Chapter Text
It has been a few months since the invasion and pretty much everyone in Ducksburg has recovered nicely. Each person spending days with their family and friends, letting them know that they were all alright.
But
Not everyone can be like that can they?
When Della first was lost, arguments broke out, regretful things were said. The triplets had asked about her, they cared that she was 'dead' when she was actually was missing.
He cared too. He did everything he could to provide for the three.
Then, she showed back up out of the blue apparently. Even if he was the first who noticed, he never got to interact with her until maybe months later. She acted like their parent—well, she was their parent—but did that make him hurt any less? No. No, it didn't.
They spent those months with her adventuring, having fun, not even caring about him being missing.
Della always seemed to be the favorite. She was cared and mourned for.
Him? He was neglected and had several assumptions made.
When he first told Scrooge about his warning call, he was in shock when the older duck only told him that he received a bunch of static nonsense. His uncle apparently had gotten his call, but he couldn't understand him over the phone.
He just—he hurt terribly. He was tired of trying, of trying so so so hard. It hurt, not because of the hidden dried up blood that was running down his arms, not because of the not very well seen bruises and scars that ran along his body. No. None of those things had to do with the fact of his aching heart and how he realized nobody-
He had choked just thinking about it.
He was trembling.
In the fight a few months ago, he had been hit a lot worse back...back there. They said Della was treated as a roommate, as an ally and then sent off before he had come. He was treated like a prisoner. He was battered and berated while she wasn't. Sure, they said she was fending off mites and lost her leg but she got through it. He—he had to have his beak clamped shut.
A white feathered hand reached up and rubbed it, still feeling the phantom-like pain of the restraint.
He was hiding injuries no one had even asked him about, but that was only because no one knew he was captured. So, he didn't bother. He realized it was probably nothing major to worry about, even if he also knew it was probably serious. But he was protecting his family, so he said he was fine. He was always fine.
He couldn't believe that they hadn't noticed.
Was he that hard to, to even miss!?
It seemed like he was.
Della had insisted that they catch up and well, he couldn't exactly say "no" after she had been missing for about ten years. His fists clenched tightly and he knew, he was mad.
He was furious, punching the nearest wall accidently causing the houseboat to rock and send him tumbling down to the hard wooden planks.
He sighed with great extent. He was... so tired.
He wished that they could just be normal. Maybe they could have a nice day without any adventure for once. Though, his horrible streak of luck never would let it happen as much as he wanted it to.
Bad Luck Donald, now that was a good nickname for himself.
He buried his face in his palms and his hands then swiped upwards, venturing to grip his head. He wanted to give up like he should of done years ago. Della was back and the boys didn't need him anymore. However, it seems something was holding him there, grounding him, making sure he wouldn't resort to it.
But he wanted to. He wanted to bad.
Why couldn't his life just let him have what he wants at least once?
The island afterwards of the kidnapping was most likely worse. He had crash landed into the sea, making the rockets flames burn out luckily. Yet, the water of the ocean didn't prevent any burn scars from marking him as their territory. He had survived on just sand and sea water. He was a sailor, he knew it wasn't good to do so, but what other choice did he have? He couldn't find any fresh water or any food besides melon Mickey, which he refused to eat at any cost.
Why was his life this bad?....