Duck hasn't been aging.
Fakir realizes this one day out by the pond. It's been a couple of years since the destruction of Drosselmeyer's writing machine but Duck hasn't aged at all, at least not that he can see. Shouldn't she be molting or something by now?
He tried not to think too much of these things; he never liked to consider the inevitable. But now that he actually was thinking of it, things seemed...off.
Were they still in a story?
He rubs his hand up the side of his nose and to his forehead. A new research project is surely on the horizon and it's guaranteed to bring some migraines with it.
"Quack?"
Duck waddles up to Fakir, a welcome distraction. He gives her a little half-smile.
"What are you up to, squirt?"
She huffs, bill straight up in the air. Well, he doesn't want that to change, either.