Ooh boy, this one probably took less time to write than the last, but it's at least just as long.
"Jack, please, remember, I'm here to help you."
QuackerJack was sitting in the large cushy chair, opposite of Ms. Mustela. He was staring at the floor with a sort of detatched expression, as if he'd been having trouble sorting out his thoughts. He blinked and took a deep breath before he finally looked up and locked eyes with the weasel.
"... I... I've been having these strange dreams lately..." He said in a small voice, breaking eye contact again. "... Half the time, I don't even remember what they're about, but when I do, it's always... there's always..."
He stopped. It was obvious that he didn't want to hear what was going to be said about what he was going to say.
"I can't force you to talk, Jack." Ms. Mustela said, not hiding the concerned expression on her face. "I'm here to listen to you when you want to talk, but I can't be the one to make you."
"... He's still there." QuackerJack said in a mildly ominous tone. He folded his arms and lifted his feet off the floor to draw his knees to his chest, and squirmed in the chair to find a more comfortable position. "... He's still there, and he's sad that I had to leave him behind..."
"Jack?"
"... If he's just an extension of me, then why can't I just bring him back? Make a new one?" There was an oddly lucid air to him now. It was a rare sight to see QuackerJack not be confused in some manner when thinking about something serious. "There's been so many varieties before I settled on this one, this one design. I'm a toy maker, I should be able to just tap into my creativity and just make a new Mr. Banana Brain, right? No one is stopping me, I could just make a new one."
"I suppose, but-"
"No, no, actually I've been really thinking about it for a while." QuackerJack interrupted her, forcing a bitter laugh out of himself. "Physically, I could. I could easily take some cloth and scissors and sawdust and thread, and get from template to final stitch in probably a day or two. But then, there's a problem with that."
Ms. Mustela scribbled something on her clipboard, and watched him.
"Oh?"
"It still won't be him. It's a bit like cloning: You could have an exact copy, but none of the memories or essence. It's a completely different entity." QuackerJack grimaced. "I could make a new Mr. Banana Brain, but it won't solve anything. It's not him, it's not the same. It has to be the last design, the one that I lost, or it's not going to work. Does that make sense to you? I... I understand it on a visceral level, but I don't know how to explain it to anyone else."
"Jack-"
"Because if I could, I would. But, I don't even know where the pieces went. Someone took them before I could get back there. If he exists because I projected a personality on an otherwise ordinary doll, like an imaginary friend, then he should be still 'there', right in the back of my mind, because he's just me all this time..." QuackerJack continued, seemingly oblivious to the weasel's reaction. "But it's not going to happen, because I just can't do it. If someone was able to shred him so easily, what's going to stop it from happening again? I can't let that happen again, it's irresponsible! So I can't make another one, it's not him, and I can't get attached to a new one, so he's just trapped in here!" He tapped his fingers on his head to punctuate the strange point he was trying to make.
"... Jack, have you been able to get any sleep at all lately?"
"I told you, I've been having these wierd dreams, it honestly makes it a bit difficult." He realized that he was standing on the chair now, and was a bit baffled that he hadn't been told to get down, so he carefully stepped down to sit more properly. "Not for lack of trying, mind you. It's not the falling asleep part that's the issue; it's the staying asleep part. I keep waking up. Sometimes, I wake up and find that I've done something that I don't really remember doing, like there's a pen on the floor and some scribbles on paper that I don't recall even doing."
"That sounds like a parasomnia of sorts, which can be caused by a wide variety of factors." Ms. Mustela put the pen down for a moment to look at him carefully. "Sometimes benign, sometimes something more deep rooted. Anything from anxiety to head injuries to even a fever can be a plausible explanation."
"... Parasomnia? That's sounds kinda spooky."
"It's an umbrella term for anything that could be disruptive to the actual action of sleep. Sleepwalking, nightmares, sleep paralysis... That sort of thing." Ms. Mustela explained. "Considering your accident at work, I'd probably have to assume that it might be linked somehow, and if that's the case, I highly recommend that you-"
"This again? I told everyone already; I'm fine. It's not the first time I've been clobbered in the head, it's just the first time it was a Magic 8-Ball." QuackerJack was suddenly defensive. "It's been over a month, for Pete's sake, I know everyone was worried about that, but I'm good, really. Nothing came from that."
