Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!

Title: Outdated

Summary: The boys know how to take care of themselves. Scrooge is still learning that.

...

It's six A.M. on a Saturday, and yet Scrooge somehow found himself waking to the reek of half-burnt pancakes.

For a moment, he considers not getting up. After all these years, it's more than acceptable to sleep in- or to spend the day in bed entirely, really, though he has too much energy to do that quite yet. But curiosity soon gets the better of old Scrooge, who relinquishes his blanket with a grumble. He slips into his slippers, then his robe, and sets out to investigate.

Normally, it takes a duck a while to find something in the manor- at least, it does when the thing in question isn't robbers or fire or the odd hole from bad wood- but the smell alone provided him with a decently wide trail to track. It led him, beak in the air, down the stairwell and onto the ground floor, then towards the back, where one of the kitchens were. All things considered, it's a bit impressive the smell managed to get so far, or so potent.

One of the wee ones is hovering over the stove, waiting patiently for half a pancake to cook enough to be flipped. Two sit untouched on a big plate nearby. A window is cracked off to the side, like even he recognized his own lack of prowess, though the boy doesn't seem particularly perturbed about it.

Scrooge squinted at him through the thin stream of smoke. He's gotten a lot better at remembering their names as of late. Dewey is blue like dew, Louie is the odd'un out- his name sounds like it rhymes but it doesn't, not really- so it's a simple process of elimination. This early, however, it takes him a minute.

"...Huey?" he probed, grateful when the boy gave a little bounce and glanced at him over his shoulder, all smiles.

"Good morning, Uncle Scrooge!"

Scrooge eyed the scene, finding his feet glued to the doorway. "Ain't it a little bit early fer you to be up?"

Huey titled his head to the side. "How so?"

"It's six, lad."

"Oh, I know." He nodded, flipping the pancake over.

"On a Saturday."

"Mmhmm."

"I admit, I'm not the most connected with the young'uns these days, but aren't ya' all supposed to be sleepin' in on a Saturday?"

"I mean," Huey said awkwardly, as if just realizing how odd this might look, "Dewey and Louie are, so... best two outta three?"

He gave a little harrumph- which was the best reaction he could think of at six in the stinking morning- and sat down at the kitchen table, propping his chin up on his hand. There's something very methodical about watching pancakes be made, and the exact same thing can be said for watching Huey do most anything, so overall it's not an unpleasant thing to watch, but it's still not exactly exciting, either. "Do ya' always get hungry this early, lad?"

"Not for me." He set the pancake on the plate, then got started on setting more batter on the pan- which, from what Scrooge could tell, was on too high of a temperature. "These are Uncle Donald's special pancakes. I make them before he goes to work."

He doesn't have a job, Scrooge thinks, but opts not to say. "And does he always let you at the stove this early?"

Huey deflates a little at that. "He's usually too sleepy to think about it. But, uh, you're not."

"No, I'm not," he agreed. "Scooch over. I'll never hear the end of it if ya' burn yerself."

Scrooge gets within arm's reach of the pan when he realizes that the pancakes aren't the only thing that stink. He let out a little 'whew!' as he adjusted the flame. "Ye smell like death touched ya'!"

"I do?" Huey took a sniff at his collar, face contorting. "I do."

"When was the last time you showered?"

"That's a good question," Huey admitted, looking quite frazzled. "When was the last time I showered? I mean, when was the last time somebody saw me shower? My mind's still scrambled from that swamp temple adventure."

The old man set his hands on his hips, torn between amusement, concern, and something he can't quite place. "Ya' haven't showered since the swamp? Lad, that was two days ago!"

Huey shrugged, staring at his webbed feet. "Well, yeah, but we were exhausted when we came back, and then we had a rest day. It's against the rules to move around on a rest day." He shifted a bit, arms naturally tucking behind his back. "Well, Webby broke the rules, but she just wanted to make sure we hadn't died in our sleep."

"Go take a shower," Scrooge commanded. "I'll take o'er the flapjacks."

The oldest triplet looked tempted to argue, but he slipped off his stool with a sigh. He didn't look particularly enthused to get clean. "Louie? Dewey?" he yells down the hall, as if they'll be able to hear him from their rooms. "You guys?"

"Ah, let 'em sleep." Scrooge waved the boy off, trying to ignore the fact that it had been many years since he'd operated pancake mix. "Best two outta three, aye?"

Huey blinks at him, then squints, then finally smacks his forehead. "Right, right, you're rich." He rubbed at his arm, looking quite embarrassed. "Before the houseboat blew up, Uncle Donald was going through a rough patch. And it was just cheaper and easier to do the triplet tub time thing, you know? I mean, we're all small enough, so it wasn't like we were crowded or anything."

