Chapter Text
Alert for Gizmoduck in Duckburg, Calisota
STORMY WEATHER HERE AGAIN? GIZMODUCK FACES HIS FOURTH WEATHER BASED VILLAIN THIS MONTH
~*~
Duckburg is gloomy today, though she supposes that makes sense. Gandra’s untied her hoodie from her waist and pulled it on to ward off the chill and rain as she slips between the alleys.
The rain falls heavier, and the wind pushes back harder the closer she gets to the fight. With every collision of the hero and villain, there’s another peal of thunder, and Gandra rolls her eyes at the dramatics.
Jumping, she grabs onto the bottom of a fire escape, pulling herself up to climb the side of a building. Reaching the roof, she activates one of her eyebots, zooming in so she can see the fight better.
Gizmoduck and a slender lark dressed in a long trench coat, winding scarf, and fedora, like some bizarre weather man, exchange blows as dark clouds swirl around the latter, lightning flickering between the clouds.
She hadn’t meant to stick around Duckburg—she’s definitely not supposed to be, Herron wants her at Headquarters—but there’s something about the Suit that she can’t shake.
She’d even gone so far as to set an alert for Gizmoduck—for purely scientific reasons, of course. Just because she has no plans to steal the suit anymore doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in how it worked and live coverage of his fights just happens to be the best way to do it.
At least, that’s what she tells herself as she uses her eyebot to record the fight.
He’s a suit, sure, and he’s almost too innocent to have a malicious bone in his body, but there’s something about him that Gandra can’t let go of.
Pulling her hoodie tighter around her as the wind picks up, she watches the fight in mid-air. This one feels different than his last few fights (again, from a scientific standpoint) but she can’t figure out why.
The clouds gather around the lark, rather than above, like she's seen with the past with other weather-based villains. It's like he's forming them, instead of an apparatus pulling moisture from the air. In fact, she can't see any sort of machine, like Dr. Atmoz Fear's.
She zooms in further, trying to get a better look, but, suddenly, she can't get eyes on on the lark.
Turning her head, she tries to find him and zoom out on her camera at the same time when she sees him headed straight for her.
Pinwheeling backwards, she tries to put distance between them, but her depth perception is thrown off with one of her cameras activated and she stumbles, falling on her tailfeathers.
Before she can pick herself up, Gandra feels a hand grasp the back of her hoodie, lifting her in the air.
The lark hoists her up and shakes her in Gizmoduck’s general direction. “Give it up, Gizmoduck! You can save the citizen, or you can stop me, but you can’t do both!"
“Seriously, the damsel in distress schtick?” she demands, kicking her legs. “Did you really think this would work?”
Honestly, she’d be more insulted, but one, she’s being dangled twenty stories in the air, and two, she twists just so then, and sees the minute the Suit recognizes her.
He stops mid-air, his beak curling ever-so-slightly, and, truthfully, Gandra can't say she'd blame him if he let her fall.
“C’mon, Stormlarker,” he says finally, his voice much deeper than she remembers it, and that must be his “superhero voice”. “Let the girl go. You know what they say—two’s company, but three’s a cloud.”
She groans. Not weather puns. “Just drop me. I’ll take my chances.”
The Stormlarker—and what kind of name is that?—ignores her, predictably, and addresses Gizmoduck. "How about we take this party for a little spin around the block?" The clouds begin to spin faster around them, blending more into a tornado and the wind whips around them. "Put a little twist in this plot?"
“Your rain of terror is over, Stormlarker—!”
“Okay, this is ridiculous.” She yanks off her glove, lighting up her nanotech and reaching behind her, shoving her hand in the Stormlarker’s face.
He screams and the hand on her neck releases. Which, on the one hand, is great, because she was starting to feel the shocks, being pressed up against him.
But now she’s plummeting towards the street at an alarming rate with no way of stopping, so. That’s not so great.
Gandra’s mind jumps into hyperdrive, looking for any way to slow her descent. Before she can find anything of use, a metal arm wraps around her waist, catching her. She doesn’t need to look back to know it’s the Suit.
“Will you guys stop manhandling me in mid-air?” she demands, just stopping herself from pushing herself away from him.
“Oh, sorry, did you want to fall to your death?” he snipes back, adjusting his grip on her and the Stormlarker in the other hand.
She grumbles under her breath, unable to deny that she most definitely doesn’t want that, but that doesn’t mean she has to be happy about the way he’s saving her life.
