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It’s just a crash.
There’s an absurd amount of heat. Blood is pouring from his eyebrow into his eyes, he can no longer see.
It’s just a crash.
Someone is screaming at him, clawing at him, hankering for the controls and he won’t give them up.
It’s just a crash.
The city spread out before him, clear in the narrow windows of the cockpit, a gleaming dark city like obsidian. St. Canard. He’s seen it on television.
It’s just a crash.
He knows what to do. What is the least populous place in St. Canard, a city packed like sardines with families and criminals and family-criminals alike? The Bay.
It’s just a crash.
He angles it downward, hears the other injured person howling in agony as their plans are thwarted, and for some reason this crash feels different. His heart pounds in his chest and he thinks of...of someone. He knows he has a picture in his head of them both (both?) and he sets his jaw. Determined.
It’s just a crash.
This aircraft is not his. It’s not a stunt plane or a massive red beast with wings or a replica built for impacts. But crashing is what he does best. He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious, why the panic suddenly floods his veins like the seawater fills the cockpit in the next few minutes, but all he knows is he’s suddenly very sorry. But why?
It’s just a crash.
-
“And you can’t tell me the date at all?” He’s asked by one of the doctors.
“I can guess if that helps you any?” Launchpad offers.
“No.” They don’t look impressed. “Name?”
“Launchpad McQuack. I’m a pilot.”
“Age?”
Here’s where he always gets stumped. The answer on the end of his tongue is twenty….twenty something. But then he can remember Loopey calling him up to gloat about him being an old man, turning 30 like he is. And that feels like an awful long time ago.
“More than...thirty, but less than forty,” Launchpad hesitantly draws out, holds his breath.
The doctor doesn’t look pleased or displeased, simply writes another note. “Mmhm.”
He watches them, fiddling absently with the bandages on his right arm.
Where there’s not burned skin covered in bandages, there’s uneven feathers. He’s growing them in all patchy- whatever fire broke out (on the seawater-riddled plane, mind you) caught him pretty good. Maybe he got an accelerant dumped on him like the time he and Loopey accidentally set the neighbor’s field on fire trying to fill up the Guzzler.
Amazing what gasoline will do to wheat.
He picks at the uneven feathers nervously, trying to stare at his own reflection in the chrome pole of his IV.
His hair is a greasy, lank mess. He has bags under his eyes that look like bruises, and might actually be bruises. He’s chipped his beak near the side, and that’s gonna cost some dollars to fix up. It hurts real bad sometimes. His whole right side is either burned, scratched up, or missing feathers. And he’s got some cracked ribs.
He’s lucky though, according to everyone else, but he’s mostly surprised he got any injuries at all.
It’s just a crash. He’s good at that. Kind of his thing. It doesn’t normally end this bad.
“I,” The doctor says slowly, clicking their pen, “Will be back around in a couple hours. And you’re sure you want to do this today?”
“Yeah,” Launchpad replies, trying not to sound too desperate. “Uh, please. Shouldn’t I uh...I mean if we’re… I’m sure it’s good for me?”
“I think it will be fine. Your significant other has been haunting the hospital like a depressed ghost,” The doctor says dryly, “Just remember. Even if you can’t remember him right now, don’t strain yourself. It’s all going to come back to you. He’s been kept up to date on your condition and knows not to push you.”
“Uh huh,” Launchpad says, not entirely listening, instead trying to draw up a picture of the guy in his head. He’s not getting anything, not a single scribble. “When’s he coming?”
“He’s here,” The other reiterates. “Waiting. If you get tired, I will have someone politely tell him to shove off. Do you hear me?”
“Sure.” What kind of person was this? He forgot his name already, funny enough. Somehow he proved they were dating, so this must be real serious. And he sounded worried.
“Alright, Mr. McQuack,” The doctor packs up with a sigh. “I’ll be back. We’ll be monitoring you. Again. I’ll say it again. If things get too tiring we are going to kick him out. I can’t repeat this enough: Don’t strain yourself.”
“You got it, Doc,” Launchpad promises, and is glad he’s no longer hooked up to the heart monitor cause boy that thing is ticking away inside him like he’s swimming the Bay.
He’s left alone for a minute. Launchpad absently pats his stringy hair.
They better be serious, or his looks alone will scare this guy off for good. Not exactly his most attractive, but the next minute a duck is in his room and Launchpad forgets his train of thought.
