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"This is the desert, a cruel oven where the sand is the baking dish, and mystery... is the casserole."
Proud as he is to know that his monologuing skills have rubbed off on his daughter, Drake is very abruptly overcome with an almost exhausting sense of deja vu.
"Gosalyn, quit wasting tape!" he turns around and snaps, a bit harsher than he probably should. But he can't help it coming out that way. "It would be nice to have a little left for our actual vacation."
"Come on, Dad, you don't wanna stunt the growth of an up-and-coming young filmmaker, do ya?" Then she puts the camera back up to her eye without skipping a beat―"Here's your close-up, Launchpad! Show us the real you."
Drake's right hand, seemingly independent of the rest of him, shoots outward to hold Launchpad's chin in place before she even finishes saying that.
"Oh―! Sorry, Gos," Launchpad laughs after briefly attempting to turn against Drake's grip. "Gotta keep my eyes on the road! Heh... good call, DW."
He'd like to also believe that it was just instinct, that his subconscious simply remembered his partner's impulsive nature and made his body act accordingly... but as he draws his hand back and faces forward again, Drake can't shake the feeling of something bigger. Darker, perhaps.
Mostly, inexplicably, he can't shake the feeling that he's just been punched in the gut.
He blinks rapidly, shakes his head, and looks over to Launchpad. He can't breathe.
"Woah―"
Launchpad doesn't hesitate to stop the car―not even enough to slow down first. The three of them are jerked forward.
"You okay, Drake? You look sick."
"Huh?" Gosalyn immediately jumps up from the backseat, camera still in her hand and still evidently rolling. "Dad, what's wrong?"
"Uh..."
The concern on their faces alone, but especially with Launchpad's hand just gently gripping his arm, only make him feel dizzier. But he has no idea how to explain the horrible feeling that he got a minute ago. Any accurate description of it, even, would sound crazy. And it's already beginning to fade.
"Sorry, it's nothing, I―" He swallows and vigorously rubs his face. The other two are still staring at him expectantly. "...Just the heat getting to me, I think. Like Gosalyn said―cruel oven. Except, I guess... I'm the casserole."
*
From then until they make it to Cowboy Doug's Dude Ranch, Launchpad pushes the speed limit by at least ten miles per hour. It's a miracle that they don't get clocked by any cops lying in wait and trying to meet a quota. Or maybe it's some cosmic luck, made by the sheer force of will of a man who's convinced that his friend will die of heatstroke if he doesn't get some water and proper air conditioning as soon as possible.
Drake feels bad for allowing him and Gosalyn to worry like that, but then, who's to say that heatstroke isn't what it is?
Cowboy Doug himself, apparently.
"Y'all got here just in time! I was about to cancel the reservation."
"What? Why would you have done that?"
"Well, yeh got here a day late without calling ahead. That room coulda gone to someone else―"
"A day late?" Drake frowns and exchanges a look with Launchpad. "No, I definitely reserved the week starting on the 26th."
Cowboy Doug nods and frowns himself. "Yeah, you did, but... today's the 27th."
"What? That's not possible. I know that I―wait." Drake scowls and looks down to his left. "Gosalyn, did you mess with the calendar?"
"Mess with it? I never even look at it!" she shouts, indignant. "Time isn't real, you know that, Dad."
For a split second he's inclined to believe that she's just lying, as she often does, but then it occurs to him what a pointless lie that would be. He slams his hands on the front desk and looks to Launchpad, now a bit hysterical.
"We've been planning this for weeks, how could we possibly not have known what day it―?"
"Maybe we, uh... maybe we lost track of the day a little while ago, or something," Launchpad suggests, clearly trying to be assuring, but looking just as deeply confused. "Or maybe we were just driving for longer than we thought. Maybe the heat got to all of us!"
He puts a hand on Drake's shoulder again. And Drake hates that it works so easily, but he does feel reasonably calmer.
"The heat 'round these parts does do that," Doug whistles, making their heads turn. Drake almost forgot he was even there. "Losin' track of time and the like. Some say it's aliens, wipin' folks memories."
"Did you say aliens?" Gosalyn promptly jumps up in excitement, pulling herself by the edge of the desk until she's at face level with Cowboy Doug. "Would you be willing to sit down for a video interview? Or you can do it standing, I don't mind―"
"There are no aliens, Gos," Drake sighs. "It's just a hoax to get more attention and specifically more money from tourists."
