Warnings: Kidnapping, Car Crashes, Erotomania, Implied PTSD, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.
A.N. - The most highly anticipated thing I've ever written. For now.
An explosive gasp erupted in the backseat, mimicking the shrill ascent of a banshee's howl and nearly causing Donald to swerve into the parallel lane. The sailor whipped his head around and clenched his teeth in alarm at the sight of Dewey stretching his legs to their limit and pressing his face against the window. "Sit down!" His words were garbled by his raspy voice, which imitated someone attempting to speak underwater, but his harsh tone conveyed enough worry to elicit a response from the middle triplet.
"Uncle Donald, stop the car!" Dewey barely had the patience to finish the sentence and maneuvered between different areas of the glass as if searching for a way to float through it. Sparse vehicles decorated the street, and Donald cursed his luck as he found himself in the busiest lane. An empty cup rolled across the dashboard, its final drops having trickled to the floor weeks ago.
The sailor spared a glance at the sidewalk with which Dewey seemed to be fascinated, but what caught his eye was not the buckteeth of the infamous walrus mascot from Funso's Fun Zone. Sorrow and a twinge of uncertainty claimed his expression. "Dewey," he chided, fumbling for a gentle explanation of the reality of the problem, "your friend needs a little space. Remember?"
* * *
The bronze light of the fire, its embers melting and crackling like popcorn, cast a timid shadow across the ire of Scrooge McDuck. Every crack in his rugged beak and wrinkle in his weathered face were visible under the shimmering heat, and the lurid glow reflected in his eyes as if it were a manifestation of the anger that had followed him since an early age. His black cane curved like a striped holiday candy, tattooing the faded rug that stretched to the borders of his office.
No sunlight breached the wine-red curtains that obscured every window and grazed the dusty floorboards. "Keep this sort of depravity out of McDuck Manor! Until you three bampots can get your heads on straight, I don't want to hear another word about them!" With a commanding wave of his arm that seemed to slice through the possibility of debate, the trillionaire straightened his posture and assessed each of his grandnephew's reactions with dour scrutiny.
Dewey wept as he had been after your departure. A plead for deliverance was screaming at the barest part of his voice, but it was lost in the whirlwind of tears dampening his cheeks.
Subtle creaks marred the wooden chair on his left, an indistinct yet rhythmic voice replacing the tyranny of Scrooge's yells. Huey had clenched his teeth and draped each arm over the opposite shoulder in an 'X' shape, and as he rocked like a baby in a cradle, his face was acrid and fearful rather than miserable. He had begun to mutter a chronological list of Junior Woodchuck rules upon taking his seat and was approaching the midpoint.
Watching his older brothers unravel like poorly tied shoelaces foiled Louie's cling to the belief that the situation had not exceeded his ability to persuade, for the joke about siblings often attributed the strength to the eldest. The house that he one day hoped to own gained a foreign hostility. It shook the lackadaisical triplet into a state of apprehension and propelled him to his feet, clasping his hands together in an act of pure impulse.
"Uncle Scrooge, please!" His voice wavered as his eyes flittered between the myriad trophies that lined his granduncle's desk. "We'll ... We'll be better! We won't keep them all week -- or even all day!" It was a string of empty promises, for Louie, deep in the part of him that listened to Dewey's sobs and Huey's rants, knew his brothers would never stand by such an arrangement. He was aware of the personal insincerity that beset his words, too, something which Scrooge acknowledged with a shake of his head.
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