It’s lost at the station of disappointment.
Not in him, that’s not it, the guy seems nice enough. He’s the kind of duck you’d walk right by without noticing, on the smaller side and slight, but decent looking and youngish...he’d place him 30 or so, just like himself. He wears casual clothes, a purple plaid button up with sunglasses hooked into the collar, bare forearms and a thin expression.
He looks concerned, which is kinda sweet, his eyes seek Launchpad out first and then search the room as the nurse walks in with him. It’s a quick look, kinda smart-like, and he’s got pretty dark eyes.
He’s not the disappointment.
He’s disappointed because the duck is totally unfamiliar to him.
Look, in movies ‘n stuff, you lock eyes and you just know. You know they’re your significant other because you love them so much that you feel it even if you can’t recognize him.
Launchpad looks at the guy and feels nothing, and that sends his heart plummeting into pits.
“This is Drake Mallard,” The nurse gently introduces the newcomer. “I’ll let you two talk. Page us if you need anything, okay?”
Launchpad doesn’t answer, too lost in despair. He was hoping this would be the trigger to get his memory back, fix all the patchy things in his head that don’t add up right.
Drake Mallard looks disappointed as well, wringing his hands nervously.
“Hey, Pal,” The other duck seems to choke out. “How are you feeling?”
Not...great. Launchpad can’t say anything, can’t take his eyes off this duck, so he just nods his head and ignores the burn in his chest that might be broken ribs, might be broken heart.
“Good.” Drake visibly winces. “Uh. Not good. That you’re hurt, I mean. Good that you’re….mmm…” He shakes his head and starts over. “They told you who I am?”
Launchpad nods again.
“I mean uh- in relation to you?”
Another nod. His neck doesn’t like all this nodding but he doesn’t know what to say.
“Ah. Okay.”
Drake Mallard runs a hand through his hair, immaculate feathers gleaming in the ugly hospital light.
“Do you…” Drake Mallard hesitates. “Remember me?”
Launchpad shakes his head.
“Oh.” Drake’s fingers twist again, the smile on his face freezing. “That’s okay, Buddy. They said you were having trouble. No worries.”
Launchpad swallows, tastes saline on his tongue. “Sorry.”
“No!” Drake’s bland expression is replaced by panic, and he strides the five feet to Launchpad’s bed to rest his hands on the side. “You don’t have to be sorry! It’s okay.”
It’s not, and Drake seems to read that on his face ‘cause his voice drops lower, his brows furrow with conviction.
“It’s okay,” He repeats firmly. “You’re still getting better. I’m just glad you’re alright.”
Whatever it is constricting Launchpad’s breaths seems to ease a little. He can breathe again, does so in a whoosh.
Drake’s expression turns terribly fond, which looks nice on his face.
“So,” The mallard says, wrists hanging over the bed. “Have any questions for me?”
“Lots,” Launchpad blurts. “We’re dating?”
Drake’s well-groomed cheek feathers redden. “Yep.”
“Like…” Is asking how serious a relationship is considered rude? “For how long?”
“Oh, uh, officially?” Drake scratches his beak. “Just under a year.”
Launchpad digests that a moment. “Unofficially?”
“More like...two.”
That would be a long time. Launchpad scratches his face, forgetting about the bruising there.
Drake winces along with him, reaches a hand out as if to touch him but thinks better of it.
His hand hovers above the hospital sheets a moment before reluctantly retracting back to the sidebars.
“Hey, Pal,” The duck asks again, “How do you feel?”
“Uh…” Launchpad blinks heavily, takes a second to really think about that. Really consider it. “Hurt.”
Drake snorts, a loud, ugly thing that makes a grin spread over Launchpad’s face.
He is kinda handsome. He looks slight on first glance but he’s got muscle, biceps that stretch under the rain jacket he’s wearing and over a broad chest. His strong forearms are hidden, but he can still see his nice hands.
The feathers on his hands are uneven.
Launchpad stares at his fingers, at the uneven growth that matches his up his side.
He looks Drake Mallard in the eyes and considers asking, but Drake’s talking again and it derails his train of thought.
“I bet,” The other says with a soft, twisting smile. “I’d take you home if I could, LP. Let you get rest somewhere that’s not under fluorescent lights and in a mess of noise.”