The Suit sets them both down, and Gandra’s never been so relieved to set both feet on solid ground.
“Well,” she says, fitting her glove back on. “Thanks for the save, but you’re clearly busy, so I better run—”
“Uh, I don’t think so.” He’s dropped the Gizmoduck voice and sounds much more like the Suit, but he sounds…almost authoritative, which he’s never been as long as she’s known him (which, admittedly, has been, like, two weeks). “I still have, like, a dozen questions for you, so just. Stay there while I wait for the police.”
Gandra laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna wait for your mother the cop who probably wants to arrest me on sight for dating and ditching her son.”
She can’t see his face behind the visor, but he tilts his head down at her. “How did you know—?”
“Good rule of thumb, Suit, assume I know everything. And another rule I have? Don’t stick around and wait for the cops to show up.”
His beak twists, and Gandra feels slight guilt at bringing up their date and trying to blow him off all at once. And she’s gotten so far off track from her original plan.
“Look,” she says. “Just…deal with the stupid weather guy and the cops, I’ll be in the coffeeshop down the street. If you really want to ask all your questions when you’re done, I’ll be there. Seriously,” she insists when he gives her a half-disbelieving look.
His face is unreadable as he looks between her and the unconscious weather villain. A siren wails in the distance (when did he call them?), and she gets ready to bolt.
Finally, he nods.
“Okay,” she says, taking a step backwards. “Cool.” She ducks into the nearest Starducks as a squad car speeds past.
It’s a half hour and two coffees before the Suit walks through the door, heavy-looking bag on his shoulder. He bypasses the table, tilting precariously to one side as he approaches the counter. Gandra watches his interaction with the barista, who refuses the Suit’s money several times before handing him a coffee.
The Suit accepts it with a wry smile, stuffing the cash in the tip jar instead. He turns, tipping again with the weight of his bag, scanning the shop a moment before his gaze lands on her table.
Squaring his shoulders and looking like he'd much rather face the weather guy again, he walks over to her, setting his bag down with a heavy thud and sitting across from her.
Neither of them say anything for a long while, and the Suit doesn't even look at her as he drinks his coffee, and...yep. This is officially more awkward than when she pretended to date him
“Did that guy just give you free coffee?” she finally asks, just to break the silence.
“Uh, yeah, yes. Yes, he did.” He doesn’t elaborate further than that, which just makes her want to know more.
“Is that like a…flirting thing? He gives you free coffee because he likes you?”
He blushes wildly. “Wh—No! No, he just…Todd knows about. You know. My other job, so he won't let me pay for coffee.”
“That guy knows you’re Gizmoduck?” she asks, disbelieving. What kind of superhero lets his barista know his secret identity?
Waving his hands, the Suit looks around before hissing, “Would you keep it down? I really don't want to add this whole café to my list—”
“List? Okay, seriously, how many people know you’re…You-Know-Who?” Gandra says pointedly when he makes a face at her.
His beak opens and shuts several times before he finally says, “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Last time we were together, you literally targeted me because I’m…okay, I can’t go with You-Know-Who, it’s far too Harry Otter for comfort. But you know what you did.”
She does. She knows what she did. On the one hand, she's not exactly proud of it, but on the other...
“Alright, cards on the table? I work for F.O.W.L.”
Beak dropping open, the Suit stutters out, “What—the Fiendish Organization for World Larceny?”
“Oh, good, and we were worried we wasted all that money on marketing,” she deadpans. Director Buzzard's not going to be happy that McDuck's personal security knows about F.O.W.L.
Then again, who says she has to be the one to tell him about it?
He still looks shocked at her confession, ignoring his coffee in favor of dropping his head in his hands. “Does Mark Beaks work for them, too?”
“That idiot?" she scoffs. "Of course not. He just paid me an obscene amount of money to steal your suit. I was working for them before he met me.”
He's clearly still hung up on the whole "F.O.W.L." thing, staring wide-eyed at the table, so Gandra gives him a minute. "So, F.O.W.L. doesn't want the...Gizmosuit," he asks, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Oh, they want it. It's tech they don't have, or the means to invent, it's just not high on their list of priorities right now." The Suit's eyes, impossibly, go wider, and she's really screwing this up, isn't she?
Taking a deep breath, she rubs the spot between her eyes. She needs another cup of coffee. "Relax, I'm not here to steal the suit. Again," she adds quickly when he lifts his head to give her a deadpan look. "I have a scientific proposition for you, actually."
Leaning back in his seat, he folds his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at her. "And how do I know I can trust you?"