Forgetting his frustration from a moment ago, and wanting nothing more than to just get to their room, he steps forward to sign them in.
"We're not here for that sensationalist baloney, we're here to get back to basics, remember?"
Gosalyn drops back to the floor and grumbles, "You and your stupid basics."
Beside him, he hears the faintest chuckle from Launchpad.
At least they still have six days.
*
Drake doesn't worry for one second that Gosalyn won't have any fun here―she's the one who brought the brochure home in the first place, after all. She'd showed him how cheap it was, and that it would be just like camping, minus all the stuff that makes camping unbearable! (No offense, Dad.)
Plus, all the local historical attractions.
And Launchpad, of course, only had to hear the word "cowboy" before he was fully in.
He does worry a little bit, however, when he sees the state of their accommodations. Or really, when he feels it.
"Geez, this bed's like a prison cot." He tries to punch it down, and subsequently to hide how badly his hand now hurts. "...And it's got wheels? This can't be safe―"
"Don't worry, DW, I'll take it," comes Launchpad's casual tone.
He can't say he's surprised that his sidekick would so readily volunteer, but something about it, now, leaves him with that same feeling that he had earlier in the car.
Like he's been punched in the gut.
And he feels suspicious, again, that it had nothing to do with the heat.
"You think you'll be able to sleep on that thing?" Drake asks, almost outside of himself.
Launchpad just shrugs and continues unpacking his things. "Well, Cowboy Doug said it's the best he has to offer, so I gotta make it work, don't I?"
...Launchpad is by far the most muscular of all of them, and therefore has more natural cushion. It would be plain child abuse to have Gosalyn take the stiffest bed. And he certainly doesn't want to take it. By all means, it's just pragmatic.
And yet he once again can't shake that feeling.
*
Turns out he's not the only one who's been feeling it.
Drake doesn't get that comfort until about an hour after they've settled in, though. It's only during their very late dinner, when his sidekick has left for the restroom, that Gosalyn seems to tentatively scoot her chair closer to his and says,
"Hey, uh... Dad?"
He knows that face. Or he thinks he does. "Oh, no―what did you do?"
"Nothing!" She throws her hands up, as though to prove it. "Well, not yet anyway―"
"Not yet? Young lady, what―"
"Oh my god, Dad, it's not a bad thing!" Gosalyn keeps her voice uncharacteristically hushed, he notices. And after saying that, she glances toward the bathrooms. Drake narrows his eyes. "Okay, listen. I... I'm not even really sure why, but I wanna do something nice for Launchpad. Like a surprise, or... uh. Dad?"
Drake is wide-eyed and frozen in his seat for a moment. Then his daughter smacks him on the beak just hard enough to unfreeze him. He can't even bring himself to be mad.
"...Gos, you didn't happen to become a psychic recently, did you? Because I―"
"You were thinking the exact same thing, weren't you?"
He didn't know that he was thinking it, but some part of him absolutely was. He wouldn't know how else to explain the way that Gosalyn saying that clicked something into place, like something he'd lost, like a word or movie or actor's name that he'd been trying to remember all day but just couldn't until now.
It's some kind of guilt, is what it was. He couldn't place it. He knew that Launchpad had something to do with it, but couldn't figure why, and especially not why now. But now that Drake is actively thinking about it, he supposes it makes perfect sense that things have simply... culminated.
That is, he's realizing that he's been somewhat of a jerk lately. Most importantly, he was absolutely a jerk on the ride here (because being cooped up in a car for a very long time always makes him cranky), and yet he saw nothing but patience on Launchpad's end.
He's realizing that his partner is so often selfless when it comes to him and Gosalyn, and that he doesn't return the favor nearly often enough.
It doesn't explain, necessarily, that very first abrupt pain he'd felt in the car. But the memory of that is foggy enough that he disregards it with ease―maybe that one was indeed just plain heatstroke. Who knows! Doesn't matter anymore.
"Yes," he says, locking eyes with Gosalyn and clasping her hand over the table. "Yes, we definitely should."
If nothing else, Launchpad deserves it for taking that horrible bed.
***
"Sleep well?"
"Like a rock!"
