Who Framed Roger Rabbit: The Aftermath

by MollyMerccurY

A story I've created detailing what happens after Who Framed Roger Rabbit. There will be domestic moments, the reality of what living as a toon is like, and how that world of toons and humans changes after 1947. (I originally posted this to ao3 but I'm trying out posting on here. My ao3 account is under the same name as this account :) MollyMerccurY)

11. Born to make you happy

Summary:

How has Disney been dealing with the animation cel situation?

TW: eating disorder and PTSD.

Notes:

I'm backkkkk. I'm back at college, wish me luck for these next 2 years.

But this took long to write because it's so long and also, because I genuinely care about this story, I've got it planned out in my head and I really want to make sure I do it justice (that sounds a bit self obsessed but u know what I mean x) I hate waiting for fics to update too, so sorry about how I'm slow x hope you enjoy!

ALSOOOOO. recently came to the conclusion that I do has the gay. More specifically, I'm BISEXUAL and honestly, I really should've known before, I mean... There's been so many times that should've just hit me but I think I just repressed all of it. Because once it finally it hit me, all these feelings I knew were there but didn't look into, made sense. And I've still got a lot of figuring out to do, I don't know if I'm bisexual or if I'm just a lesbian who's been indoctrinated and feels like she has to like men. But I'm definitely gay.

ANYWAY. Point is. I've made a discovery and I'm happy AND ALL OF U HAVE TO BE HAPPY 4 MEEEEEE. jk x but yea, don't be mean x

---

.

Thursday the 5th of June. 1947...

A bustle of suits, an avalanche of voices, persistent tapping of feet... all of it consumed the board room. Men of different shapes and sizes -but all the same in complexion and bigotry, yelled ideas at one another. Screaming into a panicked void which couldn't respond. Everyone was a fluster all over again. It had been too long. Science was still unsure. Could they have perhaps gained sentience...? The door creaked; the men spun instinctively. Once they saw that prim and moustachioed face, they all closed their mouths. Chairs squeaked against the floor as they all sat, tucking themselves further under the long table. The noise was uncomfortable with the silence.

The man who parted the personified sea, took his seat at the end of the table. His assistants stood like bodyguards beside the closed door. A moment of silence occurred... the man with enough power in money, to defeat an athlete -without having to move from his seat- busied himself, ringing his hands and coughing into his collarbone. Acting extremely casually... despite how he masterminded what started all of this. He knew the consequences. Probably more than anyone else.

He finally lifted his head. Meeting their gaze.

"I'm disappointed." His voice was a steely monotone.

"I truly am."

Anticipation and nervous adrenaline, were behind everyone's lips as they breathed. Eyes flew around the room when the opposing man caught them staring into his own.

"In a moment, I'm going to stop talking so you can explain yourselves-"

"But first... I need to thank you."

On his command, a brief quiet washed over them. Surprise and confusion appeared in the waiting men's eyes.

"Thank you, for causing me such grief when I already have a trillion problems of my own!"

"We have a movie coming up, Donald and Goofy are deciding to be difficult! We've got shorts to film, comics to make, Carl Barks wants to make more of his ducks!? We have new characters to market- I really don't need this and it wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you men. This has never happened before, that lock is secure. SEALED. It has been, since we've arrived here, not once in a decade has it been disturbed! Someone was being stupid! Must've left it unlocked! You know what young people and women are like! What if they stumbled upon it and snuck some out?"

"But sir! You have to consider that-"

"SHUT UP!"

Everyone shrunk into themselves, like turtles crawling into their shells. The man was standing now. His finger was pressed so hard against the table top, that the tip of it started to turn a yellowish white. His eyes scanned over them. The men were silent, even their breathing was barely audible. His eyes melted through them. The way the look shook them, his eyes might as well have been bullets, flying towards them.

"... Listen, this is what you're going to do:" he finally spoke. Voice a loud mumble -but it still filled the room. As well as the men he addressed, with nervous, childish fear.

"You're going to call these inkblots, all the ones we didn't account for-" he dug into his suit's perfectly ironed pocket and slammed the paper that was within it onto the table. The ones closest to him, saw that it was an organised list of various humans and toons... written in perfectly italicised writing. Must've had his wife write it up for him. Toons that they no longer used and those (toons and humans alike) who knew their employees well enough to have been welcomed into the premises, were scrawled on the off-white paper.

"-and tell them to come in for questioning." the man faced his head towards the ground but he kept his eyes up, making him look like a starving animal, ready to pounce.

"If a human wasn't responsible, then a toon was..." he whispered... hauntingly. It was scarily odd and awkward to see this side of him, the side which talked about his creations- his children, in such away... especially whilst using such derogatory language towards them. Out of all the stooges, he was the one who was thought to be the most unusually favourable of the toons. Everyone liked cartoons... but who'd care enough to relate to them on a personal level? Not even him.

The tension that floated in the air was thick as the man took his seat. So cumbersome, it would be a task to cut.

The man purposefully took as long as he pleased when pulling out his chair. It created that skin crawling noise when it dragged endlessly against the carpeted floor... when he was comfortable, he rested his chin on his outstretched fingers. His face was like a disappointed father: stubborn. Nothing could sway what was in his mind. But the men were still eager to plead their case if asked-

"... Now, explain yourselves."

-so, they did.

"Sir, we were thorough-" one said.

"We investigated, fired and replaced suspicious stage hands and janitors-" said another.

"We checked everyone's desks-"

"Multiple times-" someone added.

"We made some home visits."

"We inspected the toons offices."

"We dealt with Valiant-"

"That's something else!" The boss came back to life. Hovering over his seat as his knuckles pressed into the desk. When he'd shouted, spit had flown from his lip, far and fast.

"How did he get his nose in this debacle!?"

"We found out that Daisy heard about the situation and told Valiant, thinking it might affect her custody case-"

"How did she find out?" he asked. Still spilling over with rage but the tone had shifted. He was more curious than madden. Perhaps a bit frantic.

"She claimed that Minnie told her-"

"And? Is there any truth to that?"

The men blinked. Hot shivers passed through each of them, like a telekinetic dodgeball, catching them all out. With all the rushing and looking and talking- how could that have passed their minds? -

" Well? "

Someone took one for the team:

"We- we're not sure-"

"You're not sure!? You useless shrimps! Once this is through, I demand that that girl of mine, be in my office immediately!" he took a deep breath. Eyes turning amber in the golden sunlight of the morning. "Do I make myself clear!?"

"Yes, sir! Mr Disney!"

---

Minnie's morning started as it usually did: Pluto licking her face until she stirred enough to laugh and push him away, her legs feeling light and heavy all at once when she'd climb out of bed, her skin was paler, eyelids purple...

She got ready. Prepared Pluto his breakfast and while he ate his lovingly crafted meal of fried eggs and bacon, she tidied her sheets. Fluffing the white pillows and brushing over the spotless duvet. Her single bed all done, she checked the time – for a second time, then she hopped in the shower, brushed her teeth and did her makeup: a tan/fawn paint pigment, was used to liven up her face, as well as some blue on her eyes, to hide her tired lids.

She opened her wardrobe, picked out one of her many bloomers, a short skirt and a matching pair of shoes and of course! - her bow.

She kissed her pooch goodbye, right on the charming little bump on his head. She assured him she'd be back soon and that when he can, he'd come with her to work. He was just not needed today. After hugging him for a final time, Minnie tore herself away. She waved when he appeared in the window, watching her in her car. Those big eyes and fallen ears, told her that he knew she'd be gone for a bit. Her heart swelled. She blew him a kiss and watched him through the rear-view mirror until she no longer could.

Minnie tapped the stirring wheel restlessly. She had to arrive early, get everything for everyone, do boring work- but at least she was still asked to show up. She kept her lips tightly sealed and when she finally opened her mouth to breath, with the studio's gates on the horizon, she noticed how dry and tired her mouth felt.

When Minnie arrived, she felt slightly sick. Her stomach felt light and empty; it was a chore to walk. She felt tingly and weak... exhausted just by the walk from her car to the entrance. She headed to her office and unlocked the door. That way, Donald and his children could get in. Huey, Dewey and Louie weren't like Pluto. They were permanent, rambunctious, needy children- and in a way... so was Pluto. But while Pluto hasn't really high maintenance... i.e., he didn't three meals a day... just one and the treats he'd hide throughout the house would be enough to satisfy him. Those boys were not dogs; Donald took them everywhere he went. Minnie suspected for his own piece of mind also.

Donald didn't want them to stay in his office. They could get hurt by one of his awards- his more lavish ones which he kept here for that reason. Also, they might read the documents from the court and that'd just upset them.

Minnie didn't own grandiose awards and the boys seemed to like dressing up in her clothes. So, them camping out in her office wasn't a big deal. Although, she did have to suppress her deep worry that the boys might stain her clothes. She liked keeping her fashions tidy.

Before Minnie had opened the door however, she'd fetched some food for when the ducklings would arrive, it'll keep them going until lunch and then later, after a full meal, she'd give them some smaller snacks. Lest them feeling sick. When that was all done, she headed to her weekly saturation test.

The room was small, more of a closet than a room. The door was tall and darker than the others. It was situated in the dead end of the hallway of toon offices and was noticeably further away from the door besides it. All the doors in this lower layer were separated by what looked like the same width of space; this one wasn't... yet the room was smaller than any other Minnie had seen.

She entered. The dark room was cramped and smelled of old clothes. There lay a haggard hospital bed, a skinny book shelf, filled with dust and books years old and finally, a large saturation scale, almost the height as the toon manning it, it stood flat against the right wall. Wallpaper was peeling, it was grey in colour and the wall underneath was pale and a patchy brown. Minnie drew her limbs closer to one another; she never appreciated the lack of cleanliness the space bared, she was worried that her outfit would be muddied. Her baby blue outfit, it was perfectly coordinated and it'd ruin her day if it were to be spoiled.

The toon in charge guided her with a quick gesture; in compliance, Minnie took off her shoes. Bare feet tiptoeing carefully over the dirty floor, she walked further into the closet. Stood on the scale; the toon managing her, held her shoes as they waited.

A pinging sound happened after a few seconds of nothing. She waited for him to jot down her results. When pen left paper, that was her signal to step off. She slid her shoes back on desperately.

The tall humanoid was wordless as he looked over charts.

"You've barely passed, Miss Mouse." He spoke.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I suggest that you head to the cafeteria and get some food, if you haven't brought any yourself."

"Okay, I'll do that right away, thank you."

"My pleasure, Miss Mouse."

She made her way down the corridor of toon offices. The quiet amplified her breathing and the hammering happening in her chest. The walk felt uneasy. The dim hallway, with red walls and carpet... doors dotted the parallel walls, doors which were beige and had light peaking from the gaps at the bottom of them... it felt like she was being watched but she couldn't pinpoint why. The loneliness and the silence probably didn't help... but it wasn't like she was in any danger or anything, this was Walt Disney Studios. She'd be safer down here than in most streets Downtown. Still, the emptiness was awful; she found herself feeling sorry for the toon who worked in the saturation room. The only windows here were in the offices; the shadows that collected in every corner turned into a dark black... the saturation room didn't even have a window, out of every room, it needed one most. Quickly, she moved and ascended the stairs.

The lobby looked fuller. More people were arriving. Minnie better start getting everything together, make sure everyone's needs were met. Then she could sit down for a minute.

Gentle taps from oversized shoes, marked an audio map, leading one to the set of: 'Fun and Fancy Free.'

It hurt. It stung. She was supposed to be in this movie but just like everything else... it amounted to nothing. She had only blinked and then she was replaced. She saw her replacement: a golden harp, half woman, half harp. She was beautiful, both in her face and her body, it only served to make Minnie feel sick and uncharacteristically angry. More so sad actually. Incredibly, hopelessly sad... she didn't like her rude thoughts: 'at least I can walk and move without being man handled' and while that was true... she still wanted to switch places with the harp, ever so badly.

