his side instead, burying her face in the back of his hair.
“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being like…this,” she gritted out, “I made one dumb choice eleven years ago and now you’re all still paying for it because I can’t get myself together. None of this should be your responsibility. You’re my kid, I’m the one that's supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around.”
“What, you think you talking about your problems is gonna traumatize us?” Louie laughed. “Mom, I’m traumatized on the daily just going on family outings. So what if I have a mom who gets nightmares?”
“But kids are supposed to go to their parents for support, not the other way around.”
“Okay, one: says who? Two: what about you?”
“Okay, one: I don’t know, whoever made the rules. Two,” she said, nuzzling her face in his hair. “My parents are long gone, sweetie.”
“What about Uncle Scrooge?”
“What about Uncle Scrooge?”
“Didn’t he, like, raise you guys?”
“I mean, sure, but–”
“Didn’t you ever go to him when you were scared? Or hurt?”
“Yeah, I guess–”
“Don’t you trust him?”
“Always, but–”
“For anything?”
“Okay,” she sighed, “Okay, I get it–”
“Sounds like a parent to me.”
There was a long silence as Della processed, eyes shut tight. Louie waited her out.
“Alright,” she whispered, “I’ll talk to him.”
Louie squeezed her arm.
“He’s not exactly the touchy-feely type,” she grumbled, “He used to kick me out of his office all the time as a kid when I tried to hang out.”
“I don’t know, he was super torn up when you were gone,” Louie said doubtfully.
Della snorted.
“Probably mad he had to go back to adventuring with just Donald.”
“Uh, no.” He shook his head. “He quit.”
“He…what?” Della froze.
“He stopped adventuring…” Louie rolled onto his back, staring at her with wide eyes. “Like, completely. Nobody saw him for like, ten years after he blew ninety percent of the Bin on search rockets to find you.”
Something warm flittered in Della’s chest.
“How did you not know that?”
“I…” Della swallowed. “It just never came up.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Louie said, leaning his knees up on her. “He was super weird about you before we found out what happened. Wouldn’t let anyone talk about you, hid everything in the Other Bin so no one would touch your stuff, whole nine yards. I mean, Dewey and Webby found it eventually, but even after he told us what happened, he was super protective. There was this one time Launchpad and us found a bunch of your CDs in a hidden compartment in the dash of the Sunchaser–”
“The Fillers?”
"Feathers To Cleo, I think.”
“I was wondering where those went!”
“Yeah, Dewey’s got 'em now. When we found them, we played one on the plane's speaker system and Scrooge just lost it . We got like thirty seconds in and he just stormed in, snatched all the cases, shouting about how we're all 'No-Good Tampering Trespassers.' He yelled at LP, too, got on him about taking other people’s stuff, even threatened to fire him.”
“Over my CDs?” Her mouth fell open. “But he always hated when I played them on trips!”
“Must have reminded him of that, I guess.” Louie shrugged. “Man, that was the most efficient, no-frills adventure we ever went on. Didn’t talk to us at all the whole time, and spent the entire flight back down with the cargo.”
“Over. Feathers. To. Cleo?”
“Are you dumb, Mom? Over you!” Louie jabbed her in the chest. “He missed you! Everybody missed you so much! The only time Donald ever talked about you was on your guys’ birthday and it was, like, months before Uncle Scrooge could hear someone say something about you without getting all weepy or having to leave the room! He might have killed a mailman because of you!”
“Wait, what.”
“Face it, Mom, people missed you,” he charged on, “We all missed you. I missed you and I’d never even met you! Everyone loves you because of who you are, not in spite of it, so if you can’t talk to your kids about your problems then go find a parent. That's an order.”
Her vision blurred. She reeled him in and he buried his face in her chest, holding her tight around the middle. It took a moment for her to trust her voice.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deep as he squeezed her back.
“Okay, but do I have to do it right now?”
“Nah.” Louie propped his phone up on her stomach, curling up against her. “This is a bootleg. We gotta watch this before Randy gets it taken down from the internet again.”
She laughed as he tapped his screen, carding her fingers through his hair while the tinny voice of the Hot Funs host introduced a lineup of hot sauces to a grainy Randy and Johnny.
Della rocketed up in bed, pouring sweat and jaw working furiously. She gasped for a moment, clawing at her throat – she couldn’t breath, where was her gum, her leg was on fire and her skin burned with fever from the infection – before she came fully awake.
She looked around her dark room.
Louie hadn’t slept over since the war crimes debacle earlier in the week. They’d slept in late, completely missing their parlay with The Enemy and French toast. Fortunately, The Enemy had saved them leftovers and were more than happy to join them for a late lunch, hanging around while Huey helped Della navigate various weighted blanket websites online.