Drake would assume that Launchpad is referring to how the bed feels, if not for the man's cheerful tone. But maybe he's just trying to hide his discomfort to keep the other two from feeling bad? Or maybe Launchpad really isn't exaggerating when he says that that teddy bear of his will get him to sleep quickly no matter what.
It's best not to ask, he decides. He's too hungry to think of much right now other than getting some breakfast, anyway.
They've got a sort of mess hall here, which gives Drake quite a bit of nostalgia for his childhood summers spent in summer camp―with the bonus of much fresher food. Rather than bland, frozen and reheated and refrozen and re-reheated luncheon, it's all grown and harvested right here on the ranch. It actually gives him an idea.
"Excuse me―" he gets the attention of the woman in the hairnet, who's serving their eggs onto trays. "Would it be possible to get some chili peppers for these? Or jalapenos, or cayenne―anything hot."
She tells him sure, and to hold on a second. In his peripheral, he notices Launchpad looking incredibly confused.
"But you hate spicy food, DW!"
"Yeah!" Gosalyn chimes in. "I've seen you call cinnamon too spicy."
At that, a few patrons behind her do a weak job of stifling their laughter.
Drake throws her a glare, then tries to appear casual as he looks back to Launchpad. "Yeah, I wasn't asking for them for me, LP."
Launchpad blinks. Drake smiles wryly and nods toward him.
"Oh!" ...Took him long enough, huh? But seeing his beaming grin makes it impossible for Drake to feel annoyed. "Gee, thanks―I wasn't even thinkin' of that!"
Even if he had been thinking of it, Launchpad is always too polite to attempt to go off-menu unless he knows for a fact that the servers won't mind. It's not a bad trait, but it can be extremely frustrating―
But not right now. The cafeteria lady has to address him twice to get him to notice her handing him the peppers and to move along.
Once at their table, Launchpad cuts up three entire peppers to dump into his eggs, then promptly heads to the bathroom to wash his hands. Gosalyn immediately leans over the table.
"Was that your nice thing?"
"Hm?"
"The nice thing we're gonna do for Launchpad!" she says, gesturing emphatically. "Was that yours? Because it's kinda small, if you ask me."
Drake almost chokes. "It was a nice thing―it doesn't have to be my only nice thing," he practically hisses. "And―sure, I was making an active effort to be thoughtful just now, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't usually be nice enough to do something like that. Knowing what Launchpad likes is just... normal! Obviously I intend to do something bigger, at some point."
The look on Gosalyn's face tells him that she's aware he said most of that for his own benefit. He wonders if she might also be aware of why he needs that benefit, because he doesn't actually know that himself.
He's grateful, then, to see Launchpad coming back from the bathroom.
"You really should go wash your hands too, DW," he says before even sitting back down. "You can't be too careful. And by that I mean you specifically―you know how sensitive you are to peppers."
"I'm fine, LP," he sighs. "I think I'd have felt some burning already if I was ever going to."
"Well, have you touched your eyes?"
"My eyes?" Drake unthinkingly raises a hand and rubs at the corner of one of them. "Why would―"
Oh.
Through his growing tears, he watches Launchpad and Gosalyn exchange grimaces.
*
Gosalyn doesn't outright tell him so, but it seems like her "nice thing" is giving Launchpad a starring role in whatever film she's trying to make. She probably also figures that that's the one way that her father won't interfere with her using up all the tape for creative purposes―and Drake has to give it to her, it's pretty smart.
So it's both for the sake of the vacation and for the authenticity of Gosalyn's amateur western that they all need to look the part.
Unfortunately for Launchpad... the sizes on this ranch's rental clothes only go so high.
"Well―" He can hear his friend grunting from behind the changing wall. "I guess, uh... it's not too bad if I just leave those unbuttoned..."
Then Launchpad walks out.
"How do I look?"
It's mostly a very typical cowboy outfit. With the weathered denim jeans, and the classic boots and spurs and hat and belt... and then there's how horribly tight that shirt is around Launchpad's barrel of a chest. Almost the entire top half of the buttons are left open to accommodate him.
Drake can't breathe long enough to respond. Gosalyn, however,
"Like the rootinest tootinest, roughinest ridinest hombre this side of Calisota! OH―you should get one o'those fake guns and do some poses for the camera!"
As Launchpad runs off for a moment to do just that, Gosalyn turns around.
"Geez, Dad, you really are sensitive to peppers..."
