Chapter Text
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
-WB Yeats "Prayer for My Daughter"
September 14, 1987
Three times. Three times Goldie sincerely considered nesting. When nesting arose, it included the desire to build an actual nest to lay an egg where she'd incubate that egg with her body until it hatched. After laying, she'd wait about four and a half months until it hatched, producing a scrawling, screaming, and barely feathered duckling.
Just three times.
The first instance was long, long ago when she was a nameless nobody. She was sharp enough to seek a solution to her problem. It was for the best, and anyways, she barely remembered it on a bad day. The second time's inconvenience exceeded its predecessor. Her elevated circumstances didn’t permit a child or motherhood. So she sought out a way to remedy the situation. Its results were turbulent at best, especially when people refused to read their mail. It hadn’t been the worst day or the best, just a wholly inconvenient one.
Ninety years later, the night of September 14, 1987 was its opposite. Goldie dared to say it was good for the most part. She’d succeeded where countless other hotel owners and even more adventurers failed. Acquiring the Fianna Diadem was a daunting task, but she managed with only minimal wounds. Her stitches were healing nicely.
Besides, she rested in a comfortable, spine molding mattress next to the person she wanted. Even in her dreams, his presence drifted near her. Rolling on her side, grumbling sleep words she’d forget by morning, her hand swatted out. Her aim on his face was clear in the darkness, but when her body expected that quiet smack with a rustle of feathers, Goldie missed it.
In fact, what replaced her expectations was the gentle thud of the back of her hand meeting ruffled bed sheets. What body heat warmed had cooled in its absence. Her eyes snapped open rather than fluttered, and she peered through the darkness, patting his empty spot. Bathroom, she decided early on, he went to piss. Her decision strayed the longer she waited, and her palm that lingered grew colder away.
So possibly not the bathroom. Goldie counted the years. One hundred and seventeen. More than a few years had passed since his last dip in a fountain of youth, Goldie guessed. She was certain he was about eighty years old physically.
Nah, she rolled on her other side, pulling the comforter closer, he’s fine. If he’d fallen, he’d be able to right himself and return to bed. Yes. That was how she relieved her concerns as she drifted back to sleep, and she would have succeeded, slipping away into unconsciousness if not for that sound.
It was an innocent yet misplaced sound. At first, she assumed it was a phantom or will-o-wisp. Many construction workers died to build the mansion, and she heard that lost souls always found their way home. With a slight shrug, she ignored the distant babble and returned to sleep until it sounded off for a second, third, and fourth time. Her right eye again searched in the darkness, and she tried to return to sleep, assuming it was a phantom of the mind. But then it happened again. And again. It insisted on its quietness, but in a mansion like this, the lowest volume carried like a hurricane. It sprinted all the way to Scrooge’s bedroom.
The harder she tried to sleep, the faster it ran from her. After several more attempts, Goldie sat upright in bed, nearly throwing her portion of the comforter to the floor.
“What does it take for a lady to get some sleep around here?” Grumbling a choice selection of words, she hiked her legs over the edge of the bed. She reached for the night stand closest to her and flicked on the lamp, searching the floor for her clothes.
They’d lost themselves in each other fairly quickly upon her arrival, and their assortment of clothes tossed hastily on the floor and lamp proved that. What Goldie wore was hardly appropriate for viewing outside of Scrooge, so after kicking over his fallen spats and red coat abandoned in a chair, she stalked to the closet.
After shifting some old boxes, some filled with family photos and embroidered baby booties that made Goldie look away sharply, she found what she needed. Her negligee was a poor defense against the nippy air, and she cursed again. Scrooge’s damn gas prices, she mumbled some more as she wrapped the gold colored robe, GG embroidered above her right breast, around her. It didn’t take the complete bite out, but this would do until she dragged him back to bed. Slipping on her slippers, she crept from the bedroom.
Mice envied her stealth. Having spent sufficient time in these halls, she knew where to go. It did help that the closer she got, the louder the sounds grew, and at some point, Goldie slowed as everything started to clear in her ears.
“Ack!” Scrooge yelped. “You don’t need to pull so hard!”
A giggle, definitely a giggle. It followed after every complaint, and Goldie folded her arms, creeping closer to the door where a thin sheet of light peeked from the crack in the door.
She pushed gently along the door. A long creak whined, and she winced, afraid she forfeited the act of surprise. But no. Whether the bubbly babble drowned the creak out or they were genuinely oblivious, Goldie would never know. She pushed enough to get a look, and what she saw swept her breath away.
Goldie wasn’t maternal. At least, she didn’t fall into that field often. Occasionally, she played the part that’d make Marilyn Mondoe eat her heart out. And the scene she watched wasn’t beyond her.
But it was different. She could feel her heart quickening. It trotted along the path leisurely and suddenly, it was in a full sprint. Grabbing the upper part of her robe where her breasts dangled, she squeezed tightly.
“Now, Della.” Scrooge groaned. “You need to let go o’me mouth.”
