* ~ Together, As the Moon with the Tide ~*

Part Two

DellaandDonald are fourteen when they go on their first adventure.

Scrooge stays cooped up in the McDuck manor for two long months. The three fall into an unsteady rhythm, Scrooge fumbling as he tries on the responsible guardian role. He's terrible at it, but the twins' wounds are still fresh and their hearts soft so they let their uncle blunder without the sharp cruelty of teenage tongues. It helps that he puts in an honest effort to understand Donald, that they catch him practicing ASL by the firelight.

By the end of the two-month mark, it's obvious to all who observe that Scrooge McDuck is not a duck meant to sit still.

It comes quicker than the twins' thought: their uncle is leaving them.

"I nae leavin' you," Scrooge deflects as he prepares to leave them. The twins watch with their arms crossed and their stomachs cold as their uncle bustles around the mansion, gathering bags and maps and who knows what else.

"I'll only be gone a couple ay days," Scrooge tries to assure them.

"You're leaving us," Della accuses and she's fourteen, she shouldn't be crying over their flighty, gold-hungry uncle up and leaving them like they always knew he would, but there she is, blinking back tears.

She uncrosses her arms enough to pull Donald close, to link her arm through his as though to assure herself that he is still there. Donald squeezes her close and glares at his uncle, hating him for leaving them behind, hating himself for caring.

"Aye now, lassie, no," Scrooge says and he shifts from foot to foot. He glances at Della then looks away, staring at anything but her tear-filled eyes. "Aye, now, it's nae, it's nae forever, I just came into possession of this map, ye see."

"A treasure map?" Donald asks and his voice drips with ghosts of the past.

In the end, Scrooge takes them with him. Against his better judgment, he says, but he takes them anyway. Donald likes to think he's finally learned not to leave his family behind.

The map turns out to be the key to discovering the lost city of Ithaquack. Suddenly, Della and Donald are running and dodging through an impossibly magical, ancient city because Scrooge has angered Zeus, king of the gods, and Della meets Donald's eyes as they crash through the golden city and she laughs. For the first time since their parent's deaths, Della Duck laughs and Donald takes her by the hand.

The Duck twins spring into action, half a step behind their uncle, no half a step before. Scrooge is fantastic, lightning in a slyness that Zeus can never dream of matching. Della designs the trap that creates enough confusion to buy their escape, and Donald goes hand to hand with an actual demigod to protect his family.

They escape by the skin of their teeth, Donald's hand in Della's, and Della's in Scrooge, and Donald Duck, too, laughs. He laughs and Della laughs, and Scrooge looks at them with so much fondness Donald might be tempted to call it love.

DellaandDonald are fourteen, and Della is daring and Donald is brave, and family is all they will ever need.

DonaldandDella are fifteen and maybe Donald isn't enough.

Their uncle takes them on adventures. It's great. It's exhilarating. It's . . .

"Della, look out!"

"Della, don't touch that we don't know—"

"Della you're gonna fall!"

"Della—"

"Oh, bless me bagpipes," Uncle Scrooge groans.

It's terrifying.

They're in the middle of an uncharted forest somewhere in South America. Their plane crashed a mile back. Their map is wrong. Della has climbed up the largest tree, her grin wild and blinding in the sunlight. There's a pit in Donald's stomach, hard and unpleasant. His hands tremble and he clasps them tight, trying to quell their quiver. Della swings from the branches overhead and all Donald hears is metal on metal and the silence of being left behind. He wants her to come down. He needs her to come down.

"She'll break her—"

"Donald, enough lad."

"She needs to be—"

"Donald—"

Donald pauses. He doesn't tear his eyes away from his twin, swinging like a crazy duck-monkey but he does hesitate. His next call of warning to his reckless sister dies on his lips. His heart thumps painfully and he looks at his uncle, willing him to understand what Donald can't say.

"Lad, ya need to lighten up," Scrooge complains. "Della's fine, she's a natural. Ya need to stop worrying and squawking and running away all the time—this is adventure lad, not some—"

"Whoops."

