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There wasn’t a lot to do on the moon.
He thought that a lot. Every now and then, when he slowed down and stared up at the sky, he thought about how there wasn’t a lot to do. He thought about all of the things he missed on Earth. Not just his family--that hurt too much to think about, really. But things like TV, or the radio, or… Anything to keep himself occupied.
On the moon there was.. Dirt. Or, well, dust? Moon dirt? Either way, it sucked. By far the worst part about being stuck on the moon was the sheer loneliness that made his brain buzz with fear and uncertainty.
Eventually, it made him think about things he tried not to think about normally.
He had thought he was ready to be a parent. It was hard work, he understood that. But he would think about his parents, about his uncle, and he just… Wanted to provide that. He wanted to provide love to his children.
And then he ran away to space and left them to be raised by their uncles. Not on purpose, never on purpose, but it didn’t make him feel better about it. Even if he was suffering from the consequences of it.
His mind wandered all over the map, so to speak. He replayed adventures in his head, had conversations with people that weren’t there, and remembered arguments that were years over. All of them chipped away at him, slowly and painfully, until a barrier seemed to form in his mind.
No. His mind seemed to scream at him, We’re not doing this anymore.
His kids would be two now. And God, did that hurt.
Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. He grit his teeth as he dragged debris across the surface of the moon. Things weren’t heavy, per se, but he loaded as many things onto a scrap piece of metal as he could. The act of moving was something to help keep him busy.
What made him happy?
Sometimes he imagined what his kids lives were like. Two year olds didn’t do much, but surely Donald’s life was more interesting since the additions. (There was the possibility--however small--that Donald and Scrooge weren’t taking care of them. That was the first thing he put on his official “List of things I’m not allowed to think about.”) They probably drove him crazy on the daily.
And Scrooge, oh Scrooge. Della and Donald had at least been a few years old when they moved in with him. How did Scrooge McDuck handle babies?
He laughed at the thought. He wished he could be there, sure, but… Just the idea was enough, sometimes.
The deeper his thoughts went the stranger they became, sometimes. He found himself questioning… himself. The words mother and father circled around in his head like buzzing bees and sometimes he just stood in the dust and screamed and screamed until his voice was gone.
He’d never questioned his gender before, really. His life was full of adventure and treasure and sometimes not knowing if you were going to make it through the day. Gender seemed so--so-- trivial compared to all of that. He could put off thinking about it.
So what if he didn’t like dresses? A lot of ducks didn’t wear dresses! So what if when they were kids he would sometimes pass himself off as Donald’s brother? Kids were weird! So what if--if--
Alone on the moon with nothing else to think about, he still managed to be in denial for three years.
And when it hit, it hit hard and fast.
“I should be there.” He whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming again, “I should have taken care of them. One more adventure! There could have been dozens of adventures! But I--I--”
He fell to his knees. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. He had wanted one last shot. One last hurrah before he had to be home and safe to take care of ducklings.
“I’m their f-father.” He sobbed on the word, “I should be there. ”
It wasn’t like things were too different after that. It was still only him, after all. He corrected himself on pronouns and terms, but it wasn’t like there was much to do otherwise. He called himself their father in his ‘transmissions’ to the kids (transmissions he was sure they weren’t getting, but maybe one day they would), he cut his hair short, but that was… That was it.
Right?
“Della.” He chewed on the word. Not particularly masculine, for sure, but he didn’t hate it. Still… “Daniel? Hm. Derrik? Ech.” Daniel matched Donald the most… Danny and Donny. That hurt, so maybe not, but also… Maybe.
He stuck with Della for the time being. It was the moon--what was society going to do? Reach up from Earth and tell him it wasn’t a masculine name? They could take it from his cold, dead hands.
But with that settled… He stared back up at the sky, out of things to think about again.
There wasn’t a lot to do on the moon.