Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in following fic are the views and opinions of the author and may or may not represent Disney and the team behind MD:TAS.

This is for Mara Jade DuCaine, wherever you may be.

Wildwing was always his most contemplative early in the morning. After rising, he would drag out a yoga mat and stretch for thirty minutes. Duke had caught him once, coughing the word "gay" into a balled fist but that was easily ignorable. Maybe for it being a highly immature statement for a series of exercises that would limber him up, and perhaps he didn't take it as an insult but rather a self-testament. Of course, the latter would never be admitted to anyone, let alone out loud.

The mallard would go down the corridor, still dressed in an undershirt and loose pair of flannel pajama bottoms before he'd turn down the final right wall into the kitchen. His teammates, and Phil, would be assembled there, boxes of cereal yanked from one set of hands to the next, occasionally a few brawls set out. Phil would be sure to bring the donuts, but should anyone attempt to take said donut he would whine profusely, stating their need to stay a "lean, mean, money-making… I mean hockey-playing machine!"

Any time he said that, Nosedive would rip the box away from Phil's chubby fingers, drawing it above his head as he sprinted across the kitchen, socks sliding against the floor.

"Dive, aim long!" Wildwing would call as he entered the room, diving to the ground as he saved a flying, and quite valuable, double chocolate donut.

"Oh, come on guys," Phil protested, never able to jump high enough or maneuver his body in the right way as the donuts sailed past him: Boston Crème, Rainbow Sprinkle, Powdered, Glazed – it didn't matter that Tanya was a diabetic and would end up using the donut in one of her lab experiments; all that mattered was that it was something, anything to rile Phil up.

Mornings, Wildwing decided as he took his first bite of the pastry, were definitely his time of day.

As breakfast concluded, the ducks would head to the ice for a morning practice. After stretching their limbs, they ran drills under the meticulous eye of their Team Captain. Mask of Drake DuCaine mounted upon his long beak, he was the closest to resembling a Roman Emperor that wasn't human. Hail Caesar. Wildwing should have worn a crown of ivy.

Practice had its bumps as Wildwing played alongside the others, saving his goal tending padding for another date. Starting out as a forward, he always had something to say to his younger brother, and it was on days like these that the Flashblade brothers would duel. Face off after face off, they would stare each other down until finally one would concede, giving the rights of the "best" center to the other. In practice, rarely Wildwing would allow his brother those privileges, lest his egotism expand his swollen head further than it was already.

After practice, the team would argue over the first showers. Stripped to their skivvies, the guys would wait in annoyance as Tanya and Mallory won the first rights… again. Women were always better negotiators, Wildwing concluded, and Nosedive never seemed to mind the wait claiming maybe one day the women would invite him to join them.

"You're clutching straws again, kid," Duke would laugh good naturedly, a hand moving to snag the man in a headlock, knuckle ruffling up the long, blond locks.

"Hey! Better chance with me than with an aging hobo," Nosedive yelled, body twisting to try and pull his senior around.

Wildwing shook his head as Duke smacked his brother on the back then released him. "Go run around the locker room playing Spyborg with Grin again."

"Dude, for the last time it's PHISHMAN!" And promptly, Nosedive would leap on one of the locker benches, sliding across the length in his sweaty socks and obnoxiously printed boxers, Grin joining him only after Nosedive would break into a rendition of "Bad Touch." The youthful were utterly distractible and while Grin was pushing twenty-three versus Nosedive's seventeen the two had formed a kinship.

Nosedive was like that with everyone; he annoyed the team with his juvenile antics but his general charisma allowed him to be a very likeable mallard.

Wildwing sat next to Duke by that point, legs stretching before him. "How long do you think they'll be?"

The elder glanced up, brow raising above his patch-covered eye. "How many songs has Dive sung yet?"

Wildwing would pull the mask from his face and set it on the bench before his shoulders would shrug. "Three?"

"Have they done 'the Safety Dance' yet?"

"Don't believe so."

"Ten more minutes. Tops," Duke concluded. A bit of a smirk played on his face, bemused as his eyes shifted to his team leader and friend. "What color panties do you think they're wearing?"

"Duke!" Wildwing protested with a laugh.

"What? It's a serious question. I'm betting on pink for Tanya and mmm… white for Mallory. She seemed mellow today."

"Certainly there are better things we can be doing with our time than discuss the girls' underwear," Wildwing laughed.

Around then, Nosedive and Grin would start to spin in a circle, arms waving wildly yet all too timed, all too in sync. The byproduct of hours of practice.

"We can dance if we want to,

We can leave your friends behind,

'Cause if your friends don't dance

And if they don't dance

Well they're no friends of mine," they would sing, voices rising in an off-key unison.

The sounds of water would die as two faucets turned off. Tanya and Mallory would step out of the showers, bathrobes covering their bodies, bundle of clothes in hand, and loose, wet flip flops adorning their feet. It took a strong but well-aimed throw, and Mallory would hit Nosedive in the ass with a targeted can of spray-deodorant.

"Awww man, Maal! I was just at the best part!" Nosedive protested loudly, rubbing his rump.

"Get over it, loser," the fiery red head grunted.

"D-dah yeah. I mean, p-puhlease. The 'Safety Dance' is so last… last... so old." Both females would leave; the four remaining men would enter. They lacked the discipline to wear footwear, risking sharing Athlete's Foot or getting some form of bacterial infection.

Afternoons and evenings blended into one prolonged dream for Wildwing; he was barely able to separate part for part. He would eat at the Anaheim Mall, often accompanying his brother to Cap'n Comics though he would leave after Thrash and Mookie became too much of an annoyance (usually after a mere five minutes). Leaving the mall would bring him back to the Pond where he would find himself working out in the weight room in a pre-prep for a game. On game days, he would blast classic rock from his stereo; on off-days he would gather around his teammates waiting for the Drake I to offer an alarm, some form of disturbance in the city. On several occasions, those outings would involve battling Dragaunus, so far leading them to many victories only when Lizard Lips would make a cocky mistake such as hold a loaded canister of ammo above his head. Target acquired: bull's eye.

Wildwing believed you couldn't trust it to luck, and so he was always en guard. Canard had left the Mask in his hands stating that Wildwing would be leader now, that he could take anything thrown at him; Wildwing felt that was a mistake. Perhaps out of the assembled, remaining six he was the best choice able to keep the most level head save for Grin whom no one seemed to know whether he was deceased or living. Being a leader was no picnic.

The blaring sound of an alarm clock drew Wildwing from his sleep. 6:45 AM, a new day. He rose from his mattress, the bedsprings groaning with the absence of weight as he padded across the room to the clock and flipped the off-switch. Yoga, breakfast, practice, shower, lunch, work out, game, a new day.

Sometimes Wildwing wished things weren't quite so routine.

As he stepped into the hallway, ducking back against the wall to avoid a fleeing brother and guacamole-covered-faced Mallory, Wildwing decided that he really would much prefer routine.

A/N: Thanks for reading; it feels good to be back in the fandom.