"Jack, you understand my concern?" Ms. Mustela said in an exasperated tone. "It's my job to help you, and I can't just ignore even the slightest concern that you seem to be brushing off. At the very least, please schedule a follow up, just to be sure you're alright."
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"Honestly, I'm just going to write down the exact thing and hand it to you to look up later. So maybe it'll sink in and you'll understand why the concern."
Ms. Mustela did so, and handed him a scrap of paper with some words written on it, which he looked at with a mildly baffled expression.
"I have no idea what that is, so I guess I'll need to look that up later, then..."
"That's the idea, yes."
"... I scare you, don't I?"
"Pardon?"
"I scare you." QuackerJack said quietly. "Talking about banana dolls like they're alive, talking about doing things while I'm asleep. I'm scary, aren't I?"
"I worry about you." Ms. Mustela said, putting the pen and clipboard on the desk beside her to give him her full attention. "I want more than anything to get us to the point where you don't have to come in here every other week. I want to see you succeed. You have so much potential, Jack, and you see things outside of the box. You have the ability to bring your own imagination to life, it's incredible some of the things you've made."
"... I know that I scare other people." He said, looking at the floor again. "Everyone knows who I am. It's not a problem in the office, they like me there, but... when I go outside by myself, to the store or just out for a walk... I can just tell." He heaved a sigh. "I've seen parents hold onto their kids tighter when they see me. It's subtle, but I can just feel the tension. The kids don't understand what's going on, but the parents just look at me like I'm going to snap."
"Jack, you have to understand that their apprehension is because of the past." Ms. Mustela said gently. "Change doesn't happen overnight, it's a process that takes time for everyone involved."
"I haven't done anything recently that should make them so concerned!"
"I know that. I know that you're trying, and that's really all you can do right now." The weasel was sympathetic. "St. Canardians are a cautious bunch, considering the oddities we seem to attract compared to the neighboring Duckburg. Give it time, I'm sure you'll be able to show them that you don't mean to scare them."
"I just wanted to make people smile. That's why I wanted to make toys. And I did, until video games came around." QuackerJack mumbled, staring at his hands as he twiddled his thumbs. "No one wanted to go outside anymore, and everywhere I went, it was 'Whiffle Boy' this and 'Whiffle Boy' that. It flooded the stores, all the kids wanted was video games, video games, video games..."
"I understand why you feel hurt about that, Jack."
"Do you really?" QuackerJack suddenly snapped back, and it was obvious that a sort of defensiveness was triggered in him. "I built myself a toy empire from the ground up, and for a while, I ruled the market. I dressed as a jester, but I was a toy king. There was a time where my name brought joy to children."
He snarled bitterly, and his eyes were beginning to glimmer with wetness.
"And now those same children have grown and they don't see me that way. They just point and whisper about the broken old clown... They think I don't hear them, or maybe they do and they don't care. But I do, I hear them, and... and..." He blinked rapidly with a confused expression, and raised a hand to his cheek, flinching when his fingertips got wet.
He realized now that he was crying. He wasn't bawling or anything, and he hadn't really changed his expression at all, but there was thick, salty, warm tears pouring steadily down his face. If anything, he was dumbfounded that he was shedding tears. He wasn't feeling particularly sad at the moment, in fact, if he could place it properly, he'd have to say that he was very, very frustrated.
"... Well, that's unusual." He snorted feebly, looking back up at Ms. Mustela, holding up his damp hand to show her, as if she couldn't have seen his face. "Usually I have to actually be crying to get these. Do you see these? Do you? Am I sad? Do I look sad? I could have sworn I was getting angry, do people cry when they're mad?"
"Tears can be a physical response to intense emotions, not necessarily despair." Ms. Mustela, supportive as ever, assured him. "You are a person who feels thier emotions intensely. Whether this is something you've always been able to do, it doesn't really matter. But, anger would certainly be a source for your tears right now."
"... I don't like it." QuackerJack wiped the heel of his palm roughly against his face in an attempt to dry it. "I don't like it at all."
"Let's try to focus on something more positive, then." Ms. Mustela reached for a box of tissues and held them out for him. "How are things with your new friend? Claire, wasn't it?"
QuackerJack had a wad of tissues bunched up in his hand as he dried his face, which was beginning to flush a light shade of red.
"... Good."
"Anything else?"