Crack.

"Waah," Donald cries as the branch his sister was holding breaks and there's a flashing of white tumbling out of the sky.

Donald catches his sister before she can hit the ground, grabbing her and hardly believing when her feathers, warm and ruffled from the fall, press against his arms. His heart pounds so hard he can't believe the whole forest doesn't flutter with its rhythm.

"Whoa," Della laughs, arms wrapping around Donald's neck as she cheerfully points west. "Thanks, Donnie, I can always count on you. It's that way, Uncle, the temple is that way."

"Ah, what a good lass! Onward then."

Donald puts his sister down and she takes him by the hand as she leads on, their uncle's words echoing in his ears.

DellaandDonald are fifteen years old, and even as Donald goes hand in hand with his sister, he has the strangest feeling that he's being left behind.

DonaldandDella are sixteen when Uncle Scrooge picks a favorite.

Well. . . maybe Scrooge picked a favorite all those nights ago when Donald opened his mouth and an unintelligible cacophony rolled out while Della stood strong and brave before their strange uncle, or when they went on their first adventure and Della single-handedly defeated the Minaduck. Or when Della ran headfirst into danger, Donald wringing his hands behind her.

Donald isn't sure, but he knows that somewhere along the way . . . somewhere along the way, a bond had formed between his twin and uncle that did not extend to the unlucky duck.

They are one sheep short of the necessary hundred. The three ducks can feel the wrath of the Viking Hilda bearing down upon them; if they cannot break the spell that dooms Hilda's people, not only will the remaining Vikings die but their leader will undoubtedly drag the McDuck clan down with them. Donald clutches his stolen axe tight, his back pressing against his sister's. Della's teeth are barred, her own axe held hard and brave in her hand. None of the fear in Donald's heart shows on her face and that makes Donald tremble even harder. She will do something reckless if Uncle Scrooge does not think of something soon. Donald steals a desperate glance at their guardian, who is staring at the ninety-nine sheep in a furious sort of disappointment, as though by the mere force of his glare the sheep would multiply to the magic number needed for the ritual.

"Uncle Scrooge," Donald whispers as Della shifts behind him.

Scrooge looks up and meets Donald's eyes. That's all it takes. A moment later, Donald finds his uncle tugging him forward. Donald realizes what the older duck is going to do a second before he lands on the icy floor of the freezer. Donald does not resist, locking eyes with Della's startled ones.

It'll be okay, Donald thinks, as long as Della doesn't do anything stupid.

Della doesn't do anything stupid. The magic accepts Donald as the hundredth 'sheep' and the curse is broken. The Vikings rejoice and bless his uncle and sister with gifts.

"Ah, 'at wasnae so bad was it?" Uncle Scrooge laughs, tossing a golden coin in the sunlight, lounging back on the flagship of the McDuck fleet.

"I liked them, those Vikings are good folk," Della laughs too, adjusting the magic helmet Hilda gifted her. It looked dashing on her pearly feathers, regal and intimidating.

"Doin' alright there laddie?" Uncle Scrooge calls but makes no move to stand up or come over to his nephew.

Donald is at the helm of the boat – tied to the helm of the boat to be more precise. The ritual worked its magic too well in his opinion, encasing the sheep and subsequently Donald as well in thick ice. Donald glares at his uncle form his icy entrapment, unable to even shiver due to his confinement.

"Super," Donald spits back, glaring up at the sun and wishing it would melt his cage faster. Scrooge and Della laugh, sharing warm smiles and chattering on about their latest adventure.

Donald stays at the helm of the boat, slowly melting in the late August sun. It takes the entire trip home and then some before he can break free. Duckworth comes to collect Donald once he's thawed enough to be pulled from the ice.

DonaldandDella are sixteen and Uncle Scrooge wraps an arm around Della's shoulders and leads her from the pier while her twin is still encased in ice, and it's okay. It's okay that Della is Uncle Scrooge's favorite because then maybe Donald doesn't have to be enough.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old when Monteplumage's fearful monster chases Donald around the castle after a translation mishap, Uncle Scrooge scratching his head as he tries to recall the ancient language and Della follows the monster with a sword to free her brother.