Just like that, he's snapped out of it. "What? Why are we still talking about this?"
"Well, your eyes were just watering again."
"Aw, they were?" comes Launchpad's voice. Drake shrinks. "See, that's why you gotta be careful―"
"Yeah, yeah, I got that," he snaps, trying very hard not to stare, this time. (But dammit, it is not easy.) "Can you just―just get your cowboy poses or whatever, already?"
*
"Hey, nice, you look like Mike Fox's character in Quack to the Future 3!"
Any other day, he probably wouldn't take that as a compliment. Unpopular opinion, he knows! But as a diehard fan of westerns, he struggles to appreciate the disservice done to the genre by clashing it with science fiction.
The character himself is decently relatable, though.
And right now, for whatever reason, hearing that comparison from Launchpad picks his heartbeat up like a revving engine.
"You think so?"
"Yeah! I'm kinda surprised, though―I'd figured you'd try for, like. A cowboy version of Darkwing, y'know?"
"Well, I am on a budget, here, LP."
He's trying very hard not to read into it, but he can't help but think that Launchpad actually looks disappointed. And hey, he's resolved to be more thoughtful than usual, hasn't he?
"But... I guess that looking cooler might be worth it."
It does feel much better, aesthetic-wise, to change into an outfit that belongs more on a bounty hunter than a mere farmhand. As long as Drake tries to forget about the financial aspect. And the fact that he probably could have just sewn his own old-westernized Darkwing outfit that would have even in fact looked better than this.
This is a vacation! he reminds himself. I shouldn't be worrying about anything!
*
Regardless of what Gosalyn says, she is far too small to be allowed to ride a horse on her own even by this place's standards. And Drake certainly isn't going to sign the liability forms that would bypass that rule.
"...Why? Because you could fall off and crack your head open."
"Dad, I've gone up against supervillains―even without your help, sometimes. You think I can't handle a horse?"
"Yes, Gos, because even Quackerjack and Megavolt are more predictable than a horse," he mutters, not necessarily to keep passersby from hearing, but far moreso the horses themselves. He still plans on riding one and would prefer they don't distrust him.
Gosalyn can of course still ride one, too, just so long as her father rides with her.
Which she tells him makes it not even worth it.
"Especially if we can only ride this slow―what's even the point besides getting a couple pictures? I'd rather just be on the ground filming!"
Drake can't personally disagree with that, but he stands his ground if only to teach Gosalyn a little patience. It won't kill her to sit on a horse for ten or so minutes while it trots around in circles. Plus, he really does want as many pictures as possible of her looking like an adorable, miniature Billy the Kid, even if it gives himself much less time to ride for real.
Launchpad gets his turn immediately after and rides real enough for the both of them, at least. It makes for pretty damn good footage―both for Gosalyn's film, and just for their vacation in general. Definitely some cool stuff to look back on in a few years.
Meanwhile Drake has never really had a chance to watch his sidekick look like a real-life hero of the Wild West before, not even briefly or as a mere performance. He's a little jealous, watching him, but mostly awed.
So is Gosalyn. And all of the other spectators waiting their own turns, it looks like.
It's got to be the confidence that Launchpad rides with. And the man's sheer height once atop a steed, cowboy hat included... God, he must be at no less than ten feet right now. And it's... the rest of Launchpad's appearance, too. And his evident experience that contrasts sharply with most of the tourists they've watched so far. And―
The grin that Launchpad flashes as he rides directly past their section of the fence, as Drake leans over and rests his beak on his folded arms and grins back.
Except he doesn't flash it so much as turn his whole attention toward Drake and forget to turn it back. Or that's what it looks like, right before his horse trips on its turn and hurls Launchpad directly off its back and into the furthest end of the fence, thirty feet away.
"LAUNCHPAD―!"
"Keen gear, I can't believe I got that on camera―"
"Gosalyn!"
Drake can only be angry at her for a split second, however, before swiftly hopping over the fence and rushing down the field to his friend's side.
"Launchpad!" he yells again, once he's about halfway there. "Are you okay?"
A few moments later, as the first movement from him that Drake has seen since he landed, Launchpad raises one arm and gives a shaky thumbs-up.
Drake winces while still running. Oof. He makes it to where Launchpad lies on the ground within the minute and finds him considerably scraped up... but smiling. Chuckling, almost.