"... She's nice. Really nice." He smiled bashfully as he pulled at one of the dingle dangles of his hat. He looked from side to side and leaned forward, like he was going to share a secret. He whispered in a hushed voice: "... I think she likes me, too."
"Oh? You think so?"
He nodded with the same sort of enthusiasm as a child being asked if they wanted an ice cream cone.
"Yes. She doesn't think I'm scary, and I like that."
"That's good to hear, Jack."
"She calls me 'Jacky', and I like that, too." QuackerJack was grinning now, and he kicked his feet giddishly. "I really like that."
"I'd love to hear more about it, but I'm afraid we're out of time today." Ms. Mustela apologized, but she was smiling back as well, as she was pleased to hear such a positive thing now. "We'll continue this next session, maybe you'll have even more to talk about then."
QuackerJack gave a sigh of disappointment, but nodded in agreement.
"Oh, alright..."
"And don't forget to take care of yourself, please. I can't stress that enough."
"Yes, Ms. Mustela..."
He honestly tried. He just couldn't stay asleep, and it was starting to frustrate him more than anything.
Too much noise. There was just too much noise in the apartment complex. Someone's television was on, someone else had yet to pick up thier tea kettle, and there was someone's yappy dog barking echos into the night. And really... who vacuums the carpet at this hour?
Perhaps he should have invested in ear plugs.
QuackerJack was agitated, and he was desperate to get a moment's reprieve. Before he knew it, he was outside of his apartment, turning the key to lock the door and stepping his way down the stairs to take a late night walk. He didn't know where he planned to go, but he figured that if he could just clear his mind, he'd have a better chance at resting later.
He paused in midstep and looked upward at the dizzyingly tall skyscrapers of St. Canard, which towered over and crowded around the downtown district, so much so that it was always difficult to see the sky fully from this perspective.
Tonight, the moon was a crescent in the sky, and the clouds blotted out the stars. It was such a dull sight, and he hated it. It seemed like everyday, St. Canard got less and less likable, and it was just so bland and drab without the excitement of Darkwing Duck bumbling his way through patrolling the streets.
These Crimebots simply had no sense of fun, and it reminded QuackerJack of the glimpse of the dystopian future he'd seen under the vigilance of the far more serious "Darkwarrior Duck". Straight and to the point, no fun at all, and almost totalitarian.
At least Darkwing would bother to humor him. Darkwing would make it fun. And Darkwing would have never been so cruel as to do what Negaduck did to him.
A strong chill on an otherwise warm summer evening ran through him and made him shudder feverishly. Just the mere thought of his old boss prompted such a raw visceral physical response in the fibers of his being. It made him feel a little nauseous, and he tore his gaze away from the sky and quickened his pace in his steps to get back on track.
He didn't know why, but he was quietly humming a tune to himself, a familiar tune, but he seemed to forget the words, save for one verse that buzzed his brain.
I've got a pain in my sawdust
That's what's the matter with me
Something is wrong with my little inside
I'm just as sick as can be
He stopped walking again, and grimaced.
"... That's a tune I haven't thought of in a long, long time..." He mumbled to himself, shaking his head. "... Such an old one, you'd think I'd forgotten it..."
He assumed thinking of the word "sawdust" had jarred it loose, and so he tried to push it to the farthest end of his mind once more.
QuackerJack blinked and looked around in a sudden mild state of confusion. Where exactly was he going anyway? He hadn't even paid any mind to where he'd been stepping around to. What part of town was he in now..?
An overwhelming feeling of being lost made itself known, and he glanced upwards at the sky to get his bearings by identifying the largest, tallest building in the center of St. Canard. Head that way, and you'll find yourself in the main district, and as long as you follow the main road, you'll find yourself in the suburbs. It was practically like a beacon in that regard.
However, he appeared to have lost the ability to make his legs move at the moment. There was a dizzying sort of vertigo that made his vision swim, and he carefully lowered himself to the ground with a bit of a plop, and sat hunched over on the concrete curb, waiting for the sensation to pass.
He looked up and squinted to try and see through his blurry vision. It didn't take him long to realize that he was in fact in a very familiar district, and moreover one that he'd rather be anywhere but there. No wonder he was feeling so ill all of a sudden... It was stirring up memories he'd been trying to forget.
QuackerJack considered for a moment to pull his phone out of his pocket and dial up Claire for some support and perhaps to "rescue" him, but the fact that it was as late as it was in the night stopped him. How was he going to explain logically that he'd wandered off into this part of town without realizing it, and moreover, how was he going to explain why he thought calling her at this time of night was a good idea anyway?
