Chapter Text
Admittedly, Donald was nervous.
He had promised his trauma therapist he'd show up, yet he’d spent the entire drive wishing for a flat tire or a sudden storm. He hoped he would feel better once he pulled into the parking lot, that maybe his brain would finally catch up and understand he was already here, already doing it, that it wasn't that bad and he needed this - for himself, and more importantly, for his family.
But, the anxiety still held firm as he sat there with one foot out the door of his car, knuckles white as he strangled the steering wheel, staring at cigarette butts scattered across the asphalt. Out of the corner of his eye, the duffle bag in the passenger seat stared back at him and Donald felt himself grip the wheel tighter.
He had promised to burn what was inside after the session. His therapist claimed it would be relieving, “burning the past” as he said. It would be a reward if he made it inside the building without bolting back and driving back to the manor.
But now, he was debating bringing it in with him.
What am I thinking? He couldn't take it inside. No way. It was safer here. A hundred percent safer, a million times safer. There was absolutely no reason to bring it inside a building full of strangers—
but his hands moved faster than his logic. Donald stole a frantic glance at the bag, scanned the parking lot, and snatched it.
The community health center was nice enough. A modest brick building with low trimmed hedges out front, the kind of place that looked more like a government office than anything else.
He had been here before for his one on one sessions, so it wasn't like the building itself was the problem. His PTSD therapist was the one who had insisted on group counseling in the first place, arguing it was better for veterans to talk around people who already understood, where you didn't have to explain certain things from scratch.
The only thing different today was the room and the faces inside it.
The receptionist at the front pointed him down the hall and Donald mumbled a thanks, his legs feeling like lead as he navigated the glossy tiles and the narrow stairwell.
The door was already open when he got there. The air inside was thick with the scent of old books. Someone was still lopsidedly arranging chairs into a circle, while the others huddled in small clusters. Donald stood in the white-framed doorway, his thumb nervously rubbing the canvas strap of his bag.
Before he could talk himself back out into the hall, a tall young duck spotted him and waved. "Oh, welcome! Newcomer, right? You can set your bag down by the desk over there." She pointed to a desk tucked into the corner, then gestured at the circle. "Take any seat you like."
Donald nodded and set the bag down by the desk, instantly missing its reassuring weight against his shoulder. He looked around the room, frowning "Where's Dr. Sigmund Frog? I thought he was running these sessions."
The lanky duck blinked. “Uh, he won’t be here for the next few meetings. He’s, um... he won a trip. A spontaneous flight to Sidnee-Gull.”
Now, Donald was the one who was surprised. "That's on the other side of the globe! He didn't warn anyone before he left?"
"Well, what can you do? If the doctor wants to take a trip, he’ll take as many as he needs!" She put her hands on his shoulders before he could finish the thought and steered him toward the circle. "Why don't you sit down while we wait to get started?"
Donald twisted out of her grasp, huffing indignantly. “I can seat myself,” he muttered.
He slumped into one of the foldable steel chairs. The metal was cold through his shirt. He saw other veterans talking over the refreshment table, but he didn’t feel much like joining them.
He was sure they had great stories and wonderful personalities, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to engage. He didn't want to offer lame nods while praying to be anywhere else.
At his height, it was usually easy to blend in. He sat low in the chair, pulled his hat down, and waited for the nightmare to begin.
When the meeting started, the host he had spoken to earlier stood in the center of the circle. “Attention, everyone!” She clapped her hands together. “My name is Giselle. I will be hosting the meetings for the foreseeable future.”
A round of “Hi, Giselle” echoed through the group, but Donald remained silent. Something about the room or about Giselle specifically was sitting wrong with him, a low quiet feeling in his gut that he couldn't pin down. Probably first session nerves. Probably nothing.
“How about I pick someone to start us off... hmmm.” Her finger danced over the crowd like a game of Russian roulette before landing decisively on him. “How about you? We haven’t seen your face before.”
Or, maybe Donald’s gut was trying to tell him the universe simply hated him.
He raised an eyebrow, “We just talked.”
