Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Donald thinks fuck this with the type of resolve only a duck with his family genes could think and sells the house boat to the highest bidder. He packs up his whole life based on sentimentality or practicality or pawn-ability, and then, with a wallet full of cash, he straps Dellas children into his beat up station wagon that belonged to his father, and he skips town. kissing Calisota goodbye is the answer to so many problems despite cropping up just as many in is wake, but kicking up dust and grief on his way across the state border makes him truly appreciate the fresh air of freedom all the more deeply. He doesn't bother stopping until 3 in the morning, he’s somewhere in the backwoods of texas where he saw a real life actual tumbleweed roll across the road in front of him, when a dusty motel halfway to abandoned pops up and the boys are beginning to fuss in earnest now for a bottle. He’s about two hours out from the Mexican border and curses his late start or else he’d have crossed it at this point.

The motel is cheap, he gives the triplets the bed and sleeps in the bathtub using the ratty hotel blanket, the kids use the painstakingly stitched quilt Grandma had given Della for her baby shower. He wakes up two hours after the sun rises and showers quickly, downs half a cup of the complimentary cheap coffee while he feeds the kids, half sure it's more water than actual caffeine, and pays the middle aged man at the counter. He drives until the sun is well in the sky, only stopping for breakfast once he’d finally made it to Mexico, and stops once or twice to stretch his legs and change a diaper or two. The sun sets, and he pays for another hotel room. He takes advantage of the bar in the lobby and grabs a bottle of the cheapest whisky he can manage, he takes a shot or two in his room to help him relax, maybe stop the shake in his hands, maybe take his mind off of the chasm of loss carved out of his chest. He wakes up at noon, the housekeeper sharp and succinct with her firm knocks to remind him check out was half an hour ago, tosses the whisky in the trunk and drives to McDonalds where he sits quietly nursing the children with plastic baby bottles and drinking black coffee and eating nothing at all.

Things stay the same. He drives a lot, takes more wrong turns than he can count, backtracks and get lost and turned around. His phone loses charge at some point, dying and going black screened, battery drained from every call he was determined to ignore.

The wheels stop spinning, the engines groan, Donald knows he’s spent a small fortune in gas. Theres dirt and dust caked up the side of his car, a faded gray-brown ombre effect. Donald sweats through his shirt before he's finished getting out of the car. The boys have been surprisingly behaved the whole trip, subdued and calm for the most part, only just recently beginning to fuss in earnest. The ranch is nothing to sneeze at, though definitely not comparable to McDuck Manor. The driveway's not paved, and Donald had driven on it for what felt like half an hour before he’d finally reached the end of it. There was a stone pathway leading up the the front porch from the driveway, a noticeable barn in the back and acres of green all around. There was the edges of a garden peeking out from the back of the house. Donald knocks three times on the door, and then three more times when no one answers right away-

“I hear you!” Panchito (it had to be Panchito, with a set of pipes like that) yells, though it’s Jose who opens the door. There’s a wide range of emotions that flash across Ze’s face (confusion, worry, relief, grief-) until he settles on casual openness, a carefully controlled reaction. He quirks a brow, seems a loss for words despite his demeanor.

A moment passes, Donald wants to say a lot of things. “Hey.” is all he manages, meager and entirely inadequate.

Jose blinks and seems to snap out of whatever speechlessness afflicting him, smile turning a little softer, a little more genuine and less cautious, and he leans against the doorframe, “You are willing to help out around the house, yes?”

“Of course,” Donald responds automatically, shifting his weight, the kids a heavy presence at his side.

“Good.” Jose nods, dressed down in a loose t-shirt and jeans, “Strawberries are almost in season, I’m sure we could use the help in our garden.” And Donald appreciates this, appreciates that Jose is making it out like Donald is the one doing him a favor by sticking around and not the burden Donald knows he is.

“This isn’t permanent.” He says, startled by the sound of his own voice- already barely understandable before, now hoarse and thready with disuse.

“Come inside, Donald,” Jose hip checks himself off the doorframe, and walks deeper inside the house, “Your journey was very long, you need a nap.”

It was Ze’s way of saying ‘you look like shit,’ but Donald doesn’t have the emotional energy left to care too much. He closes the door behind him, it’s a beginning.

Chapter Text

Gladstone shows up six years later, out of place in his green suit and tie. Donald is different now, a little quieter, and little calmer, his feathers shine a little brighter than they have in a while. Gladstone doesn’t say anything when Donald answers the door, but he doesn’t really give him a chance to before Donald closes it in his face.

Gladstone corners him in the garden later, elbow deep in the dirt, pulling weeds up from their roots.