Even though she knew she'd be tossed to the side once production was over.

Minnie went around, asking everyone what they wanted. Someone wanted some turpentine to clean up the set, another wanted a new reel of film; most people requested food. She did as they asked.

On her way to get the turpentine, someone asked her to clean under their desk; she was small enough to do so. She agreed and shimmied under the table, her nose pressed against the wood and she felt panic rise in her chest. She scrubbed quickly, closing her eyes tightly to try and forget where she was. Her breathing became uneven and her limbs shook. The fearful thoughts were still there and reachable but- in the foreground of her brain, it just sent a mantra to clean. Just clean, you're cleaning. Cleaning. Cleaning. Cleaning. Then, she wondered why this was even necessary? It was a table that a regular person couldn't even see the bottom of- as if they could read her mind, people started to laugh at her panic. That's when it made sense. She didn't know what to do. So, she slowed down her scrubbing and opened her eyes, she breathed deeply, forcing herself to be calm and not spill over with tears.

When looking for the film, someone told her to fetch some paint and fruit for drawing reference, she did. Eventually, the film made it into the person's hands, the reel of film and the turpentine, to be exact- but people complained at her lateness and didn't even say thank you. The whole team nodded in agreement at the distaste, the majority started berating her for not filling their stomachs. She apologised meekly. Wanting desperately to explain how she'd been doing jobs for so many people- nevertheless she didn't. It was really her fault; she didn't have to do all those things that ultimately slowed her down.

On they walk to the cafeteria, she whispered everyone's food choices, after she did, she nodded, knowing she'd got it right.

The words the saturation worker had said... immediately, they filled her mind. If he recommended it, shouldn't she just do it? Surely, she needed it? But not enough. But maybe it was enough? She could start again tomorrow if it wasn't- but that would mean that today was a failure! She held a silver tray in one hand. Brain bouncing from thought to thought as she tried to maintain the appearance of normalcy on the outside. Her hand wavered between things she wanted and things she knew the staff wanted. Eyes all over the place, moving from one snack to another.

"Are you alright, dear?" Asked one of the cafeteria staff.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

She said, her voice was the most monotone it could ever possibly be. Her eyes never left the food in front of her.

Things were happening, thoughts were so loud but the world around her was so quiet, it made her skin prickle. She needed to make a decision now. She was getting exhausted just from thinking. A debate was happening in her head: 'get a sandwich, just imagine the taste, I need it now!', 'don't get a sandwich' and 'if you're going to eat something at least make it sensible! like an apple'- It was too much handle. She'll figure it out later. She got the last of everyone's orders and flew out of there. This way, she'd have stuck to her fast. It wasn't broken; her mind could rest for a while, knowing she'd done well.

Sometimes, she'd get food stuffs and her head would be held high, she'd be completely unbothered and maybe even put off by the confectionary. But other times, it felt like she was choosing between life and death. Sometimes she'd be scared to get close, frightened that she might snap and make a big mistake. But everything was fine. Her mouth was still flavourless, her stomach still empty. She was alright, everything was going to be fine.

She was back on schedule! What to do now...? Oh! She could head over to ink and paint department and see if they needed her to model for any toon clothes, standing up, statue-still for a while, would be a great distraction! Plus, it wasn't lazing around.

She gave the set a final glance. Confident that everything was alright for the time being, she left. Beginning to make her way to-

"Minnie!"

She would've felt indifferent but productive, maybe frustrated at her name being called; that meant another chore. But the squeaky voice that yelled it... she recognised it and valued its company. Three children, lead by their red-clad triplet, came bounding through the establishment, ignoring any and all business men wanting to go about their day- when they reached her, they jumped at her feet excitedly. Minnie smiled at how Donald frantically ran after them. When he was stood in front of her, he petted each of his children on the head, pulling them towards him and scanning them- like he was seeing if they'd been hurt.

"We're okay! Uncle Donald!" Dewey whinged. Pulling himself out of his uncle's grasp.

"Just don't run away like that again!" Donald scolded, "You gave me a heart attack!"

"You're all wearing your hats today," Minnie pointed out, unintentionally redirecting the conversation, "do you have a shoot? -"

"Mr Barks wants our suggestions!" Huey enthusiastically cut in.

"Yeah! He's making some more characters for our comics!" Louie finished and to answer her question: all of them, pulled from their hats: a 'Donald Duck' comic book. Along the line of them, Huey pulled out his first and like a set of dominos, the others followed.

"I wonder who it'll be!" Huey said. He opened his comic to a random page, as did his brothers. They all started to scan the pages with shocking synchronicity.

"Better be someone good!" Dewey commented.

"I hope it's a dog!" He added. He jumped up and down as he did. Donald put his hands on his shoulders, calming his excitement by securing him to the floor. All with a gentle touch, mind you. Dewey looked up at his uncle and smiled, Donald booped his beak dotingly.

"No, cats are way better!" Louie spat.

Dewey stopped staring at his uncle. His mouth hung open at his brother's exclamation. A dramatic, bordering-on-asthmatic, gasp emanated from him.

"You're not my brother anymore!" He stomped his foot. Donald shook his head with a roll of his eyes, Minnie laughed and they shared knowing glance.

Huey -completely ignoring his brothers squabbling- continued to talk as his eyes remained stuck to the brightly coloured pages.

"Maybe they're drawing a nicer auntie?" he flipped a page-

"Screw aunties! How about a cousin?"

"Dewey." Donald berated, although there was no real threat in his tone.

"What?" Dewey asked, once again, he was wide-eyed, looking up, by way off: bending his neck as far back as it could go. Donald suppressed a coo and drew his bill into a fine line.

"Don't say that, it's not very nice-"

"Screw?" Dewey tilted his head.

Donald closed his eyes. A single, drawn-out breath, escaped his nose.

"Yes, that."

Minnie giggled at the interaction. Dewey, partly oblivious to his 'punishment', met her eyes and grinned at her laughter. The speculation continued:

"A doggie cousin!" Huey yelled.

"A cat cousin!" Louie yelled louder.

"A rich cousin!"

"Yeah! A millionaire!"

"A billionaire!"

"A trillionaire! -"

"Alright boys, that's enough." Their uncle interrupted.

He didn't want their hopes to be held too high; it was most likely a villain, not at all a nice character, never mind a rich one. He'd have to supervise this villain's creation and make sure that if it had the chance, it wouldn't overpower him and hurt his family.

He focused his attention onto Minnie. Guilt immediately struck him; when she replied to his look with a smile, he'd realised: he'd completely forgotten to tell anyone about Carl Barks wanting to see him and the boys; Minnie had left her office open longer than she needed to.

"Sorry I didn't tell you about the comic session- I've just been so stressed about the...- a-and with my-"

"No, no, it's okay. Don't worry, Don." She waved him off.

Donald shook his head: yes. But deep down... he knew it really wasn't okay, he'd put her at risk doing that. He needed to keep his circle close and secure, so it not be sabotaged in any way. He'd only told Minnie about his amphetamine usage once she saw him swallow some pills at work, by that point, he had probably already ingested 7 pills that day, it was lunch after all. That and the help he'd been getting, it wasn't the greatest and oftentimes he felt like he wasn't taken completely seriously... but it was the best money could buy for people like him. At least the boys got to play in the room next-door while he poured his heart out, only to receive basically nothing back in return.

Minnie continued; she understood Donald was a bit all over the place, she would be too... although he shouldn't be so nervous. Everyone knew he'd win. Then again, she hadn't been apart from her children for years (if she had any), the threat of losing them again, no matter how slim the chances, were most likely all the same kinds of saddening.

"When you're finished, there's treats in my room, like shortbread! Plus, some water." Minnie marvelled at how three pairs of eyes widened in elation.

"What do you say, boys?"

"Thank you, Minnie!" They cheered.

"No problem!" She beamed.

The triplets started to get restless, moving around and reaching to grab at random things on the floor. Donald never let them stray too far. He chatted to Minnie about Pluto and about getting all together again once filming was through. Eventually the boys wrangled themselves away and managed to negotiate well enough for Donald to let them migrate a bit. They moved to stand beneath a promotional picture for 'Fun and Fancy Free'. They pointed and laughed at the mouse on the front: he stood, proudly perched on the neck of a beanstalk, grinning widely. Dewey curled his hands into fists and placed them on either side of his head, imitating ears. He hunched over and stuck out his tongue, his brothers laughed. Donald kept stealing glances at them whilst they conversed.

Minnie was in the middle of talking when Donald interrupted her-

"You okay, toots?"

She was rendered silent. She wasn't expecting that.

"Mm?" She pretended like she hadn't heard him. A small smile spread onto her face but it didn't reach her eyes.

Donald looked behind her again. She heard his children yell in response, he nodded to them. But she didn't dare turn, instead she stood completely still, that fake smile still prominent on her face.

"You haven't been looking so good." He spoke.

The seriousness of his tone made her feel like a child herself. She swallowed.

"... I don't know what you mean-"

The triplets returned. Pulling their guardian by the sleeves of his black sailor suit.

"Come on, uncle Donald! Millionaire-dog-cousin!"

Donald tried to continue their conversation but whatever he'd wanted to say- fell from his mouth and onto the floor in the form of pitiable whines, his eyes darted between her and his children whilst. Like he didn't want to have such a serious talk with them there.

"Alright, boys!" He resisted and as he was being tugged away, he swivelled to meet her eyes; declaring:

"I'll talk to you later, okay Minnie? Take care of yourself."

The last part sounded like a demand; a worried one. It was so raw and unmoving, so solid and sure, Minnie felt embarrassment rush to her cheeks after she'd heard it.

"I will..."

Her whisper felt so loud. It was quiet and small but she felt it echo through the halls of her brain, sticking to her insides. Weird clarity breathed from it when she replayed it in her mind. She watched them walk away, happy and jovial they were, ducklings skipping and laughing. She felt an itching to run after them and ask for help, she wanted that comfort and that outright concern and questioning- but she knew that if she wanted that feeling again, she couldn't make such a scene. Also, the spotlight that the questions shone onto her... it was so hot it hurt, she hated it and felt angry that it was turned on in the first place. She liked it and loathed it all the same.

Her limbs dragged and swung limply. Walking without a purpose. Head down and arms curled into her chest, fingers were light as they trembled against her front. She didn't know why she kept moving... just to hear the sound her shoes made when they hit the ground? She didn't know, maybe. Maybe... she felt overwhelmingly emotional. The urge to make a break for the door and never come back was so strong, the way this place made her feel... she wanted to burn it to the ground in that second. She wanted to run, find a place no man had found before, hide and scream and cry and not come back even when people noticed she'd gone- but she wouldn't really; she needed this-

Hurried footsteps.

Her brain became alive again, hoping and praying that it was Donald running back to her, ready to interrogate her again. But when a clear voice rung out, shouting her name with no difficulty. She sunk into herself. Before slowly and tiredly, spinning around to see who'd called.

"Mr Disney would like to see you, miss Mouse." Heaved the man.

.

.

.

A lavish inkwell... a sleek clock; doubled as a pen-holder... an expensive collection of figurines and antiques... all of them alike, decorated one: Walt Disney's office. The room had a perfectly organised colour scheme; gold was smartly dotted throughout the room. Smart, in how: it appeared in just the right moment, between those of white and black, giving ones eyes a minute to rest.

He extinguished his cigarette into the glass ash tray beside his elbow. Flexing his fingers until they pleasantly popped. Tapping against the extortionate surface that he slouched upon, he read over notes that were waiting to be approved or denied. His suit was spotless, the only wrinkles that it produced were small and somehow dashing in their own right. The legs of his trousers were ironed to perfection and the gold cufflinks on his sleeves sparkled in the light that shone from the window diagonal to him.