Said blanket (they’d gone with blue in the end) had ended up on the floor and Della was tangled in her thin, sweat-soaked sheets. She must have kicked it off at some point in the night.
The kids had been right. Her blanket had arrived the next day, and that was the first time in weeks she’d slept all the way through the night, and most of the next day too. Donald had even come to check on her mid-afternoon, muttering something about making sure she hadn’t died or something.
Now, in the dark, she sat curled in on herself, resting her head on her knee. Her shaking hand went to her left thigh, ghost pain from her third least favorite nightmare making her grit her teeth. Her hands were cold. Her stomach threatened mutiny, and every time she closed her eyes all she could see was the trail of hot blood on grey dirt she’d left as she crawled through smoking wreckage, in search of more cord to use as a tourniquet.
Definitely not going back to sleep.
Damnit, she just wanted to sleep.
The clock on her desk ticked over to 2:46. Mrs. B would be up in a few hours, and Scrooge soon after that. She could wait.
Is this even real? Something whispered at the back of her mind. A nightmare inside of a dream. The air was so still. You're gonna to wake up back there. The mansion was dead silent. No one else is here. You’re all alone. No one's gonna be there to bury your body.
Her heart pounded as her stomach turned over, and she lurched out of bed.
She made it to the trash just in time, crawling on hands and knee to her desk to heave dinner’s half-digested burger into the miraculously empty bin.
She kept her eyes open. She couldn’t risk waking up somewhere else.
Even when she was sure there was nothing left, her stomach was kind enough to double check, leaving her dry heaving until her arms shook and sweat ran cold. She gave herself a moment to recover before she pushed up to grab a day-old cup of water to rinse out her mouth.
For a fraction of a second, as she leaned over the bin to spit, her body screamed don’t lose the gum!
She gagged again.
She pushed away, dragging herself to the heap of heavy blanket on the floor to pull it around her.
I’m not okay, she thought, fingers fisted in her blanket. I’m not okay, I’ll do anything, anything, please just let me be okay. Let me stay.
Her son’s voice echoed in the back of her head.
'Everyone loves you because of who you are, not in spite of it, so if you can’t talk to your kids about your problems then go find a parent.'
Go find a parent. Fuck.
Della reached for her metal leg.
She hesitated, hand hovering over the door knob. This was so stupid. A full grown adult woman, and here she was, wrapped in a blanket outside her uncle’s door just like she did when she was a kid. He was always so mad when she woke him up back then.
'He was super torn up when you were gone.'
She glanced over her shoulder.
The hallway stretched, pitch black, on either side behind her. Anything could be down there and she’d never see it coming. The air was so still.
She took a breath.
She still felt like just a kid.
She felt like a kid as she slowly turned the door handle and pushed.
She felt like a kid as she hovered in the doorway, squinting at the bed lit by moonlight from the bay window.
She felt like a kid as she drew the heavy blanket tighter around her and took a step in.
She felt like the littlest fucking kid while she struggled, finally finding her voice.
“...Uncle Scrooge…?”
The blankets shifted in the four-poster bed.
She wiped her runny nose on the blanket.
“...Uncle Scrooge?”
“Whah…” he grunted, and she could see her uncle’s silhouette as he sat up on his elbow, disoriented in the darkness. “Whozzere?”
Della gritted her teeth as she took another step into the room.
“...Hi, Uncle Scrooge.”
“Della?” he mumbled, relaxing slightly, eyes more closed than open, “Lass, what's goin’ on?”
“Um, nothing...” Her voice was embarrassingly small. “Sorry for waking you up, I’m just gonna…um…I was just looking for…uh–”
“What’s wrong, dearest?”
'He missed you.'
She gripped the blanket.
“ ...I had a bad dream…”
There was an agonizing stretch of silence, so long she felt a lump rise in her throat in humiliation, and then–
“Oh, mo luaidh,” he whispered, “Come here, darling girl.”
Tears sprang to her eyes as she stumbled to the bed, still wrapped in her blanket, and as she clambered up she was slammed with every memory of this exact moment through her childhood. Every time she snuck in at night, just like now, scared or sick or lonely, just like now, her uncle blearily raised an arm, just like now, for her to throw herself under. She didn’t make it under the covers, just pitched forward on top to smash her face into his shoulder. She let out ten years worth of air from her lungs, and something broke loose in her chest.
Her next breath came in a gasp. She felt Scrooge wrestle his other arm out from under his blankets, and then there was one arm tight around her back, another hand holding her head to his shoulder as a dam burst, and she cried like she hadn’t cried in a decade.