“I was on a cruise, y’know. And there was a complication, they had to make a stop in Acapulco.” Gladstone starts, leaning on the posts of the garden fence, chicken wire scratch expensive armani he no doubt got for free. The triplets all have sticks and are chasing each other around in the grass a few good yards away from them, yelling about wizards or pirates or whatever cartoon they’d caught on disney junior that week. They’d eyed Gladstone curiously as he’d rounded the corner, but passed it off as boring adult things once he started speaking to their uncle. “Now that normally never happens to me, y’know? I don't get bad luck. I figured there was something here I oughta try and find.” he watches the triplets play with an unreadable look on his face, and Donald has never seen his cousin look so pensive.

“What’d you find?” Donald leans back on his haunches, wipes the sweat off his brow.

Gladstones glances at him, hears the accented english that came with leaning a different way to speak and looks back out across the yard at the nephews he’d never met before, “I found you.”

There's something in his voice thats different. Don smiles and the area around his eyes crinkle, he's not sure if it's genuine. “I could use some help, y’know. I’m sure you could weed better than I could.” he sounds like an echo.

“I do know a little bit about gardening,” Gladstone preens, shrugging off his jacket, “I could fix this place right up.”

Chapter Text

Gladstone is given a chunk of the grunt work, on the ranch. Weeding, mowing the lawn, simple stuff to earn his keep (perhaps also a way for Donald to punish him, Gladstone thinks secretly. it’s... not entirely undeserved.) More often than not Donald passes along the farmers market duties to his cousin, he’s well aware of how their luck effects them and while they wouldn’t struggle financially if Donald misplaced a crate of sales they still wouldn’t thrive. Gladstone doesn’t mind it, plus if he manages to pull in some extra cash he can pick out a treat for the nephews, it always makes him feel good to hand off a lollipop or three when he can. Generosity has never been his forte until a troupe of seven years old made puppy dog eyes at him- ever since they’d used that trick during their birthday to get extra cake they’d been entirely too willing to use the look on him since.

“Huey! Dewey! Louie!” Gladstone announces as he kicks the door open, “I bought you something!” And the kids scamper into the room, bright and eager to see what he’d managed to dig up for them this time. Gladstone tosses a jar of honey (harvested by a local beekeeper, with piece of honeycomb still inside!) onto the counter. he’s got a few other groceries, toilet paper, paper towels, necessities for the most part, but snacks and apple juice make up the other half. Donald carefully puts away the knife down he was using to cut cucumbers up and moves to find space for the snacks in the cupboard.

“Tio!” Dewey pulls on the edge of his shirt to get his attention, speaking a mixture of english and spanish “can we have some pan tostado y miel?”

"Dígalo en español! No ese Spanglish chivado.” Panchito Scolds from his place at the table, strumming guitar and watching Jose in the Garden, though there’s no real heat behind it.

"Podemos tener pan tostado y miel?" Huey corrects while Dewey rolls his eyes.

“That’s what you want for your pre dinner snack?” Donald asks while he helps to put away the groceries.

“Si!” Huey nods, and Donald pulls out the toaster for them. Gladstone shoos them toward the table as Donald tosses the bread in, spreading a thin amount of honey onto each piece while they're still hot before passing them along to the triplets.

“Thank you, Papa!” Louie smiles.

“Louie.” Donald chides though theres no heat behind it.

“Si, Si, I know Tio Donald.” Louie relents immediately, biting down on his toast.

“Could you tell us about our Mama again?” Huey asks entirely out of the blue.

Gladstone freezes, staring at the breadbox (that never had any bread in it, oddly enough) with unseeing eyes. “Of course, mi sobrino.” Donald says, though not without pause. Donald talks about her with a sort of freedom Gladstone hadn’t expected, he spoke of her with love and adoration and only a tinge of deep sadness, and he told them... everything. Even things Gladstone had never known.

“Tio Gladstone,” louie says around a mouthful of toast, “Did you know Mama?”

“I did.” Gladstone says blinking back his own tears now that the focus was on him, even as Donald open his mouth to tell them not to ask. He can tuck his pain away neatly, only for the triplets, “She was a wonderful woman. We were best friends when we were young.”

“Did you know her favorite color was yellow?” Dewey announces, wiping juice off his chin.

“That was your Uncle Scrooge's favorite color too.” Gladstone says, innocently. The look Donald shoots him is murderous and even Panchito stiffens up.

“Oncle Scrooge?” Dewey frowns. Gladstone’s heart drops out of his chest.

Jose throws up the door holding a caterpillar and the boys forget about Gladstones slip up.