Gandra shrugs. "You...don't. But you might remember a little formula I helped you figure out. I was—" She swallows, hard, the question sitting bitterly on the tip of her tongue. "—I was hoping you could help me with the same."
"You work for F.O.W.L.," he says, punctuating the word by jabbing the table with a finger.
"And you're a suit, working for a billionaire," she mimics him, jabbing her own finger into the table. "Believe me, I am just as unhappy coming to you for help, but you're—" Spit it out, Dee. "—unfortunately, my best bet. You might be a suit, but you're smart and bio-chem's really more my speed and...I could really use your help."
The Suit studies her, and Gandra smooths her features into something she hopes is convincing. It's not hard, because she believes it. He's not given nearly enough room to shine at McDuck Enterprises, but just spending one night with him, she could tell he's got something special. Plus, she's running out of time with Herron and Buzzard for this project, so she's literally out of options.
She just hopes they left things on a good enough note after the whole "I'm only dating you to steal the Gizmoduck suit's passcode for Mark Beaks" thing that he'll be willing to help her.
"I'll think about it," he says after a long moment.
It's a non-answer answer, but Gandra thinks the clouds part, just a little, and she nods. "I'll take it."
~*~
Unknown: I have more questions I want to ask you before I make my decision.
Unknown: I suggest we meet in an obscure location of my choosing so I can go over them with you, and then I’ll decide whether or not to help you.
Gandra D.: Okay, 1) I’m almost positive I know more “obscure locations” than you do, and 2) how did you get this number? It’s unlisted and encrypted.
Suit: Good rule of thumb, Gandra Dee? Don't underestimate me.
~*~
"Okay, gotta give it up, Suit. The Abandoned Toy District in St. Canard was not high on my list of weird rendezvous points," Gandra says, surprise coloring her tone, as she stuffs her hands in her pockets, looking around at the crates of unused toys.
Fenton feels the tiniest surge of pride at having—maybe?—impressed her a little, before he tamps it down quickly. He's not here to impress her, and he only picked the place in St. Canard because he wants to avoid any chance of running into anyone who would recognize them.
It's been almost a month since she showed up in the middle of his fight with the Stormlarker—and thankfully, all the weather-based villains seem to be taking a break for now—and he agreed to hear her out. Between his work, school, and Gizmoduck schedules, and her F.O.W.L. work, this is the only time they could meet.
He'd hoped that the time would make it easier to see her again, but even as she turns in a circle, her back to him, Fenton feels all his conflicting emotions about Gandra Dee—anger, betrayal, awe, attraction—roil, twisting around in his mind, confusing him again.
Facts, he needs to deal with facts, hard data. Emotions are too messy, too unreliable.
"Why do you work for F.O.W.L.?" he asks, wincing as his voice echoes in the warehouse.
She turns to look at him, raised eyebrow the only indication she's surprised by his abrupt nature. "What, do you want some tragic backstory so you'll feel better about helping me?"
"I want to know what I'm getting into, and that includes who I'd be working with. You don't necessarily strike me as evil, or fiendish, or anything. So, how did you get in with a crowd like that?"
"You mean, what's a nice girl like me doing with the likes of Steelbeak?" Gandra asks with a smirk, and he feels an irrational anger flare up in his chest. Did he really expect to get a straight answer from her?
Fenton stands, shaking his head. "Fine, don't answer. Good luck with whatever, Gandra."
"Look, Suit, I'm sorry, I just...I don't really know how to talk to you any more, since..." She trails off, finger rolling under her glove, and the following silence fills in the rest of the sentence.
Since she tried to steal the suit.
"Just..." he sighs. "Be honest with me, okay? I want to help, but I really don't know if I can trust you right now." Even with her gesture of figuring out the missing piece of his formula after their disaster of a fake date, being Gizmoduck is the one thing Fenton has that's truly his, and she tried to take that from him.
Worse, she pretended to like him in order to take it from him.
"Yeah, no, that's—that's fair," she says, nodding. "Uhm, F.O.W.L. was my first boss to fund my projects, not just whatever they needed me to do, and being, well, morally gray, they don't read the proposals too closely before signing off on them. So I have basically free-reign."
"So it's about the money?" Fenton asks, remembering her comment about the "obscene amount" of money Mark Beaks had paid her to try and steal the Gizmosuit, and seriously, what would he even do with it? He obviously doesn't want to be a hero, so why?