DellaandDonald are eighteen years old when Uncle Scrooge makes tea with magic leaves that shrink Donald to the size of a mouse just to see what would happen.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old when they wake Nostradogmus's vengeful ghost and Donald gets cursed, again.

DellaandDonald are eighteen years old when the Pumpkin People mistake Donald for their king and nearly sacrifice him to their god.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old and Donald is kidnapped no less than seven times by Flint Glomgold, five by John D. Rockerduck, twice by the Beagle Boys, and three and a half times by Magica De Spell.

DellaandDonald are eighteen and Uncle Scrooge says they don't need to go to university when adventure awaits but he'll pay if they want to go anyway.

DonaldandDella are eighteen years old and Della applies and is accepted into no less than six universities and Donald—Donald applies to the Navy.

DonaldandDella are nineteen when they spend their first night apart.

That is, as most things are, a gross oversimplification. Donald had gone to Junior Woodchucks camp for a whole week every summer since he was eight. Della spent the night at countless friend's houses, gone on adventures with their uncle that Donald had stayed behind for. Yet the twins had never felt apart. Laying in the damp barracks a thousand miles from Duckburg, however, Donald has never felt so alone.

His chest aches with a fierce unnamed emptiness, a hollow echoing that reverberates against every bone in his body. So alone and so very far from home, it seems to sing. Donald Duck, the bad luck duck, the second best. The unwanted twin.

Some nights the aching grows so terrible, the emptiness so wide, that all Donald can do is curl his head between his knees, wrapping his arms around his center least he falls apart into the resounding desolation of his soul.

Who knew that breaking away would hurt so bad?

Donald isn't sure what was worse, the cold send-off or the silence that followed his departure. Neither Scrooge nor Della sent him off that late summer morning. Della locked herself in her room. She hadn't spoken a word to him in the last three weeks before he left, and their sparse conversations prior to that time were terse and explosive.

You promised you'd never leave me!

I'm not leaving you—

You are! You are, sweeping away and abandoning me like you swore you never would—

And she couldn't understand, couldn't fathom the hole in his heart.

You already abandoned me, he wanted to cry back. You've run ahead with Scrooge and left this hole in my heart and I don't know how to fix it, I don't know where I belong anymore, I don't know who I am anymore, Della, please, understand, I don't know who Donald Duck is anymore.

Uncle Scrooge was vocal in his displeasure until the very last moment.

Ye ur makin' a mistake.

Donald was always making mistakes.

You're throwin' yer life awa'! What good is a life in th' Navy? What are ye gonnae do? Sit aroond an' watch boats aw day. Pah! There's nae glory in that.

Donald stopped going on adventures altogether.

You're abandonin' yer family.

Maybe he was. Maybe they abandoned him first. Maybe the bad luck festered inside him until it turned him rotten to the core.

He had to go. Donald couldn't stay in the McDuck manor any longer. He wasn't Donald Duck, the Adventurer Extraordinaire. He was Donald Duck the Screw-Up, the Temperamental, the Coward.

The Bad Luck Duck.

He's been at training for two months. Neither his sister nor his uncle has written. Donald writes letters that never see the inside of an envelope. They never see completion either. He feels like the seven-year-old duckling who couldn't make his teacher understand that the words just wouldn't—couldn't—come.

The words won't come this time either.

DellaandDonald are nineteen years old, and Donald doesn't know what that means anymore.

Donald and Della are twenty when the Navy cadets are sent out on their first mission at sea.

Uno Ducklair might be twenty-one, but Donald isn't sure if he believes the duck or not.

Uno Ducklair is an ensign on the same ship as Donald (the USS Walt – and Donald contemplates for weeks whether or not to update his sister and uncle on his deployment before chickening out). Uno is everything Donald isn't – tall, poised, sophisticated, and unearthly intelligent.

He is also incredibly weird.