LP. His most common nickname, and he likes the way it sounds when Drake says it. Feels comforting even if it isn’t familiar. Like a stranger handing you your favorite blanket.
“I’d remember you if I could,” He fumbles, “I’ve been...trying.”
“They said you aren’t supposed to stress yourself over it,” Drake says. “It’s...going to come back. Hasn’t been that long. Don’t make yourself more sick over it.”
Launchpad fiddles with his uneven feathering again, picking at the new pins until they were in danger of bleeding.
Drake notices, because he reaches over and stops Launchpad from doing it.
It’s gentle, just a block of his fingers rather than grabbing anything, but Launchpad stares at him, curls his fingers around Drake’s instead of picking further at his injuries.
The other duck looks surprised, then something cracks, and his shoulders slump down from their tense hold near his chin.
Drake rubs his thumb against Launchpad’s fingers, taking his other hand to sandwich the taller duck’s between his own. It makes Launchpad’s throat constrict and while there’s not a single spark of familiarity, there’s a flood of soft affection for this stranger.
The other duck is staring at their hands, lost in thought, and Launchpad looks him over more now that they’re physically closer.
He’s kind of damp, which explains the rain jacket, but his hands are strong and dry and reassuring somehow.
He smells nice, earthy and light, and also like clean laundry. He’s got bags under his eyes almost to match Launchpad’s bruises, and he looks more tired than he had earlier.
Something tickles the back of Launchpad’s mind, but he’s distracted, because Drake’s wrist is glowing.
It’s a WaddleWatch, pretty expensive, and Launchpad physically turns his hand so Drake has to turn his too and let him see.
The picture on his watch is a duckling with brown feathers and red hair, mischievous green eyes.
Launchpad can’t breathe. He’s struck by the eerie feeling that he should be recognizing the little duck but he doesn’t. He grips Drake’s hand, hard enough that it hurts his own, and only notices when the other yelps.
He lets go quickly, and Drake shakes his hand out with a wry wince.
“Should have taken that off,” He mutters to himself, tapping it until it’s a black surface again. “I didn’t think about it-”
“Who is that?” He can barely recognize the voice as his own, it croaks so bad.
Drake looks up, alarmed, rainwater dripping down his previously-immaculate feathers.
“...My daughter,” He says slowly, trepidation quivering on every syllable. “Gosalyn Mallard.”
Drake has a daughter.
Launchpad’s eyes water. He’s suddenly struck by the feeling of loss, and that sends horror icing through his veins full speed.
“Is she okay?!” He sits all the way up, making Drake gasp. “Why do I- Is she-”
“Gos is fine!” Drake sputters, frantically flutters his hands as if afraid to touch the anxious pilot. “She’s fine, LP, she’s safe. She wasn’t there.”
That doesn’t help the frantic beating of his heart, but he can feel his limbs again so it helps somewhat.
“Wasn’t where?” He asks, staring down at the duck who looks much smaller when he’s not lying down.
“...Uh…” Drake winces, flapping about nervously. “LP, I need you to lie back down. Gos is safe. She’s at our friends- your friends, technically- their place, and she’s staying overnight. She’s okay.”
She’s okay.
Launchpad doesn’t immediately lie back even though his body is screaming in pain, too occupied with the confusion swirling in his brain.
He felt devastated when he first looked at her and he doesn’t know why. Even now, through blurry vision, his heart aches and he doesn’t think it’s part of the broken ribs.
Is Drake telling him the truth? What if he isn’t. He doesn’t know who he is, after all, and can’t judge if he’s the type to be honest or spare his feelings if something did go bad. He doesn’t know if he can trust him. What kind of person he is.
Launchpad looks back at him and is met with a grim, settled look that startles him.
“Lie down,” Drake demands, and it’s a far cry from the nervous, wavery tone he’s been using this whole time. “We can talk about it but you’re going to lie yourself down, Mister. Now.”
If he’s supposed to feel scared, he doesn’t. He feels something alright and he’s not sure it’s the emotion Drake wants.
Regardless, Launchpad slowly lowers himself back down, supported by Drake’s capable arms, and the other pulls the fuzzy blanket back over him and fusses a little more.
Fuzzy blanket. That wasn’t there before.