A sour snort escaped him, and he felt as though all he could do now was simply sit on this curb, and stare at that old warehouse in a state of disconnect until he'd be able to somehow pull himself together and walk back to the apartment complex clear across town. Or maybe he could wait until the sun was up, and call Claire then..?
"... What are you doing out here?"
A voice sounded behind him and jarred him from his thoughts with such a force that he legitimately flinched and spasmed with strangled cry, before he jerked his head about to look behind him with a startled expression plastered on his face, panting quietly in sync with his rapidly beating heart.
There was an exhausted looking duck standing behind him, wearing a green sweater vest over a light pink shirt, carrying a large brown paper bag in his arms that was presumably filled with groceries, though why that would be the case at this ungodly hour, QuackerJack had no idea nor did he honestly care.
"... Do... Do I know you..?" QuackerJack managed as he finally found his ability to speak. He couldn't place it, but this duck's voice seemed to tickle the back of his mind with a sense of familiarity. Perhaps he was a face he'd seen at QuackWerks..?
"... No, but you seem to be lost there, buddy." The duck said, shifting his grip on the large paper bag. "Isn't it a bit late to be wandering the streets?"
"I should ask the same thing; who goes shopping at this hour?"
"Fair enough." The duck bit back a small smile and set the bag down, as it seemed to have gotten a little too heavy to carry at the moment. "No questions about what we were up to, then."
"Sounds good." QuackerJack nodded. It was strange... this duck's voice and demeanor seemed to satiate a sort of emptiness that had been settled in him for months. It felt like he was speaking with an old friend, but he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why. The dizziness he'd been feeling just minutes ago was fading away.
"I have this odd feeling that you probably don't want to be here." The duck added, cleverly avoiding the decided No Questions rule.
QuackerJack squeaked a laugh.
"Not answering any questions, but yes, that's pretty much it." He felt a nervous grin spread across his face and another snicker drifted out of him. "You could say that I got a bit turned around during a night walk, and now I'm a bit stuck. I don't want to be here, but for the life of me, I can't figure out how to make myself leave."
The duck blinked, as if trying to figure out what exactly had been said.
"You can't leave? What, like you physically can't?"
"I thought we agreed on no questions?"
"That was a question you just asked right now."
"Oh, darn, you're right. I guess we both lost, then." QuackerJack tossed his hands in the air in a shrug, cocking an eyebrow. He smiled playfully, perhaps for the first time in a while. "Guess we have to ask questions now."
"Well, then, since we might as well..." The duck agreed, bringing a hand to his face to hide the smile he was starting to crack in spite of this. "Do you need any help?"
"... What?"
"I saw that you seemed like you were having a bad time." The duck explained. "You're sitting on the curb in this district, holding your head and breathing like you're all dizzy. You said you're lost, and you don't want to be here. It sounds like you need a little help."
"... Are you sure I don't know you? Because I feel like we've met before." QuackerJack said loudly, as if he hadn't exactly heard the explanation. "I mean, it's very likely you know who I am, because it's not like I'm a nobody around here, but I feel like we've done things together before, like... maybe we know each other from somewhere else?"
"... Mr. QuackerJack, I can assure you that you've never met me before."
Normally, most people would ask how a stranger knew thier name, but in the case of the toy maker, he knew that it would harder to find someone who hadn't heard of him in St. Canard. It wasn't like he'd bother to get rid of his well known hat, and it was almost fact that his toothy grinning beak was practically as infamous as his crimes.
"... What's your name? At least tell me so I can be sure."
"It's not going to-"
"Tell me your name!" QuackerJack was desperate to put this odd and almost scary sensation of having forgotten something very important to rest. "I don't mean to be a bother, really, but it's starting to gnaw at my brain like I could be forgetting something, and honestly, I've been having these terrible lapses in memory lately that I'm legitimately terrified that I'm losing my mind again!"
The duck stared at him, briefly flashing an unreadable expression behind the eyes as he seemed to think it over.