Like a robot, crewmen whisper, shooting the duck in question distrustful looks.

Donald didn't purposefully try to befriend the guy. He understands that being the temperamental duck with a speech impediment already makes him an easy target for peers and readily dismissed by superiors; he isn't purposefully trying to make things worse by befriending the duck that can recite pie to the nth degree.

He befriends Uno Ducklair anyway.

It's the end of a sixteen-hour shift, which is in and of itself the end of five sixteen-hour shifts. Donald is tired and hungry and homesick for something he can't explain, and his sister hasn't spoken to him in over four months, and his beak opens without permission from his brain:

"Hey, lay off him won't ya?"

A trio of bulky high school dropouts with a spare brain cell between the three of them have cornered Uno as the tall duck is leaving the lab. Uno doesn't so much as blink at the insults they hurl, at the lewd insinuations and cruel taunts. The jeers stop as Donald's interjection.

"What did you say?" the largest of the brutes asks, blinking down at Donald.

He stands at least a whole head taller than Donald, large and mean and stupid. The worst combination, Uncle Scrooge would say. The thought of his uncle stirs up a confusion concoction of emotions in Donald; longing and homesickness, anger and defiance, and he doesn't have enough food in his stomach to weather the churning emotional turmoil.

"Can't understand a word he says, I don't think he's speaking English," one of the other brutes say, with an ugly smashed-in face that reminds Donald of the Beagle Boys.

"He's speaking English, he's just too stupid to know how it sounds," the last one gawks and they all laugh at him.

"I said lay off him," Donald seethes, projecting his voice louder as though it will compensate for his garbled speech.

"Quack, quack, quack, somebody needs to go back to elementary school, nobody taught this fool to talk."

Donald's hands ball into fists, but the voice is in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Duckworth reminds him that the three cadets are all larger than him, stronger than him, walk away, walk away now before it gets worse, Uno can pick his own battles.

"Yeah, someone ought to find his poor ma and put her out of her misery for having such an embarrassment of a son—"

Donald loses his temper.

Uno has to drag Donald off the unlucky trio.

"Waaack, let me go, let me go," Donald rages, pounding his fists against Uno's arms as the lanky duck drags him away from the scene.

The three sailors will need to see the nurse, each sporting a spectacular array of bruises and they actually flinch as Donald surges against Uno, almost breaking free. But the scientist/engineering/whatever is deceptively strong for his thin frame and holds fast to the struggling duck.

"You'll get punished," Uno says sternly, not even sounding out of breath as he drags Donald down the hall. "You could get discharged."

"I don't care, I don't care, let me go, let me go!"

Uno doesn't let go. He drags Donald halfway across the ship, the latter screaming and raving the whole time, and locks him in Uno's private quarters when it becomes apparent Donald isn't about to calm down any time soon. Donald doesn't know why Uno gets his own private quarters but the older duck sits firmly before the door with his arms crossed and Donald finally concedes defeat.

"That," Uno says after Donald throws himself onto the uncomfortable ship bed, squawking and cursing every deity he knows. "That was very unusual behavior."

"Stuff it, Green," Donald snaps, gathering the rock-hard pillow and stuffing it under his chin, glaring moodily at the wall.

"I did not need your interference."

"You're welcome, you ungrateful twig."

"If caught, you would be severely punished."

"I said can it, Long Legs."

Uno cocks his head to the side, studying Donald like one might an interesting artifact in a museum or a physics problem in a school book.

"You throw your punches wrong."

"Waaack, what'd'ya mean I throw my punches wrong?" Donald objects indignantly. He's fought monsters and demons and ancient curses and lost his temper on every single one of them. Donald Duck may not know much, but he knows how to throw a punch.

"Your fingers, you don't protect them correctly. That's why your hand hurts so much and you almost broke your thumb. Here, let me show you."

And so Uno Ducklair shows Donald how to throw a punch without hurting himself and Donald teaches him how to cheat at cards. ("This is not ethical." "No, that's the point.")