A gentle knock was hit against the door.

He let it linger for a moment...

"Come in."

The door creaked open. Minnie Mouse stood there, accompanied by his secretary. He nodded at the latter and she walked away, back to her post... Minnie remained, small and unassuming.

She was gripping the door handle with a shaking hand. Her other, fiddled with the hem of her blue skirt. She looked straight ahead; their pupils were stuck on each other. Walt appeared fine however she was anxious, the look in her big eyes portrayed as such, never mind the way one foot pensively stepped in and out of the room.

Walt smiled; he had been untroubled when he'd received a drawing of Minnie he liked, all of his ideas were good, he knew this- but the design had to align with the one in his head, the design had to make a pair with Mickey's. He was hoping she'd be spunkier... but the lines were all there; no bother trying again when the personality could be easily faked. Of course, with good acting! Despite Minnie's gullible and emotional nature, she could play the role of: doting, not-too-independent, housewife when the cameras were on.

He knew that as soon as he'd seen her, that this was his Minnie. His innocent, loyal, bow-wearing, toon. Not all the pieces came together, they never did. Sometimes he'd drive himself insane, tossing and turning, stewing over the 'what ifs?'... and the: 'what he wouldn't do's, to have her be everything he wanted her to be. But he had to remember: the personality on screen was them. Mickey, for example, was a hurricane... something Walt hadn't planned for. Still, he was Mickey; he was his and he was perfect. Obviously. Also, his attitude had grown on him. Such a prickly toon; people overestimated him, they busied themselves by spreading all types of things... but what harm could a toon do really?

Walt closed his eyes.

Obviously, some, just look at this situation... and that Doom character- but his boy? No. He was just an honest cartoon.

If you drew them correctly, toons would do what you wanted them to. People needed to understand that. A shame that he didn't draw them but his creative input was enough to influence their personalities. Which is why, he still had such faith in some- but still, other artists drew for the company; that meant they had also made an impact on them as well... which is also why, he was positive a toon would be eligible to be a culprit. Why didn't he just draw them himself? Because it seemed like working for him brought with it: enough good influence to sustain thousands of toons for a lifetime.

"Minnie! There's my little girl!" he lifted himself out of his seat slightly, smiling at her ears more that her eyes as he did; those iconic circular ears... they were genius, something his genius created. So recognisable and dynamic!

She finally felt confident enough to fully walk into the room.

"How are you, today?" He asked, the door clicked shut shortly after.

"Hello, dad..." she mumbled quietly. Her big hands held onto each other, they hovered unnaturally over her bare chest.

"I'm good." Her arms dropped to her sides, they were moving and swaying. Her fingers were dancing in the air. Rather than worry about why she was so restless, Walt thought about how smooth her animation was. Another achievement of his.

"Why did you want to see me?"

"Sit down, my dear."

The mouse did as she was told, moving quickly to sit on the green couch neighbouring his desk. Even though couches were made for lounging, Minnie sat upright and stiff, like she was actually sitting in the world's most upright chair.

He spun his body towards her. His left arm still sat on his desk, moving slightly, rotating his chair as he looked down at her.

"So, how has your doggie been?" He began.

She seemed to ease up some. Smiling to herself. Eyes pulled away from his. Rather, she chose to let them jump all around the room, she did meet his again, at least a few times- but eventually, she focused her attention onto the porcelain Panchito sculpture on her father's desk. She twirled her thumbs as she continued. The stuttering she had been doing before she'd focused on the bird, coming to a stop.

"Great! I bought him some new toys recently and he just loves them! He does the cutest little thing when he-" she was talking with her hands. Walt sensed a ramble and rolled his eyes.

"That's lovely, how about our Mickey? Are you keeping him in check?" Walt deferred.

"Urm- well, actually -" She blinked a few times. Expectant and puzzled.

"Such a scamp! What a hoot! Let's see... How about Figaro?"

"I assume he's good... He belongs to Mr Geppetto, I haven't starred in a cartoon with him in-"

Walt cut her off again; he didn't want to be reminded of how Minnie only owned a dog.

"And that sassy Daisy, hmm? How about her?"

She took longer to answer this time. She started to play with the broderie anglaise design on her bloomers. Facing her gaze towards the ground.

"... Did-did you bring me in to talk about everyone?" She asked. "Be-because I haven't - was I? I haven't spoken to Daisy-" she said. She looked everywhere but him again. Tone a mixture of painful perplexity and urgency.

Walt pulled at the tail of one of his eyebrows.

"Oh! You haven't?" he moved more in his rotating chair; mock surprise, radiated from his voice.

Minnie started to blink rapidly.

"Er-er, no...?" She answered. Unsure of herself but telling the honest truth.

"Why haven't you two spoken?"

"Because I'm Donald's friend." She said, in a self consciousness but matter-of-fact way.

"...Yes?" Walt raised the eyebrow he'd been tugging at. A laugh escaped him.

"Donald doesn't like Daisy, dad." Minnie sunk into herself. His laugh confused her. She fell back into looking from object to object, from dust mite to dust mite.

"A shame that is. What a burden." He sighed. Minnie couldn't see what he was doing exactly; her eyes were glued to her knees. Even when her brain shouted: 'look up, look up!' Minnie was frozen in an uncomfortable, scared state. She couldn't really explain why but at the same time she knew. She craved his attention and validation... yet just when she thought things were getting better, they'd go back to how they were. She was replaceable. Didn't he care?

Maybe he didn't notice. She was probably making a big deal out of nothing.

He'd done so much for her; she should be more grateful.

He must love her.

She swallowed.

Just do it, just say what you want to say!

"Am...am-" Her voice was normal- maybe a bit louder than usual- but she abruptly turned down her volume when her nerves took a hold.

'Am I a burden, dad?'

Was what wanted to say. But the words never formed on her tongue.

An awful silence washed over them. The sounds of her father's chair squeaking sliced through her. Shivers rippled over her body when she focused in on his breathing. The air was too thick, her face was too hot and she was being too strange. She had to snap out of it. But she couldn't; she felt like she couldn't reverse the mood she'd created. She had disappointed him by answering his question wrong, not that it was wrong... but it was obvious he wasn't pleased.

"... Now, I need to ask you something."

Minnie coaxed herself into looking up and meeting his eyes.

"Urm... Okay?" she muttered. Things would be okay if she acted like they were; she straightened up and pressed herself to keep holding eye contact with him, no matter how abnormal it felt.

"If you haven't spoken to Daisy... Why has she been saying that you two go out to lunch?"

What? Lunch!? She might have before- but not since the break up. Daisy was being unjust and incredibly unfair to Donald; it was like she didn't know her anymore. She wouldn't betray her friend's trust like that. Donald was different now but he still made an effort, he'd just talked about hanging out again, doing activities together and...

He was obviously sorry that he'd been somewhat neglectful in their friendship, the Carl Barks appointment probably made him realise that more fully... but he had a reason to be distant; even with those explanations, he tried. He wouldn't do anything maliciously. Why would Daisy paint him that way? That would be awful... evil. She wouldn't dream of lying to her friends, hurting them or thinking squat of their feelings. Lunch? Why would she stoop so low? Just to eat lunch? She wouldn't even eat lunch! Does she look like the type to eat lunch!? What would she eat? An egg salad? Drowning in relish? The restaurant's walls would probably be low-key, more like a cafeteria; the tables would naturally be grey, boring and plain- yet somehow the customers would be smiling. Especially the well groomed, entrepreneur, family man, whom sat across from a toon, who's face adorned the walls, the uniforms, the logo- the merchandise! The man would be laughing and smiling; she'd be sad but feel wrong for feeling such resentment. You should feel happy for them.

He said he didn't have time to eat. Yet there he was, eating egg salad.

Minnie flinched. Her face contorted briefly and she closed her hands into tight, painful, fists.

"I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't." She choked out.

Eyes shut, mouth a thin line; she breathed through her nose deeply, trying to calm herself in a discrete way. Walt just stared. Squinting at his daughter. He mumbled something under his breath before proclaiming:

"Hmmm... Okay... She must have been fibbing."

"I guess so..."

The only sound for a minute, was the natural hum that travelled in the air. Minnie raised her head, willing her eyes to peak up from beneath her eyelashes, try and look at her father. He had moved to fully face his desk. He was writing something in quick, silent jerks of his wrist. He's done so much to me... of course he loves me. That's when she acknowledged the photos. They were on the table directly behind him, two photos encased in glimmering frames: his children, his other children. They were two girls, 13 and 10 but in the photos, they were much younger. The pictures were beautiful, wholesome. They captured loving, unforgettable moments; it made her heart ache for multiple reasons... But Minnie didn't have a picture. She wasn't given a place... despite how much Walt insisted that she was his.

It was so confusing and awful. It was moments such as these that made her feel justified in her anger and sadness. But then there were other times... times were she truly felt like apart of a family. The way he and his wife gave her gifts each holiday, the fact that he'd given her Pluto, the way he'd mention her in interviews sometimes... they way he called her 'his little girl.'

She ducked down again... blinking quickly; she was forcing the sudden wetness that had washed over her eyes to cease- before something awful happened. She was scared. Eyes wide open, down towards the carpet. In an almost dissociated state, her brain egging her on whilst... urging her to speak her mind. Confront him.

"Dad?" She managed.

"Yes?"

Her thoughts were screaming. Jumbled and a big mess, was her brain-

"... T-Tha. That's-a-nice-wrist-watch." She'd chickened out; better to keep things calm and stable. She needed a moment to breath.

"Thank you, my sweet. It's a Kelton," He shook his wrist. The jewellery jingled at the action. A satisfying 'ping' sounded and Walt smiled. Minnie gave one of her own.

"-you can thank Snow White for that. Give her my gratitude next time you see her."

Her faux smile dropped a little.

Snow White hadn't been used since 1937. Minnie had starred in shorts after that, she'd made him a pretty penny too. She knew that he bought that watch just last year; why wasn't she thanked? She understood that Snow White made a lot of money for the company- but still, he thanked her before 'his daughter'? What about all the work she'd done during the war? How about her dedication to the art? She tried her best -acting to the best of her ability- besides a man who both exhilarated her and hurt her, her father knew this. He knew about her troubled relationship with his favourite. Yet he kept approving stories with them together. She knew they were characters, that their romance was supposed to be a part of them. She knew that but why couldn't they be written differently for a change? Wouldn't her father's supposed love, urge him to change his mind and do as such?

"...okay..." she let her shoulders sag disappointedly.

"Speaking of movies... I'm got some ideas for upcoming ones."

Minnie sensed a ramble.

"Music alongside animation...! Imagine a beautiful toon women, short dress and high boots, wrangling fish and cattle! What a prize for a charming, everyday-man, cowboy, wouldn't you agree?"

He started to sort through the papers on his desk. He selected certain sheets, stacked them on top of each other, then tapped the cluster against the desk. He extended them out to her. She smiled nervously, cold digits reached out and grabbed the ivory cards.

They were preliminary sketches. Uncoloured and rough. But even then, Minnie could see that the toon, was indeed beautiful. She had a perfect, oval-shaped face... red hair styled in braids, said hairdo only accentuated an already flawless jawline. Dressed in a cowboy hat and suede boots, a definitely very short skirt and a shirt covered in tassels, she was tall and slim but curvy, thick legs and round arms and just enough chest. She was gorgeous. Minnie couldn't find one thing they both had in common.

Small, delicate hands? No.

Long, red hair? No.

Hourglass figure? Definitely not.

Eyes with sultry, pretty lids? No.

pouty lips? Never.