A baby, correction, the child in Scrooge’s arm was older than she expected. A child. Scrooge’s child aged niece was enchanted by him. Goldie remembered the letters he read, an announcement about the babies Hortense laid. 1920, she rolled on her back, staring at the ceiling, two years after. She’d forgotten that eggs needed to hatch at some point.
And what hatched inevitably grew. Goldie didn’t like to think about that part so much. Albeit very slowly, Goldie grimaced, how are they going to explain their birth certificates? Judgement wasn't her realm of expertise. If that was what Hortense and Quackmore wanted for their little family, power to them. They seemed to have worked it out so far.
Della was absolutely besotted, completely at peace. Okay. Peace was an exaggeration. Della was wide awake in the dead of night and had grabbed her uncle’s whiskers. Giggling, she tugged and pulled despite Scrooge’s best attempts to remove her.
“Blasted bairn!” He hissed quietly. “You’ll be the death o’ me, you hear?”
“No, I won’t!” Della giggled until tears sprung in her eyes. Then she was actually crying. Typical baby, Goldie rolled her eyes, can never satisfy them. Or you could, but she didn't want to find out how to satisfy that one. Not tonight.
Shaking off that disturbingly real impulse to go aw, Goldie stepped back and sighed. She could tease him about his sweetness for his little niece later. Now? It was late, and she was tired. Going back to bed was an optimal choice, and she was about to turn around the corner when she heard the toddler’s relentless babble.
“I woke up and couldn’t find Donna!!” She whined. “I want Donna!”
“Lassie, I know your twin is around here.”
Weird to say to a kid, let alone aloud, but Goldie kept walking. Della’s twin, whatever her name was, was asleep in bed, probably waiting for her sister to return.
Goldie slowed, stopping in the middle. He didn’t. She swung around, curly, dangling hair drowned her shoulder. Ahead, past the kitchen door, almost lost completely in the darkness, was a shadow. How a shadow? Wall sconces placed along the walls illuminated dully. Scrooge refused to pay more than he deemed necessary.
The glow was faint yet strong enough to reveal a small shadow moving towards the edge of a table. But it wasn’t at the bottom of the table. Goldie stood there, trying to decode this mystery when a sound, the same marbled sound she heard upstairs giggled.
It didn’t click as much as wash over her. This sudden rush of understanding. “Dammit, Scrooge!” The cry strangled in her throat as she picked up the ends of her robe and sprinted.
She was about halfway there when the kitchen door swung open. “What in Dismal Downs -?”
“Cram it.” Goldie snapped, skidding as she rounded the corner. “You lost a goddamn baby!”
“I found one of them!” He replied defensively. “And I didn’t lose them. I found Della.”
Goldie didn’t have time to argue. But she was going to try. “And the great Scrooge McDuck can’t find one child.”
There the child was. Somehow, she managed to get atop one of the decorative tables, and Goldie appeared right as some thrift store vase met its end at the bottom of the floor. The shatter echoed throughout halls, and the child’s eyes drew wide with pure shock before reaching that precarious edge.
Normally, she’d be faster. Faster to dodge and swoop in. Goldie couldn’t explain what stunted her. Was it the robe? Was it the remnants of sleep that blurred her senses? She’d never know, except what happened in real time, and what happened was that she lowered her knees, ignoring the clicks sounding off as she opened her palms to catch the falling kid.
—
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You should’ve found him sooner.”
She winced as tweezers wiggled a shard of vase out from between her knuckles. It was no wider than an autumn’s lead broken stem. Didn’t mean the pain wasn’t real.
Goldie didn’t fidget in the chair dragged into the kitchen. “How could I forget babies moved so quickly?”
“Donald and Della are five, dear.” Scrooge corrected.
"No, they're 67." Goldie deadpanned. "How'd they get out?"
Scrooge shrugged, grabbing the antiseptic from the first aid kit. “I don’t have the faintest clue, honestly.” He admitted. “I came for some nutmeg tea, and there wee Della was. Or was it Donald?”
“Della.” Goldie said dryly. “Donald sounds like Hortense.”
Scrooge spared her a crooked stare. “I suppose he does…” He said thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you paid attention to things like that.”
Goldie stared blankly at him. “If there’s anyone on this planet who can out Scottish you, it’s Hortense.”
She didn’t measure the length of his offense until a striking pain snaked its way through her fingers. “Hey!” She jerked back, annoyed. “What’s that?“
A cotton ball painted in bright pink blood answered her. “I don’t want you to get an infection, dear.” He chided.
She could smack or kiss that face of his, and suddenly, the visual of his cheek pressed against Della’s dulled her ire. It did more than that, she realized, but she wasn’t going to dampen the mood with sorry memories.
What she was about to do wasn’t wise in the least. Fortunately, Goldie never boasted about wisdom and all that philosophy business.
But that quickening in her chest and the rush of blood to her cheeks couldn’t be ignored. “Huh…” she said cautiously, weighing their circumstances. She lifted her beak to the ceiling, surveying the surprisingly modest kitchen. “I’d forgotten you liked kids.”