It doesn't occur to Donald until much later (an embarrassingly long later) that Uno never once has trouble understanding him. Like Della, he seems attuned to Donald in a way that defies logic (and makes something warm grow in Donald's heart but also ache and if that makes sense Donald will eat his own hat.)

Uno is weird, but Donald also learns that he's devilishly mischievous when he's of a mind to be and his dry humor is wicked and sharp, and his loyalty is deeper than the sea. Donald spends nearly all his free time at the lanky duck's side, tagging along at the lab or tucked away in his private quarters.

It becomes a thing. Donald doesn't mean for it blossom into possibly the greatest friendship he'll ever have, but he wouldn't trade it for the world.

Donald and Della are twenty years old, and maybe friends are another kind of family too.

Della and Donald are twenty-one when the USS Walt is bombed.

Donald is on deck when it happens. He remembers seeing the enemy ship. He remembers the feel of the ship as it lurched when the torpedo hit. He remembers thinking about Uno, working in the lab on the fourth floor of the ship.

Then the planes come and fire rains from the sky.

Everything else, well, he remembers the rest either too closely or not close enough.

The ship is on fire and taking on water. There is screaming, shouting. The other ship lines up to take another shot. The captain is dead. They're going to sink us, Donald thinks.

The plan is stupid and reckless and not even a plan at all. Donald barks out orders and charts a course. For some reason, nobody stops him. There's blood on the wheel and too many bodies on the floor. The sound of bullets hitting the roof almost drowns out his calls.

He keeps the ship out of range of torpedoes. The gunners keep some of the planes at bay. The hull is still taking on water.

Donald runs the enemy ship aground. Airforce reinforcements arrive. The sailors on the enemy ship have nowhere to go. Some jump overboard in desperation. A chance bullet hits the enemy's boilers. The resulting explosion rocks the USS Walt. They are the last ship standing.

They're still taking on water.

Someone initiates emergency protocols. The fourth floor and below are sealed off. Donald is unconscious beneath the captain's chair, blissfully unaware. A bullet nicks his arm during the fray and the last thought he remembers before darkness claims him, is whispering Uno's name.

Della and Donald are twenty-one years old, and Uno Ducklair is dead.

Donald and Della are twenty-two when Donald is sent back home with a medal of honor and a diagnosis of PTSD.

Nobody is there to greet him when he leaves the hospital, purple heart tucked away in the box beneath his wing. He feels the absence like a knife through the heart, and he almost knows what that feels like now, the bullet the doctor's removed traveling so dangerously close.

(They didn't even know he'd been deployed. He never wrote them. Hadn't the hospital called? He was unconscious for four days and hospitalized for three weeks. Della was his next of kin. Surely, surely . . . why hadn't they come?)

His best friend is dead.

There is no body, no burial, no funeral. He was probably sucked out of the cabin by the sudden decompression after the torpedo hit. His next of kin didn't want to be contacted. Uno never mentioned his family (Donald never told Uno about his family.)

His best friend is dead, and Donald doesn't even have a picture.

He takes a taxi to the McDuck manor.

"Sir Donald," Duckworth greets. "We did not expect you home. The Master and your sister are away. They have been gone almost four weeks now."

"Oh. That explains a lot," Donald says and he isn't sure if he's relieved or angry or . . . or empty. Duckworth tries to take his luggage but Donald brushes him aside, stepping inside the mansion.

His best friend is dead.

"Can they be called?"

"I have not tried, but I'm sure—"

"It's fine, Duckworth, it's fine. I know the way to my room, no need to show me up."

"Do you want me to take your bag, sir—"

Donald jerks away from Duckworth as though burned, clutching the box to his chest and spinning away from the faithful butler, heart pounding in his ears.

"Or not," Duckworth amends without batting an eye, as though Donald's extreme reaction is perfectly normal. His voice is slow, words steady. "I will not touch the box, Donald."

Donald stares at him, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

"Donald," Duckworth repeats. "I will not touch it, I swear."

"I-I—" Donald's eyes prick, hot and painful.

