Usually, when he needed to think, or be by himself, the Tower was the best place to go. Perched on a ledge overlooking the city. Not many people knew to look for him there and it was too far up for any citizen to catch sight of him.

But it didn't offer much comfort tonight.

It had been out of habit more than anything that he'd crawled out of one of the large windows onto the overhang of Darkwing Tower. But one look at St. Canard sprawled beneath him, lights all the brighter with the addition of Christmas decorations, sent Darkwing into something of a panic.

Gosalyn had loved Christmas, more than anyone Darkwing had met.

Unable to breathe with the incessant cheer and good tidings that was beneath him, Darkwing walked to the opposite side of the Tower. Turned his back on St. Canard. And settled. Looking away from the city. Out over Audubon Bay Bridge, towards the dark rolling hills, giving him a reprieve from the decorations. From the time of year.

From the reminder that the holiday that had once brought so much happiness and warmth would now forever be stained with the memory of today.

His cape billowed out madly behind him as if trying to dislodge itself from his shoulders. His fedora, he was sure, would have been lost to the night if he hadn't left it inside. Handed it to Launchpad when he had asked, with big eyes that were red, if there was anything DW needed.

What Darkwing needed was impossible. He needed his little girl back.

But she was gone. So he would never need anything again.

Gosalyn had been his heart, his soul, his very life. And without her, there was simply nothing left.

Logically, on some level, he knew that wasn't true. That he had a lot in his life. His crimefighting. St. Canard, he supposed. S.H.U.S.H. probably. Launchpad definitely.

But he wasn't going to delude himself into thinking that Scrooge McDuck or the Goofs were in need of Darkwing Duck. Or Drake Mallard. They had been brought into his little social circle by Gosalyn, so without her, there was nothing to bond them together.

So many things in Drake's life were in place because of Gosalyn. Had been built around her. For her.

With her gone, did he need a house? A secret identity?

He'd unexpectedly been thrown back into those very dark days before she'd been in his life. When his existence was defined by how many criminals he locked up. When he was struggling day in and day out to survive because, until S.H.U.S.H. came along with an employment packet, Darkwing hadn't had reliable income. Or health insurance. Or a way to get food or visit a hospital without compromising his identity. As a young 20-something duck with so very much to prove and a tiresome amount of determination, he'd been able to struggle his way through.

But now, as a duck sailing straight into his golden years, Darkwing was exhausted by the mere thought of returning to his old life. When he slept the day away. Woke to the sunset and ventured out into the night. If he was lucky, he found a wayward cat burglar or a vandal. Mostly, he had been unlucky and his nightly escapades were fruitless. Then he would return to his Tower as the sun came up. His cold empty tower that had only held the barest necessities to exist. He hadn't lived in his Tower; you couldn't call that living, what he had done. It had been survival. And barely that.

For almost fifteen years, no one had called him "Drake." Closer to twenty, if he was being honest. There had been no Drake Mallard. There had only been Darkwing Duck.

Until a small red-headed girl had asked, "You mean, you don't take off your mask for anyone?"

Then he remembered that there was someone underneath his heroic persona. Not someone worth knowing, though. Not then.

And not now, if Gosalyn wasn't here. She'd brought out the best in him. Gave him a purpose. Something to fight for. Someone to come home to.

No more.

Not ever again.

Darkwing went to inhale but found he couldn't. His suit was strangling him. This purple monstrosity that he had hidden behind for so long and would have to hide behind again.

Fingers scrambling, he reached up and unhooked his cape, releasing it to the harsh winter wind, the fabric sailing over the Bay, tumbling end over end, flashing purple and pink in a rapid kaleidoscope of chaos.

He didn't want to be Darkwing Duck.

The jacket was the next thing to go. Buttons ripped off, small pings of the brass hitting the steel bridge as he tore off his coat and flung it as far as he could.

Darkwing Duck was too arrogant. Too selfish. Too crass. He worked alone. He pursued only the next headline. He didn't care about quality of life or saving people if it meant it would miss the news.