"What can you possibly be happy about?" he manages to ask while all but doubled over, catching his breath. "...We're going to have to pay full-price for those clothes now that they're ripped up, you know."
Not that he isn't plenty relieved himself. Just confused.
"Well, on the bright side, DW..." Launchpad coughs and breathes a laugh. "Now I can add 'horse' to the list of things I've crashed!"
***
Another bright side is that―according to the doctors on-site―Launchpad doesn't have a concussion from his crash. Probably built up a thick skull from all the other thousands of crashes I've been in, he says.
Though he is recommended a day of rest to deal with the collision in general. The brightest side, really, is that they aren't billed for the antiseptic or bandages that Launchpad gets for his actual cuts.
And a close second is that, according to Gosalyn,
"Now that your clothes are ripped up, you actually look like an outlaw which is extra cool! A good, gritty anti-hero might've been exactly what my film needed..."
Even with that clearly cheering Launchpad up, and with Launchpad appearing to be affected very little by all this in general, Drake finds himself feeling that pain in his chest again. He was trying to make this vacation special. He hasn't even managed to come up with any one Nice Thing yet. And now...
"You alright, DW?"
Now Launchpad is getting bandaged up and just miraculously short of being concussed, and asking him if he's alright. For a moment, Drake swears he's somewhere else entirely―as though he's watching a memory that he can't actually recall. But he blinks it away as quickly as it came.
"Of course I'm alright," he scoffs―much too quickly, in retrospect. "Why wouldn't I be? I'm not the one who just flew off a horse."
His daughter and partner throw each other a sidelong glance.
"Uh... yeah, I think he's just worried about you, Launchpad."
"Aw, well―you shouldn't worry, DW, I'm fine―"
Drake can feel himself going redder by the second, and in a panic he stands up. "Of course you're fine! I'm not worried because that would be stupid, because I know you're fine. I swear I'm not! I'm―Gosalyn, do you really need to film everything?"
*
It seems like Launchpad might be catching on, by the end of his rest day.
Well, alright. He can't possibly know the unexplainable flurry of directionless jealousy, and deja vu, and loss, and sadness that motivated Drake's plan. Drake doesn't even personally know if Gosalyn was motivated by the same thing.
But, as he should have expected, Launchpad isn't too thick to realize that the other two are particularly concerned with how he's enjoying this vacation. What really gets the gears turning, Drake thinks, is when he opts to stay inside with him to watch Pelican's Island. Particularly when he makes an effort to only complain during commercials.
It doesn't occur to him in the moment that he's never actually done that before. But he realizes later after Launchpad tells him, seemingly out of nowhere,
"You know, Drake, this is hands-down the best vacation I've ever had. We should come here every year."
He freezes when he hears it. And then, slowly... frowns at him.
"Really?"
"Yeah, really!" Launchpad says with a laugh, slapping him on the back. "I've had tons of fun playin' cowboys with you and Gos. Honestly, even just watching TV has a lot more charm to it on a black-and-white set and in a room like this... Feels like I'm in my grandpa's house as a little kid again, or something."
He watches Launchpad look around their cabin with a wistful smile, and as intensely as he feels relieved is very confused.
"But what about...?"
He... doesn't actually know what he was planning on saying, then. Objectively he knows why Launchpad's crash wouldn't bother him very much, and he's otherwise only seen evidence of him having a good time. But he still can't help but feel like... like there was something else that happened, that he for some reason can't actually remember.
Why can't he remember?
"...Flying off a horse?" Launchpad finishes for him. Then he shrugs. "Eh, it didn't hurt that much. And Gosalyn was right about the rips n' scars making me look cooler, too."
Drake can't think of anything to do but pretend that that was what he was talking about, that it's solved now, that all he's feeling is glad that Launchpad has had a good time here. And he is glad! He's relieved to know that he's done at least something right. Relieved enough, in fact, to overshadow any of his previous distress.
Most distracting of all, though somewhat suffocatingly so... all of Launchpad's temporary rough edges are very difficult to look away from.
Gosalyn really was right.
*
It's the fact that he hasn't had to become Darkwing―that has to be it. It only makes sense that the closest he's had to his vigilante lifestyle all week being a pretend-shootout would make him feel a little weird!
Not that he wants some trouble here, on his vacation, but he just always expects it. Even his suburban neighborhood falls prey to villainy fairly often. This kind of relative normalcy has been so utterly rare for him in the past couple years that it must be the answer.