His best friend is dead.

He flees upstairs and Duckworth lets him run.

His bedroom is exactly as he left it. Well . . . almost exactly. Donald walks up to his bed and hesitates as his eyes take in the sight of a half-drank cup of water at his bedside, an indent in his pillow.

Della.

Donald isn't sure how his heart manages to continue beating when it feels like its shattering apart. Donald sets his box on the floor and climbs into bed. He lays his cheek in the indent left from his sister; he can smell her perfume, the leather from her hat, pine from the forest, and he wants to cry but no tears come.

Duckworth brings him dinner and leaves it beside the half-drank water when the duck in question makes no indication of moving. The food grows cold. Donald doesn't eat. He stares at the door on the opposite wall, and his heart imagines his sister bursting through in a whirl of feathers and anger, to shout at him, to pound her fists against his back for leaving, to hold him tight and keep the hole in his soul from tearing Donald in two.

Della is halfway across the world. Nobody bursts through the door that conjoins the twin's room.

I'm sorry, Donald thinks. His best friend is dead, his sister hasn't talked to him in over a year, and Donald Duck is drowning on dry land.

Donald gets up and opens the door. There's a letter on Della's desk postmarked from the US Navy. There's a letter on Della's desk postmarked from the hospital. She never got either. Donald lays down on her bed.

I'm sorry, he thinks again and falls asleep to the nostalgic smell of home and family. Donald leaves the next morning. The letter postmarked from the US Navy and the hospital are nothing more than ashes in the manor fireplace.

Donald and Della are twenty-two years old, and Duckburg don't feel like home anymore.

Della and Donald are twenty-three years old when they find each other again.

Donald doesn't know how he ended up in South America. He does not consciously choose to drift that far south any more than he consciously decides anything these days. He meets José Carioca and Panchito Pistoles. They might have been best friends in another life. He loves them well enough, but the memory of Uno and blood and boats taking on water are too strong. They drift apart. They write, but Donald doesn't stay.

He travels on.

The world is vast and colorful, but the vibrancy seems muted to the duck. He accidentally helps a country discover their lost city, stumbles upon the stolen gold of a poor village, returns a missing daughter to her family and they all try to reward him but Donald isn't Scrooge and the mere sight of gold causes his heart to ache and memories threaten to drown him. There are some nights when Donald feels he can't get enough air into his lungs. He's a little duckling again, except Della isn't there and there's a hole in the very fabric of his being where she belongs, and Uno is gone, and the boat is taking on water, and all he hears is the sound of metal on metal, and your parents are gone, and everything hurts, Della, it hurts. (There are some days when Donald wishes he felt nothing, if only to gain a reprieve from the agony of it all.)

It's a new city, maybe a new country, Donald isn't sure. These things don't hold interest for him anymore. The villages greet him with smiles and joy, his hand is shaken by happy, upturned faces but their words fall on his ears without sound. He must have been to this country before. Maybe he'd even been to this city before. He tries for a smile but his feathers are crawling and all he wants to do is lay under the dark trees and hide away from the world. People won't stop touching him and his head is spinning, his temper simpers, bubbling just below the surface, and he can't do this, he needs everyone to step away, to leave him along, to—

"Donald?"

Donald freezes. The crowd parts to reveal the speaker and all the air is pulled from Donald Duck's lungs.

And she's there, standing at the edge of the village. She wears the loose tan outfit of their adventures, that ridiculous hat he bought her for Christmas all those years ago still perched atop her head. Her eyes, more familiar than the pair that stare back at Donald from the mirror, are wide and Donald's own eyes greedily soak in every feather on her face.

It's Della.

It's Della.

"Della," he whispers and the space between them feels unbearable.

He doesn't remember moving, doesn't remember Della moving, yet she's there in his arms and he in hers. Donald grabs onto Della and Della grabs onto Donald, and everything else fades away. With his sister's tears on his shoulder, Donald can't for the life of him remember why he left, why he didn't write, why he didn't stay at the McDuck manor all those months ago.