Chapter Text

Daisy sends Donald the occasional Email update. She’d tried to badger him into just using his cell phone again (when he’d finally responded to her emails she’d been so relieved she felt sick. There were only so many times a call went straight to voicemail before she was forced to assume the worst.) Most of the time is was quick a too the point summaries of her day, sometimes even pictures of her newest painting, or maybe quick snapshots of April, May, and June. More recently she’d shifted focus into talking about a boutique, a bow boutique. She and Minnie mouse had gone into business together.

She’d started to talk a lot about the rest of the gang, too. Once he’d left Calisota he’d fallen out of touch with the rest of them, though none of their group had never stayed super close since high school anyway. Things happened, they drifted apart- they would always be friends of course, but after graduation they’d gone their separate ways for a while. Donald and Della had disappeared off on adventures with their uncle, Goofy was married with a kid on the way, Mickey was starting to make it big on the stage, and Minnie’s life was on the way up with her fashion designer gig. They were adults, and though they were always there for each other (especially when Goofy's wife passed away), and Daisy hadn’t realized how much they’d grown apart until the invitation to Della’s funeral appeared in her mailbox. When Donald had run off with the kids, well, it reminded Daisy how important all these friendships had been, and would be in the future.

So she made sure to keep him up to date. Max was in fifth grade now, and he’d just had his eleventh birthday. Minnie and Mickey were finally engaged. Goofy had gone on a date the other night.

What about you? He’d asked once, How are you holding up?

I didn’t run away, so i think i’m doing pretty good. Daisy had almost sent, finger hovering over enter. Backspace backspace backspace. I’m doing pretty good. Send.

He sends her pictures of the boys, pictures of Gladstone looking entirely out of place on the farm (but happy, of course, home,) pictures of Panchito and Jose. He says a lot of things but nothing of true substance, though she can tell he’s… happy, almost. Content in a way she hasn’t seen in a long while. She scrolls through them slowly, rereads them twice. Scrooge McDuck's opened letter sits on the counter, asking in neat scripts if she knew of a way to contact Donald. She didn't respond.

I was always on your side. She types once, hoping he knew when everything had fallen apart that she had been in his corner. Could I visit you?

He sends her an address. She’s there the moment Minnie and the boutique can spare it.

She brings the boys little gifts, toy airplanes and boats. Huey lines up the toys on the carpet and steps back to admire them, his brothers nodding thoughtfully at the arrangement, before they carefully dismantle the row to play with them.

Donald isn’t there to meet her, when she’d first stepped out of the cab. Panchito had opened the door and greeted her as enthusiastically as Panchito was known for, swinging her up into a tight hug and spinning her around. Their house was meager but homey, warm in the way Daisy’s never remembers McDuck manor being. She wonders if it’s deliberate that Donald had gone into town and missed her, though dismisses that thought as soon as it crops up. He had invited her.

Jose Put on a pot of coffee. Pours her a mug with no sugar at her insistence, “You are looking very lovely today Miss Daisy.” and she can’t help but be a little flattered, Jose tended to have that effect of people.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Daisy smiles as Panchito joins them at the table, holding his own cup of coffee though surely not needing it, “Where is Donald today?”

“Ah, he had to run to the market.” Panchito sips his drink, “He wanted to bake a cake to commemorate the occasion, but forgot to get enough sugar.”

“He left you to watch the triplets alone?” She asks before she can think better of it. Daisy remembers a time, after everything, where Donald hadn’t trusted anyone. Where there was a line in the sand that everyone had to pick which side they were going to stand on. She remembers how lonely it had been, on Donald side, how much he had kept his cards close to his chest so no one could see his hand.

Jose regards her with a sharp eye, “Donald trusts us very much, even with his life.”

Daisy tilts her head, “But it means so much more than you think that he trusts you this much-”

“Like I said,” Jose interrupts her in a way that doesn’t make Daisy bristle at the fact she’d just been interrupted, “He trusts us with his life.” he’s looking at the triplets as he says that and Daisy has an inkling that they do understand the privilege, probably more intimately than she ever would.

She rests her hand on the table, looks at the boys in a way she hopes isn’t weird, “You care about him?” she asks.

It’s Panchito this time, who looks at her stark and honest, “Si.” he says simply, ferocity and love stitches into the word.

“Deeply.” Jose nods. It’s… enough for her. A reassurance that made the humming in her head quiet down, made being halfway across the continent all this time so much easier knowing Donald was okay, would be okay, as long as he had them by his side.

The sliding glass door opens and Daisy starts, forgetting there’s another person here to speak to, to confront. Gladstone Gander, in all his assholish glory, steps through the doorway with a smear of mud across his cheek and pink gardening gloves on. He freezes the moment he sees her. She hopes he freezes forever, an ice statue, and that the sun will melt him away.