She felt herself become hot with nerves. Put-on-the-spot hot. The uncomfortable embarrassment that burned her skin but was also cold and itchy. She passed him the drawings back with a straight arm, almost robotic were her movements. She sniffled but tried to play it off as a giggle. He was waiting for an answer, he was obviously proud of himself. Minnie searched her brain. Anything! Say anything! You've been staring for too long and it's so hot it's unbearable!

"... like? Fantasia?"

She bit her lip. What a stupid response!

"Yes, I suppose."

He continued basking in his self satisfaction, he was ignoring her but talking to her, the way he spoke about his ideas, it sounded like he was talking about someone else's; no one should employ such toxic, positive language and unashamed brags when talking about their own ideas.

Minnie looked down at her hands, tremors shook them as they sat in her lap.

"Donald might be asked to star in it."

She looked up. Anxiety still prevalent but now she was hopeful. Hopeful and incredibly tense.

"Will I - maybe be in it...?" She asked. She had to push the words out; otherwise, she might have said nothing.

But to repay her bravery, her father just laughed heartily. Unintentionally or otherwise, he was mocking her.

"Don't be silly, dear! I haven't even written that idea down yet, not everything about it anyway; I couldn't possibly know who'd star in it and who won't."

'But you just said Donald might be in it?'

Minnie was indescribably crushed. Her voice threatened to crack and waver if she spoke, she just felt it.

"... Yeah... sorry..." Was what she ended up saying.

"... Well, I've kept you for too long, better go before they see you're gone." He breathed. Adjusting his chair noisily, was another indication of his eagerness to end this interaction.

"No coffee makes men upset, darling." He laughed to himself, staring straight through her, "Speaking of which, on your way out, ask Sandra to pour me a coffee." It wasn't even a question. He expected her to do it. He knew she'd do it.

"Okay, dad. Bye." She pushed herself off of the couch. Already halfway across the room when-

"Oh, and Minnie?"

Stop. Stood in front of his desk, she felt optimistic. Why did he want to be in her company for longer than he needed? Was he going to surprise her? Tell her he loved her? Maybe ask about her health? Mention her saturation results? -

"Yes, dad?" She gave him a small smile and raised her voice a few notes higher.

"When you find time, get Daisy to come and see me."

Oh.

She just stood for a second.

Then she released a breath, it was small and unnoticeable but inwardly, she sighed heavily, so heavy that it rippled through her chest and hurt. Upset and unexplainable sadness consumed her; her father's response... should she have not had such high hopes? She felt her throat clog momentarily; the need to cry came rushing back. She forcefully gulped down all of the saliva in her mouth. Trying to quell that impulse.

"... Alright, dad, goodbye."

"Goodbye, Minnie darling."

Minnie did as she was told: she instructed Sandra to send in her father's drink and made a mental note to direct Daisy to him when she next saw her... even though she would really prefer not too.

Her hands were close together throughout the walk down the hallway, her large heels clacked against the floor. People passed and if they nodded, looked or waved at her, Minnie didn't know; she had her head down, watching her feet take her were she needed to be, with eyes unblinking. She looked like she was hypnotised under their influence.

They'd been talking for over 10 minutes. Now the place was congested. Minnie saw toons she knew well and ones she didn't know well enough: like Tinkerbell. She was floating over the chaos, snickering behind her hand, the jingling of a bell chimed; that was her voice. Tinkerbell and the rest of the 'Peter Pan' crew, had been around for a while; production on the film was halted multiple times. No movie had yet been released but they were still here. People recognised them from writings in the news; they had gained a bit of a following. Pixie dust sprinkled over her as the fairy flew overhead; Minnie sneezed.

When she stopped spluttering. She spotted Daisy across the crowded room. She was posted in front of something- then a man shifted and Minnie saw that Roger Rabbit was trying to get around her... but she just moved to block his path each time, shaking her head as she did. Roger threw up his arms- then someone blocked her view again. She'd tell Daisy what dad had said later...

She scuttled back to the set.

.

.

.

.

"Give me the blue crayon, Dewey!"

"No, I already told you: all the blue crayons are mine!"

"Uncle Donald!" Huey whined.

"Dewey darling, you have plenty of blue crayons to spare."

"... okay..." Dewey sighed. Glaring at his brother as he reluctantly tossed him a cyan crayon.

"Good boy." Donald patted his head.

Carl Barks quit working at the studio in 1942 but soon was given the opportunity to work again- however, from a different location. He'd sent the people in Burbank his ideas for the nameless: 'Donald Duck Christmas special comic' but out of bare-minimum, common curtsey, they let Donald and his nephews approve the character appearing in it first; after all, they'd be working together and more importantly: in Carl's description, he wanted this character to be a part of their family. Donald tried to relax in his chair, holding the arms a bit tightly as he did. A sigh was invisible beneath the sounds of children's chatter. His boys were right to some degree.

He peaked over at the table again. For once ignoring his babies. The typed-up sheets of paper, sitting bang in the middle of the small table. Blood was pumping in his arms, he gripped the chair with a greater level of intensity -his fingers started to tingle and a heartbeat drummed within them, pulsating and pressing against the paper that was his skin. He felt adrenaline course through him, cold and anxious, anticipating and waiting for something, the feeling of butterflies flying in your stomach but not the good kind- butterflies who were feverish and rabid, hungry for flowers and desperately trying to find them; they thrashed about inside you, just to find the smallest nibble of one. But it was futile, Donald understood this but they didn't; there was nothing he could do to calm them.

A new member of the family?

He'd have to mingle with them, form a bond with them, his children too! He couldn't take that; he couldn't trust another person with his boys. He couldn't let another person in his circle, period.

He couldn't even relax for one minute! Humans had the privilege of waiting until a daughter's friend -or a son's- became family. That friend would evolve into son-in-law or a boyfriend. Same scenario with a pregnancy, they'd have at most, nine months to let things sink in. The most Donald received was a phone call, one that told him: how a new toon was going to be created. Going to be, no doubt in the statement, another difference in humans and toons. That daughter's 'friend' from earlier, might turn out to be a huge ass! He'd be kicked to the curb and the family would never have to see him again. With this though? No, this was going to happen.

And to top it all off! On the day of the 'approval session', he was told that it wouldn't be a one-off character, it'd be a relative.

He was getting emotional, too internally frenzied. He had to calm down. On the outside, he just seemed out of it. Eyes huge and breath leaving and entering only through his nose. Inside, he was wracked with worries and loud, blaring thoughts. It was draining him of all his energy; he was sitting in a chair, for God's sake!

A sudden burst of anger made him grit his teeth behind his bill. Hard, he was full of passionate, raw, enraged feelings and he didn't know why. He hated it. Eyes blinked open and three ducklings gradually became less blurry.

He needed to be better for them.

They were sat on the floor, his precious little angels. Dressed in red, green and orange. Dewey was in orange despite his adoration for blue. Donald hated doing that to him; he himself, hated dressing in blue. However, they made him. He touched his black suit. Feeling ease from looking at it... jet black material with white and yellow accents. It reflected the light when he moved it, the light that hung from above them, a yellow bulb, it gave the walls a slightly brown hue. He brushed his thumb over the fabric of his sleeve, watching as the light curled around it. But Dewey didn't overly mind. He'd picked out his orange shirt this morning; Donald didn't do anything wrong. It was okay.

The pot containing all the crayons toppled. Donald jumped in his seat.

"Sorry, uncle Donald." Huey said sweetly.

The duckling lent down and picked up the pot; he let the pencils drop back into the plastic tub. The sound of them hitting against the container made Donald hold the arm of his chair again, knuckles obtruding dangerously; he didn't want to lose control and clench his jaw in front of Huey.

But he'd already made an awful mistake. Huey had seen him get startled. It had happened before but he still hated it, viscerally. Maybe despising it more each time it happened. A sick, sticky feeling of shame filled Donald. He folded his arms and crossed his legs, perhaps giving himself a hug with his own limbs.

He took a deep breath. Sitting still in his chair. His boys giggled amongst themselves; Donald looked at them: all of them had their legs crossed, sitting on the grey carpeted floor; their elbows rested on the wooden coffee table. Pieces of paper were thrown about in front of them, all covered in childish scribbles and brightly coloured doodles. The prompt sheet, written up by Carl, sat in the centre. It had ideas that Carl himself wanted for this character-but it was up to the children to add embellishments in their own special way... Well, Donald too but he'd do his last.

Automatically, a smile made its way on his face. There! Everything's okay... Louie turned around and beamed at him, he did so as soon as that thought started to reverberate in Donald's skull. He smiled back, eyes bright and full of love. He was alright, he could relax. Positioning his back to a more comfortable lounge -the teal chair looked brighter as he did. He let himself sink pleasantly into the cushion. His fingers now hung limply from the chair's forelimbs. Closing his eyes momentarily; he breathed deeply once again.

The room they were in, they couldn't have shoved them in a less appealing space- people were under the impression that this place was heaven. Donald felt a smug grin pull on his cheeks when he looked at the bland walls and floor. If heaven looked like this, he'd be disappointed. No windows, one door, two chairs. It was void of personality and 'magic', it lacked the fragrance the rest of the place did... a cuboid closet- and it was that sudden comparison... that inspired the thought: 'this is like the therapy-' he froze. It wasn't exactly like his room but the more he sat in the chair- a chair whose linen, green-ish, blue fabric felt like tiny knives beneath his fingers as he rubbed them against it, rubbing until his digits felt numb- the more he stared at the windowless walls, the more he began to see the similarities. See the similarities and distinctly remember what he'd said in that similar room-

His heart started to race; he felt his black shirt start to dampen. Brain screaming, telling the mouth to gulp down harsh breaths- but he kept it closed. His chest hurt, it felt like someone was sitting on it. He needed to open his beak but he still kept it shut; he couldn't let the children hear this. Wilfully, he breathed silently through his nostrils.

The rooms looked the same- they looked the same. This room was small and colourless, the other room was larger and paler but it still had all the same kinds of boring- he tried to look as normal as possible. He crossed his legs again. Shuffling to the right, as much as he could, the back of his head faced his boys. He shakenly put his head in his hands, in what he hoped was an unsuspecting way. He didn't want to think. Donald wanted to have a good day, he needed one of those, after last night, after his nightmares- he needed a break.

The dreams, yesterday's dream- he remembered blood, he remembered spilled ink, that pile of upchucked paper and paint. He smelt dirt, smelt the metallic stench of the gun in his hands, it had just been fired. One memory prevailed: He remembered how his face hurt, cheeks stung; there was no way to help the hurt... his face was contorted, pulled in open mouthed horror, bill wide open and quivering with each breath that escaped it. Tears had fallen and wet his face, they travelled, passed his mud-covered mug and onto his tongue. Webbed feet and discoloured legs, were uncomfortable in those boots. Flesh with the illusion of feathers, was more paper goose bumps than paper skin. As the wind blew in his face, hardening all of the dirt and mess on it, he felt vomit pool in his suffering throat. A uniform that was already covered in ink- the mess of papers of who once was lay under those awful boots. His uniform was covered, the patch on his shoulder probably was too... the embroidered patch that sat proudly on the uniform's arm...

'Fighting for Walt.'

He was covered in sweat- his uniform was encrusted with ink- no, blood. TOONBLOOD.

What did he do? What did he do to deserve this!? He had to keep moving; everyone else just kept walking- stomping over the toon's papers like they were NOTHING. He just wanted to go home!

In an unsteady hand, was a sliver of varnish. Donald blinked; tears that were close to overflowing, thickly coated his eyes. Some ran down his face but he was quick to wipe them away, the sleeve of his black sailor doing that just fine. He finally opened his mouth, from it left a shallow- but much needed breath. He didn't realise he'd been seizing the front of his shirt in a stranglehold, he looked down and released it, his ribbon was wrinkled now. Phooey.

But he was here.

He was here. Oh no. He chanced a glance...

...