"... Please, you don't understand..." QuackerJack added in a begging tone, appearing to be most definitely concerned about the actual state of his mind right now. His hands were clasped in a pleading gesture. "... I'm really trying. I know people are scared of me, but I'm trying to be good. If any of my toys did anything to you in the past, or maybe someone you care about, I'm really, really sorry. I just have to know if we've met and I've just forgotten. My brain has been such a mess lately, that's why I'm out here in the first place; I was trying to clear it so I could get to sleep. If you don't tell me your name, it's going to bother me for who knows how long..."
The duck continued to look at him, and it was only when he saw the trails of tears pouring out of QuackerJack's wide desperate eyes, that he seemed to take pity on the poor clown.
"... Drake. My name is Drake."
"... I don't think I know a Drake." QuackerJack frowned a little. "... That doesn't exactly help, because now I'm worried that I'd forgotten..."
"Maybe you'd seen me as a customer before? You had a toy company, right?" Drake cautiously sat down on the curb beside him, but seemed to be on edge himself.
"That was so long ago, I doubt I'd remember a face with as much certainty as I am right now." QuackerJack huffed. "... I know your voice. I don't know how, but I know your voice."
"Maybe you're just tired, Mr. QuackerJack." Drake said carefully, to which the clown flashed an annoyed look at him. "It's late, and you said you haven't been able to sleep. Exhaustion can be really cruel to the brain."
"... Who do you think you are, telling me that?"
"A concerned bystander."
QuackerJack forced another laugh, but this time, it didn't sound as enthusiastic as he usually did.
"... I'll be honest, you're the first 'bystander' to actually pay me any mind." He looked at Drake and tilted his head quizzically as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "If this was happening during the day, I'm sure everyone would just walk around me. I'm not very popular outside of the office, outside of QuackWerks, you know?"
"I can imagine it's probably for an obvious reason you don't need to be reminded of..."
"You hit the nail on the head there, Drake." QuackerJack smiled bitterly, nodding. "I mean, I totally deserve it, but that doesn't mean that I like it. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, it was just a mistake, but I shouldn't have been such a monster. What I did was inexcusable, and I have to pay for that. But, I'm just so sick of this and I just want to start over. I just want to make toys again, I just want to do something and be someone, anyone but this... this... crazy... crazy clown man."
Drake blinked.
"... I suppose all you can do is just keep trying your best."
"... I know, but I feel like there's a brick wall that I keep slamming into..." QuackerJack mumbled and buried his face in his hands. "... I wanna go home..." He moaned suddenly, in a bit of a desperate whimper through his fingers.
"... Is there someone I could call for you?"
"... No..." QuackerJack shook his head miserably. "... I mean, I have a friend, but I haven't known her for very long... it would be very wierd to call her at this hour of the night..."
He felt a hand touch his shoulder and he flinched away with a startled yelp, craning his head to stare up at the duck behind him with wide eyes.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Drake apologized hastily. "But... There's a bus stop just down the road, I could take you there and you can take that back to where you want to go."
"... I... I don't have a bus pass and I left my wallet at home..."
"... I'll take care of it for you."
"N-no, you don't have to, I'd hate to be a bother..." QuackerJack was already feeling awkward to begin with, and this was just intensifying it. "... I'll just wait until morning and call my friend up, instead."
"It's not exactly a good part of town over here; it would be dumb of me to just leave someone here when they clearly don't want to be."
"... Why are you so intent on helping me, anyway?" QuackerJack was starting to get paranoid, but he couldn't quite figure out why. Why was this guy not leaving him alone? "... You don't owe me anything, and I don't really know you, so by all means, you don't have to."
"... Let's just get you home, Mr. QuackerJack." Drake said, completely avoided the question. He held a hand out, offering it. "It's getting late, and you're clearly not feeling... well."
"... Understatement, perhaps..." QuackerJack mumbled in agreement begrudgingly, sliding a hand along the side of his head before he stared at the hand offered to him with some apprehension, then he took it. "... Thanks..."
"No, problem." Drake helped pull him to his feet, and QuackerJack stood in place with an unsteady bit of stance, as if his legs didn't want to hold his weight. The clown stared back at him apologetically. "... Are you alright, Mr. QuackerJack?"
"... Just get me out of here."
Drake picked up the large brown paper bag from the ground and started to lead QuackerJack to the aforementioned bus stop. QuackerJack quickly grabbed Drake's arm and clung to him like a lost child. Drake had almost instinctively shoved QuackerJack away, that is, until he saw the terrified expression crossing the clown's tired face, and he reluctantly relented.
"... Bad night, Mr. QuackerJack?"