"The money doesn't hurt," she admits with a shrug. "But it's not all there is. I think I have something to offer the world, and they're the first ones to take a chance on me to prove myself, okay? I was recruited right out of high school, they paid my way through school, and I haven't looked back."
It's the first time since he's met her he truly believes her, believes that what she says, she's saying because she means it, not to try and convince him, not to try and get anything from him.
Because he's been there, just waiting for someone to take a chance on him, and he's lucky it was Dr. Gearloose who was willing, even if he'd only done it because HR made him hire an intern.
“Why me? Why the Gizmosuit?” He almost doesn’t want to know the answer, because there’s still a little part of him that wants to believe she’d felt the same way towards him, even a little.
“That...was about the money. And not personal at all, and I definitely should’ve found a different way to try and get the suit because the whole ‘fake date’ idea was...a mistake.”
Well. He wanted honesty.
"Okay." Fenton nods, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "One more question."
Gandra eyes him warily, but nods. "Shoot."
There's part of him—that sounds a lot like M'ma, if he's honest—that wonders if he's going to regret this, but maybe someone other than a fiendish organization should take a chance on her. "What's this secret project you want help on?"
Her eyebrows raise, disappearing under her fringe. "I—What? That's it? You believe me after, like, three questions?"
"I'm a pretty good judge of character. Plus," he adds when she gives him a Really? look, gesturing to herself. "When you opened my text, it downloaded a mobile lie detector that detects lies based on voice patterns. I knew you were telling the truth this whole time."
Beak falling open, Gandra lets out a surprised chuckle. "Never underestimate the Suit," she says. "Nice touch."
"I've been known to amaze and astonish."
"Really?"
"No, I've just always wanted to say that."
"You're weird, Suit."
"Yeah, that's more accurate."
~*~
“You look terrible.” She doesn’t bother mincing words as the Suit rounds the corner into the alley they’re meeting in.
He grunts. There’s a crack in his beak, a bruise on his cheek, a scrape across his chin, and he’s holding himself stiffly.
“Should see the other guy,” he mutters, dropping the duffel he’s never without that she’s pretty sure holds the Gizmosuit with a clatter. “Can we just get this done?”
Gandra lifts her hands as though in surrender. Alright, so the Suit’s in a bad mood, whatever. "Whatever you say. You have the fabric for me?"
It's the project he agreed to help her with—virtually indestructible fabric for the field agent's clothing. Fireproof, tear-proof, waterproof, whatever-the-hell-Steelbeak-gets-into-proof, anything they could think of.
He shakes his head, wincing. "No, I couldn't figure out a formula for the fabric that protected it from everything you wanted. But," he adds when she feels her face fall. "I do have this."
Bending stiffly, he unzips a side pocket on the bag, pulling out an aerosol can the size of a hairspray can. "Indestructo-Spray!" he says with a flourish that falls flat. "Spray it on any fabric and it becomes indestructible to anything."
Gandra accepts the spray, studying the simple design. "It doesn't look like much," she says honestly. "What tests did you run?"
"All the ones you asked for, water, fire, tears, then everything in the Gizmoduck arsenal. Not even a wrinkle. Even the pies just slid off," he explains as she lifts one of her sleeves from around her waist, spraying it.
Tugging off her glove, she lights up the nanotech, grasping the material in her fist. Letting go, Gandra inspects the sleeve. Just like the Suit said, there's no damage, just the coffee stain that reminds her she hasn't done laundry in three weeks.
"Impressive, Suit. Like, seriously, this should be enough to get Herron off my back for a while." She pulls her glove back on, looking back up at him in time to see him pale under his feathers, pressing a hand to his side. "Okay, seriously, what happened? I know Gizmoduck wasn't in a fight today."
He has the nerve to wave her off, shaking his head. "I'm fine, it's fine. I don't have the formula on me, though, I'll send it to you—"
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I honestly don't care about the formula. Not right now, anyways," Gandra says. And she doesn't, because, clearly, the Suit's hurt way worse than he's letting on, and he's lying about it. "It's your ribs, isn't it? Let me look at them."
"No, it's not my—"
She reaches a hand towards his side, which causes him to flinch away from her. "That's what I thought. Come on, I have a new x-ray feature in my eyebots I've only tested once. Sit."
The Suit hesitates a moment, and she rolls her eyes. “Jeez, Suit, just let me look at your ribs, okay? You’re about to fall over.” She leads him to an overturned crate, pushing his shoulder until he sits. He clearly attempts glaring at her, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s barely hiding a wince and so clearly in pain.