The boys were still smiling, talking to each other as they drew. Thank God. They hadn't saw.

The varnish in his hand. Opening his palm, he observed it- and immediately the pain hit him. He had been pulling at the feathers on his head. Feeling his head and sure as sugar, his fingers found a definite dip in his skull. He'd just ripped a chunk of varnish off of his head. Or, to humanly translate: he'd torn off some surface layer skin in his panicked state.

He pivoted; his neck hurt like he'd laid on it wrong for hours. Black acrylic eyes, aimed themselves up and at the clock.

It had only been a few seconds.

Oh, that's a relief.

He was okay.

But he got lucky. It could've been minutes- or hours.

He needed to be better for them.

Swallowing his shame, he straightened his posture.

"It's getting late." He croaked. "Let's see what you boys have done."

"Okay!" all cheered. They collected their papers, scooping up the wax covered pages and rushing to show their uncle. Donald quickly tossed the varnish piece to the floor.

The three skipped to him. When they were surrounding him, each held up their papers, they talked over each other, all demanding that he must see theirs first. Donald managed a chuckle.

He took Huey's from his hands.

The paper he held, it was one of the world's most precious works of art. Black pencil lines made up the form of the character: it was a duck, just as the prompt had instructed, however this duck had feathered cheeks, almost like sideburns or a beard of some kind.

"So, what's this?" Donald pointed to it.

Huey shoved himself halfway onto Donald's lap, pointing at the doodle's face as he explained:

"The shorter bits are his hair but I couldn't decide if I wanted him to have a beard, so he wears a scarf that doubles as a beard."

"Is it a grandpa?"

"No, it's just a duck." Huey stated. The upmost of confidence in his tone.

"But I imagine that he used to be really cool, like cowboy-adventurer-pirate cool! That's how he met you! but now he's old, he's like a daddy to you now-"

"So, a grandfather then?"

"Yes!" He contradicted.

"So, just like you: he's really sweet and gives nice hugs and he can make you feel better when you've hurt yourself."

Warmth spread out from Donald's chest; a hybrid of happiness and guilt permeated his head.

"Oh, Huey... that's so sweet, thank you."

"But what about you? Wouldn't you like a character who'd pay more attention to you?"

"He'd pay attention to me." Huey nodded, "But he's your daddy, please like him." He pleaded.

"Of course, I like him...!" Donald chuckled. Pulling Huey in for a side hug before planting a kiss, square on his forehead.

"Thank you, very much."

Huey giggled. Happy with his uncle's comments.

"Look at mine uncle Donald! He's a super, crime fighting, duck! Plus, he can speak to ghosts- and! He can do magic! and he's blue!"

"I can see that Dewey," Donald said jokingly.

The drawing was more blue crayon than paper. In the centre of the page (although veering to the right,) was a duck, a younger one than Huey's. He wore a blue coat, with lighter blue hems and spats. Ghostly doodles surrounded him, as well as majestic purple sparkles. In the distance was an exploding bank, dollar bills rained down from the sky, that was probably the 'crime fighting' element he'd mentioned. Donald smiled at the silliness but dug one foot into the ground; the explosion reminded him of the past. He wasn't going to ruin this day more, the burning to his heel distracted him and discreetly covering the burning building with one hand helped. Dewey let his uncle's comment sink in-

He stuck out his tongue, Donald laughed.

"And he isn't mean, see he's smiling!"

"That's lovely, sweetheart."

Dewey looked proud of himself. Standing tall and proud, then...

Finally, Louie. Donald frowned at his slumped posture. He seemed happy when he was drawing... maybe the other drawings had made him unsure of his own? Donald drew him closer to the group and slowly, Louie handed him his picture. It was certainly different from the others. One reason, being how: Louie's very obviously depicted toons who already existed. It was the four of them, they were wearing their typical colours, sitting beneath a blue-orange sky, a picnic basket sat amongst them and a colourful mess was under that: a cross hatching of waxy, vibrant pigments, made a crochet blanket. Their messily interpreted faces, were all pulled into smiles.

"What's this, Louie?" Donald asked.

"... I couldn't think of anyone, I'm sorry."

The older duck quickly picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap.

"That's alright." He murmured in a motherly, baby-voice.

"You didn't have to think of anything..." he combed through his boy's hair. His brothers nodded at their uncle's declaration. Louie smiled and snuggled deeper into a black, cotton-polyester covered, chest.

"It's very good anyway, are we eating lunch...?"

The two other ducks craned their necks to look at the picture. Louie remained silent for a second.

"...remember that summer? When it was just the four of us... and we went out every weekend?" his voice was small. Donald watched over him, heart twisting with each twirl his fidgeting fingers made around each other.

"...we'd take a picnic to the park and then stay until the sky was orange." he mumbled into his jumper. "I miss that."

In that moment, Donald felt himself become trampled by feelings of immense sadness, unbelievable anger, horrible guilt- all of it. The duck in the drawing, he knew it was him- but staring at the blissfully happy grin, he barely even recognised it as himself. He felt so disconnected from who he once was. Did everything from before really happen? The picnicking and the fishing trips, did he really plan them? The most he did now was take them out to the store or walk them around the neighbourhood, that, or a trip to the shopping district to get candy. He used to be much more fun.

How could he do this to them?

"...we can do that again?" Donald asked. Louie looked up at him. Those wide, jet-black eyes, stared up at him with innocent glee.

"This weekend?" Donald continued, "Would you like that?"

Louie nodded. Enthusiastically. His brother's released squeals of joy and anticipation!

"I wish aunt Daisy was never drawn." Louie abruptly confessed.

Donald felt nothing at the utterance... at most, an itching of anger... at how she'd made his boys feel.

"Louie..." he murmured.

"I know it sounds bad... I just miss the time... before she was around..."

...

He held him close and nuzzled his head against his.

"... It's going to be okay; you're going to be okay... I'll do whatever I can to make it better..."

"I promise."

Donald thought it'd be best if they left. But before they did, he wrote on one of the empty sheets:

'Make it a distant relative.'

---

After handing over the documents, they made their way to Minnie's office. The boys ran down the hallway of offices. Shouting and bellowing incoherent nonsense. Laughing at how their distorted voices echoed.

"I love you, with all my heart I do." Donald said; once they'd settled into the room and eaten some biscuits. He'd checked over the office; although he trusted Minnie, it was still wise to inspect for any sharp or unpleasant objects. He was in the room's entryway, hands rested on his knees when he spoke, his children stared up at him with crumb dusted mouths. With a smile Donald wiped them off with the sleeve of his shirt.

"I'll see you at lunch." He spoke. Chuckling at Dewey's resistance to being cleaned.

After he'd finished up, he dusted off his clothes.

"I do that because I love you."

The boys -in their magic, triplet way- shared a glance, then in perfect simultaneity, they spoke:

"We love you too, uncle Donald!"

The feeling that gave him... it would never be described accurately; he felt such absolute joy, it be couldn't detailed, you just had to feel it.

"Aww... you're just the cutest!" He squeaked. He bent down and took the three in his arms. Sighing happily and closing his eyes. He'd lifted the ducks off of the ground slightly, swaying them side to side in his gentle, unshakeable hold. The triplets giggled against his chest and much like their uncle, they breathed out audibly, audibly and cheerfully.

"My bundles of joy...!" He acclaimed in a dreamy drawl.

He had to leave eventually. Succeeding him setting them down gently, he held onto the door, pulling it closed; he peaked his head through it before disappearing.

"Bye, bye, my babies! Have fun!" He waved.

"Bye, bye! Uncle Donald!"

,

He had only moved a few feet, then he looked over his shoulder. What if a chair fell on them? What if one of them got a paper cut and needed a fresh coat of varnish? He thought back to minutes ago, it was difficult knowing that one of his boys were anxious. It really hurt; was there more he should be doing? Something he was accidentally executing that made them sad? He really tried not to feel numb, he did all he could and he felt like it had gotten much better. His friendship with Goofy and Minnie (and Goofy's partners) was still difficult to navigate and it wasn't any fault of their own. Rather, it was his reluctance and sudden awkwardness, his inability to be vulnerable with the people who were his best friends. It had happened with the children as well. He couldn't explain it, it was like he didn't know how to talk or interact anymore. sometimes, it'd be more prevalent than others. Not every one he had, could be like the bond he had with his boys. He felt so focused on them and their relationship, that he was left unmotivated when it came to the rest in his life. He didn't want to try and love Daisy, he was sorry; he did promise her he'd try. But he couldn't. It was just too much, couldn't she see that what was being asked, was all too much of him? That it was just too emotionally taxing? That he didn't have enough love left in his heart to make a good husband? She didn't and in her annoyance, they'd managed to create a divide that could never be patched. Daisy had tried to cross it, in her own way... but Donald just started to sleep on the couch. He didn't want her in his house.

He was hoping they'd still be friends. But just like Walt, Daisy was stubborn and it confused and irritated Donald. It wasn't like he was a catch, if she wanted company so badly, she could surely find it elsewhere.

He shielded his eyes when he arrived. Weaving through cables and staff; eventually, he'd made it to his makeshift dressing room. A red cover, was tossed across a divided room for privacy. The room was just two slates of wood that protruded from the back of the set, whenever a project was occurring, they'd always be dressed up like this. Donald didn't know why this was how they chose to do things; the planks weren't even affixed to the wall. He pushed aside the sheet/door and stepped into the room. It was like a backstage really; anyone could just waltz in whenever they pleased. Although he knew he wasn't the same as 'organic beings', biologically speaking, it was still dehumanising to be intruded upon when half dressed.

He threw on his blue outfit. A peasant garment as opposed to a sailor's uniform. The toon fabric fit on his body, in places physics would deem impossible... but it was all for the sake of capturing that animated look.

He stared straight ahead, into the mirror.

He'd fix that scab he'd made in his skull.

Opening a bottle of varnish released an all too familiar smell, for every toon. Donald took a seat and poured some into his hands. Quickly, before it dried, he rubbed it into the imperfect dint in his head. He'd let that dry for a moment, then he'd be as good as new.

He wiped off the excess with a discarded tissue. Having nothing to do now but wait, he slumped in his stool, resting a heavy head in his hands as his stomach bubbled nervously. Gazing into the reflection's eyes. Beginning to drift off while still awake.

There were certain things which only served to set him off. He'd always had a bit of a short fuse. Maybe...?

In his cartoons maybe. Maybe in real life too, if by short fuse you meant: having a no-nonsense attitude. Without cameras in his face, he'd probably react to a difficult situation with a questioning remark, that didn't necessarily mean 'tantrum'- however, he knew that if he were pushed hard enough, he could definitely fly off the handle. But not as far as his cartoons portrayed, never that far.

But ever since he'd returned, there'd been a different atmosphere. He was more difficult. Reluctant to go back to that state of loving vulnerability- worst of all, he felt it towards his children. He hated that it had affected his connection with them; all he'd wanted when he was gone, was to be able to hold his boys, kiss them and tell them how much he loved them. But when he got back, he was scared. He didn't want to lose what they had; if he did, it'd kill him.

He still remembered the day they were born into this world; he was also reluctant at first; in a much different way. Having children was as much as a change to him, as it would be to anyone else, surprisingly. That first night with them, was something he'd dream and smile about, still to this day... it was a weird day, completely different and chaotic. He couldn't put his feet up and smoke in his living room anymore and dinners took longer to cook... yet the feeling of little, defenceless ducklings, sleeping peacefully on his chest, gripping the collar of his sailor suit like it was a lifeline- it was the best feeling in the world. He'd leaned his head against Louie's, eyes were closed. He recalled his smile. Things were finally coming up 'Donald'. That moment was his. Those were his babies and no-one... no-one could ever take that away from him.

