Bitter Silence
Darkwing Duck belongs to the genious mind of Disney. I gain nothing from writing this.
This is set before 'Time and Punishment', and I thank everyone whor reviewed my last Darkwing story
The road to Avian Way had been desolate, though the mallard knew he should have expected it. It was past curfew, and his tank-like vehicle could be heard rumbling up the street a mile away.
Jumping out of the hatch, Darkwarrior Duck landed solidly in his steel-toed boots, the old asphalt cracking slightly under his Kevlar-increased weight. His gaze promptly zoomed in on the house next door, where he detected the faint fluttering of a curtain where someone had been peering out of the window—the Muddlefoots. A growl escaped him as a flood of memories engulfed him. Erroneous cookouts, increasingly annoying and unwelcome visits, and their very existence had been the bane of his own. He remembered how much he'd hated them…
But instead of going over and arresting the whole lot of them for unlawful peeping, Darkwarrior inhaled sharply, and headed for the nondescript, and shambled home before him. 537 Avian Way.
The concrete path was crumbling, lined on both sides by dead, yellowed grass, and the mallard appraised these silently as he made his way towards the front door. He stopped at the threshold, where the old welcome mat still sat, nearly deteriorated with age, examining the house's peeling paint and cracked roof work, before he pulled a key out of one of his pockets. It clicked easily into place in the lock, and he slowly turned the doorknob, pushing the door open.
He still hadn't released his breath when the sight of his old living room greeted him. The carpet was virtually threadbare, wallpaper faded and fractured, and the couch itself looked as if it had been torn apart…which it had been, sort of, several years ago. The two simple blue armchairs were all that remained moderately unscathed, along with the golden statue of Basil, the great mouse detective, only a moderate level of dust and wear-and-tear visible.
Darkwarrior finally stepped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him. A beat of silence passed, in which the house's quietude seemed to try and suffocate him, before he began to gradually walk into the living room.
His footfalls were muted by the dingy rug, scarlet eyes scanning over every object in the room, until he'd finally reached the armchairs. One had noticeably less dust than the other, and he faintly recollected that it had been the one his useless sidekick had always used.
"No matter," he grumbled, turning away. He didn't bother going into the kitchen—he knew that all he would find would be a barren room, and whatever Launchpad had stored in the cupboards. In its place, he set his sights on the stairs. There was a long pause, in which his garnet-tinged eyes remained on the carpeted steps, before he steeled himself, and began making his way up.
The banister was frail and termite-eaten, so he didn't bother with it. His boots thudded against exposed wood, and he finally reached the second level. Darkwarrior was met by a short hallway, three doors on adjacent sides. The upper story wasn't in such poor condition as the first floor, where he distantly remembered he'd had a sudden spout of rage fueled destruction after….after he'd lost Her.
He passed by the first two doors easily, his bed and guestroom holding no meaning to him. But he stopped in front of the final door.
The mallard's hand twitched forward, but lingered over the doorknob, as if unsure. But then again, Darkwarrior Duck was never unsure…he was determined, stubborn, and austere. Never nervous or irresolute…but Drake Mallard was.
And so he opened the door.
It was like walking into a dream—a pure tidal wave of memories hit up, whipping past his mind's eyes with a startling speed. Every argument, every hug, each word exchanged….tender moments and instances when he'd felt like strangling Her out of frustration…but the feeling they all entitled was the same: love.
Gosalyn's bedroom was the same as she'd left it, as he'd been unable to enter after the incident—the bed unmade, navy sheets askew, backpack left opened in a chair before the dust-coated desk, its contents dumped over said desk, and a pair of shoes lying by her nightstand. Various miscellaneous sports equipments littered the ground, some gathered in random clumps that she'd made in a minimal effort of cleaning her room.
It was as if nothing had changed.
Darkwarrior Duck felt his chest clench, and the claret covering over his eyes momentarily shifted to azure. He half expected her to come running past him, promising to do her homework and clean her room (as they both knew she never would) all whilst gathering her hockey gear.
His gaze hardened abruptly, but instead of backing out of the room and blocking the memories (which he almost did), he only walked in further.
Eyes passing over Her desk appraisingly, he spotted a few familiar items. Her squawk-man, concealed in dust, sat atop most everything else with several notebooks, folders, and other school supplies thrown beneath it. But what caught his attention was a small, folded paper.
Brow furrowed, the mallard walked closer to the desk, pushing the chair aside. On closer inspection, it was actually a photo, folded in on itself multiple times. He paused once more, uncharacteristically hesitant, before his spiked glove moved to pick up the object. He held the aged snapshot carefully in his rough hands, hesitating before slowly unfurling it. The topmost half was revealed first, and the masked mallard saw that it was Gosalyn's grandfather, with the duckling herself in his arms. Darkwarrior's heart hammered once in the cavity of his chest – it was the same photograph she'd had with her that first night…
He had been about to place the photo back onto the desk when a curious bulge in the lower portion caught his attention. Unfolding it further with an eyebrow raised, the mallard was presented with a faded purple lump. He plucked it out delicately, the photograph held in his opposite hand, as he unfurled the purple fabric. The eyeholes of a mask stared back at him a few seconds later.
As his scarlet eyes widened, his grip on the photo loosened, and it fluttered noiselessly to the ground. He paid it no heed, both hands coming up to hold the disguise of Darkwing Duck. "She had one of my masks the whole time," he murmured incredulously, and in the next instant, his crimson eyes had turned to their normal shade of azure. A spare mask, tucked into Gosalyn's backpack for safekeeping, along with the cherished photograph of her grandfather...
He felt as if he had been punched in the gut, through the fabric and Kevlar. And then, Darkwing Duck existed.
He had been the city's hero, known by some, ignored by others. Having never reached the level of fame until he lost Her. Having never instilled fear as he did now until he lost Her. Having abandoned the mask in his hands and take up the guise of a dictator when he lost Her.
And it was the mask's fault, in essence, that She was gone in the first place.
But then the moment had ended, and Darkwarrior was back in his daughter's room. And now, his confidence was gone. He didn't know why he had returned—he felt out of place, inept, clothed in black amongst the brighter hues of the room. He had once wondered what his daughter would've thought of him now…he could only imagine her to be horrified.
Feeling weak in the knees, the mallard felt onto the bed, the boards beneath him creaking their protest at the sudden weight. And with one hand still clutching the mask, surrounded by everything that had personified his daughter, Darkwarrior Duck began to cry for the first time in years.