Scrooge forced himself not to ponder the idea that this boy, at twelve, was forced to share hot water with his siblings to save the extra dollar. It was too late to change or rearrange now; no matter how much he hated to admit it. "I may be one of the biggest cheapskates in the worl', but a duck's bathroom is his sanctuary. You go take that shower, and you take it alone, you hear?"

"Thank you, Uncle Scrooge!" Huey called, already halfway down the hall. He heard his excited footsteps going up the stairs, then gradually fading into the distance.

"Thank you?" he echoed bemusedly. "Fer what?" Scrooge glanced down at the pan, finding that he'd practically blackened the pancake in it, and perhaps the pan itself. He cleared his throat and yelled for Beakley; she'd know what to do, as always.

"Movie night! Movie night! Movie night!" they chant, the boys and Webby alike, pushing various sofa and soft chairs together in front of one of the many TVs scattered throughout the mansion. Scrooge watched from the sidelines, leaning idly on his cane, very mildly disgruntled.

"Yer puttin' those back when yer done," he warns, but they don't seem to hear him.

"So what do people watch on movie nights, anyway?" Webby asks. She's strong enough to push one end of the sofa by herself. It's shiny and new, all black, and Scrooge forgets when the last time was he sat on it before the munchkins came. "Like, documentaries, or...? Because I know a good one about the war between Sumer and Elam if-"

"Action movies," Louie cuts her off, but the calm, collected way he does so makes it feel less rude somehow. But that's Louie for you, Scrooge has found- he's very good at undercutting his words with flattery and shoulder pats. "Really cheesy action movies. The kind where cars skid through circles of fire and onto barrels of explosives without a scratch."

Webby squints at the wall, considering. "I'm pretty sure that's not possible?"

"It's not," Huey agrees. "That's why they're so fun. It's like a fantasy novel, only without the dragons and armor." Webby sent him a blank look. Huey re-advised his statement. "It's got weapons and fighting in it."

"Aaaaaannnnd we've got snacks!" Dewey squealed, coming into the room with arms full of chips and pop. "I found these babies in the back of the pantry."

"Dude, nice," Louie supplies.

"Are there any barbecue?" Huey asks, poking his head around an arm chair. "I'm in a barbecue mood."

"Barbecue and salted." Dewey shook each bag in turn, tossing them onto the sofa.

"Ye'll get bowls fer that," Scrooge interrupted, stamping his cane on the floor. "There's no way I'm lettin' you lot get crumbs all over my furniture."

They pretend not to hear. Dewey pulls open a bag with a satisfying pop, shoving a handful into his mouth with glee. Scrooge sighs, deciding it a blessing that the boy is standing and not sitting. He may not have to clean the mess, but he would have to sit on it until Beakley got around to cleaning it. Louie and Huey both take handfuls with a surprising amount of diplomacy, neither one trying to get more than the other, though Louie aims for the bigger chips for his own handful. Webby dug out some of the scraps from the bottom, proclaiming that they were the best tasting.

(Why did we even get chips? Occurs to him later on, but that's one of many questions he doesn't have an answer to. Why did he invest in dart guns, when slingshots would be just as destructive and much cheaper? Why did the young'uns refer to Donald as their Uncle, despite having been raised as his sons? Was that Donald's wish? Why did Beakley get them soda? The caffeine'll stunt them for sure.)

Webby's bill scrunches a bit on the first chip. "They taste funny," she says, but she doesn't stop eating, eyeing the ones still in her hand thoughtfully.

Louie swallows and wipes his mouth on his hoodie arm. "They taste fine to me."

"I mean, when was the last time you got chips, anyway?" Huey asks, popping his fingers into his mouth to suck off the majority of the salt.

"Touche."

Curious, Scrooge stepped up to grab one, ignoring the way Huey held the bag out like he expected him to snatch it away. He bit it in half, chewed, then swallowed, blank-faced. "It tastes odd 'cause they're old, Webby darlin'." (And when did he start that? When did the Vanderquack girl become 'Webby darlin'?)

"Oh," Webby said, blinking at him. "Well, that makes sense."

Louie shrugged. "They're a bit chewy. So what? Doesn't make 'em any less tasty."

"They're old, Louie," he reiterates, a bit surprised.

Dewey shoves a handful in his mouth as a demonstration of their tastiness, clutching the bag to his chest. "Isn't the whole point of being rich is being able to buy all the snacks you want?"

"One of the perks of bein' rich is being able to buy all the snacks you want," he corrected. "And ta' get new ones when the old get, well, old."

"Sounds fake," supplied Huey, "but I don't know enough about being rich to dispute it."