She was certain she’d wake the whole house, but whatever shifted couldn’t be put back. She did her best to muffle it in Scrooge’s shoulder and her own blanket, but her uncle never shushed her. Her muscles were bowstring-tight, and her tears tore her throat more like screams than cries, but he just held her there with firm, solid hands on her back and the back of her head as she twisted her fingers into his nightshirt.
Eventually, her voice finally had to throw in the towel. As her cries became gasps and tension eased, his hands started moving, wiping her cheeks and nose with his cuff, pushing back her damp hair and brushing her bangs from her tear streaked face.
“There you are, darlin’” he murmured and she nearly lost it all over again.
“‘M sorry for waking you up,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes on her blanket.
“Oh, pish.” He moved to tuck her blanket around her, and gave a surprised tut at how heavy it was. “What the devil is this, anyway?”
“The boys helped me find it,” she said, “‘t’s heavy, helps me stay asleep.”
He snorted, thumb brushing her cheek.
“I see it’s working well, then.”
“It fell off, old man, don’t diss my new best friend.” Her eyelids were so heavy.
“Ye were sick?”
She nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Oh, please, I raised you two since ye were weans. Donald liked to wet himself after nightmares, you’d be sick.” He tapped her on the nose. “Also, I can smell it.”
Della clapped the blanket over her mouth, but he waved her off.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked gently.
She shook her head.
'...Go find a parent…'
She nodded, and he hummed patiently.
“It was, um.” She waggled her metal leg.
“Ah.” He brushed back her hair again as she continued.
“Same old, really more a memory than anything.” She fiddled with her blanket, shrugging. “Hurt.”
“In the dream?”
She nodded. “Back then, too.”
“Does it still now?”
She nodded again.
“May I?”
Pause. One more nod. She pulled her blanket around her neck, rolling back to ease her metal leg forward. Scrooge slowly sat up.
The moonlight coming through the window was dim, and Scrooge cast a shadow over her as his hand ghosted over the metal at her knee.
“There’s a twist…”
He gently twisted the hinge, she felt the pressure release, and the sweat at the end of her leg began to cool in the night air.
Scrooge laid the prosthetic on the covers, but she took it, turning to rest it on the ground.
“Did ye never have a doctor take a look at you when ye got back?”
He tutted as she shook her head and tucked the blanket around her legs before laying back down.
“I’ll call in the morning. Are you eating?”
“When I remember.”
“Lass, how do you expect to keep up with us if you’re nae eating nor sleeping?”
“Haven’t had much trouble so far.”
Scrooge looked at her, reproachful.
“Ye wouldnae be tip-toeing in here nigh four in the morning if ye weren’t having trouble.”
Della looked away.
“I’m not okay, Uncle Scrooge,” she whispered, pressing her face to the outside of his shoulder. “I can’t close my eyes. Every time I do, I’m always so sure I’ll open them and be back there.”
“Have ye talked to anyone about this? Yer brother?”
“No. He’s just done so much for me, I don’t want to give him more to worry about,” she said, “Talked to Louie a bit.”
“Did it help?”
“Well, he told me to come find you,” she said around a yawn, “So yeah, it did.”
The tired lines of his face lit up in a smile before her yawn caught him up in one of his own.
“Alright, lass,” he said, “Tomorrow we’ve got calls to make, and you’ll be eating three square meals a day, at least. Do not make me ask Webbigail to monitor your eating habits, because I can and she will.”
“I think she might already have a binder on yours–”
“ – and for tonight, there’s a few more hours until dawn. Close your eyes, sweet girl.” He cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the dark circles under her eyes. “I won't let ye drift away. Let me and your anvil of a blanket there keep you tied down to the ground for the night."
He raised his arm, just like all the countless times when she’d been a kid, and like those countless times before, she wriggled forward to press her face into his shoulder. Hand came round to rest on the back of her head.
“Thanks, Uncle Scrooge.”
Her eyes drifted closed.
“Goodnight, Della-darlin’.”
She slept.
When Beakley came by at eight the next morning with the tea-tray, she blinked.
Scrooge, sitting up and still in bed at eight in the morning, good lord, leaned against the headboard in his dressing gown, a book in his lap. He met her eye and shook a finger to his lips, gesturing down to the heap of blue blanket on top of the comforter at his hip. Beakley frowned, stepping closer.
Ah. The heap of Della under a blue blanket at his hip. There she lay, wild-haired Della, face-covered-in-drool Della, limbs-thrown-akimbo Della, absolutely out for the count, debatably comatose, fast-asleep Della.
Scrooge smiled, finger-combing her bangs from her face.
“Kids,” He whispered, shrugging.