“Could’ve fooled me!” Giselle dropped into the chair behind the mahogany desk with a breezy smile. “I can’t understand half of what you’re saying anyway, hahaha!”
The metal of his chair groaned. Donald became aware that his hands were the reason for that and made a deliberate effort to let go. He smiled back at her, thin and flat, “Word of advice, funny-man. Don’t quit your day job.”
The insult hung in the air, but Giselle just kept smiling. Donald looked around at everyone else looking at him, cleared his throat into his fist, and understood he was going to have to actually start now.
“Allow myself to introduce… myself,” he stammered, almost smacking his forehead the second the words left his beak. “You can call me Donald,” he added lamely.
“How about you start us off with one thing you did this week?”
“I, uh-”
This was the exact part he had been dreading. The silence of the room suddenly felt heavy. He hadn't accomplished anything - not really. Getting out of the hammock was an effort. Getting dressed in something other than his sailor suit was a bigger one. His therapist had a name for it, debilitated executive function, but in this circle, under Giselle's expectant gaze, it just felt like being lazy.
Donald wrung his hands, his thumbs catching on his callouses.“Well, unfortunately...I slept through the morning. And, uh...the afternoon, too.”
He waited for the judgmental silence to break him, but Giselle just tilted her head, her breezy smile never wavering. “That’s quite alright! We only require you to get one thing done, no matter how small. Did you manage that?” she asked.
Donald thought for a moment.
“My bedroom door was squeaking. It bothered me so much during my nap that I oiled it.”
“That’s wonderful, Donald!” Giselle exclaimed. On her cue, everyone in the circle began to clap.
Donald felt the heat climb up his neck; he was likely a shade of beet-red. “Er, thanks,” he mumbled, slumping further into his chair until he felt like he might disappear into the metal.
“Now, does anyone else-” Giselle started, but Donald tuned her out. He didn’t care much for Giselle, but he figured that if he kept showing up, he might eventually warm up to her.
Should I keep coming back? Donald wondered. These people didn’t seem so bad; the only thing stopping him from connecting with them was his own hesitation. He had noticed some of them looking at him supportively when he spoke. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Here, he was just another face in the circle. They didn’t know who he was, what he had done, or who he was related to.
Perhaps therapy actually worked, Donald mused, a small, private smile tugging at the corners of his beak.
For the next hour, the room became a blur of voices. He didn’t pay close attention to the specific words, too deeply submerged in his own mind. Yet, for the first time, his participation felt genuine. He clapped when the others did and offered small, sincere nods.
When the meeting wrapped up, the group spilled out of the stuffing warmth of the center into the crisp evening air. Donald found himself walking alongside a few other veterans, the crunch of gravel under their feet providing a steady backbeat to their chatter. They shared bits of their lives and for a moment, the weight on Donald's chest felt lighter than it had in years.
They invited him to grab a bite to eat at a nearby diner, but he politely declined. He had a mission of his own. He wanted to drive out into the expanse of the woods and finally kindle the fire that would consume his metaphorical past.
He reached the side of his car and instinctively reached down. His hand met empty air. Donald froze, his heart giving a violent thud against his ribs.
Wait... where is my duffle bag?
I must’ve left it inside. Donald huffed, praying the room wasn’t locked.
When he re-entered the building, the receptionist gave him a curious look but said nothing as he hurried down the hallway toward the meeting room.
Aw, Phooey.
The lights were still on, but the room appeared empty. Through the glass, he could see his duffle bag sitting right where he’d left it by the desk. To his surprise, the doorknob turned. With his luck, he’d fully expected to be crawling through the air vents.
He slipped inside and snatched the bag, his fingers frantically checking the zipper to ensure the content was still secured. But as he turned to leave, the heavy thud of heels and the low murmur of a phone conversation echoed in the hall, heading straight for the door.
It was likely Giselle. He prepared a quick "hello" and an excuse to bolt, but then he caught a snippet of her voice.
“...The room is being monitored,” she said into the phone. “The Eggheads at F.O.W.L. are wasting their time with the long-range scanners.”
