Someone please save this poor duck.

Edited in my usual haphazard style. I own nothing.

On with the show.

Some days are not good ones for Donald Duck.

Actually, most days aren't good ones lately.

The burdens of the single-parent life weigh on his shoulders like the moon itself. There is always too much, and simultaneously never enough, stuck in a constant rotation round and round his brain, echoing louder with every orbit until the problems swell to fill his head and clog his ears and trap his tongue.

The boys need new school supplies and clothes, already having come home downtrodden and hiding new bruises, which they insist are from falling on the playground. Donald has seen enough wellfare kids during his school days that he knows better, but his boys believe they're saving his feelings. As he presses frozen peas to their injuries, the slap of humiliation and self-loathing shakes him to his core nonetheless.

More unlucky scenarios occur at his jobs every day than he can count on his fingers. Mr. Smith at the diner has written him up for the third time and tomorrow he'll surely be fired. Again. He spends hours of his already tremulous sleep schedule scouring job postings and desperately searching for lost change in the couch cushions. Maybe the new fish and chips shop down the street will be willing to work around his janitorial duties at the Barks Building.

The last of his paycheque disappears into the cashier's unfeeling hand, long pink fingernails closing around what could be a birthday present for his boys as she haphazardly throws what groceries he can afford into flimsy plastic bags. Donald winces. At least three of the eggs are most certainly broken. He does a mental tally as he puts the food away, sighing. When he serves dinner that night, Louie asks him why he doesn't have a plate, and Donald says he ate at the diner.

The next day, Mr. Smith fires him for sleeping on the job. His co-workers insist he'd been mopping the floor like any other day, but Donald waves them off with a tired smile. He can't rightfully explain the way his muscles just gave up, nor the light-headedness plaguing him all morning. Good thing he had an interview at the fish and chips place tomorrow.

"Don't expect your final pay, Duck, I gotta pay for all the damage you've caused!"

Most days, Donald Duck nods and takes it with lidded eyes and a brain full of cotton.

Most days, he tries to argue, but no one understands.

Most days, words are too hard. Most days Donald Duck stays silent.

He pulls open the door to the houseboat to find all the lights off, the boys' homework finished and piled into the backpacks by the door. Through his shroud of apathy, a pinprick of pain stabs him in the heart. Huey, the responsible one. Huey, who made sure homework is done and lunches are made before the three of them settle into bed at a decent time. Huey, who would make a better caretaker than he would hundredfold.

Huey, who is seven years old and should be out playing with other kids, not babysitting for his brothers while Donald all but neglects them.

Donald drops his discarded work uniform onto the kitchen floor, staggering to the sink. He grasps the edges like they're the only thing keeping him from melting into a puddle and staying there until the world ends. His knees tremble. Problems overflow from his skull and force themselves down his throat, bitter and tasting of iron. If only he could just... stop.

Soft sounds from the boys' room steady his limbs. Slowly, agonizingly, he forces his head up to stare out the window. In the moonlight, his reflection stares back, more of a ragged zombie than a duck.

Maybe he can make a joke of it later, once his tongue begins to move again. Dewey likes zombies.

He practices a smile at the reflection in the window. It's hideous. Unnatural. It hurts his face. But it's something.

Donald breathes for a moment more before releasing his grip on the sink and testing his legs. They hold. Thank goodness for small miracles. Small, shuffling steps see him down the hallway, peeking into the crack of their bedroom.

Huey sits on the top bunk, intently studying his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook. The members of the troupe have become like a family to him and he spends every free moment there. Seeking affirmation he can't get at home, Donald suspects, but it's no secret to him that he can't be there for the boys as much as he would like, so as long as Huey as positive role models to look up to Donald can stomach the pain that comes from it not being him.

Dewey, still in his dayclothes, is on all fours with his tail sticking up into the air, leaning over the edge of the second bunk. A shot of panic slices through Donald at the prospect of the second oldest falling off the bed and cracking his skull open, and the sensation of fresh emotion is so jarring Donald's eyes open all the way for the first time that day. Dewey's voice cuts through the air painfully loud, punching through Donald's ears and squashing his brain flat between vocal fists, but it's happy and excited and Donald wouldn't wish for anything else.

Louie reclines on the bottom bunk, listening attentively to his older brother, but Donald recognizes the way his eyes focus on something a million miles away. Louie has perfected the art of listening to someone without really listening, something he's had years of practice with in relation to his chores. Lately, though, he hasn't been implementing it nearly as often, and Donald often comes home to find more than the requested work done. He's grateful, of course, but laziness is in Louie's nature. How bad must he feel something is to go above and beyond?

Donald refuses to let it get any worse.

He plasters on his practiced smile and pushes the door open. His boys call out excitedly and it hurts his head but heals his heart. He forces his dead muscles around each of them, covering them in hugs and love until they pull away, sticking their tongues out at him. He hopes they never outgrow the habit. He would never be the first one to pull away.

Huey clambers back up to his bunk. "How was work today, Uncle Donald?"

Donald scales his hand in a so-so motion, scrunching up his beak. His nephews pause, mood sobering for only an instant before they snap back to their regular, cheery selves. "Fired again, huh?" Louie makes it sound so nonchalant, bless him.

Donald nods.

Dewey lays on his stomach, cheeks in his hands. "But you have an interview tomorrow, right?"

Another nod.

Huey pops out from over the top of the bunk. "I put your good shirt into the laundry, make sure to switch it to the dryer before you go to bed."

Donald gives him a thumbs up, before clapping his hands twice. The three of them immediately crawl under their covers, waiting patiently for Donald to tuck them in and give them a kiss goodnight. Once they're properly settled, he switches off the lights. He leans against the doorframe, watching his boys illuminated by the hall light. They gaze back, eyes already drooping, but expectant.

Donald breathes in, and, just like every night, his tongue lifts.

"Look to the stars, my lovely, darling boys,

Life is strange and vast,

Filled with wonders and joys.

Face each new sun with eyes clear and true,

Unafraid of the unknown,

Because I'll face it all with you."

He's not a good singer. Decades of failed musical dreams have shown him this. But nothing could be more beautiful than the sound of his nephews, half-asleep, humming along to the tune written for them so many years ago. When they settle after the final note, Donald's shoulders droop, what little energy he had fluttering into the air with the last of the lullaby.

"Goodnight, Uncle Donald."

His smile is real now, and soft. He waves to them before he closes the door, leaving it open a crack, just in case.

Most days, Donald Duck stays silent.

But every night he finds his words.

END