A/N: This is a little something that came to mind while I watched "Dead Duck" the other night. It was actually planned as a writing exercise to get back into the flow of writing my FFIX fanfiction "As an Ending", but now it is the first ever finished story I've ever done :D
This one-shot takes place during the time Darkwing missed due to his ongoing agument with Beelzebub and Peter.
Reviews are highly appreciated!
...
Loss
The front door opened with it's usual creak.
Gosalyn saw the hallway light come to life from the crack underneath her door.
The duckling sighed in relieve.
True, she thought it was the coolest thing, that her dad was Darkwing Duck, the Masked Mallard that kept the city safe, and who would (more or less willingly) let her tag along on his adventures from time to time. But, although she would never voice it, she was unable to sleep properly until he came back home. He always checked on her before going to bed, and she always laid still when he did. He probably knew she wasn't really asleep, but he never let it on.
It was their little ritual.
So she waited.
Waited.
Waited.
Maybe he had passed out on the couch again? In that case she'd better get one of the blankets from the upper hallway cabinet.
As she did so, she wondered how he'd managed to survive, before she had come along.
Quietly the young girl made her way downstairs, skillfully avoiding all the creaky steps. To her surprise, the figure on the sofa in the dim lighted living room was neither asleep, nor her father.
The blanket fell to the floor unnoticed, as Launchpad looked up from his hands to meet her eyes, tears glittering on his cheek feathers.
It wasn't his ragged appearance, the bumblingly applied bandages or his red, puffy eyes that shocked her, it was the look he gave her.
The Look was something she had seen more often than she wanted to remember. It was the only thing she remembered from the people at her parent's funeral and later, when the social worker had come to get her after her grandpa's 'accident'.
It was the "Poor thing", the "I'm sorry" and the damned "Who'll have to take you in?" look.
"Gos..." the pelican's husky voice began, struggling to find the right words.
But she wouldn't listen. The young duck stared at the adult with wide green eyes, covering the entrance of her eardrum with her hands, as she first took a step backwards, then she raced to the innocent looking blue armchairs at the other side of the room. She flung herself in the first one and smashed her tiny fist on the switch that was hidden beneath the hat of the small stature of Basel, the great mouse detective.
The 'clonk' the stature's pipe made when it hit the side-table's surface was drowned by the swishing sound of the activated spinning chair.
…
The lair's inside was cold and drafty as always. The morning rush-hour was still several hours away and therefore the missing traffic noises from the underlying Audubon Bay Suspension Bridge created an even more defined silence.
Gosalyn didn't need a light source. She'd been in the tower countless times before and knew her way around. As it turned out, she didn't have to look around for long, before finding the Ratcatcher at it's usual parking place. The motorcycle's front light was still somewhat on, illuminating the deformed hubcap and flat front wheel. The smell of burned rubber was faint, yet present.
"What happened?" she asked, before truly becoming aware of the large avian behind her.
She heard the hollow sound, but didn't make the connection to it being her own voice.
The aviator on the other hand did. He neared her slowly, like approaching a wild animal, afraid she might run away again. Launchpad had hoped for at least a few more hours before he had to break the news to her, maybe even until after school. But no such luck.
He knelt next to her small form and tried to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She ducked his effort absentmindedly, still starring ahead.
And so he began to recite the night's events.
The words hardly registered in her mind, as he continued to blather something about road regulations and stuff.
How was this possible?
How many times had he been assaulted by these foul foes, taking everything they had thrown at him and walked out just fine? What had been different this time?
"... and I said DW should really wear his helmet, but..."
"He didn't wear his helmet?"
Launchpad cringed at the unexpected outburst. For several minutes he hadn't gotten any reaction from her and now it seemed something inside her had cracked.
"I told him to wear his helmet! How can he be so stupid?" again she evaded her housemate's worried touch and stormed once more towards the armchairs.
The former sidekick rose to his feet to follow the troubled child, but was held back by a soft voice cautioning him to let her go on her own.
"Morgana!"
The sorceress floated from her place on the windowsill down to him. Before he managed to stop stuttering, the unusually disheveled female nodded with a grieved expression.
"I know. I saw."
"Poor Gos..."
"Give her time, that is what she needs the most. For now."
…
Back inside the Mallard house, a trail of destruction lead from the living room to the kitchen and up the stairs. Knocked over furniture, smashed vases and torn down curtains littered the floor.
Webbed feet marched angrily through the upper hallway towards the last door at the end of the hall.
Hands that were still covered by the yellow plumage which betrayed her young age, slammed down on the door handle.
The room was as silent as the rest of the house, yet the air felt different. Warm and comforting, yet abandoned and suffocating.
Gosalyn's expression softened as she laid eyes on a carelessly discarded lump on the floor. Her dad's peach colored shirt with that awful sweater west still in place.
She went to pick it up, handling like it was the most precious thing on earth. A strangled noise escaped her throat, as she remembered his hastily departure last night.
He'd grounded her for... something. Had it been for the mars-monster trap in the bathroom? Maybe the letter Ms. Farnsworth had sent because of her (once again) missing homework assignments?
Anyway, she had gone to her room to sulk. So she had drowned his good bye and the obligatory reminder to do her homework with the music of her squawk-man.
Hesitantly, she curled into the unmade bed, beak buried into the cloths. The smell of is aftershave still clung to the fabric.
"Dad..."
When exhaustion finally took a firm hold of the duckling's body, the first tear rolled down the length of her beak before disappearing into the tightly clenched bundle of clothing.