"... Very. I hate it here, it's a terrible place. I'd like to go home now, please."
"The bus stop is this way, it's really not that far."
"I don't care, I just want to get out of here."
Drake led him down the street, and it surprised QuackerJack that the bus stop was closer than he'd expected. All things considered, he could have just gotten over to the bench on his own if he hadn't been so turned around and confused.
"There we go, Mr. QuackerJack, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"... I'm not a child, you know that?" QuackerJack huffed as he quickly sat down on the bench before his legs could give out on him. "... Thank you."
"Yep, yep, yep, I do what I can to help."
QuackerJack felt the color drain from his face as something was jarred violently from the back of his mind. He started to shake as he turned his head to stare at Drake with a dumbfounded look, eyes wide and pupils constricted as a response to the sudden rush of adrenaline that had hit him like a freight train.
"... What did you just say..?" He said breathlessly, feeling his fingers dig into his palms as he squeezed his hands tightly. "... Are you sure we've never met..?"
"... Mr. QuackerJack, I can assure you that we've never-!"
"It's you!" QuackerJack shouted suddenly, once something finally connected, and Drake froze in place, shock still. QuackerJack was pointing at him. "I can't believe it, you're the one from the museum!"
"... Hah?"
"You were there at the toy museum when I was robbing it! You were hit by that ball!" QuackerJack was still loud, as if he couldn't quite handle the sudden resurfacing of this memory and just had to shout it as it came to him. "You were there, and you had your kid, and I started ranting about how much I hated video games because she wanted to go to the arcade instead! Of course, I should have remembered that vest and pink shirt!"
"... Actually, it's 'salmon'..."
"Oh my goodness, no wonder you didn't say anything, I wouldn't have either if I got laughed at for getting squashed and the guy yelled at my kid or something!"
"... You... You have kids, Mr. QuackerJack?"
"... No, I've never even been married. I was just saying 'if'..." QuackerJack muttered, face a bit red as he looked at his feet. "I mean, I actually do like kids. That's why I wanted to make toys, you know?"
"... I see."
"Oh, man, I'm so sorry, that really wasn't a good time for me. It was bad, it got really, really bad, really fast, like, you have no idea, but I'm just so very sorry that that's how we met."
"It's not a big deal, really."
"... Y'know, I'm not sure if you're aware, but you might want to keep an eye on that kid of yours. I've seen her get into some really dangerous situations, she just seems to show up when there's some crime going on, like she's following the heroes or something..." QuackerJack added as an afterthought. "I haven't seen her in a while, but you should know that. It's not safe, especially for a kid her age. There's some dangerous criminals in this town. I should know."
Drake stared before he snorted.
"She's a handful, but I'll be sure to talk to her about it." He bit back a smile. "Well, that looks like the bus, Mr. QuackerJack. Here's some money for the fare, and you just go home and try to sleep this all off."
"... I'd like that very much, I'm desperate." QuackerJack nodded and smiled back, taking the bus fare as he carefully stood up from the bench. He climb the steps of the bus, and looked back at the duck. "... Thanks, Drake."
But, Drake was already gone and out of sight.
"... What a strange duck..."
QuackerJack was swirling his coffee with a stirrer stick, sitting opposite of Claire.
Well, his coffee wasn't so much as "coffee" as it was more like half a plastic cup of syrups being flavored by coffee, and enough sugar to make one's teeth itch. He liked sweetness to the point of it being the overpowering flavor. One wasn't sure what was worse: QuackerJack hopped up on caffeine, or QuackerJack strung out on excessive sugar. God forbid, both.
Admittedly, he was learning how to handle the buzz he got from his sludgy, syrupy drink flavored with coffee, but he'd still be a bit of a motormouth when the sugar high kicked in.
He stirred his drink and looked up at Claire.
"... I don't hear as many people whispering behind my back today."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, usually when I go somewhere, I can hear everyone talking about me." He nodded, glancing around the coffee shop. "Well, not always hear it, because sometimes it's too low, but I just know it's about me."
"You seem to be in a better mood today, at least." Claire smiled a little.
"I got to talk some things out with Ms. Mustela the other day."
"Ms. Mustela?"