“Hey, Daisy.” He’s uneasy. Good.

“Gladstone.” She snips, wondering if Donald had stayed away not to avoid her arrival, but to avoid this.

Panchito and Jose, wise enough in their years, quietly excuse themselves and the children so Daisy amd Gladstone have at least some semblance of privacy for the tough conversation they’re about to have. Gladstone takes the gardening gloves off, and sits down at the table. the tension is thick, the simmering anger making the air hot.

Daisy says a lot of things. Gladstone defends himself, says a lot of things himself. It’s not pretty, it’s not perfect.

“The first chance he had he ran! He wasn’t fit to raise them!”

“He did better than you ever could!”

“Scrooge could have given them stability, a nice cushy life-”

“Donald gave them love.”

Gladstone balks, “Scrooge would have loved them.” He says, shakes his head.

She closes her eyes, “After what happened to Della,” She says, grieving all over again with the words, “I’d be surprised to learn he’d ever loved anyone.”

“Don’t say that!” Gladstone sounds almost desperate, stepping back as if struck and sending his chair skidding across the floor, as he slams his hands on the table, “He had to have! He loved us! He loved me!"

Daisy realizes all at once the tragedy if Gladstone Gander. Alone alone alone, always alone, no family except… there was a time, Daisy thinks, where Gladstone saw Scrooge as something his own dad had rarely ever been- and maybe Donald and Della had taken a backseat to the devotion he felt towards the man Daisy had only ever known as cold.

And then Della was gone, and it was- it was easy to choose a father over a cousin. Daisy, though, couldn't forgive him for it.

“He didn’t.” She says, voice wavering and fists clenched at her side, passing judgement.

Gladstone storms out of the house, he doesn’t come back the entire time she’s there. Donald doesn’t seem surprised. He hugs her, tells her about everything he’s been up to, and they sit together and talk about a lot of things. The boys rope her into playing games with them, they remind her of her nieces, and she’s soft with them. They complain about bed times and they ask her if she’ll come to their birthday party (they’ll be turning 9 in two months!) and they demand she bring them cool gifts, though slightly wilting in that endeavor when Donald shoots them a look.

“Domestic looks good on you,” She smiles behind her second glass of wine.

He pops the top off another bottle, Panchito and Jose already needing a new glass, draped over him and tipsy.

“Thanks,” He shoots her a smile thats loose around the edges as he tops off her glass and the other littered about the table, “How’re you doing in the department?”

“Yes, is there a special someone?” Jose waggles his eyebrows and Panchito laughs at his antics.

Daisy tips her head up, sly, “Wouldn’t you like to know!” she plays coy, despite knowing there was no one waiting for her at home like that.

“Ooh, Saucy!” Panchito nods thoughtfully, “I like her!”

Jose is stretched out in Donald's lap, trying to sip his wine while still laying down and spilling some of it on his loose sleep shirt that dipped entirely too low. Daisy stares a bit longer than she means too at the curve of his chest. Panchito is on Donald's other side, he leans over suddenly and tilts Donalds head back, planting a kiss on his beak. Daisy sucks in a breath through her teeth, watching with hungry eyes and slamming the rest of her wine when she realizes what she’s doing. Loneliness tastes like copper on her tongue.

"I'm glad you're here." Donald says softly, "You would have made a good sister-in-law."

Daisy looks away, can't bring herself to respond. Della had been her sun, she had adored her so so much, but Dellas gravity was too strong. She dragged her closer and closer and she burned, not intentionally, but only in the way Della could. overhwlming and bright. Daisy had loved her, Daisy hadn't loved the shadows she cast. Almost but not quite.

(She had always thought, a few years down the line, she could have ended up with Della. She had wanted that.)

She goes to an empty bed that night, asleep before her head hits the pillows.

She leaves without much fanfare. Well, Dewey latches onto her legs and refuses to let go until she stays, Huey attempts to bargain (and when that fails, he offers her a mixtape of travel songs she can listen to on the trip back,) and Louie offers her twenty dollars to stay- where he’d gotten the money, Daisy had no idea. Neither did Donald or his other Dads.

She flies back to Calisota, the air is warm and the stars are out. Minnie comes to pick her up.

“How is he?” She asks when Daisy finished loading up her things and hops into the passenger's seat.

Daisy thinks for a long moment, “Better.” She says finally, “Home.” She tacks on, like an afterthought.