Scrooge finds Louie the way he almost always does- he hears the TV. The lad does more than watch TV and play games, of course, but when he's off doing his normal thing he's as discreet as his brothers, be that very or not at all. Usually it's a mad guess until the old duck comes upon them. Not so much when he can hear those roosters going on and on about ottomans.

He comes in expecting Louie, and he gets him. He doesn't come in expecting to find him with his hoodie off, dipping a needle and string through the fabric, but he gets that too. Scrooge lets out a yelp that's a bit like a hiccup mixed in with that sound you make when you stub your toe on the bathtub, nothing loud or glaring but still noticeable, and Louie lets out a mild shriek of pain as the needle pricks his thumb.

He put said appendage into his mouth to suck on it, eyes slightly narrowed. "Hello to you too, Uncle Scrooge."

Scrooge tries to decide what to make of all this. He finds he can't come up with a proper response, so he sticks to dumb observations. "Yer nekkid, lad!"

"No, I'm not," Louie mumbles, pulling his thumb out and getting back to work, "my hoodie's over my lap. Ergo, not 'nekkid'."

"What're you doin'?"

He points to the hoodie, needle, and thread, eyebrow raising. "What do you think I'm doing?"

Still a bit at a loss, Scrooge comes to sit next to him, staring awkwardly at the TV. The ottoman they're building needs to look like a July sunset by noon in a November, or so he gathers from the mildly melodramatic recap after the next commercial break. Of all the situations he'd expected to come across while hosting children, this is not one of them. "You, uh... you need help?"

Louie hummed a bit, tongue sticking out in concentration. "Nah, I think we're just about done here. I didn't realize you were such a stickler for shirts."

"Yer nekkid," Scrooge found himself repeating. "On my couch. What if the Beagle Boys had broken in and gotten an eyeful? What then?"

"Then I would've done the proper thing and screamed bloody murder."

"Fair point." He glanced at the hoodie. It looked fairly solid on the outside, very comfy and warm, but the inside was full of stitching. "You do this often?"

He shrugged, checking his work. "I like this hoodie. Well-loved clothes get the crud kicked out of them. It's just a fact of life."

"We could get you a new hoodie," he offered, then found himself wondering why he had offered. The hoodie wasn't destroyed by any means, and he's Scrooge McDuck. He never spends a penny more than he has to.

Louie blew a raspberry. "But then I'd have to wear it in, and there's this period where it feels too heavy and tight, and blech."

"Yer gonna have ta' get a new one eventually. You realize that, right?"

"And I will deal with that sensation then." Louie crossed his legs- probably to avoid making a further scene, Scrooge thought, feeling a bit guilty. He'd just been a bit surprised, is all- flipping the article of clothing right side out, then pulling it on. He finally turned to the side. "Can you get the hood? I think it's folded again."

Scrooge grabs the fabric between his pointer finger and thumb and yanks down.

"Thanks."

He leaned back in his seat, only half-watching the show. It was best described as half, as he was watching the people move but not listening to them. It'd been a long time since he'd watched TV with someone, and even longer since he'd done so with a child. Granted, Louie wasn't as boisterous as Dewey or Huey, but he was still just as big a handful. "I thought ye liked spending money, lad?"

Louie turns his head slightly to look at him. "Well, yeah. Money is awesome."

"But ya' don't wanna spare the money fer a new hood?"

"That's different," he emphasized, tugging on a sleeve. "Money is for toys and phones and parties. Not clothes. Those things last forever."

They do when you know how to fix them, anyway. "Keep it in yer room, won't ya'?"

"Yes, Uncle Scrooge," Louie intones, like he's said it a million times before, but they both know it's a different Uncle he normally says it to. He doesn't mind. And, even if he did, he doesn't have the right to. Scrooge made his decision a long time ago now. He's got to live with that.

Author's Note: Heck yes Ducktales! This one and my last one- Problem Children- both went in descended order- Huey, Dewey, then Louie.

The title itself came from the idea that the triplets are a bit outdated in the new world of Scrooge's house- Huey's schedule, Dewey's refusal to let old food be thrown out, and Louie's hoodie are all 'outdated' to Scrooge's thinking. (I also like to headcanon that he's the guy who goes all the sewing in the family- it's repetitive and he can do it while watching TV, what's not to love?)

IDK, I just wanted to write the triplets coming from a background where they didn't have it all, and now that they do have it all they apply it to fun things- "toys and phones and parties"- but never for actual practical things, because they don't find the two ideas to be similar. Why waste money on a hoodie that can be sewn or an extra shower or slightly old food when they can get that new robot action figure they saw on the tellie the other day? That type of thing.

-Mandaree1

P.S.- I know literally no Scottish phrases, and I'm not the most adept at writing accents. Suggestions are more than welcome!