"My therapist. She's really nice and lets me talk about things at my own pace. She's been working with me since I got put to work at QuackWerks." He grinned back. "I don't really remember how our first sessions went, because I was a little bit catatonic back then, but she didn't give up on me, because she was sure she'd get me to respond." He sipped his drink, and felt some sugar crystals crunch between his teeth. He needed a bit longer for the sugar to dissolve entirely, it seemed. "... She's not scared of me."
"Oh?"
"Nope." QuackerJack said in a matter-of-fact voice, shaking his head. "I don't really care much about how bland her office decor is, but I feel safe talking to her. I tell her more than I usually tell anyone, because she doesn't judge me, I think. I mean, she does write down notes, but I honestly don't feel threatened. I can't explain why, but I just... It's nice. I like it."
"Well, I'm glad to see that you're doing better today." Claire said. QuackerJack found that he rather enjoyed her pleasant friendly tone of voice. "You really worried me the other day, you know? You were really upset, and I wasn't sure if you were having a crisis or just a very bad day."
QuackerJack blinked and felt his face get really warm again.
"... Sorry." He mumbled, dragging his attention back to his sugary drink. "... It was just a very bad day. I didn't sleep very well, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with everyone whispering about me... And..." He frowned and bit his lower lip before continuing. "... I think I kinda lost it because I saw a kid with a banana doll, and it just hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't him, but it just made my chest hurt so much, and it made me feel so sick..."
Claire hesitated before she carefully reached a hand out.
"... I'm going to touch your shoulder, is that alright?"
"... Y'know, you're actually the first person to ask me before actually doing it..." QuackerJack looked up and eyed her hand cautiously. "... Sure, go ahead."
Without meaning to, he practically melted at the gentle touch and any tension in his shoulders had disappeared. It was comforting, and he honestly couldn't remember the last time he hadn't flinched at physical contact. It was nice. He liked this particular feeling very much.
"... He really meant a lot to you, didn't he, Jacky?"
"... He was like my best friend..." QuackerJack said in a strained sort of voice, eyes starting to well up. "... It's my fault, it's all my fault... I... I shouldn't have let go of him, I should have pocketed him, or I should have held onto him harder..."
"... Jacky?"
"... I let him hurt Mr. Banana Brain... I... I... I just stood there and watched..." He was starting to shake, and he put his trembling hands on his head to grab fistfuls of his hat. "... I just... I just stood there and watched... I just st-stood there and watched..."
Claire was immediately concerned by this behavior. The toy maker's eyes were getting blurry and unfocused, and he sank in his chair as he kept babbling, absolutely inconsolable now, as if he didn't realize where he was or who he was with at this exact moment. It was a bit frustrating that no one in the coffee shop so much as flashed a look of concern, and at least two patrons merely rolled thier eyes once QuackerJack burst into blubbering tears, and they simply turned back to working on their laptops they had brought in.
The poor distraught clown was falling apart in the middle of the cafe and no one else seemed to care.
Claire moved her chair to sit right next to him and carefully reached her arms around him, cautiously, as she was aware that he could very well lash out in primal terror in his despair. Instead, he just leaned into her and continued to wail miserably as she patted his back in an attempt to calm him down.
It helped somewhat, apparently, as QuackerJack was now whimpering quietly, having moved his hands from his hat to hide his hot mess of a face. It was a bit like watching a child wear themselves out from crying, if Claire was going to be perfectly honest.
"... Jacky, are you alright? I shouldn't have said anything about it, I'm sorry."
He suddenly pushed away from her, head low, and slapped his clear plastic cup to the floor before storming out of the coffee shop with a harsh gasp. The door gave a cheery jingle from the alert bells, which was a stark contrast to what had just happened.
Claire swiftly followed after him (after appologizing the sticky mess on the floor and quickly dropping a few extra dollars in the tip jar as a hasty compensation), and almost lost track of him, if not for the unmistakable noises that was his choked, muffled sobbing drifting from a nearby alley.
He was sitting on the ground, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them, head buried. He seemed absolutely miserable, and Claire couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the reaction he'd had. Perhaps she'd overstepped a boundary...
She sat down next to him, and waited for him to calm down again. She would have put a hand on his trembling shoulders, but she didn't want to startle him. She simply waited as he wailed between gasps of air.
It wasn't clear how long had passed, as Claire wasn't watching the time, but eventually QuackerJack sniffled loudly and lifted his head to look around with bleary, reddened eyes. His sight settled on Claire and he stared at her for some time in silence before he finally acknowledged her as his eyes focused.