Della and Donald are twenty-three years old, and it feels like coming home.

Donald and Della are twenty-four and they try to gather the pieces of their lives and make them fit once more.

Della takes Donald back to Duckburg. She calls it home and Donald rolls his eyes from the backseat of the SunChaser, his head on his sister's shoulder. Duckburg isn't home; Della is Donald's home. Donald lets her have it, let's her call the McDuck Manor home even though they both know it isn't true and falls asleep to the sound of his twin's heartbeat, strong and steady and a little too fast.

Uncle Scrooge is there too. He looks at Donald with eyes that are reminiscent of a night long ago, in a cemetery where amends were made. Maybe they can make amends here too.

They try. They make a good honest effort to encircle each other back into their lives.

It's rocky. Scrooge has hired a kooky inventory, a chicken by the name of Gyro Gearloose (a name which does not inspire confidence). Duckworth has retired. There's a whole system to the adventuring now. Della and Scrooge gather around the study, pouring over ancient scrolls, artifacts, cursed paraphernalia that will launch their newest adventure. The halls are filled with tapestries and trophies from far away lands, but Donald's room remains untouched. (Except . . . there is still an indent in his pillow when he returns that smells like leather and pine and Donald wants to cry).

Della reached out her hand and pulls Donald close as they pour over their scrolls, holding him fast by her side. They try but . . . but it's like trying to put together a puzzle that doesn't quite fit.

Some pieces are the same – old corners worn and familiar like Della bursting into his room too early on a Saturday morning, running through a forest along a bubbling spring, counting coins with Scrooge in the money bin. Worn but warm, familiar and comforting.

Then there are the new pieces, foreign and piercing edges that cut into Donald's consciousness like a physical punishment for his absence when Scrooge says something and Della laughs but Donald doesn't understand because he wasn't there. The ease with which niece and uncle move, collaborate, breathe together, a second nature that Donald has fallen out of synch with. Those pieces slice across Donald's feathers, painful and sharp and hollowing.

Then there were the gaps, the missing pieces, the glaring hole of his absence upon the manor. The screams that tear silent from Donald's throat in the dead of the night, Uno's name on his tongue and the sound of gunfire in his ears. The way Donald's hands shake at loud noises, the way he jumps at unexpected contact (Gyro is not allowed to touch him, the chicken, for all his faults, learns this quickly and makes no comment). Donald sometimes forgets that he has people now, that he can't just wander off when the world becomes too much, the colors too bright, the sounds too loud, and it threatens to drown him, boats taking on water, Uno, Uno—but he can't just pack up his things and slip away. It doesn't work that way anymore and Scrooge stares at him in the kitchen one night, pressing a cup of tea into Donald's trembling hands, and Donald tries to swallow back the memories.

So the pieces don't fit neatly together like the two ducklings that used to know nothing more than DellaandDonald. There are some nights when Donald thinks it's hopeless. The insecurities of childhood rear their ugly heads and he almost packs his bag and disappears into the night.

Except he doesn't.

Donald lets his sister wake him up too early on Saturday mornings. Donald lets the jokes he doesn't understand fly over his head. Donald lets his uncle make him tea at three in the morning. Donald sits in the study pouring over ancient, cursed artifacts and sits in the back of the SunChaser, and goes on adventures, and smiles and laughs and tells jokes and tries to rebuild what he once thought lost. It's hard because the pieces don't all fit together and there are holes and gapes and sharp corners and memories that sting and memories that comfort, but family is worth the effect, this family is worth the pain, DellaandDonald are worth fighting for.

DonaldandDella are twenty-four years old, and they start to build something new.

DonaldandDella are twenty-five and, for the first time in twenty-five years, their family is getting bigger, not smaller.

"Triplets!" Scrooge stares at the eggs, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

"I'm going to be an uncle," Donald says, not quite believing it. Della looks proud as can be, her feathers pearly white in the sunshine as she brings the pram around, three beautiful, perfect eggs tucked safely inside.