F.O.W.L.? Donald’s blood ran cold. The name hit him like a physical blow. Without thinking, his body moved on autopilot. He dove under the mahogany desk, pulling his knees to his chest as he tucked into the dark, recessed legroom.
The door creaked open. The clicking of her heels sounded like a countdown as she walked directly toward the desk. Donald held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly he was sure she could hear it.
“Don’t worry,” Giselle said, her voice dropping into a bored monotone. “The subject hasn't noticed a thing.”
A muffled, gravelly voice crackled on the other end. Giselle pulled open a desk drawer just inches above Donald's head, the vibration of the wood rattling through his skull. “No, you idiot,” she snapped. “Don't send the other eggheads! Just keep the feeds active at the Bin. I’m doing the hands-on work here to see if he's onto us.”
Donald could practically feel his feathers standing on end. He gripped the strap of his duffle bag, the coarse canvas digging into his palms. Suddenly, Giselle pivoted her heel next to the desk and slammed the drawer shut. The noise echoed like a gunshot in the small room. “I’m heading out. I’ll keep FOWL updated.”
She walked out, flicked off the light, and closed the door with a final, decisive click. Donald didn't move. He waited until the retreat of her heels faded into silence, and then he waited even longer, staying curled in the dark until his heart stopped hammering frantically against his ribs.
He felt like he was going to faint. Or throw up. Or both. The realization was a nauseating weight in his stomach. What was a F.O.W.L. Egghead doing here in disguise? Monitoring them? For what?
He finally scrambled out from under the desk, snatching his bag as he practically bolted from the room. He navigated the hallway in a blur, bursting through the front doors of the building. He must’ve looked like a madman but that was exactly how he felt.
How could I be so stupid? The signs were all there. His therapist just happened to take a spontaneous flight to the other side of the world? Donald felt a white hot urge to punch something.
They had cornered him in a place where he felt vulnerable. What if he hadn't gone back for the bag? He would have kept coming back here, slowly spilling his guts for F.O.W.L to dissect. Even worse, the thought of the "feeds" made his skin crawl.
If they were monitoring the Bin, the manor was the only place left that was truly private.
“Why can’t I just live a normal life? Why does it always have to be something with F.O.W.L., or the end of the world, or a new villain?” Donald silently screamed.
He ripped his car door open and slammed it shut with a bone jarring thud, throwing the duffel bag into the passenger seat like it was a live grenade.
He sat there, chest heaving, staring through the windshield at nothing. No one in the family knew he was doing this - the group therapy, the "burning of the past," any of it. He hadn't brought it up and, in typical McDuck fashion, they hadn't asked. They likely had no idea F.O.W.L. currently infiltrated the Money Bin.
Should he tell them? A cynical thought drifted through his mind. If he told Scrooge or the kids, would they even handle it with a shred of caution? Or would they just charge through the Money Bin like a wrecking ball, smashing every bug they found and tipping their hand to the enemy?
If F.O.W.L. realized the "subjects" were onto them, they wouldn't just retreat but escalate the situation. Given how half-baked and chaotic the plan to stop the Moon Invasion had been, Donald didn't trust his family to play the long game.
He looked at the duffel bag. The Double Duck suit was still tucked inside. He was the only one who knew the truth. If he went to the manor now and acted like a civilian, he was just a target. But if he kept this to himself...he was the only one who could hunt the hunters.
I need a cigarette.
Donald opened the glove compartment in his car, shoving aside a handful of loose napkins and old condiment packets, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. Finally, his fingers brushed against something cold and he pulled it out: a sleek, black device complete with a tapered antenna at the top.
It was the emergency transmitter S.H.U.S.H. had given him years ago. They had told him to use it only if the world was ending, or if his cover was blown beyond repair. As he stared at the darkened screen, the weight of the device felt like a lead sinker in his palm.
For years, he had been trying to pretend this part of his life didn’t exist. He’d wanted to be a civilian, a father, a guy who just struggled with clumsiness. But as the red status light flickered to life, reflecting in his wide eyes, the truth settled in.
He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and the transmitter with the other, his thumb hovering over the call button. If he pressed this, there was no going back. He’d be Double Duck again, whether he was ready or not.