Chapter Text

Gladstones stumbles home two days after Daisy had left drunk and sick, holds onto Donald so tight he pulls out feathers. He says a lot of things, garbled and unintelligible. He doesn’t let go no matter what, hold on tight, and Donald lays with him in Gladstones bed. He’s too troubled to go to sleep, so he hold Gladstone when his exhaustion and inebriation finally catches up with him, knocks him out. He’s more peaceful when Donald runs his hand through this gold curls.

He does, eventually, fall asleep. It's not restful, not without Panchito and Jose on his side, not underneath Gladstone's too soft blankets and silk sheets. Donald is used to rough, to heaviness, to scratchy. This bed is foreign, strange, and his sleep is dreamless. He wakes up when Gladstone tries to shift out of bed.

“Hey.” He rasps softly, sunlight slanting through the crack in the curtains. Gladstone flinches, pauses a beat before giving up when Donald tugs at his wrist and lays back down.

It’s quiet and still.

“I’m sorry.” Gladstone says finally, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, “I…”

Donald waits. He’d been waiting for 9 years.

“Uncle Scrooge loved you. He loved you and Della so much.” He fists his hands in the front of Donalds sleep shirt, “I wanted that. I wanted him to love me like he loved you, like his son. I loved him like my father.”

“Gladstone...” Donald starts, but Gladstone buries his face in his chest, doesn’t allow him to say anything else.

“I thought- i believed him, when he told me it was your fault. I wanted to believe him. He was dad. how couldn’t i?” His shirt is wet, “But you were my family too, you were like my brother, you are my brother, and you needed me. All I did was enable the destruction of our family, I chose a side and fuck, Don, I- I chose wrong.”

It’s not quiet or still, Gladstone's shaking with the force of his emotions. regret, anger, guilt, sadness- Donald felt they were more suited for himself that lucky, lucky Gladstone Gander, who’d never been on the wrong side of anything before in his life. He cries big wet tears, wipes his snot on Donald, pulls back with red rimmed eyes and a scratchy throat. Donald is… Donald is angry. It burns him up, scratches his veins when he thinks about how little he meant to them, to Gladstone and Duckworth and everyone else who thought they knew what happened that day. Judging and cruel and sure in their righteousness and blame, they crucified him as if he hadn’t already died the moment Della hadn’t come home too.

“Sorry about your shirt.” he says.

“I forgive you.” Donald replies, talking about so much more than the clothing.

Gladstone lets out a breathless laugh bordering on hysterical, “When’d it all get so messed up?” he croaks, finally letting go of Donald so he could roll onto his back and scrub at his face with his hands, loose limbed and exhausted despite just waking up.

Donald stays where he is, “When Della left.” Gladstone tenses visibly at her name, “We need to talk about her.” Donald says simply.

“No, we don’t.” Gladstone assures him steely and reserved.

A brick wall against soft, certain understanding.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Gladstone rolls his head to look at Donald, eyes watering again, “I should be saying that to you.” he mutters, raw.

He is still angry, it’s in his nature as much as the fact hurts, and he will burn in his betrayal for years to come. This was no magic fix-it, inviting Gladstone to stay had never been an olive branch and Donald decided that this wasn’t one either. He reserved the right to deny that, that the only thing he would offer was a hand, but Gladstone would always have to get himself back up. It was a start.

“Tell me about your favorite memories.” Gladstone says quietly, a bite of hurt not directed at him cutting his words short.

“Okay.” and he does, all the ones with Della, all the ones with the triplets, all the ones with Panchito and Jose and Scrooge and Daisy, all the ones with Gladstone too. A tension in his chest loosens, he’s boneless and vulnerable, the pain still fresh but her name only tastes cold and doesn't hurt the way it once had. Gladstone cries again.

“I’m unloveable.” He tells donald in the morning light.

“I love you.” Donald replies automatically. there's nothing left to be said.

They’re somewhere between home and lost, the map that made this easier was torn to shreds a long time ago, but… they’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

Gladstones birthday, as it has to be, is a grand affair. The party lasted well into the night, even after the triplets head off to their friends house, games of cards and poker and cigars shared. It’s fun, genuine adult fun in a way the kids birthdays aren’t (though Donald wouldn’t trade those days for anything in the world, of course.)

Donald and Jose and Gathering up the leftovers, packing them up in tupperware and plastic bags. Panchito is washing the dishes. Gladstone had offered to help but the other had shooed him out of the room, it was his birthday after all, he got to leave the mess for someone else to clean up. It was just birthday etiquette (Gladstone was, of course, not genuine in his offer. Donald was well aware he was just being polite and almost entertained taking him up on the offer, just to see Gladstones face.)