Launchpad stares at it, light purple and warm and comforting, and definitely not brought in by Drake. Drake hadn’t been carrying anything, not even the sunglasses hooked into his-
Drake’s wearing a jacket. Not a shirt. He doesn’t see the plaid button-up underneath, either, instead he sees the collar of a worn tshirt.
“You...changed clothes,” Launchpad says slowly, feeling like all his senses were stalling. If a brain could sneeze, this is what it felt like. “You weren’t wearing the watch.”
Drake freezes, fingers still fluttering about the blanket, and he surprises Launchpad by looking...relieved.
“No,” He says gently, “I wasn’t. The first two times I visited I was wearing a different shirt.”
“It was purple,” The pilot can almost feel his brain tilting in his skull. “You had sunglasses.”
“That’s right.”
Drake’s beaming at Launchpad like he’s a kid who won the spelling bee and it’s real confusing.
“Wait, you’ve been here before?” Launchpad presses his hands against his head, ignoring the shocks of pain that zip up his sides for it. “The...blanket, it’s new-”
“I went home, sweetheart,” Drake drapes himself over the side of his bed, eyes softening to something so glad it makes him hurt almost as much as Gosalyn’s picture did. “Took a shower. Then I came back. It’s chilly in here so I brought one of Gos’ blankets. It’s still the same day, LP. It’s okay.”
He...came by earlier. And...Launchpad didn’t notice he left? And then didn’t notice he’d come back, kind of?
It doesn’t make sense but Drake’s here and he reaches for one of Launchpad’s hands with a glad, relieved look on his face.
“That’s great that you remember,” He tells him, “Even if it feels weird. This is what the doctor was saying- you’re gonna have gaps in your memory, but it’s all going to come back. You’re doing great, LP.”
His eyes burn again at the praise, which feels especially undeserved when he doesn’t even know the slightest thing about Drake, can’t even be sure that he trusts him, but Drake looks a step away from crying himself and is beaming fit to outshine the sun.
“I’ll talk to Gos,” The drake says, squeezing Launchpad’s hand. “And see if she’ll come with me to visit tomorrow.”
That eases something inside him, and Launchpad nods, slowly.
“I think you remember her,” The mallard mumbles to himself. “At least a little. She’ll like that.”
“I don’t remember,” Launchpad tries to interrupt any super hopeful thoughts the other might be having before he disappoints him. “I just- felt kinda worried? I guess?”
Drake doesn’t look phased.
“She’s worried about you, too,” He tells him, “Hospitals can be a touchy spot for her- and she might not be super warm around you at first- but if you’re okay and she’s okay, I’ll bring her with me.”
“Please,” Launchpad says, and Drake exhales shakily.
“You got it, Buddy,” The drake reaches without hesitating now, brushes Launchpad’s lank hair away from his eyes. “I’ll talk to her tonight. Promise.”
They’re holding hands again. Launchpad can feel Drake’s uneven feathers against his own, how warm his palm is.
It’s funny. He’s not sure what’s up with Drake, he feels like he’s holding things back and it’s making him nervous, and yet he’s so scared he’s going to leave. He’s his only tether to whatever his life is now, and he has no idea what that is at this point.
He doesn’t even know for sure how old he is.
"How old am I?" Launchpad blurts.
"Thirty-two," Drake answers, gently squeezing Launchpad's hand.
"Oh." Then...it's not that bad. If he can remember Loopey teasing him for turning thirty, maybe it's not so bad.
"How old are you?" He asks next, staring into Drake's face like he can read it there.
The other smiles, something affectionate and sad and tired and happy. "Thirty-two. We're both thirty-three this year."
They're the same age. Launchpad smiles, his vision is fuzzy at the edges and it's harder to stay awake, but Drake's hand is starting to loosen and he panics. He doesn't want him to go, yet, he's gotta stay, he's got to think of more things to ask.
"Wait!" He slurs, gripping his hand tightly as he can. "Uh..."
His bleary mind picks at things he remembers, his favorite foods and his greatest fears and his biggest secrets. There's things he'd want to know about his partner, but a couple are already answered- he clearly likes kids 'cause he's got one, so having a family is already well on his way. There's another question, just as important, and it slams into Launchpad's brain like several hundred tons of steel.
"Forgot to ask," Launchpad asks through a sleep-slogged brain, "Do you like Darkwing Duck?"
The last thing he's aware of is a bark of Drake's surprised laughter, an answer he can't understand, and what feels like a soft kiss to his forehead.