When home welcomed him, something similar happened. Luckily for him, they hadn't aged a day. He was finally favoured in that regard; he knew a big population of his other comrades, probably went home to a dramatically different family. Trying to form a bond with (a now) teenaged child, would be much more exhausting. But that night, his darlings cuddled up to him and the sounds of their breathing with their gentle touch, it was all he'd needed to lull him to sleep. After years of sleepless, noise filled nights... they had made everything okay.

He smiled.

The varnish was definitely dry now. He reached behind him and grabbed his hat, a brown, linen, toon knit, hat, with a blue feather blooming from its top. Putting it on his head, made him realise: how he looked ridiculous; never mind, he was used to that. His eyes were sunken and a faint pigment of blue, dusted the rims of his lids. That colour just followed him, didn't it? He searched the table for some white paint-

The 'door' flew open.

"Hiya, Donnie boy."

A smug inflection engulfed the air.

"Mickey."

'Donnie' plainly stated. No emotion was heard in his voice. It was ice cold...

He refused to turn around. He kept his hands flat and attached to the vanity in front of him. Mickey faltered, then scoffed loudly. Donald felt his feathers quiver and flare up in silent rage.

"Wow, no 'hello'? You better shape up, if ya know what's good for ya."

It was hard holding back his emotions, especially when it was Mickey he was talking to.

It was really tiresome. Ever since 1939, he'd been doing this. Everyone had to adapt to his behaviour, it was ridiculously stupid. Donald and everyone else had seen the films... read the accounts, they knew how things used to be. How they got to this point, was beyond him... but here they are, they were here and they were barely holding themselves together. Goofy, Minnie, Clarabelle and Horace were his friends, Mickey wasn't apart of that group -and to him, he never was- but at one point, he definitely was, he used that (just like he'd use everything else,) and played it like a card in a game of poker, Minnie kept being pulled in and pushed away again. He used her, just for his own benefit and everyone saw that, they all tried to shield her, as best as they could but in their line of work, it was extremely difficult to stop every interaction. It didn't help that in those moments, they were playing as themselves; it blurred the lines of fiction and reality. What was love and what wasn't? He basked in the control he held over people, over her. Couldn't he see how horrifically far gone he'd strayed?

"Are you talking into a mirror?" Donald spat through gritted teeth.

He hated the rush of anger that held him so suddenly. Mickey would grab at that heated response and hold it above his head for days. Also, he just despised being angry, it was disgusting. He shivered.

"What are you yacking about?" Mickey asked.

"Don't play dumb." He evened out his breathing. This conversation wasn't new. He wasn't the only one to initiate it either; it was fathomless to fight the urge and not engage in it, his friend -no matter how complicated it was at the moment- was being tossed around like a baseball and seeing her being exploited and broken down... seeing how she declined so quickly, with no evidence of wanting to change. Hurting because of him. It was just infuriating.

"You're not even good at it." He finished.

Mickey just shook his head as he opened a drawer. He sorted through it for a moment before he took out his costume, he was acting so nonchalant; it wasn't the right attitude for the conversation and that spoke louder than words ever could.

Mickey had his back turned when he carelessly spat:

"I think you need another dosage of your 'looney pills' -"

"I'm NOT insane!"

"Tell that to the shrink, not me."

He was trying to get him riled up. He didn't care if emotions were harder to handle for him now, he wanted him to explode. Donald held onto his stomach, breathed through his nose and closed his eyes; still gripping onto the table... but now with an iron grip. He had a moment of this... before he was roughly shoved- pushed out of the way so abruptly, that he almost fell face first onto the floor.

"Move out the way, half pint. I need to get camera ready."

"Half pint? You're 3ft tall!"

"Yeah? And who else is? You sure are high tempered but those scrawny duck-legs don't match it, pal."

Breath. Breath.

"Whatever, you're not worth my time." Donald whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Why bother speaking to you, when you could just as easily talk to a wall?"

He was on his way out, proud that he'd walked away... when-

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, nut."

He removed himself from the room; he was scared that if I didn't, he'd do something he'd most certainly regret. Red hot anger bubbled beneath his skin. Being misunderstood messed with his head; more so nowadays. He wasn't a freak; he wasn't a freak. He wasn't a freak.

He didn't want to be a freak...

He took himself into a corner, not where the front of the set faced; it was too crowded over there. He stayed in a place which the back of the stage looked over. Tucked in the shadows, with his own arms holding him and stare empty. He felt strange, almost numb but still incredibly sad. Something about that conversation- it brought to the surface all the negative feelings, all the shame, everything awful he'd thought about himself today.

'Why did you think that?'

'Why can't you just snap out of it?'

'Everyone knows you're a loon.'

The amount of air that left his nose, harshly and quickly, was more than a photosynthesizing plant, working at full speed, could ever wish to produce. It was true. They were true. He was insane, he was unstable, he was a freak. Everything he did, was just a facade to cover up how he really felt inside, he wasn't even having fun working anymore. If he could have it his way, he'd quit. But did anybody know that? No. All the time, people said he was good at his job. Was that just because he was a mindless toon? Like so many others, only produced to perform one thing, over and over again? Whenever he did his job, he felt nothing; if it was a scene that brought back memories, he'd be torn up, inside and outside... but it wasn't like anyone ever questioned it or put his well being first. Eventually, he calmed down. Luckily, he hadn't been seen.

"Alright, people! Countdown starts now!" Yelled one of the directors.

In the blink of an eye, they were ready: Mickey, Donald and Goofy. In front of them, lay an expansive, super-sized, banquet of delicious food. One of the scenes they needed to finish before release, was this one: a cinematic moment of toon movement, slapstick and acrobatics. People made sure everything was ready... then... '3,2,1... action!' the three of them ran across a mammoth table, exclaiming joy and elation at the food scattered across the vast landscape. Mickey tackled the celery and Donald flew at the cheese. Expertly, the duck chewed off enormous bits, continuous of each other, without choking. Goofy scaled an equally large toon prop whilst people manned a second camera. When it was time to get back into character- Minnie walked into the room. The sight of Goofy, holding a behemoth of a knife above him, guiding green peas down it, it made her mouth water. Boy, she was starving. She had to sit down.

Goofy was plummeted by the peas; he was catapulted into a plate of bouncy, scarlet, jelly. The camera addition from before, assured that his flying would be filmed chronologically and seamlessly. He forced his body to spring up from the squishy surface when he made contact. Toon props certainly followed toon rules but not to the same degree as a living toon; Goofy had to strain himself to complete these seemingly smooth, effortless acts. People thought they could just jump up and down and the work would be done for them- bull. Just look at when humans visited Toontown and had to obey their physics, it was clunky and clearly off. That's what happens when two worlds collide. He belly-flopped into the jelly when his higher altitude jumps were through; all of the energy he'd sent to his feet and legs, still bubbled inside him when he ceased moving them. The jelly jiggled for a second more, that, combined with his lower half's abrupt stop, caused his bent-up energy to shoot up, passed his stomach and chest, his skull and ears, all before collecting in his nose, he let it tremble for the gag but he soon held it, stopping its movements. Goofy started to run on the spot, trying and failing to grab the blue hat, which had flown off whilst he was in the air; he purposefully ran without moving forwards, when his character finally realised, he wasn't getting anywhere, he stopped. This caused his pants to comically fall but again, all that excess energy was still left; Goofy channelled it in an indescribable way, making his trousers, look as though they wriggled to life, shooting back up to his waist. He smiled then jumped at his hat. This spring loaded them into a montage of Goofy flying through the air, trying to retrieve the head wear.

He continued to twist and spin and exert extreme amounts of energy as he performed, eventually landing into a bowl full of nuts. That was her cue.

"Who's there? Who is it?" called a gentle and dreamy voice.

"It's the harp!" Mickey asserted. The camera, by this point, was filming a locked jewellery box.

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!"

Goofy and Donald acted as the stepping stool that allowed Mickey to peer into the key hole. She was trapped but even with the obscurity, she still looked beautiful. Blonde, golden hair with brown eyes to match, brown eyes that'd melt anyone's heart.

"How'd you get here?" Mickey asked.

"I was kidnapped by that wicked giant!" the harp explained.

"Oh..." Mickey mumbled understandably.

Then-

"A giant!?" he expressed with terror.

That was the end of that scene; the set was cleared after a few more takes. The standing cardboard backgrounds that made up the harps prison were moved; those were needed for when she'd get a close up shot; the camera couldn't fit inside the real toon box. They swiftly transitioned into the next scene that needed perfecting. They had already filmed all the life action scenes; a playback was used to speak the lines of the real actors:

'You leave it to Mickey, just watch.'

Said mouse was then released from the giant's hand. He walked the length of his palm. Eyes on his toes, muttering loudly:

"10, 20, 30... wow! What a lifeline!"

The toon playing the giant, could morph himself into any size, as his role required- but that also meant: he wasn't permanently ginormous. He had the ability to make the limb on screen, large and obviously: giant. Meanwhile, the rest of him remained normal-sized. To make for easier filming.

"What about this one!" the redheaded toon asked; shape-shifting his other hand to also be large, so he could point to another wrinkle in his palm.

"Oh! I don't believe it!"

Mickey rigidly faced the camera. He shrugged and pulled his mouth into a thin line; his eyes were wide. The pose, as well as the animation that built up to it, looked almost identical to that of another toon mouse: Timothy Mouse, from 'Dumbo' fame. It took imagination and talent, passion and improvisation, to act like Donald or Goofy. Mickey was on the cusp of reusing animation, stealing other people's routines ever so subtly... but no-one said anything.

Minnie's head tilted to rest on her shoulder as she watched. He was lovely, he could be. She wasn't bruised enough to have an excuse to be displeased and he was genuinely kind when he wanted to be. He'd hold her hand sometimes, kissed her sometimes... he knew exactly what to say to make her feel better. She could make this work. She loved him. Then the director yelled: 'cut'. Mickey momentarily lost his balance- but he caught himself; for some reason, he turned to Donald and Goofy, eyes piercing. The acclaimed toon scowled at them and pointed a harsh finger in their direction, jabbing at the air in belligerence.

Mickey claimed it was their fault he tripped. Donald looked like he wanted to faint; Goofy just looked annoyed, Minnie dare say... pissed. His arms were folded, his stance tall and unmoving, eyes half lifted. Fed up.

"Mick, we haven't moved." The dog's voice was aggressively robotic.

The director told them to stop... but Minnie had already focused on something else:

He was treating his friends- her friends, like crap. Wasn't she the one who resented the idea of eating lunch with Daisy, after everything she'd done to Donald? Yet here Minnie was: holding on hope for Mickey, when he was no better than that duck, he was worse, in fact.

Didn't she care?

What about her friends?

Deep inside, did she only care about herself and her wants? Did she secretly feel like they were second-rate?

She was selfish. So unbelievably selfish.

She was a terrible friend.

An instantaneous sound made her jump. Suddenly, everyone seemed more alive: talking more energetically, moving from their seats- or from the general area they'd been stuck to for the majority of the time. They must've finished that portion. Minnie acknowledged how her 'bones' felt eerily hollow; how her stomach gurgled... her tongue turned even more dry and barren. All of them, made her feel disgustingly ill.

"Okay! that was fantastic!"

"Goofy, you were a bit flat on that last movement; let's try that part again."

Goofy opened his hands and shook his head incredulously, as if to say: 'are you serious?'. Minnie frowned. Goofy was amazing from what she'd seen.

"So, I was good?" Mickey asked audaciously.

One of the three directors sighed.

"Yes, Mickey. You did good." He groaned.

"Okay then. I want a snack. I'm taking a break."

"Mr Mouse! - Mickey, wait-"

Mickey threw off his hat, the light and thin fabric, somehow managed to hit the floor audibly. It sounded like a flat hand slamming against a brick wall.

"I'm taking a break, Morgan!" He screeched.