It starts with Panchito, of course, humming a tune. It’s soft and melodical, a good rhythm. Jose abandons wrapping up the uneaten cake to swoop donald up, twirling him around the kitchen and singing something in Portuguese. Donald had picked up on spanish quickly, the boys as well, but Jose didn’t often speak his native tongue, preferring to stick to spanish or english when not on the phone with his family. (Donald had asked about it once, and Jose had shrugged, it was just easier.)

“Gosto de te ver ao sol, leãozinho...De ter ver entrar no mar...” José pulled Donald close, resting his forehead on Donald shoulder, “Tua pele, tua luz, tua juba… Gosto de ficar ao sol, leãozinho.” He sings softly, swaying.

It’s late, almost 3am, and the kitchen lights are soft and warm. Donald feels a little fuzzy and a tad drunk- the triplets are over at a friends house for the night. Miss Alana had agreed to take the boys to school in the morning along with her kids too, the only condition was that when her wife’s birthday came around they’d take Hana and Maya for the night as well. It all made him feel so much like an adult, a father, a husband...

There was something inexplicably meaningful, about this moment, and Donald wasn’t sure why except what it was making his breath hitch.

Ze’s quiet singing faded off slowly, “Donald?” He asks quietly, leaning back, “Why are you crying?”

Panchito cuts himself off, placing down the plate he was drying in concern.

“I…” Donald huffs out a laugh, “I don’t know. I’m not sad.”

“That’s good,” Panchito says softly, coming up behind his to run a hand over his shoulder blades, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He stares at the ground for a moment, hands resting still on Jose’s shoulders, “I never thought I could have this.” he thinks about his temper, how it had simmered lower in the years he'd been in mexico but how it was still hot and wild and how badly it could burn. He thinks about his appearance, nothing special in his opinion. he thinks about his personality, simply and generic. He pushes those feeling away and focuses on the feeling of Jose's hands still sitting soft on his hips, and Panchitos hand on his shoulder blades. They love him, so he has to be something worth loving.

Panchito and Jose are quiet.

“A home. Children. Family, again.” Donald looks away, “It’s so so much better than I ever thought it would be, I love you two so much. I think I just got a little overwhelmed with how happy I am.”

“Oh Donald,” Panchito cups his beak, “You deserve it.”

Jose nods, leaning forward and kissing him gently.

“Do you remember when you two first left me alone with the triplets?” Jose smiles as he pulls away, “How I called you all panicked because I didn’t know why Huey was crying?”

“I do!” Panchito laughs, “We left the movie early because you didn’t know how to change a diaper!” Jose goes to defend himself, of course, and Donald looks at the two of them with devotion in his heart.

He wipes at his eyes, wonders how he got so lucky. Jose and Panchito we’re the best thing that had ever happened to him, a couple of the greatest people in his life. When he’d first shown up, a burden and a mess and stuck with one foot sinking in grief and the other already halfway into the certainty of his own grave (a dark time that Donald didn’t like to dwell on,) and they’d been patient and warm and solid. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, of course, no relationship was. Things happened that were rough and scary, things happened that didn’t sit right, they weren’t perfect, but they were together. They could face anything side by side, its a warm comfort Donald likes to think about, they they will always be there for him. That’s what love is.

“Ah, do you remember when we met?” Panchito sighs dreamily, looking at nothing as he pulls away to get back to washing the dishes, Ze and Donald following suit.

“That hole in the wall bar with american pop music playing?” Donald had been on shore leave for a week or two, if he remembered correctly, unable to get back up to calisota to spend it with his family.

“That was strange, considering we were in Chile.” Jose remarks.

“I had the biggest crush on you two the moment you sat next to me at the bar.”

“Ah the feeling was mutual, Donald.” The dishes clink together as Panchito stacks them on the counter to be put away.

“Who knew we’d end up here?” Jose lifts the dinnerware into the cupboard.

Donald smiles soft around the edges as he put away the last of the food, thinks about that day where his heart skipped a beat and sparks flew with each loaded word the trio had spit out. Smiles sharp and eyes half lidded. He didn’t have a ring, but even back then he’d had their hearts, and they’d always had his.

He’d like to think that this was always an inevitability.

Chapter Text

A letter arrives in the mail two days after the triplets eleventh birthday. It’s got- and Donald actually laughs at this- it’s got a wax seal. It’s obviously from McDuck Manor, from Scrooge, and Donald wonder if Scrooge had recently found him or if he’d tracked him down ages ago and only just now worked up the nerve to actually send a letter. It was more likely he’d dug up the address to the little ranch and pretended he didn’t care when he’d found it. Of course, being ignored really lost its effectiveness when one wasn’t aware they were being shunned in the first place.