So, with two nights left at the ranch, it's how Drake rationalizes his continuing discomfort.
Because otherwise, it really shouldn't be there at all. He should just be satisfied with successfully getting back to basics, and with their family time, and with Gosalyn's film, whatever the plot is supposed to be (she insists that she'll be able to salvage something cohesive out of all her footage later), and with... making Launchpad happy.
He still doesn't know why that was concerning him all of a sudden―but he's rationalizing it.
He's fine.
*
On their last evening at the ranch, Cowboy Doug officiates a wedding, and Drake is not fine.
The moment he witnesses the decor being set up on one of the spare buildings, he feels sick to his stomach. He feels so strong an urge to change into Darkwing that he almost does―until he realizes, that doesn't make any sense. There's no danger. Nothing objectively disgusting, either. The set-up for the reception isn't ugly and neither are the bride nor groom.
And yet his visceral, physical reaction is undeniable. He genuinely wants to throw up. God, it's lucky that he's alone in that moment.
Drake can't shake the nausea even hours later, though. You'd think he'd seen a dead body or an eldritch horror by the way it sticks in his mind and keeps his heart rate up―by the general idea of weddings now unable to leave him, making him feel nothing but―
―but all of those things he felt before, he realizes.
The punch to the gut. The inexplicable sense of loss.
He almost thinks he's starting to remember.
***
"Hey, LP."
"Yeah, DW?"
They're maybe a quarter way through the old and low-budget sci-fi romance that's playing on one of the few channels they get here, and halfway through a bottle of aged bourbon that Gosalyn somehow won in a game of Texas Hold 'Em. She's asleep on the other side of the room, right now, with Launchpad's bed along with the TV wheeled over to the corner.
Drake is decently tipsy, but just sober enough to remember to be quiet as he says what's been hidden in the back of his mind all week.
"...If you got into a romantic relationship, or started dating someone, or something... you'd tell me, right? I mean―you wouldn't... keep it a secret or anything. Right?"
He immediately hears the telltale scrape against the wall of Launchpad turning toward him. Even with the alcohol cushioning it, his heart jumps briefly into his throat.
"Why do you ask?"
His face is just barely lit by the TV, but Drake can still see some fear in it. Oh, no.
"You didn't even answer," he mutters, frowning deeper by the second.
Launchpad unfolds his arms and pushes away from the wall entirely, then lets out a mirthless breath of a laugh.
"I mean I―yeah, yeah of course I'd tell you, DW, but I don't... Did you really think I wouldn't?"
"I..." Did he? He's certainly feeling relieved, now, but, "...No, not really, Launchpad, I just―it occurred to me that as far as I knew, you've been single for all the time I've known you, and that's... a little hard to believe, y'know? That's it."
Drake then uncaps the bourbon for another mouthful and tries to return his attention to the stupid movie. In his peripheral, though, Launchpad very clearly doesn't do the same.
Instead he leans his head into the wall, still facing him, and frowns.
"Why's that hard to believe?"
The answer is so obvious that for a moment, Drake has no idea what to say. Launchpad fills in the silence again:
"I mean, you're still single too."
"Yeah, but..." He wants to laugh. "I don't exactly... put myself out there, do I? I'm―I'm busy, being Darkwing Duck, and..."
He loses his train of thought in the persistent confusion of Launchpad's gaze.
"Aren't I also busy, being your sidekick and everything?"
"Okay, sure, but you're... big," is the first trait he manages to say aloud. The other man raises an eyebrow as Drake takes another swig of the bourbon. "Y'know―tall, and... muscular. And you're much more available, and handsome, and... nicer, honestly―"
"You think I'm handsome?"
Honestly, he didn't even think it needed to be said. But Launchpad's voice cracked, just then.
"...Come on, LP, don't tell me you didn't even realize that objectively, you're―"
"Oh―no, I... nah, I did," Launchpad breathes another laugh and looks back to the TV. "I just... didn't think that you thought so."
Drake follows his gaze and finds that he has no idea what's even going on in this movie, anymore. Subsequently he doubts that Launchpad does, either. Regardless, aside from taking turns drinking they're both silent for several minutes, up until the next commercial break. Then there's a short pause, and―
"Launchpad, you know that you're important to me, right?"
