Fulton sat hunched over his desk with headphones on, his music blared but he if asked he wouldn't be able to tell the person what band he was listening to let alone what song. Nothing penetrated with him since the words 'Charlie's not due back because... he can't. Charlie died, guys. Poor boy's dead."

What he couldn't stop relaying though, was not just Bombay's words, but that last practice with Charlie. How he had treated him, how he had cut him off so quickly even though it was obvious to anyone that Charlie was clearly upset over the whole thing, but they were too preoccupied with punishing him to offer him that olive branch.


Charlie stood impatiently in the boys' locker room as the Bash Brothers rolled in some fifteen minutes later than what he had asked of them. They gave him the once over, noticed the notepad in his hand and erupted into a peel of laugher. "What?" He sighed, preparing himself for an onslaught of merciless teasing. He would, of course, be correct.

"Nothing, Captain," Portman jeered, "It's just that all you need now is an apron and..." He moved towards Charlie and forced the boy's hands on his hips, "There." Charlie dropped his notepad accidently, scowled and bent to pick it up.

"Portman's right, dude. All this Captain stuff went to your head - we don't need a second mother."

"Yeah," Guy joined in, "Half of us ain't got a constant father figure and you want to go taking on another mother role." He knew instantly that he had gone too far. Earning a not-so-subtle jab in the ribs from Connie confirmed that he had gone too far. "Uh..."

Charlie brought his chin onto his chest nervously, but any fear was hidden well as he looked up at them again with a soft smile, "Anyway, I called you all out this morning because..."

At this point Fulton stopped listening. He watched Charlie's shrunken posture, drooped shoulders and entertained the thought that Charlie, too, had stopped listening to himself. He was sure that he had. When he tuned in again the conversation had seemed to shift from hockey, or at least from Charlie's initial point in hand whatever it was.

Portman was back to teasing their Captain, not because he had anything against him, but because he needed someone to blame for trailing him from his bed at half seven int he morning and in lieu of Bombay Charlie seemed the next best candidate.

"All this talk of longer hours, more days, harder practice! What's say we shut you up right here, right now?" Portman raised his eyebrows animatedly. Their teammates laughed and as if on queue, Fulton swung open Charlie's locker, pulled out a gym bag and heaved it to the floor. Portman and Adam pushed him backwards with great force and he stumbled into it.

"No! No, please! Not again! Not today - this gets old real fast," Charlie begged as Fulton held him inside and Averman managed to shut the locker door regardless of the wedged foot up against it trying its hardest to kick out.

"It gets funnier by the minute for us," Adam disagreed.

"Later Captain Duckie," Portman drawled, imitating Dwayne if the boy ever decided to join in their horseplay. "We're going to do what you said: we'll play for longer, we will train harder, seriously. Game anyone?"

Everyone cheered and headed off. Charlie leant back uncomfortably in what was, again, his home for the next odd hour and a half.


Fulton mentally beat himself up for ever claiming Charlie was anything but a Duck. He was more a Duck than any of them and they all knew it. He was the one that led the quack-chant to their school principal, and although not present, Fulton was kindly informed by an excited Peter a few months down the line. He was also the one that held all of their meetings despite the aggravation they gave him for him. He died in his Ducks jersey! The original jersey. He was a Duck from start to end.