Scrooge scoffed. “Hortense and Quackmore insisted on a surprise visit.” He quoted. “Hard to say no to those two.”
“And you…”
“I dragged that blasted crib to their room.” He scowled. “Della and Donald won’t wreak havoc on my time ever again.”
“Keep wishing for peace.” Goldie barbed. “They’re Hortense’s kids.”
He grunted, reaching for the bandages. “I’ve cleaned the rest of the wounds.” He gave a look, sharpened with a smirk. “I didn’t know you cared about wee Donald the way you do.”
“I’m an Ice Queen,” Goldie remarked. “It doesn’t immediately qualify me as an Evil Queen.”
Raising his hands defensively, “I mean no offense. It was just nice…seeing you tend to Donny like that.”
“Babies aren’t rocket science, Scrooge.” She tried to dismiss it, but the compliment had made its way to her cheeks. She could feel the evidence burn its argument against her. “Granted, I’d take rocket science any day over children.”
“Of course!” He added quickly. A little too quickly.
Her eyelids peeled up and down to meet in a suspicious squint. “Exactly.” She agreed. “Honestly, seeing a grump like you as a father is mind boggling.”
“And a thief like you?” He chuckled. “A mother…no…no.”
Ouch. Ouch? Yes. No. Definitely yes. She hated when he managed to catch her off guard without meaning to. He wasn’t trying. Completely oblivious to the turmoil he raged inside her, he babbled on about the cost effectiveness of not raising a child in the modern times. It was far worse than it was back during their youth.
This was the part where she left the subject alone, moving on to the successes she didn’t dwell on when she returned. At least she could’ve strayed back to bed, counting off how many decades had already passed since
Goldie didn’t do any of that. Probably due to her lack of wisdom and forethought.
What she did instead was retort. “I was raised by a successful thief,” she jerked her hand free. “Far better than what most kids had back then and today.”
Scrooge snorted. “Eh? So did your Mummy teach you how to drug defenseless miners?”
“No.” Goldie snatched her hand back to fold her arms. “She taught me how to throw a right hook under a sourdough’s beak.”
Unable to stop, she hopped off the edge of the counter. “So what?” She continued knowing she probably shouldn’t. “You’re saying..." She paused, not certain at all at how to approach the question but not wanting to give in so easily. "I’d be a bad mother?”
He stared dumbly at her, absolutely and completely befuddled. “Yes.” He stared at her as if she tipped the waiter a fraction percentage more. “You’d be a terrible mother.”
The fact he added “I’d be a horrible father, though the idea is a nice fancy here and there” was irrelevant.
"But we -," she nearly said, giving herself away.
She snapped her beak closed. He was right. That extra pulse, tender and sweet, soured, and she blinked, wondering where the hell she was. Arguably better than her own, maternity never came easy to her. Why did she even think? Imagining, dreaming, was a sincere betrayal of anything remotely ethical.
And sure, she was a con, a thief, a grifter but that didn’t mean she was unfamiliar with ethics and morality. Just that she lost track of them. A long, long time ago.
And who was to blame for that? She mused bitterly. The person responsible died more than a century ago, and the world was slightly better for it.
Still, though she knew this, accepted it, and embraced it, her eyes burned.
“You’re an absolute goop, Scrooge McDuck!” Her throat closed in on itself. “And it’s a good thing we got our heads fixed back in 1918. You’d probably traumatize the kid more than Isabella Finch!”
Confusion receded in anger. “Don’t you dare insult Isabella Finch!” He ran up to her, fist clenched with indignity. “That woman is a hero! A legend!”
“She’s more responsible for the rise of pollen allergy related deaths than anyone else on this planet.” Goldie gripped her hips with her good hand. “Who in their right mind thought releasing the bees of the Hivemind was a good idea?”
“Because of her we have more honey and healthy flowers. How can that possibly be a bad thing?”
“And because of the excessive pollen, people have driven their cars into trees.” Goldie scoffed triumphantly. “Surprised I read the news? Unlike you, I know the importance of keeping up with the times.”
“That has nothing to do with this!”
“I know!” She could rip her hair out. But she wasn’t going. It’d be stupid to waste this perfectly good perm. “And I’ll have nothing to do with you for the rest of the night!”
Before her will failed her, she stormed to the door. The kitchen door swung open, and without thinking, she rubbed her eyes.
“Hey!”
Goldie stumbled. “Oh.” She said dryly. “Hey, Matilda.”
Rubbing her cheek, she glared. “You almost made me drop my croissant, Goldie!” Her agitation quickly softened into concern. “Hey…” she reached for her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t touch me!” Goldie snarled. “Just keep your brother out of my bed!”
“It’s my bed!” Scrooge shouted behind the door. “And I will sleep wherever I like in my home!”
“Not tonight.” A banshee howled out of her lungs. Before Matilda could chase after or inquire further, Goldie stalked back to the bedroom with more than a few lock techniques in mind.
Yet, a tremor of a pulse resonated, and she could feel the movement warning her that her secret desires hadn’t abated just yet.