The turtleneck was harder to get his fingers underneath, the teal fabric seemed to have adhered to his feathers, choking him. But get his fingers under it he did, yanking it up and off before sending it careening down into the swirling darkness below.

Darkwing Duck could only be considered a hero in his own twisted mind.

Last to go was the mask. The very piece that he had refused to take off for almost two decades.

It came off easily and Drake shredded it to pieces, making sure there was no way it could ever hide who he was ever again.

Darkwing Duck was all that was left with Gosalyn gone.

But.

Drake Mallard hated Darkwing Duck.

He wanted to be Drake.

Drake Mallard who was a father. Who had gone to PTA meetings (after figuring out what PTA stood for. And meant). Who went Christmas shopping for his kid even though he despised large crowds and found Christmas carols a little too jarring. Who had learned how to cook even though he hadn't ever had the patience for it. Who had cleaned even though the smell of bleach made him gag. Who had learned to live beside the worst neighbors in all of history because Gosalyn had needed a stable home and Honker made her smile.

Drake had only been focused on making Gosalyn happy. Drake had put his own needs aside for hers.

But there was no Drake Mallard without Gosalyn. There was only Darkwing Duck.

And he didn't want to be Darkwing Duck.

Curling up, knees to chest, Drake buried his face in his arms, desperate to keep Drake Mallard around for a little bit longer. To remember Gosalyn's face. And her smile. And her laugh. And how she would quirk up one eyebrow — her right one — just slightly when she disagreed with him. How she'd ask the questions that he didn't know the answer to instead of the easy ones he could brush away. How, when she would cross her arms over her chest, widen her stance, and look at him unflinchingly she wouldn't budge until he'd listened to her. How she was so easy to be around because she would let you come as you were but would help make you into who you wanted to be.

"Heya, DW," came a soft voice.

"Don't call me that," Drake said.

"Okay," soothed Launchpad.

He sounded close by. Drake looked up and saw his friend standing beside him, hair streaked with gray blowing in the chilled wind. The collar of his jacket and his pilot's cap were dusted with snow.

When had it started snowing?

Blinking through the tears — how long had he been crying? — Drake looked out over the darkness of the countryside before him. Sure enough, there a gentle swirl of snow cascading down. Which probably meant that it was cold. Experimentally moving his fingers and toes, Drake found that he couldn't feel them.

"D'ya wanna come inside?"

The Tower.

Darkwing Tower.

With all his equipment and his weapons and his suits and his library.

"I want to go home," said Drake. To his house in the heart of suburbia. Unassuming, quiet, nestled far away from the city.

"We can do that," said Launchpad, reaching out a hand.

His limbs stiff from sitting in one position for he knew not how long and from the bone-shattering cold, Drake took hold of Launchpad's hand, immediately struck by how warm his friend was.

What a sight he must be. Drake Mallard sitting atop a tower on Audubon Bay Bridge in nothing but his underclothes in the dead of winter.

He didn't really care.

Launchpad led him back inside, practically carrying him, and got them settled in the armchairs before activating the statue, sending them whirling through the underground tunnels of St. Canard. Straight into the living room of Avian Way.

Their Christmas tree stood proud in the corner. Garland wove around the family photos on the mantle. Three stockings hung down into the dormant fireplace. They'd only need two now.

Drake took a shuddering breath and pushed himself to standing. Which was a mistake because his feet still hadn't regained feeling. He collapsed, sprawling onto the ground.

But Launchpad was there to catch him, easily lugging him upright. Helping him up the stairs. Grabbing out a set of pajamas and tugging down the blankets of his bed.

"Y'need anything else, DW?" Launchpad asked, standing in the doorway, his fingers curled around the handle.

"It's Drake," he said wearily, pulling up the blankets so they draped over his shoulder, effectively cocooning him.

He didn't want to be Darkwing Duck.

Launchpad nodded. "I'll get some food together. Call if you need me."

With that, Launchpad closed the door, leaving Drake alone in his dark bedroom. He turned towards the window and watched the snow fall on the other side of the glass, the swirling flakes illuminated in the golden beam from the streetlight.

The feeling gradually returned to his limbs.

But inside.

He was nothing.