His chest was still vibrating the moment he shot his eyes, his sight being scorched under the small table lamp organized next to him. Drake's remembrance of his dreams snatched him back into a familiar dread. Choking, wringing, squeezing out his existence, and filling it to the brim with douses of sorrow. He was better than this. He had to be better than this, because no one in the courses of living history would ever be a fit. Darkwing should have outwitted the scheme before he arrived. Drake should have been able to prevent his daughter from cheating on a math test. Darkwing Duck, Drake Mallard, whoever the heck he was, were not working class citizens. They were heroes in their own disguises, heroes who were supposed to make the right decisions, heroes who didn't care for taking risks, heroes who didn't rely on others for saving them. If one of them failed, the other would surely follow suit. Darkwing was just another criminal running around the streets, hypnotized by myths of superheroes, doing what he thought was right. Drake was nothing, and nothing more. Death always seemed to pop up on clearance sales, while life was only expected for the rich to buy.
Drake didn't feel like moving, not even to fully breathe. Breathing seemed to be a horrible drug, using it once had never been enough. He always needed more, but more was never the better. Yet, he'd be better off dead without it. He shifted his back, being cautious of bouncing pain. Something shifted and razed against him, it couldn't have been the grungy cloth he remembered wearing before.
He forced his eyes to focus, but his senses rebelled against the ability. Everything he saw seemed to glimmer in a daze, as if the world were still in the process of assembling itself for him. Drake rubbed his head, wondering if the fire explosion collided him too hard against the floor. Or perhaps his vision intended to be this way, in a way beyond his knowledge, awaiting the right moments to finally awaken back to full functionality. That, or Drake was really starting to lose his thinking capacity, still being fogged for most of the events of the day. Or was it days?
Drake traced his fingers over his side, trying to configure what was still brushing against him: the blood pulsing in the area trembled under his touch, the fabric whistling into the air as he traced its seams. He still didn't understand what it was.
Shifting approached the door, along with light squeaks of small mammals. Drake dropped himself back against the mattress. Snapped his eyes shut. If there really was an intruder, it was better to keep them in the shadows of what really played. That, and maybe Darkwing could kick in and figure out what was going on. The door groaned, along with mumbling Drake couldn't decipher into thoughts. Whoever had entered arrived at his side, the lamp side, still muttering what seemed to be short responses. The duck felt his muscles stain and pop under the stress he clutched them into, whoever this was could do anything to him. They could bash him against the floor until he was nothing but tears and snot. They could choke him against that bed, watching what little life he had left pour in his cries of shame. They could wedge something sharp in him, digging until the tip met the bone. It took every might in Drake's being not to rattle uncontrollably.
No. That wasn't going to happen. Not like this.
He felt the summoning touch of something reaching for him, and the duck didn't waste a second in the exposed advantage. Drake snapped his neck back. His burning arm snapped even quicker, snatching the thing that threatened to loom him. He never let go.
Drake heard a voice ring out, but he didn't hear the words. The thought of his failures had drugged him; every decision he made was irrational and had dire consequences. This wasn't going to be the end of him. Drake wasn't going to let his broken body be the victory and prize for his enemy. For a gist of a moment, it actually felt like the duck had something to live for. Then he remembered that he didn't.
His hand slipped off at the thought.
Morgana's heart choked her, her wrist becoming sore under the firm snatch. Drake's gaze seemed uneven, scrambled, in a world that wasn't this one. But there was also the look of terror in that gaze. A willingness for survival, a spirit that wouldn't shatter under torture. But as quickly as that look came, it was stomped out, dulling with the shadows that returned. The spirit died. Drake released her hand, with nothing but hollow thoughts.
Morgana thought that she would die.
"Darling, it's alright." She snatched back the very hand that had captured hers, if not clutching it to the point of no blood flow. Drake didn't bother reacting. The bats that fluttered behind her gave moans of dismay, earning them a murderous glare for their attempts at pity. Her grip became even firmer, as she maneuvered her other hand to gently groom the bruises upon Drake's. If she could save him once, then she could save him again.
As if he had read her very thoughts, Drake turned to present a solemn stare, that slowly chiseled away into one of recognition. He shifted his preserved fingers to inch across hers, as his gaze attempted to settle itself into reality. A flower had blossomed from the grave. His response was undeniable.
"Morg."
How had he not figured it out, from the very moment he grabbed her? Her touch was unforgettable, like a signature he had seen for decades. No matter the weather, her touch was always cool against his own, a gentle breeze for a sizzling day. Even with the storm raging outside, her chilling nature was still a comfort, and it was a comfort that always kept him nuzzled warm. She had been trying to reach him, but he only ever found solitude in his shadows. It shocked him to realize that all he had to do was turn on the light, and find her as his shadow vanished without grief.