Gandra kneels next to the crate, giving him a pointed look.
"What?" he huffs.
"You've had an x-ray before, right?" she asks. "I need a clear picture. Shirt off or up, whatever you're comfortable with."
He blushes furiously to his roots, avoiding her gaze. Honestly, she'd be enjoying this a lot more if he didn't look about two seconds from either passing out or throwing up (neither of which would be a good sign, she knows).
Mumbling something, he raises his left arm above his head, using his right arm to pull the hem of his shirt up so she can see. "That okay?" he asks, still not looking at her.
She inhales sharply. His left side is mottled with darkening blue and purple bruises that shouldn't stand out against his dark brown feathers, but do.
Shaking her head, she activates her eyebot, and, using her phone to switch the program to x-ray, scans his side. "Don't worry, Suit, I've seen worse," she quips.
And she has—hell, she's had worse than what she suspects are just bruised ribs, but the Suit's a suit, working in a nice, clean lab all day. She doesn't even think as Gizmoduck, he's gotten hurt too bad.
He chuckles drily. "Believe it or not, I've had worse."
Gandra raises an eyebrow, all she's able to do as she scans his side. "You?"
"Oh, yeah. Well, Gizmoduck. I was in almost a full-body cast for three months, so that was fun."
Come on, he can't just drop something like that when she can't react. Good rule of thumb, Gandra Dee? Never underestimate me.
She finishes the scan, saving the x-ray. "Well, no cast required this time. Not even a break, which is good. Just looks like a really bad bruising and a couple of small cracks, so I'm just gonna wrap them to be safe. Go to the hospital if you start breathing funny or anything."
Reaching into her backpack she'd brought, anticipating something larger than a breadbox, as it were, Gandra pulls out the small first aid kit she'd thrown in out of habit.
Unraveling the roll of gauze, she begins wrapping it snugly around him. "Sorry," she mutters, when he winces. "Used to doing this on myself."
"No, it's fine.” He shifts a little on the crate. “How, uh, do you know how to do...this? And what to do for cracked ribs and when to go to the hospital and everything?"
“Just because I’m a scientist doesn’t mean I haven’t done time in the field,” she says, wrapping the bandage around his torso. “F.O.W.L. makes sure all their field agents know some form of first aid. Cracked ribs are easy.”
“You could be doing so much more, you know?” he says. Gandra glances up at him. The Suit’s face is serious, like he always is, but his face has softened a touch. She shakes her head, looking back down at his bandages, fussing with the fastening.
“I mean it,” he reiterates. “You’re smart and talented, and apparently you know how to field dress wounds—”
“I’m bandaging your bruised and barely cracked ribs, calm down, Suit.”
“—and you’re working for an organization with the word ‘fiendish’ in it? I just don’t get it.”
“You’re not supposed to get it,” she retorts, sitting back on her heels, his bandages fine for now. “F.O.W.L. funds my research, and they let me work on whatever I want when I’m not busy with assignments. It works for me.”
“What about after F.O.W.L.?" he asks, apparently intent on this line of questioning. "I mean, no offense, but ‘fiendish organization’—if S.H.U.S.H. doesn’t take them down finally, someone will.”
“What 'after F.O.W.L.'?”
“You really don’t see a future for yourself outside of F.O.W.L.?”
She shrugs. She's never really thought about it, but she knows there's no "after F.O.W.L." for her. Even if S.H.U.S.H. took them down, she'll either be taken prisoner or in the wind. That's no life. “No. No point in looking past the assignment I’m on. Look, like it or not, I made my decision and I’m living with it. There’s nothing waiting for me beyond F.O.W.L.”
“Well. I don’t believe that.” He says it so decisively, so definitively, she almost believes him, but Gandra knows better—once you’re in with F.O.W.L., there’s no getting out.
Standing, the Suit holds out a hand to help her up, but it feels like more than that. It’s almost like he’s extending an olive branch as well. She eyes it, unsure what’s changed. He’s hated her—well, maybe not hated but severely distrusted—since day one—well, again, maybe not day one, what with the whole “date”, but definitely day two—and now he’s…what? Ready to make peace?
Deciding to unpack that…never, if she’s honest, Gandra decides to just accept the hand for what it is and allows him to pull her to her feet.
Only to catch him in turn when he groans, dropping her hand and stumbling backwards.
“Okay, yeah, sorry, I was trying to be nice, but I think I dislocated my shoulder, too,” he wheezes.