"... I made a scene... didn't I..?" He said in a hoarse voice, looking at the ground with a sad sort of frown. "... I don't know what came over me... I thought I was fine today..."
"I really shouldn't have pried about that right now, you're clearly still raw about it." Claire apologized. "You'll talk about it when you're ready to. I shouldn't keep bugging you over it."
"It's been months. When? When am I going to? I'm just-! It's so-! I hate this!" QuackerJack snapped back, grabbing his hat again in bunched up handfuls, and yanking on it forcefully, amazingly not managing to tear the hat off his head. "I hate it! I can't do anything about it! I can't forget it! I can't move on! I can't function! No one cares! No one understands! No matter how much I try to explain it, it's just dismissed because he wasn't real! He was to me! I don't understand 'normal'! I just scare people, and I know I deserve it, but I just want them to stop!"
"... If it helps any, I'm not scared of you."
QuackerJack froze in mid-rant and stared at the brick wall across from him in the alley before he blinked and turned his head to look at Claire, hands letting go of his hat and he slowly slid his fingers down to lightly touch his jaw in shock.
"... What?"
"You haven't noticed?"
"... What?"
"I'm sitting in this alley with you and consoling you, you really think you scare me?"
"... But, why, though?" QuackerJack was still clearly confused, and in all honesty, he'd never given much thought to the fact that she'd followed him outside the shop after he'd had a public meltdown. "... Why are you even trying with me? You don't owe me anything."
"If I'm going to be perfectly honest, I guess it's because of your smile." Claire said, causing QuackerJack to now drop his arms to his sides in shock, his position now resembling a plush doll sitting in a slump. "Not the big wide grin, but that cute little one you do when you're talking about what you like. It's sweet."
"... Cute?" He squeaked, clearly thrown for a loop. He blinked, fidgeted and blinked again. It was almost like it was an incomprehensible thought to him. "... Cute? She thinks I'm cute? I'm cute!"
He started to laugh, in that nervous sort of way, before it dissolved into hysterics as he slapped a hand to his forehead and continued to laugh as if he'd heard the funniest story ever told. He kicked his feet and threw his head back and just laughed and laughed and laughed. This was not his infamous giggle of lunacy, no. This was a genuinely amused sort of comes-deep-from-within belly laugh, the kind that brought tears to his eyes, and he hadn't done so for so long, that he'd forgotten how good it made him feel.
He finally petered out after a minute or so and leaned forward, bracing himself with his hands in front of him and smiled contentedly. Eyes looking sleepy from the full bodied emotional roller-coaster ride, but contented nonetheless.
"... I haven't been that happy for way too long." He said, tilting his head to glance sideways at her. "... I think you're cute, too, by the way."
There was a small laugh through the nostrils followed by a smile from Claire.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. In fact, first time I noticed you, after you laughed at one of my jokes, my stomach was in knots." He snorted, sliding a thumb across a closed eye to wipe it dry. "I thought I was just getting sick, but Rick said it was 'butterflies'. I'd never heard of those before, so I thought he was just messing with me. I thought you wouldn't really notice me, so I guess I figured I shouldn't even try. Then I got hit by that Magic 8-Ball, it seemed like you wouldn't leave me alone after that." He wiggled his feet in a fidgeting fashion, and stared at them. "... I'm glad you didn't leave me alone."
"I guess you could say that I quite like you."
"... I think I quite like you, too."
I think it's good to end this chapter here.
A lot of emotions going on with Quacky, hmm?
Originally, I had intended for him to call up Claire when he got stuck in that district (which, by the way, is meant to be where the warehouse was, when Negaduck shredded Mr. Banana Brain), but then I realized that expecting it to be believable that he just phones her to rescue him this late at night, when they're still early in thier acquaintances, so I took it a different direction. I like the idea that Drake/Darkwing and QuackerJack may have encountered each other at some point while both in civilian identities, with QuackerJack being as oblivious as ever. Much like how Batman has to be completely different as Bruce Wayne, I imagine that Darkwing has to ignore his usual reactions to QuackerJack if he was (un)fortunate to cross paths out of costume. Secret identity and all that, y'know? :P
Edit: Mild fix here I had to do that I had missed initially because my dog was slapping me with a toy lobster while I was uploading.
Also... Gonna see if you guys can catch the CSI reference, of an interesting episode saga involving dolls~