He yammered something, but he couldn't remember what. The world around him seemed to finally had begun stilling itself, allowing him to see key characteristics of what he saw. The shape of a log that often summoned thoughts of trees, the white blanketed across the ground that had always formatted ice shortly after, the slender figure of the witch next to him. Granted everything was still fuzzed every a few times, but it seemed to have regained some of its original ability none the less.
He still wouldn't stop staring at her like a doofus though. Maybe Gosalyn did have a point about that. Drake didn't care.
Gosalyn. Where was Gosalyn. Drake's head couldn't ring him any alarms. Before he could ponder it any further, he felt Morgana begin to release her grip on him, shifting away from the mattress. Despair stabbed Drake straight through the chest cavity; she was leaving him, he would be alone again. Alone with his own thoughts, dwelling on what could have and should have been. He would have to ignore death's manipulation once again. He couldn't do that again. He wouldn't.
His fingers snatched around hers, hungry for the warmth and affection they carried. Her figure was still beyond blurred to him, yet the only thing he regretted out of it was being unable to lock her gaze. "Please." Drake hadn't noticed he had been the one who spoke, his voice gurgling under blankets of unconsciousness. Everything went still, so still that the duck thought he was holding onto air. He felt the figure of a hand slide up his side, slowly trailing a path of touch he would never forget. He sank under it.
With a dull thought, he reached to grab one of Morgana's arms, his desire striking him harder than his selflessness. He wanted her around him, to take away the crashing symbols in his head, take away the grief and exhaustion he felt enduring the snow, to take away the horrid face of Negaduck gazing down upon him like death claiming its victim. He needed her, more than ever.
"You're alright." Her voice was barely a murmur, shivering every nerve in his body more than the cold ever could. Drake felt her arms curtsied into a cradle, her hands gentle around his still healing wounds. His sight was still swayed, but he knew he was closer to her; every trembling breath she took ringed in his ears. It took the little strength left in Drake's body to not commence a sob, he wished to weep no longer.
Drake had forgotten the act he was doing as soon as he began it, his greed took control over his muddled reason. He pressed his aching beak just under the collar of her wear, hearing a sharp inhale that wasn't his own. Drake shunned away the acknowledgement, too secluded in his affection to care. He wished to return the kindness Morgana had bestowed upon him, not just in the moment, but from the very minute he laid eyes on her. Every ill-thought comment he gave, every advantage he took for his ego, every ignorant thought he claimed was genius. No matter how much she wanted to burn him to a stake those times, she sought through them, loving every inch of him that even Drake didn't know existed. He didn't know why he thought now was the time to pay her back, similar to how he couldn't recognize the house he stumbled upon some time ago.
He wanted to give his kindness back in full, and further beyond that measure.
Drake couldn't cage the moan that escaped him, but had quickly forgotten that it ever did. He melted and gooed against her, as she never positioned her grip away from him. But neither had she strengthened that grip, it almost felt like Drake was leaning against stiff bark. Drake remembered that bit clearly.
Perhaps it hadn't been enough, maybe he had disappointed her in his crippling state. Drake corked back a sob he felt coming on, dragging his face away from Morgana's neck. He couldn't even show enough gratitude to the very person who gave him everything, aside from Gosalyn herself. Drake Mallard wasn't enough. Darkwing Duck wasn't enough. He didn't know what to do anymore. He just wanted to make Morgana as happy as she did for him. No, happy wasn't the right word. Joy. She was the joy in his bitter world of loneliness. Yet, it felt as if he were only causing more grief. It would have been so easy to cry into her, submitting his defeat, to give up on ever granting Morgana the gifts she granted him. No.
Drake's new found purpose gifted him the temporary strength he needed, the strength he needed to press his beak deeper against her skin. He felt the ghoul flinch from his sudden gesture, jerking her off guard. It didn't last long however, as she began to press her will against his small own. "Dark," Drake trembled at the rejection, a familiar sliver of a knife slicing his very being. "You aren't in the state for this right now." He gripped her garment, burying himself into the witch's shoulder. He felt a cry of anguish burn his eyes. Drake sobbed.
He felt Morgana's body release tension, digging her fingers into a dreary massage against his shoulder blades. After a few silent wails, the duck did his best to regain what little posture he had before. "Stay." Unlike before, he remembered vividly the way his voice vibrated the air. He was even shocked that he could speak alone, granted sorrow seemed to choke him from the inside out. Drake began to cough up; his sinuses clogged, as his lungs struggled to breathe normally.
He honestly couldn't hold the memory of how long he had stayed there, in the cold, in the warmth, in anything. He could only ever remember the now until it wisped away the same way it appeared. Drake couldn't even remember why he had been crying, he just knew it still hurt. He never forgot the massage against his shoulders, and quickly made the realization he wanted more from that. He remembered Morgana, and his own worth compared to hers. Drake didn't deserve her, but she showed that she had wanted him all the same. The very thought made Drake's heart crack of love, affection pouring through the hollow crevices it gave. His beak found her again, holding nothing back.
