A lenghty one-shot dedicaded to our favourite little in-house genius Honker Muddlefoot, told solely from his pov. Again, I apologize for the weird separations; there was just not enough story to warrant individual chapters. I decided to get the one-shot and short stories out of the way first, before I tackle the long ones and kinda-novels.
+sigh+ I'll never issue a challenge like that again. Not to me, not to anybody(unless I really, really despise them).
Thus said, on with Honker's little, well, quasi-rant, and a few sparse glimpses into the Muddlefoot's lives.
Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to Disney, are used without any rights or profits and I'm still as poor as Donald Duck. Sue someone with money.
Summary: Honker muses about family and what it means to him
Ratings: G
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Extended family
Sometimes, he rued having to go to a public school.
Given, his parents didn't have money to burn, but would it really have been so hard to get him a studentship at a school for gifted pupils?
Obviously, it was, though he still couldn't fathom the reason why.
He knew he had easily the intelligence of his entire family cubed times three, but that didn't mean much.
So, being forced to deal with the woes and worries of a public school, Honker sat admidst a pile of family photos, trying to assemble those fitting his school assignment:
a family collage.
Talk about lazy teaching.
A huge mound, three smaller piles and a tiny stack surrounded Honker, as he worked his way through the crate which held the Muddlefoot's memories.
Scowling, the young boy absent-mindedly snatched for a photo that threatened to fall off the middle pile. He glanced at it; it was a candid shot, showing his father at the Quackerware Salesman of the Decade Awards; one arm hugging Binky, the other one the trophy.
His father had found his purpose in life; he was an excellent, highly respected Quackerware salesman, a devoted husband to Binky -and that was it. Of course, Honker knew that his father worked hard to provide for their living, but still...
Honker wagered, wether or not to add the picture to those he would use for the poster, then set it aside. Letting his little fingers slide across the fanned-out photos in his hand, he picked one out at random.
When on earth did his mother ever wear a low-dropping, ankle-length, high-split ruby dress? Honker checked the back; 'Sylvester '80' it read.
Quickly he put it back into the box and winced. He already had a couple schoolmates who puppy-crushed on his mom; he wasn't going to invite any wolf-whistles showing Binky from her, well, most glamorous side.
A frown marred his face.
There was no deying in him being the spitting image of his mother(for what he was grateful, considering the alternative, aka Tank), yet it never failed to puzzle him, how on earth Binky managed to..survive in this world.
It wasn't that Binky was ignorant, just...blind.
More often than not Honker debated if her cheerful disposition and just extremely positive outlook on life made Binky so oblivious to her surroundings, that she didn't see how much he, Honker, suffered under Tank's abuse.
Speaking of which...
Rummaging through the box, he spotted one which showed Tank's signature red-brown mop. Honker tugged it free, flipped it over-
and turned white.
His very first school play.
Where his stuttering had begun.
Honker's mind flooded with unwanted images; the anxiety before the play, his struggle with his nervousness, the sandwich, and, most of all, the pure devastation.
It had been Tank's fault; everybody who put a little more thought into it, would have seen that, but again, no one had cared.
ll
*He saw himself, first grader, in an adorable sailor's costume.
The page on which his little speech was penned down.
The broccoli-laced sandwich Tank had offered him, knowing full well the effects it would have on little Honker's stomach.
He could still feel his own hiccups marring his entire speech.
How the audience had tried to remain impassive at first.
The deafening laughter resounding throughout the hall, as the hiccups got worse.
Him bravely finishing his part, as opposed to fleeing the stage.
Trembling, knees shaking by the time he ended; eyes filled with bitter tears.*
Eventually, he hiccups had subsided, but the humiliation had caused a shock so deep, that he hadn't been able to overcome it yet, even though he had read his way through countless psychological tomes.
If at all, they convinced him that, regarding his surroundings, he was beyond cure.
From the moment he had been able to read, he had hoped, wished, that he had been adopted, that this wasn't his real family and someday is real parents would come to whisk him away from here. As he grew older, however, he had come to accept the fact that he was indeed a descendant of the Muddlefoot bloodline.
Yet, no one understood him.
His father often just brushed his words aside, his mother couldn't make heads or tails of his utterances and jumped to entirely non-related assumptions and Tank
-didn't care.
Unless he could use it as leverage against him.
So, Honker buried and hid himself in his studies; even if it invited the mocking of his fellow students, at least he had the admiration of the teachers and other adults, praising his vast knowledge and uncanny brilliance.
It was a dull consolation, but better than none.
lll
As a small child, Honker didn't have a home.
