Work Text:
A bin of money had sounded ridiculous to everyone but you. To them it was conceited, obnoxious, show-offy, but to you it was the most obvious of choices. The physical feeling of coins and jewels under your claws--fingers--was worth the scorn of those who heard about the bin.
You had the Other Bin, of course, for other things you collected. But it wasn't your pride and joy, your mountains of gold, your hoard.
Every respectable dragon had a hoard, after all, and that was what you were.
Sure, you don't look like a dragon, but one makes due with what one has. You're small, but dragons can be small. Sure, you wanted to be bigger, but that wasn't the worst of your worries. What was worse were the aches. The aches that told you you had once been different. You had once been big, fierce, regal. You had claws that could slice down any enemy. Wings that spread several body lengths out from you. Breath that burned and scorched and protected.
And it was all gone.
(Della's gone. You let her down. With one move you lost five family members--what were claws and wings compared to not seeing your nephews hatch?)
Maybe that was part of why you always felt so empty. Maybe you were missing something.
You had to stop writing, again, because the feeling of claws that didn't exist made your fingers heavy.
You walked too close to a doorway and felt a shock of surprise as wings that were no longer there hit the wall.
Your anger seethed inside of you, hot and full of smoke and your throat burned with flames that would never exist.
You laid in your coins and frowned at the ceiling. The clinking of jewels and gold as you picked up handfuls and let them fall between your fingers was satisfying, but it was never enough. A swim through them was invigorating, but you always craved more. What more was there, for a dragon in the body of a duck?
(A great adventurer, a poor uncle, a horrible friend. That was what you were.)
You clenched your fist around a pile of coins. Your claws felt foreign to your own body and you knew it was because they weren't there. They should have been, but they weren't. It wasn't fair. This wasn't fair.
Eventually, like all of your bad moods, it fades. The raw emotions become covered once again, and it's easier to take pride in your dragon heritage. You can make do with a pocket full of gold and the mental image of your tail swinging behind you. It's the small things, really, that make your soul hum in excitement. The rock candy that looked like jewels, the scented candles that smelled like a long-forgotten home, the family-sized pillow forts that felt like caves (on the rare occasion you weren't near an actual cave, at least). They were all little bits of home, and little bits of yourself.
There was also your family to consider.
(Donald and the boys are back again and gone again almost before you can blink. When had you become so cruel? When had you hidden yourself among the mountains, a legend to the villagers nearby?)
Maybe dragons weren't usually pack animals, but you certainly were. You would protect them with your life, until your last breath, Gods help whoever stood in your way. The last thing anyone who hurt your family would see was a dragon in the shape of a duck. Assuming they survived the encounter they would never forget it.
(You couldn't lose them again. For any reason.)
You mused to yourself that you seemed to hoard family members just as easily as gold. Your cave--house--was full of family members and friends that you had gathered and collected and kept close to you. With every addition to the family your heart grew along with your hoard. Donald, the boys, Webby, Beakley, Launchpad, Lena, Gyro, Fenton--it never ended, really. Like the coins dropped in the bin, the pile grew.
As the Bin emptied, your family expanded. As your family grew, your loneliness shrank.
It was never gone completely--it probably never would be. But it was... tolerable. Forgettable, even. You grew as a person, you let people in and you learned to love them. You learned that they loved you, too.
Eventually you'll figure out that your family hoard is much better than your coin hoard.
For the time being, though, you're in a steady place between the two.
You let out a puff of air and watched, satisfied, as the cold air made your breath billow out in a puff of steam. It wasn't much, it wasn't what it used to be, but it was something.
The sound of children begging for your attention was somehow even better.