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“I guess we need to talk,” Della says, hesitantly, from the doorway. Donald looks away from the library-window, away from the kids playing something in the yard just outside, and his stomach clenches.
They do need to talk. The moon-invasion is over, their family is safe, Donald and Della have screamed insults at each other and made up, but they have yet to talk. Actually talk.
About the spear of Selene. About Della abandoning him. Leaving him to raise three kids he was in no way prepared either emotionally or financially to care for.
The fact that Della got lost on the moon for ten years, alone and terrified, cut off from the rest of their family. Away from him, and the kids, and Scrooge… the silence that has been building up between them falls as clumsily as Della’s metal foot in Earth’s gravity. The foot she had to amputate herself in order to survive.
They have yet to talk about Donald’s own stunt on the moon, the golden band the moonlanders used to muzzle him with; yet to talk about the island.
A month isn’t the years Della spent alone, but at least people knew Della was missing. Donald had mourned her, every day, for ten years. He could have died shooting down through that rocket, or on the island, and no one would have even known what happened to him.
Would they have found his body somehow, or would yet another empty casket be buried once his family realized he wasn’t coming home?
Donald’s heart can barely take the thought. During the bad nights on the island, he’d imagined the kids attending his funeral, like a terrible, awful movie playing out just for him.
The kids were strong, but they had suffered loss; growing up without their mom had plagued them. Donald hated the thought of them losing him too. Not knowing what happened to Della had nearly torn their family apart once before. Would not knowing what happened to Donald have had the same effect?
He shuddered to even think about it.
His beautiful kids.
Huey, so smart, just like Della. His eldest. Donald had never loved anyone as fiercely and suddenly as he had Huey - from the moment Huey opened his eyes and looked up at him, something in Donald had clicked. The grief that had nearly consumed him before took a step back - not disappeared, never faded, but settled into the back of his mind, all for the sake of the boys.
Dewey, energetic, funny Dewey who had quickly followed into the determined love that had resurrected Donald. Would Dewey have lost some of that spark if Donald simply disappeared from his life?
Out of all the kids, Dewey was the most like Della. Once an idea entered his mind, it was hard to get it out. Dewey had been obsessed with Della’s disappearance ever since he was old enough to understand the concept of an absent mother.
And sure, a missing uncle isn’t as traumatizing as a missing mother, but Donald had raised them. For a long time he had been the only stable parental figure in their life.
Would the thought that occupied Dewey’s mind for the next ten years have been ‘whatever happened to Donald Duck?’ , as the thought of what happened to Della had occupied the first ten years of his life?
And Louie, the baby. His youngest. So sharp and perceptive, yet also vulnerable and sensitive. More sensitive than Della and Scrooge noticed. He would have tried to joke it away, but Donald knew that the loss of him would have affected his youngest terribly.
Some nights on the island he had imagined Louie, all grown up, suffering quietly while no one noticed him. Self-medicating, isolating himself from his family; just like Donald, fresh out of the navy and traumatized beyond belief. Out of all the kids, Louie was the most like Donald.
But that isn’t going to happen. Donald isn’t going to let that happen.
Donald sighs and nods.
“I guess we do,” he says quietly. They do need to talk. And yet they both fall silent. Della shifts her weight, and her metal leg makes a soft creak.
“So,” Della starts, and Donald readies himself with a wince. “Why didn’t you name the kids Jet, Turbo and Rebel?”
“I - wait, what?” Donald blinks. He tries to wrap his head around what she’s actually asking him, but his mind comes up blank. Della however huffs and crosses her arms.
“I wrote it down and everything!” They stare at each other for a moment, then Donald scoffs.
“What, you were serious about that?”
“Of course I was serious about it!”
“Della, you wrote it on a crumpled receipt from BurgerQuack, along with fifteen question marks and a recipe for salsa! How was I supposed to know you wanted to actually name them that?!” Donald snaps back. “Those aren’t even real names!”
“Well neither is what you named them!” Della hisses, but at least she has the sense to lower her voice, just in case the kids sneak up on them. “You named one of my kids Dingus!”
Donald crosses his arms, taking the same defensive stance as Della had just moments ago.
“It’s a family name,” Donald defends with a sniff. Della rolls her eyes.
“What about Hubert , Donald?” she asks, tapping her metal foot against the floor in agitation. “Hubert is not a family-name!”
“Yes, it is,” Donald snaps, his temper flaring.
“Name anyone named Hubert!” Della scoffs.
Donald takes a deep breath and counts backwards from ten. Once he reaches one, he gives Della a sharp look.
“Their grandfather, you know, Jamie’s dad ?”
Della’s smug look drops off her face and her eyes gloss over. Donald can practically see her mind scrambling around for information, trying to remember her own father-in-law. Being stuck on the moon might have worsened Della's natural predisposition to live in the now, think of the future up till the point she barely recalled the past. Even if it meant forgetting a lot about the father of her children.
“His name was Bert,” she says, but hesitantly, like she’s suddenly not sure.
“Yeah,” Donald nods, “ Hubert .”
“Oh.” Della frowns.
“Della,” Donald sighs, rubbing his face tiredly. Della sniffs awkwardly.
“Well, that’s… actually pretty nice, Donnie,” she says eventually. “I’m sure Jamie would have appreciated that.”
They don’t mention Jamie further. Don’t say anything about his death. Yet another thing they don’t talk about. Della wipes away a tear that Donald pretends he doesn’t notice, then she pushes out her jaw stubbornly.
“What about Llewellyn?” she asks. “We’re Scottish, not welsh.”
“But Jamie was.” Donald murmurs. Della sniffs again, then stares off into the distance for a moment.
“When did you become such a sentimental sop?” Della asks, her voice trembles just a little.
“You took the spear,” Donald answers truthfully. The moment Della shot herself out in space and left Donald in charge of her children she left him a broken man with nothing but ghosts for company. He had tried to fill the triplets' life with as many memories and connections to the past as he possibly could, but in turn those memories had haunted him. Haunted him so much he had barely been able to talk about Della, or Scrooge, or the rest of their family.
Della tenses at the mention of the spear, but Donald feels drained. The twins stare at each other for a moment, then Donald takes a deep breath.
“You left us,” he murmurs.
“I didn’t mean to,” Della says quietly.
“I know.” Donald says sadly. “But you did.”
The look in Della’s eyes tells him this will be yet another one of those things they never talk about. Della hesitates, then leaves with a farewell nod rather than to talk it through.
Donald’s not sure if he’s breaking or relieved.