The letter is simple, a request to see the triplets. It’s sleek and professional, almost detached, and achingly, achingly sad in a way Donald thinks Scrooge doesn’t even realize. It’s empty. It’s lonely.

Scrooge had once stood above it all, accusations like fire in his beak and ready to set Donald ablaze. Loss had made him out of flint and steel, had made Scrooge out of tin and sharp edges and pain. (Scrooge looks at him as the plane around them smulders, soot and ash and shattered family around him, “Why did you let her go?” it's a nightmare or its reality or its some horror in between.)

“You’re going to go?” Gladstone asks, pouring the last of the sugar into his cup. Just the right amount for his coffee to taste perfect.

“Do they even know of their Great Uncle?” Panchito frowns.

Donald rubs the back of his neck, the sun is rising in streaks of orange and pink on the horizon, “I’d tell them. I’ll tell them before we go.”

Jose trails a hand along Donald shoulders as he places a plate of hash browns on the table in front of him, “This is something you want to do?”

“It… is.” He nods, surprised, almost, at the truth.

The key piece of them actually going back to Duckburg, of course, was how well the triplets took the news. The triplets had, not recently, gotten into the habit of mischief- so tracking them down without triggering booby traps or falling right into their most recent prank was always a task to be completed with utmost care.

He finds Huey and Louie outside the barn, standing casually and seemingly watching the sun rise. Huey slaps Louie's arm the moment he sees Donald, pointing at him and talking quickly. Louie holds up his palms to calm down his brother. No sign of Dewey- something is up.

“Hey boys, I need to talk to you three-” Donald starts.

“Whatever Miss Rivera down the road claims, we had no part of it.” Louie intejects smoothly, silver tongue picked up from his Gladstone and Jose alike.

“...not what I was planning to talk about, but we’ll discuss that too.” Donald smiles a little, “Now c’mon, where’s Dewey?”

“Sleeping.” Louie says, at the exact same moment Huey says, “Who’s Dewey?” Louie turns to give him a look Donald had been very familiar with in his youth from Della.

There’s a sound from inside the barn, and Donald levels them with a dry look before pushing past them to open up the barn doors. Dewey jerry rigged the old worn out tractor back to life, whooping, “Alright boys,” He smears engine oil across his forehead when he wipes off sweat, “We’ll get to tijuana and back before anyone realizes we’re gone! So long Stuffy old Ranch, hello…” He finally turns to look at who had opened the door, smile slipping off his face, “Tio Donald… hehe.”

When Donald finally get them to the table he sits down slowly, unsure how to broach the subject. “So,” He says, “We’re gonna go on a trip.”

“What kind of trip?” Huey demands instantly, eyes glittering as he leans forward, “I love road trips! Can I be in charge of the playlist? I know some great sea shanties! Well, if we’re going by car they might not be appropriate but we could always modify them for land travel!”

“We’re going to McDuck Manor.” Donald announces- better to pull off the bandaid quick, right?- and each of the triplets eyes widen comically.

“McDuck Manor?” Huey gapes

“As in Scrooge McDuck? The bajillionaire?” Dewey stood up on his chair, slamming his hands down on the table and very nearly launching himself across it.

“You're finally gonna sell us.” Louie shakes his head, leaning his head on his hand.

“I’m not- I’m not gonna sell you.” Donald smiles a little weary but fond, “I love you boys, and I haven't always been honest with you.” Dewey sits back down, apprehensive suddenly as the smile slides off Donald's face, “Scrooge McDuck… he’s my Uncle, and your Great Uncle. After your mother went missing, he said a lot of things that hurt me and I haven't spoken to him since. He sent me a letter a few weeks ago asking if we would come to visit, and despite my history with him I want you boys to have the opportunity to know your family- if you want that, that is.”

He can tell they aren’t exactly… happy, but they aren’t yelling or crying either. Louie fiddles with his hoodie strings, “Out of all the secrets to keep from us, I guess leaning we have a secret filth rich uncle isn’t the worst we could have heard.”

Donald thinks, if he had any more secrets, it would have been worse. but he doesn’t. He’d been honest with them since day one about everything except Scrooge. He’d wanted to hide his past as an adventurer too, he didn’t want to give the triplets any dangerous ideas, but Panchito and Jose helped him open up to the kids more about stuff like that. He know hiding things from them was wrong, hiding a whole person is very wrong. A lie of omission is still a lie.

In the end, they want to go see him, and Donald tries to squash the swell of regret. The plane ride is short and to the point, and Scrooge has sent a personal chauffeur to pick them up (though, with his driving, Donalds not entirely sure this wasn’t an assassination attempt-) and the guy introduces himself as Launchpad, a name Donald has certainly never heard before.