Oh sure, he had a place where he stayed, people who cared about his needs, but no real home.
It was not that his parents didn't love and nurture him, it was just... not the right kind of parenting, but parenting by numbers.
They did as the school board and textbooks and other parents told them to, but barely spent a thought on how or even if it applied to their own children.
So engrossed in each other and their love, he often questioned wether they would have been equally happy, never mind if either or both of their sons hadn't been born.
Honker threw the picture on the rejected pile and reached for the next one...
-and flinched, as a familar crash coming from the house next door, followed by even more familiar shouting, shook him from his reverie. Giving an amused grin, he watched the scene, as far as he could see -or mostly hear- and recalled the day the Mallards arrived:
*He stares out his window, as an ocre and brown Sedan pulls up in the driveway next door. The driver's door opens to reveal a short, middle-aged duck in a plaid vest and pink shirt. Honker is intrigued by he way the stranger carries himself; though his gait is relaxed and regular, there is an underlying slinkyness, a vigour to it, almost like a cat strolling across its turf.
Honker however hasn't time to wonder too long about the man's movements, because the car's back door pops open and out shoots a blur of red and purple.
It takes him a moment to confirm that yes, indeed, it is a duckling about his age, and a girl at that.
He stares in fascination at the kid, who is zipping around the garden, climbing the tree on the front lawn with stunning ease, breezing past the elder duck and the real estate saleswoman into the house and exploring it on its own.
Fascinated, Honker keeps watching the happenings unfold; how the two ducks argue, finally settle their disagreement, hug, the elder duck shaking hands with the realtor and the three leave the compound.
And his heart sinks.*
Honker blinked, as something struck him; shuffling hurriedly though the various piles, he came out triumphant:
Gosalyn and him; mud-soaked, ruffled, brimming with pride after their football victory over Tank.
Again, Honker smirked, as remembered their first- literal -run-in...
*Two days later, a moving truck parks in front of the neighbouring house, just as Honker returns from school. Not daring to get up his hopes, he cautiously moves closer to investigate, when out of literally nowhere a multicoloured whirlwind crashes into him, knocking him over.
"Sheesh, what a bummer! So sorry, I didn't see you there. Are you okay?"
Blinking past his unbalanced glasses, Honker stares at the red-headed girl from two days earlier, sporting roller skates, a hockey helmet and -stick.
For a moment, his heart stops beating at the worried curiousity on her face.
He stands up, even as she holds out her hand and says,
"Hy, I'm Gosalyn Wa-Mallard. You live around here?"
Straightening his glasses, he nods and replies,
"Yeah, just next door. I-I-'mm-my-name's Honker. Honker Muddlefoot."
"Cool!" Gosalyn beams, "watcha say, you wanna play some roller hockey later?"
Honker stops mid-motion brushing off his clothes and turns his face to her.
He looks into sparkling green eyes, sees a smile, equally pretty and mischievous, and falls in love.
And knows, that he will never be lonely again.*
Ever since, his life had gradually begun to improve; Gosalyn, Drake and Launchpad had soon whole-heartedly welcomed him into their midst, never ignoring or pointing out his stuttering. As a matter of fact, Drake was the only person who knew how to coax him out of a nervous stuttering fit.
Then again, that booming roar could have stopped rush hour traffic.
Gosalyn, who was as sharp as she was sportive, always had his back and vice versa, she wanted, hell, forced him to follow her, no matter where.
And Launchpad, with his great heart and unconditional altruism, tried all he could to support and guide him.
But the greatest proof of his integration was, when Drake divulged to him his greatest secret; the double life he lead has 's masked guardian, Darkwing Duck.
Quickly, with evergrowing cheer, Honker rummaged to find other pictures of him and his truly ood neighbours; there was no way he was finishing his assignment without adding a good helping of Drake, Launchpad and Gosalyn to it.
Because the Mallards had given him something he never knew before; people who truly cared about him, accepted him, helped him, trusted him, relied on him and actually listened.
He had finally found his family, and a home where he felt he belonged.
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And there you got it. Yes, Honker appears a little cold here, since we all know that he really loves his family(even Tank. .), but I guess in his case wine is thicker than blood. Then again, if Darkwing and Quiverwing are your surrogate father, respectively sister/crush, can you really blame him?
So, once more, thanks for reading, hopefully, reviwing and I'll see you in my other stories.
Take care and have fun
Felidae
Btw, for my US-readers; when I write football, I mean soccer. Just a heads-up to not confuse you.