Morgan's head fell limp, another suspire escaped him. After a few moments of quietly muttering with the other director's, he performed a pirouette- and pointed right at her.

"Minnie, fetch Mickey something to eat. Now, please."

Both Goofy and Donald turned panic-stricken. Stepping off of the elevated floor of the set to bargain with the director's; all they were met with, were incensed eyes. Minnie could feel how the looks controlled them, she was changed by them, even with their faces ignoring her.

"Don't, I'll go-"

"What? You can't go! Get back on that stage!"

"You can't get Minnie to do it; she's been on her feet all day-"

"It's not that late, Donald! I should hope that she be on her feet!"

"You can't let her take it to him."

"You don't tell me what to do!"

"Whatever is happening between them, is none of your business. She's a grown toon." Added a second director.

"Minnie!" Those merciless eyes, now scrutinised her soul. "Get your boyfriend a sandwich!"

"NOW!"

"He's not her boyfriend!" Goofy interjected. Squaring his shoulders, so that his already intimidating size, was double the threatening it could be. Despite his gangly frame, Goofy was unusually tall for a toon. 6ft1 with a hat and size 18 1/2 shoes on his feet.

"Do I look like I care?"

Well, he did look like he'd hesitated. But the reminder that this was a pliable toon, must've won over his emotions because he matched Goofy's stance with one of his own.

"Just send someone else!" Goofy wasn't backing down.

"You two just won't get it! You're scribbles, drawings people laugh at, she's getting him his stupid sandwich and you're going to listen and do as you're told!"

"But you don't understand-"

"I understand plenty! Get back on that stage or there will be no stage to get back onto!"

.

.

.

Minnie stepped into the cafeteria once again. Her once tired and unmoving body was now bumping with undecided energy. She was a conflict of emotion.

"Hello!" She skittishly blurted.

"Hello, dear." Replied the woman behind the hygiene shield.

"Can I get a ham sandwich please, with some water?"

"No problem!"

She wasn't over her revelation. How could she be such an unbelievable hypocrite- why was she so useless? In every possible way?

Her shoulder was then poked roughly. She jumped out her skin. Her black eyes, came face to face with... a baby's. A toon baby. They sat on a chair which had -at least- 5 books between it and his behind. A tuft of blonde hair curled up from his head, it was tied with a cute, pink bow. Minnie pulled a face at his goo-goo stare.

"Helllllooooooo!" He slurred.

Minnie blinked. The cup in his hand caught her eye: a glass, half full with orange juice. (Probably spiked with something.) It had a red and white, striped straw poking out of it.

"Urm... hi."

"When do you get off of work?"

...

What was she supposed to say!?

"Same time as everybody else...?"

He looked like he was going to speak again... but then he fell back in his chair, hitting the floor like a toon anvil, orange juice had spilt all over him.

Her sandwich was ready.

The lady gave it to her a graciously as she could; then she leaned over the counter, inspecting what had caused the chaos. The toon lay asleep on the ground, drool was running from his mouth and juice ruined his once pristine diaper.

"I swear to God! This is the last time I serve drinks to that baby!"

Before Minnie had gotten completely out of earshot, she heard:

"Hey! Can someone get this toddler back to the Rabbit room? Thank you!"

.

.

When the four walls around her were yet again, those of the set, Donald found her in the crowd of people. She held a porcelain plate, pensively to her chest. They made eye contact, Donald shook his head, mouthing the words: 'Don't listen to him.'

She nodded.

Mickey fiddled with his belt from what she saw through the gap in curtain. He barely ever gave her a passing glance... but Minnie couldn't help staring. Wanting so badly for him to feel her eyes and meet them... but he didn't. He always left her optimistic, like when he mentioned how he might accompany her on a dog walk; he never did, then there was the 'dip' situation: Benny sounded the alarm, quite literally. He was screaming through the streets, driving so fast he'd circled through Downtown and Toontown, probably more than once. Photographers flew like flies, populating a still active crime scene. The vultures had directed them, 'them' were: the toons who'd escaped from the comfort of their homes to investigate the commotion, some were still in their work clothes. Donald was wearing blue and she knew he hated that outfit. Mickey, ever the pleaser, followed their demands as the cameras rolled and flashed. He smiled at her and tugged her into a dance. But when the people had gotten all their footage- or had been driven out by the police. He let her go and walked away from her. Instead, he caught up with Bugs Bunny, who flinched at his touch. Everyone's attitude switched when the cameras were on. Without even thinking about it. Goofy and Donald stood closer to Mickey to give the impression of a friendship. No one wanted to be tossed away and at the end of the day, Minnie didn't hold it against them; she knew the behaviour to 'play up' was conditioned into all of them... even Roger Rabbit had called Acme a 'genius'; his face twisted in disgust after. It looked like he'd been possessed for a moment, possessed by a demon... who wanted nothing more than to make the public happy and comfortable. Don't complicate things, if it hurt, the public wouldn't be able to take it, if a man was a monster, then manipulate the masses into believing he was an innocent victim, it'd save them from making the difficult decision of hating him or not. Even the best of them, toons who were strong and stood their ground... but when faced with a camera...? they still fell victim to the brainwashing that was: being family friendly or neutral. If you were too opinionated you weren't funny.

That baby... Herman was his name, had been opinionated before he'd noticed the lenses but he'd pulled a wide eyed, begging, baby face after Valiant had been shocked by a hand buzzer. That alone seemed to fix things a tad. Not fully. Spoiled toons were just more likely to push their luck. Mickey was more coordinated with his however.

He knew what to do, he'd pull out the 'Mickey card' whenever he pleased, not even for monetary reasons, Minnie knew he probably felt happy at her obedience... but that also meant that he might like her, at least a little bit. Because why her? Out of everyone?

Well, the answer was probably a bit obvious... but there was still a chance of the opposite-

No.

But he could change. He'd proven as such...

Hadn't he...?

She pushed open the curtain.

"What do ya want?"

He called from behind his shoulder. Sounding like asking that question was one of the biggest burdens he'd ever faced. He was trying to get a lighter working; was too busy to look for himself. A cigarette hung from his mouth, muffling his speech slightly and endearingly bobbing when he'd spoke.

The lighter clicked again...

A habit he'd picked up from Walt.

"I got you some food." She muttered lowly.

Identical eyes, looked into each other. They might have looked similar- but the people behind them, their emotions and beliefs, couldn't be more different.

"Oh, it's just you."

The flame finally ignited. Mickey shoved the nicotine-stick into his mouth, breathing it in deeply.

"What did ya get..." it wasn't a question; he took the plate carelessly and dissected the meal.

Minnie watched. She felt like what he was doing, was somehow targeted to her... in a weird way; it was to do with food- but she was probably looking too much into it. Plus, she was hungry. She waited for his response; it was the only distraction she could hold onto in that moment.

"Good enough."

Wasn't worth the wait.

"Could use some more flavour next time... a nice bag of chips would go with this just fine, not just flavourless water."

He fingered to the glass she'd placed on the vanity. That gloved finger wriggled in such a manner, that gave off the impression of irrational disgust. The 'muscles' in his digits flew away from the cup like it was poison.

"I'm sorry, Mickey."

"Like I said, it's good enough." He wasn't reassuring at all.

Smoke billowed around him when he breathed, the cigarette was plucked from his lips, he kept it in between his first and second finger for now. A big bite of the sandwich occupied his mouth. As he ate, he continued to make commentary, waving his hands around him as he did; the smoke drew lines in the air.

"At least you got this below par crap and they didn't. I'd be covered in it if goofy walked in, holding it above his head like he's the fucking statue of liberty. He'd trip over his clown shoes and fall like a sad sack of potatoes."

Usually, she'd talk him through why he should give their friends the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps babying him, telling him: she knew he could see them like he used too. She didn't support his behaviour, she'd told him it wasn't right; she wasn't forward enough... harsh enough... and being reminded of how she'd react normally, combined with Daisy's lies... It made her feel absolutely evil.

She'd held her tongue a lot that day. But she couldn't anymore.

"You... you shouldn't talk about them like that."

Mickey's aura changed; he faced the projector which held his megalomania, onto her.

"Killjoy. I can do whatever I want."

"-n-No, you can't say those things."

"What the hell, Minnie? don't get your skirt in a twist. It was just a joke. What, do ya not get it? You're supposed to be a toon, this is your area."

"I know what I am..." she whispered.

"I do too." He took another bite of the sandwich she'd given him. "You think you're bigger than you really are."

"I- I don't-"

"You know, you're not a star, right? People would celebrate if you left. Why bother showing up? Unless you like scrubbing tables for people?"

She was always speechless during moments such as this, still just as mousy and sad as expected- but this still shook her to her core.

"Just mess up the things you have at home and clean them. You come here to make yourself feel like a member of Disney."

It was like he could read her mind, like he'd rehearsed all of the things that'd maybe relate to her insecurities, in the mirror religiously.

"You're not Disney, you're just Minnie."

"Why- Why are you so mean to me? To us?" Her tone was begging.

"God, I'm really the only sane one here, aren't I?" He continued to toss his arms around; angrily and with warning, the smoke from his cigarette, spinning and multiplying tenfold.

"If you think the truth is mean, then you're more lost than I thought."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone knows you never eat."

.

The world stopped moving.

.

"It's getting annoying."

Everything was silent but head-splittingly booming.

"Every toon knows that you get what you're given."

'No-one cares. Everyone knew but no-one cared. Hedidn't care'

Images of her father flashed in her brain-

.

"It's not daddy's fault he made you look like that."

No. Thoughts and feelings were scrambling, she needed a minute to breath, to collect herself- but his voice clogged up the air, leaving her no oxygen to swallow up. She was seething. Uncontrollable, burning anger and sadness vibrated her whole being-

"Just- JUST SHUT UP!"

Oh, God. What had she done? She was already on thin ice with him and now she might have potentially ruined whatever she may have had with him-

Mickey was staring at her. In his face, she couldn't help but see her true love, the one she knew could improve if he just tried. The one who- if he just took a break from acting like a child, could be a loyal and respected man, maybe even a husband. For a split second, she thought that she'd gotten through to him. Maybe she'd knocked him down a peg? Then his eyes narrowed. Chest pushed forward as he looked her up and down, looked straight through her, like she was an annoying piece of food that refused to be scrubbed off a plate.

"...geez, Minnie calm down."

"No one wants to hear you scream like that; the way you speak normally is worse enough."

He spat those statements, then pushed passed her. The fluttering of the curtain was all the company he'd left her. Alone, with legs shaking, moving the world where she stood. Her head was airy, she was so sad she wanted to sit down and cry, she was so angry she wanted to break the glass of the mirror. Her reflection, in the mirror image, she saw all her flaws. She looked pathetic. Trembling and hunched. Pale faced and small. The reverse image scowled. Grunting and shrieking was barely heard- but was happening behind a closed mouth. She tossed some items on the vanity to the floor, quickly and roughly, so as to not give herself a chance to contemplate the action. Feeling satisfied with how paint pots had been opened and ruined, sprinkling the floor with iridescence and colour, plastic mingled with the pastel chaos. She had control over them.

Didn't he realise that she might die?! Didn't he care!?

She had to face reality. He never cared. All those cartoons she mulled over... all those black and white shorts she barely remembered. Ones she hoped he still did, deep in the corners of his mind, the evidence that he was a nice person, that he loved her before. It would never be the same again. Maybe it never was.

In a quiver, the mess turned from oddly satisfactory, to extremely petrifying. Regret and guilt weighed heavy on her stomach. Oh no. Tears finally fell from her face. The instant hyperventilation kicked her in her toon heart. She ran to the cloth curtain, not the one that lead out and into the congestion. The opposing one, that marked a path to nowhere. She got tangled in the cotton drapes, making her that original level of frustrated and sad all over again. Once she had wrangled herself free. She ran. Out of the set, through the reception, down some stairs, where she found a musty, grey corner and cried.