Saying that feels like shoving a massive weight off of his chest, and at the same time, terrifying. Launchpad doesn't even respond this time. He just turns his head and meets Drake's gaze, looking... equally scared, almost.
For a second, he can't even breathe.
"...I just. Want to make sure you know that." Still no response. "Because you―I mean... you're not just my sidekick, you do know that, right? And that―no matter how good someone else might be at helping bust criminals, or driving, or fixing things, or... whatever else, Gosalyn and I both wouldn't trade you in a million years."
No one can take your spot, he wants to add, but some still-sober part of him knows that it would be overkill. Especially with tears already evident in Launchpad's eyes and a tremble in his beak.
"I, uh..." He laughs again and averts his eyes. "I think I might've sort of known that, but―Jesus, that's... something I really needed to hear, I guess. How'd you know?"
Drake opens his mouth and promptly closes it. It's simultaneously on the tip of his tongue and lightyears away.
"I... have no idea," he says slowly, shaking his head.
"Well." Launchpad sniffs and beams back up at him, wiping the tears off his beak with one hand and grabbing one of Drake's with the other. "Thank you, DW."
In that moment, that empty, uncomfortable feeling from all this week is finally gone. Just like that it's replaced with something infinitely brighter―seemingly... in both of them. Because as he squeezes Launchpad's hand,
"I think you're pretty handsome too, by the way."
In the next moment, Drake is realizing exactly how little distance there is between their beaks. Hardly missing a beat, then, he's closing it.
The bourbon might have given him the confidence to move forward, but it is certainly not the reason for this, and Drake knows that in every muscle that it takes, every feather on his body, every fiber of his being. He knows how goddamn long he's wanted to do this, held back by a fear not even necessarily of rejection but... of not being able to know if the reciprocation was genuine. If maybe Launchpad was only afraid to lose his status as a sidekick.
It hadn't occurred to him that perhaps Launchpad hasn't actually been any more "available" to dating than he has―least of all for the same reasons.
It's been almost a decade since Drake has kissed anyone, though.
He's almost worried that he's doing a horrible job of it until Launchpad takes his hand out of Drake's grip and curls it around the back of his neck instead, and pulls him so close that their legs overlap, and grins fiercely into the kiss. Drake actually feels a tear roll down his beak that... definitely isn't his.
He pulls back and opens his eyes to find Launchpad wiping his own.
"Sorry," he whispers, more hoarse than Drake has ever heard him. "I cry when I get drunk. And also when I'm really happy. And..." Launchpad exhales disjointedly, like he's trying very hard to stop crying. Then he furrows his brow. "Drake, I..."
Drake's heart jumps too fast for his mind to keep up.
"Oh, Launchpad, me too―"
And he shoots forward to kiss him again, wrapping both arms around Launchpad's neck and feeling dizzier and dizzier the deeper he goes but unable to mind at all...
Until he hears the squeak of a bed. Of a real mattress, unlike this one.
He pulls away far more sharply, this time, and sees a tiny red light across the room. Which can only mean one thing.
"Gosalyn, are you kidding me?"
"I was about to say that I thought we might have an audience," Launchpad mutters, at which Drake snaps his gaze back to him. "But―I do love you!"
"I love you too, Launchpad!" Gosalyn shouts from her bed before Drake even can.
"Aw, I love you, Gos―"
"You're supposed to be asleep," Drake shouts back, dearly thankful for the dark of the room keeping his embarrassment invisible.
"Yeah, I was, but then I woke up and realized this was the ending that my movie was missing! I'm thinking this is where the credits can roll, since it's mostly just dark with your guys' dialogue..."
His first instinct is to tell her to delete that footage immediately. And he almost does, but then Launchpad drapes an arm over his back, and... he really feels that bourbon set in. And even if he wasn't too tired to argue, or to be truly angry at Gosalyn for filming such a private moment... he thinks he wouldn't mind having that footage to look back on, later.
"I think it's a perfect ending," Launchpad says, rubbing Drake's arm. "How 'bout you, DW?"
It sure feels like one―in more ways than he could possibly articulate. Though he can't imagine it'll have really ended until they both ditch this prison cot for the top bunk and fall asleep together, like they really should have been doing all along.
Drake yawns and leans into him, and glances toward the TV.
"A million times better than this sci-fi crap, at least."