He looks the man up and down after their short but honestly horrible ride, “how much does Scrooge pay you?” he asks one he’s got his equilibrium back. The boys are clamoring for another ride, grinning and laughing at the danger for the most part.

Launchpad smile brightly, “i’m the cheapest employee he has!” he puffs up, as if it was a point of pride. There’s a Bobblehead of a masked duck on the dashboard, and Donalds not sure how the things head was stuck on with someone as reckless as Launchpad at the wheel. He prattles on about his daughter, Gosalyn, as he helps Donald and the boys with their meager bags.

Miss Beakley stands at the door to let them in. She’s an intimidating woman, solid muscle and perfect posture, not a hair out of place. She escorts them through the Manor as if Donald hadn’t lived there a huge chunk of his life (though he actually preferred it this way, mindlessly following her while he thought of things to say.) She’s pristine and severe, and Donald misses Duckworth with an ache he doesn't want to think about.

When he sees Scrooge for the first time in eleven years, Scrooge looks…

Donald excuses himself to the bathroom. He allows himself to cry, if only for a few sparse minutes, splashed his face with water and swears in two different languages before coming back out. He wishes, almost reverently, that he had taken up Panchito and Jose’s offer to come along. He could use their strength, right about now, their support, their love. The triples are questioning Scrooge, he looks overwhelmed and old and lonely. There’s a fissure between them, an opening in the ground too wide for Donald to cross alone.

The boys go off to explore the house. The moat surrounding Scrooge gets deeper with each step Donald takes closer, threatening to drown him.

“You look…” Scrooge trails off. Donald feels something sharp and angry simmer behind his tongue, He couldn’t even say one good thing could he?

“What do you want, Scrooge?” he demands it plainly.

Scrooge bows his head, looking aside. His expression is unreadable. Donald thinks in another place, another time, he’d have been able to know what Scrooge wanted to say before he even spoke (there were times, before all this, where Donald knew Scrooge loved him by the upturn of his bill and not the words he said. Donald thinks, sometimes, he had been misinterpreting that smile all this time.)

“I don’t want anything.” Scrooge says finally, succinct. Donald wonders in the silence growing between them meant Scrooge knew how he hurt him. How much his actions had cut.

“Apologize, then.” He says, Scrooge locks eyes with him harshly, before breaking it again.

“You deserve it, don’t you?” He mutters angrily, frustrated at Donald or his own cloying stubbornness, “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

(“Why didn’t you stop her?”)

“You were.” He nods.

(“Do you blame me for Della’s disappearance?”)

“I’m sorry.” Uncle Scrooge closes his eyes, eyebrows creasing, and Donald wonders if this is the first time his Uncle has ever said those words in his life.

(Scrooge stares, judgement and hellfire in his eyes.)

They stay for two weeks, Donald misses Panchito and Jose awfully after the first week and is absolutely dying to see them face to face again once the second week is up. Things between him and Uncle Scrooge are… better. They’d talked a few more times since the apology. Donald had offered up his Email and a promise to stay in touch that he actually meant. Things aren’t okay, but they’re on the right track, finally. The triplets are delighted by the mansion, less happy about Uncle Scrooge’s Frugal nature, and completely stoked when Donald sets aside a day for them all to go visit Daisy, Minnie, Mickey, and Goofy.

At the end of their vacation, the Triplets are mostly ready to go- though they cry when they tell their new friend Webby (she was the granddaughter of the housekeeper, though she was sweet as can be and oftentimes liked to test Donald adventuring prowess and strength by choosing random moments to drop from the ceiling and latch onto him like a monkey.) goodbye.

“It might be okay,” Donald Starts once Uncle Scrooge shows up to see them off, “if the boys saw you every once in a while.”

Huey whoops loudly, Dewey and Louie cheer and they beam at Webby, “Hear that? Can’t get rid of us that easily!” Dewey grins.

“Sometimes, like birthdays or federal holidays.” Donald smiles again, softly at the triplets. Genuinely at Uncle Scrooge. There’s a softness behind the old ducks glasses, a stoop to his shoulders, the frameworks of a bridge between them. They head home, the flight simple and easier than driving across the continent in a frenzy of grief and insomnia.

The boys fall asleep in the car on the drive back to the ranch. Panchito, Jose, and Gladstone meet him in the driveway. Each of them take a triplet.

“Come inside, Donald,” Jose tells him before Donald can insist on getting the bags, cradling Huey carefully in his arms “Your journey was very long, you need a nap.”

It was Ze’s way of saying ‘you look like shit,’ and Donald smiles at him, exhausted but happy. He closes the door behind him, it’s an ending.