She thought back to that day. The day Doom was killed, the day Mickey had held her and swayed with her...

Mickey's silhouette was completely colourless when in front of the setting toon sun. Minnie's eyes were wide. The brightness started to sting them.

But she continued to stare. Watching him leave into that perfect sunset. People were still smiling... laughing and smiling and singing... Mr Valiant and his lady-friend were striding in tandem with the Rabbits. Minnie wanted to cry. Donald touched her shoulder, jumping made Minnie register the people around her: Goofy, Clarabelle and Horace. They all gave her adoring looks, it was a nice moment, almost uplifting... before Donald's triplets pulled him away; giggling childishly. Goofy let go of Clarabelle's hand, he walked in his awkwardly charming way towards her. Kneeling down to her level, highlighting his nearly human, bony legs. They were so long and thin, not even his baggy trousers could hide the sickly look of them; Minnie only truly processed that fact when he was curled in front of her like that. He had smiled and took her hand, pulling her to walk with them. Clarabelle was on Horace's arm, her head nestled against him; his policeman's uniform bunched up at the elbow because of her secure grip. His arm was around Goofy's shoulders and Goofy's held her in a gentle grasp, his thumb brushed over her shoulder affectionately. Minnie buried her face into the side of his slacks and as they walked, a few tears fell from two makeup-ed eyes, they stained his trousers but he had just squeezed her sweetly. Donald was in front of them, holding two out of three of his children by the hand. He'd turned around and smiled sadly at her, she returned it this time...

Why did he have to be like this?! Didn't he know that they were made for each other? Literally?! Didn't he want to be a big happy family? Everything would be so great if they'd all get along like they're supposed too. Just like in the cartoons...

She'd been sitting on that cold, dirty floor for a few minutes. Nothing but her cries filling the space... until footsteps approached. A breath escaped her- eyes opened and observed the darkness, that putting her head in her knees had created.

"Minnie, girl?"

It was a southern accent that had spoken those words. An undeniable voice.

Minnie knew it was safe to carry on crying. But her face remained buried, her body stayed twisted in a fetus position; it was painted with despondency. Goofy pulled up his pants in a very, fatherly-mannerism, type way; he slid down to the floor and threw an arm around her.

"It's okay... you're going to be okay..."

"I'm so sorry-"

"Shh... shh, enough of that now... Goofy's got ya."

Adjusting his trousers, wasn't the only dad-like thing he possessed. The way he calmed her and held her, oh so lovingly, he was the dad she wished Walt could be.

"This life is hard... but it's the only one guys like us have. We have to stick together." Goofy continued to soothe. Speaking quietly and mildly. No judgment.

"The ones who care will let you know that, without having to say it."

Minnie's breath caught in her throat; when she retrieved it again, it came out in hurried, harsh gasps. Goofy's hand stroked her head lightly.

"I- I know... I'm so s-st-stupid!"

"No, no, you're not... You just need to learn how to love yourself, that's all." The second -but original- giant -but gentle- toon brought her in closer, nearer to hugging her now.

"Shouldn't be hard; you're amazing." He recommenced.

"I- I'm not-"

"Yes, you are-"

"I'm not! I saw him have lunch, I- I- I still give him chances when he hurts you! I'm a hypocrite! I make excuses for him but I don't for Daisy." she shamefully admitted. Splutters and whimpers collapse onto the floor afterwards. The toon beside her, comforted her in his soft hold, unmoving and steady, even with her admission.

"Minnie, he hurts you too, you're just as much of a victim as we are. You more, actually."

"But-"

She was starting to feel better... with all the clarity his words brought. But were they really fact? She still found contradictions to dispel the statement. But maybe- that was more reasoning and reaffirmed his proclamation. She had to make sure he'd heard everything she'd said; it was possible that he'd missed some details.

"But... Lunch...? And-"

"No, no 'lunch', I'm telling you: you're wrong."

That's when the sound of water, sloshing in a cup, reached Minnie's colossal ears.

"Let's just sit here for a minute." Goofy spoke amidst the liquid-y noises.

The thing the director had said-

"But filming... and it's still the beginning of the day-" Minnie parroted.

"Just sit for a bit, they won't know where to find me for at least a little while..." He chuckled faintly.

"Drink some water."

The sodden sounds drifted closer; a paper texture brushed against her arm. Minnie finally urged herself out of her limbed prison. Cold air hit her face. A white cup stared her down, Goofy was also; an infectiously, affectionate smile was on his face.

"Hydrate yourself." He spoke.

It just sat in her hands. It tempted her, she considered taking a sip- but for right now, she just held it to her chest, that was hydrating enough.

Minnie leaned against him, her tears started to dry on her skin but each time she blinked, more flowed; she was just breathing as steadily as she could muster, living in the comfortable silence that had flown over them.

"Hey...? Wanna hear a story...?"

The mouse sniffled.

"Okay..." she coughed.

"It's one of my favourite cartoons." Goofy settled into a 'bedtime story' narrator voice, it was far better than the disembodied voice in 'Fun and Fancy Free.'

"See: this kid swallows a rattle and this rabbit has to take him to the hospital..."

.

.

---

The sky had dimmed. The air had gone cold and Daisy Duck was getting ready to go home. The bow on her head sat proudly, just as perfectly upright as it was when she left the house that morning however, she still fluffed its sides after packing her bag, a black, brief-case reminiscent, doctor's bag. Her pink coat was buttoned stylishly and its belt was tied in a bow, matching that of the fuchsia one on her head. She left her office, traversed the empty hall and just as she was about to open the door to outside-

"Daisy!"

Walt Disney had left the confines of his office to stomp the grounds of the reception. Daisy's hand fell, ceasing its reaching out for the door.

"Yes?"

"Where have you been all day?"

He didn't stop moving until he was directly in front of her. His sharply shaped eyebrows were downcast in accusatory anger.

"I was in story pitch." Daisy defended confidently, "That and the ink and paint department, I still design clothes down there."

"Well, I distinctly remember asking you to come speak with me today."

"No-one told me."

"Someone has now." Walt sassed.

Daisy's eyes widened, the tiredness of the day finally falling and clarifying her mind- or maybe the abrupt confirmation that he wasn't at all happy, was the nail that hit her in the heart. It starting bumping wildly. She hadn't done anything wrong, had she? What could she have done today to warrant a talking to?

"Come on, step in my office." Walt said, "Let's have a chat."

.

.

.

"I just miss what we had... that's all."

The duck eventually breathed. Embarrassment shaking her body, her go to preservation for such shame was to cover it up with brass credence-

"A little white lie never hurt anyone." She hissed.

"Who told you then?" Walt's interrogator-tone, didn't once falter.

"Clarabelle." Daisy revealed. "You know she's always chewing gud." Daisy teased. Trying to push the upset spotlight off her.

"... right..." Walt scribbled a note on one of his many expensive sheets.

"Can I leave now?" Daisy asked moodily; it was only to camouflage her mortification.

Walt didn't notice or didn't care to notice her flushed face; he flashed her an inflamed grin.

"Of course. In fact, why don't you take tomorrow off?"

"My pleasure."

She did go home; not needy for bed- instead, scared and not at all sleepy, fidgety, irreversibly neurotic.

---

Present day: Saturday the of 7th of June, 1947...

A clock shrieked; a chiming filled the room.

"...fire... fire...!" came a mumbling.

"I'll save you...!" the lisping accent continued. Covers shifted and a white, fluffy arm came out from the fabric- but the typical: carrying-one-to-safety as the voice suggested, didn't happen. Instead it just fell limply and around the person he was addressing: a half awake toon, who was now rubbing her eyes; groaning whilst her husband snuggled deeper into her. She pushed herself up and twisted to look at the clock.

"It's the alarm..."

"Oh..." he murmered, "so, there's no fire...?"

"No." she plainly stated.

"...Lovely...!" he yawned, resuming his cuddling.

But his wife moved, slipping out of his hold to stand up-

"Where are you goingggggg?" Roger sulked.

He finally peeled open his eyes. Watching as Jessica adjusted the duvet, lifting it and laying it back down; softening its creases. Her hair was up in rollers and her night dress matched the morning light, barely peaking up from beyond the horizon.

"To freshen up, I have to go to the club."

Roger itched his own face; he laughed sleepily at her answer.

"Jessica, you silly-beautiful-Billy..." Roger pointed at her, he was reaching, trying to boop her nose- but was to cosy to lift himself up and do so.

Jessica smiled.

"It's a full moon...! Ya don't need to go...! Lest the public be eaten alive by my werewolf wife..."

"No." She laughed. "Remember, we need new members for the band? I have to oversee the auditions."

"Ooooh...!It's all coming back to me now." a yawn muffled the following words: "Wake me when you're about to head out..."

Jessica turned and sat on the bed, facing the ensuite with a tilted head, taking out the plastic cylinders in her hair-

"Okay, honey."

But with still half of her hair full of rollers- she leaned back and whispered in his ear:

"I think you're beautiful too."

"Stoooop! Not here, Jessica! Not when the children are watching...!"

"You're delirious." She smirked. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes in endearment, "-you wouldn't think you were an early bird."

"You know I'm kidding!"

Roger started to giggle uncontrollably-

"Give me more compliments! STAT! We're losing the patient! I'm seeing stars...!"

The toon threw back his head, rolling back his eyes dramatically. As soon as he heard her giggling, he sprung back to life-

"Hey! Remember last night on that show? That guy shot spit from his mouth like a spit fire! Get it? Boy, I'm good! Most definitely. Oh, yes. Good eye, Roger, good eye...!" He babbled energetically-

"That and he spoke to that woman like she was an alien. What kind of people are making folks who are more toon than human these days?" He asked disbelievingly. His face then contorted into one of disgust:

"Yuck! I just reminded myself of birth-" "conceive-ation...? Human birth, that is. I wasn't-"

"I- I'm a rabbit!"

"I know you are." Jessica cooed tenderly.

She kissed his head, he still had his eyes closed- but he smiled and moaned happily behind a closed mouth, craning his neck to push further into her, shaking his legs in giddiness from under the sheets.

"I'm going in the shower." She said once she pulled away.

"Okay, I love you."

"I love you too."

Jessica left into the bathroom to get ready.

---

Notes:

Goofy says: stay hydrated.

("What did ya get..." it wasn't a question; he took the plate carelessly and dissected the meal.

Minnie watched. She felt like what he was doing, was somehow targeted to her... in a weird way; it was to do with food- but she was probably looking too much into it. Plus she was hungry. She waited for hisbr /

response; it was the only distraction she could hold onto in that moment.

Mickey: looking at the food.

Minnie: well, I'm waiting for your fucking response, are you just not gonna say anything, dumbass?

That moment u make memes of your own fic.)

Also, couldn't resist writing Herman making a fool of himself, that's probably my favourite part of all this and it took me less than a minute to write. agAGHHHH.

Not gonna lie, Minnie is basically a self insert. I'm okay with eating right now. but I suffered from anorexia when I was 15/16-17. One of the worst times and I'm really happy I feel freedom eating whatever I want now 😊 but writing this as a part of Minnie felt fitting weirdly? And was also kinda therapeutic. If any of you are struggling: you deserve what ever you want! Don't have enough room to type out a full motivational speech but a channel that really helped me back then, was called: Hat will beat this (now it's called: hat DID beat this. I'm so proud of her!) She actually talked to me once, because I used to put videos about my recovery too. But I wouldn't recommend those, I admittedly wasn't in the best mindset when I did them and my brain found a way to make filming them restrictive. So yea... idk. Sorry about this fucking sad bomb. But I'm better now! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Take care of yourselves! You are valid in your suffering no matter what your size!