"Uncle Donald," Della laughs, reaching out to pinch her twin's cheeks, then pats the ruffled feathers gently. "You'll be the best uncle in the world."

"Hey now." Scrooge tries to look offended, but his eyes are full of wonder and he reached one hand out towards the eggs. He stops just short of actually touching them. Even the gold of Ithaquack didn't make their uncle's eyes grow so large, his face so creased with wonder.

Della reached out and places his hand on the middle egg. Scrooge almost jerks back, his muscles quivering before he relaxes, fingers splaying out across the egg.

"Warm, healthy," he approves.

"These are your uncles, kids," Della introduced with a wide grin. "Uncle Scrooge and Uncle Donald. They'll be the best uncles you could ever hope to have."

"I'm going to be an uncle," Donald repeats, not quite believing it.

Della laughs, linking her arm through her twins'.

"Uncle Donald will look after you like he looks after your mom," Della promises the kids, pulling Donald in close so they're all huddled around the eggs. "And Uncle Scrooge will take you on crazy adventures. We're all going to be so happy together, just wait and see. We all can't wait to meet you."

"Aye lassie," Uncle Scrooge promises.

"The happiest." Donald grins at his sister, who is beaming bright enough to put the stars to shame.

And that . . . and that's the last happy memory DonaldandDella have. A ship is built, harsh words are spoken, tempers are lost, promises are broken. The Spear of Selene launches and Della Duck never returns.

DellaandDonald are twenty-five years old, and Della is lost to the stars.

Donald is twenty-six years old and he's the father of triplet ducklings.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets have their first birthday.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets take their first steps.

Donald is twenty-six years old and the triplets say their first words. ("Unca'," Huey says and Donald cries for twenty minutes straight in the privacy of the bathroom after he puts the boys to bed.)

Donald is twenty-six years old. He's the bad luck duck, the screw-up, the second-best, the temperamental explosion waiting to be set off.

Donald Duck is twenty-six years old and he'd trade anything to be the Duck trapped in the stars. It's not right, it isn't fair. Della was the strong one, the brave one, the one who took life by the horns and never let go no matter how hard life bucked and throttled and turned. Della was the one who solved the riddle, who saved the day, who didn't screw up everything she'd ever touched. Della would never let her best friend die, would never abandon her family like Donald did. Della was the one ready to be a parent, ready to lead these three wonderful, beautiful, amazing boys into their bright futures.

Della Duck was a part of him, DonaldandDella, DellaandDonald. The Duck twins. Two against the world, the other half of his soul. Della was his home, his only guiding star. How could she be gone? He had just gotten her back. How could she leave him, when she promised one winter night so long along, hand in his, that she never would?

He's Uncle Scrooge, Donald realizes. He sits at the helm of the houseboat, an inadequate abode for the three growing ducklings sleeping inside but it's his own, it's a place to stay, a roof over their heads and for now it has to be enough. Donald has to be enough.

He's the Uncle Scrooge he promised Della he'd never be, Donald thinks as he looks up at the stars so high above the sea. The one who left only to return and lose what he foolishly left behind. Or maybe Della was Uncle Scrooge. Leaving him behind long before he made the choice to go. Leaving him behind when she climbed into the Spear, more concerned with adventure than the ducks on Earth who needed her.

Maybe they were both Uncle Scrooge.

Maybe neither were Uncle Scrooge.

Maybe life was more complicated than two ducklings curled together in the simple farmhouse with their loving parents could ever begin to comprehend.

All Donald knows is that Della is gone and this time there is no way to heal the gaping emptiness inside him. Della was gone. DonaldandDella were gone.

Donald is twenty-six years old, and he's one year older than Della will ever be.

A/n Is this even Duck Avenger verse? No, not really, it's just an excuse to write Uno and Donald together. Yes, Uno's android form looks like Odin because I can't picture him in human form any other way. Anyway, I love Donald and all things Disney Duck, bless Disney for rebooting Ducktales. PM me anytime to talk about Disney Ducks.

Please leave a note and, as always, I hope you enjoyed ~ *