" . . . and the fear still shakes me, so hold me until it sleeps . . ."
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The world was tightening its grip on him, harder and harder it squeezed its hand round every last one of his nerves, slowly breaking them. Like an unrequited lover bent on vengeance, ripping you a new one all the while saying “I love you”, this mind fuck was beginning to get to him, and he found he didn’t want to breath. Lord, let someone come and beat him within an inch of his life, he did not want to breath anymore. It hurt. But he would never know the extent of that hurt, purely physical- horseshit. What that horse’s ass wasn’t aware of . . . well, more appropriate to say what he did know would be an easier read than Curious George.

What may have been a grim smile graced his face as his eyes briefly alighted on the spectacle beside him. His own features would never reflect that depth of truth his opposite held so dear, obnoxiously wearing on his sleeve like a bleeding purple heart. It was all peaches to him, ripe for the taking and devouring. Quick, nimble fingers and a distracting speech about how he saw the error of this and that, and blah, blah, blah . . . he would find himself bleeding to death on the floor with him laughing above, ranting about pillaging, and raping, and, and a whole hoard of other things he’d never end up doing. He sit on his chest, watch him fade, and send him off most likely with “see you in hell, sucker”, and his most winning smile; which brought about a thought that churned his stomach in a most unpleasant way- things like that ran both ways.

A surge of something damnable- he suspected more than just bile and booze- rose abruptly in his throat. He coughed towards his lap and spat on the floor to keep from throwing up in front of them. It barely worked. The hand clasped on his arm gave him goose bumps and a desire to run himself to death, until he couldn’t feel any more. Oh man, he hated being touched. He didn’t like people wanting to touch and comfort him. He didn’t like their trying words of comfort. Hell, he didn’t like liking people, or people trying to like him.

He winced uncontrollably. He also hated the searing hot pain bubbling inside him, humbling him to the point of tears. Coincidentally, he hated crying too.

A staggered gasp left him gulping for air through his teeth. One good thing about a broken rib: it made for a wonderful distraction. He could almost imagine his disgust leaving him for the pain, but his blood pressure rose into his ears, his eyes watering and burning. A punctured lung did this right? He was bleeding internally and would be dead soon. Good God of grace what a relief that would be, to die quickly. Now. Now. Now!

His heart still beat on, mocking him. !

His lunch threatened to rise up in revolt. Scratch that. He hadn’t eaten in almost two days. Eating made him feel sick, little kiddie bad-touch sick in what he assumed was a bad way because it made him feel good and dirty. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He hated kids more than anything . . . aw fuck me, fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . He wanted to drown and die anyway, why the hell not in misplaced aggression? His wild blue eyes flew open for a fraction of a second. Oh yeah, he was headed for hell with that one.

An odd tingle resurfaced in his mind.

Why the hell was his hand still on his arm?

A little voice pipped up singing in his head . . . you know why. . . which he promptly countered with “no I don’t.”

The voices smiled at him. . . .liar, liar, lair, lair . . . . and continued on, and on, muffling his own thoughts until he violently flung them into the mental equivalent of a black hole.

Mentally he kicked himself, shit.

So he lied again. It didn’t matter. He’d never know, he never knew. Damn duck would notice a crack in the street before he saw the hole, even after falling in it.

He raised his eyes. Evil was smiling at him. Evil knew him. Evil knew what he was thinking, saw all his lies for what they were, but he never saw The voice in his head rounded on him again, and this time he looked into his own eyes and a minute later it registered that his hand held something warm.

Oh yeah, he was done for.

Drake watched in horror the fluctuating colours in his double’s eyes. He was on his own now and he secretly wondered if he had been from the start. A painful little thought clicked in his brain and quite suddenly he was positive that he understood everything that was happening. This place was beginning to blur the lines of reality, but he felt calm.

His eyes found Lanton’s, the guy was still laughing at them, at his double.

“Are you with F.O.W.L.?” Screw the consequences, he could always say he heard about them from Launchpad.

Lanton eyed him queerly. Drake knew when he was being sized up.

“An indirect, covert branch I assume. In fact, I bet you occupy a little out of the way office in the basement. You found yourself a big new theory and decided to test it. Am I right?”

Lanton smiled and raised a hand in surrender. “Not bad.”

“Why are we here?”

A cigarette lit up in their hosts fat lips.

“You know why.”

“I think, that you think my brother and I are something we’re not.”

The big man’s eyes narrowed.

“I doubt it.”

Another long drag on cigarette had smoke curling round their heads. Drake inhaled the scent of tobacco a little nauseated, but held his cool.

“I do and I’ll ask you to prove it.”

A sly turn of the mouth had Lanton sneering at him.

“You play dumb too much, you know that.”

It was partly a question, but more statement than anything.

“And your so called brother can drop the act.”

Drake briefly glanced at his mirror image, his hand was starting to sweat.

“He’s not acting. I don’t know what you slipped him, but I need to take him home.”

Lanton’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You think I drugged him while we were in the bar?”

“You said it, not me.”

Drake rose, pulling his quivering double to his feet, the lost mallard had yet to let go of him. It was a pitiable site in Drake’s eyes, or would have been had he been able to find the will to pity him, right now he felt nothing but contempt. For once though, his feelings of animosity were not directed at the man he was supporting. The door was so close, but so was the entity hovering behind them.

“You’ll leave in a body bag or not at all, Darkwing.”

Anger swept over him then, fast and unforgiving, where it came from he couldn’t have said because he simply didn’t know. Self preservation did funny things to people. He snapped his head round and faced Lanton off, pouring every ounce of command and self control he had into his voice and posture.

“Listen here, jackass, I don’t know where you got the idea I was Darkwing Duck, or what my brother has to do with this, but I’m outta here. Go play your sick games with someone else. Come, Draco, let’s get you to a doctor.”

Lanton came round the table and leveled a large gun at the Mallards, leering at them either in murderous intent or frustration of a perverted kind; it was hard to tell.

“You’re mine. Understand?”

Lanton’s finger tightened round the trigger just as Drake pulled his double behind him and said a quiet, but forceful, “no.”

A loud bang ensued and the gun slipped back into his pocket.

Drake Mallard trudged himself back up the path to his house in a black mood. He opened the door and set his keys on the table at the foot of the stairs, pausing to survey the scene in the living room. Gosalyn, Launchpad, and Honker were all sitting on the couch watching what sounded like a monster truck rally.

Gosalyn’s bright green eyes darted from the screen to her dad and back again before they doubled back and she shouted, “cool gear, Dad, you did get ice cream! What flavour is it?”

She bounced up and all but ripped the bag out of his hand, digging out the contents and hollering at Honker that she was going to get bowls and spoons for them. Drake smiled at her, ruffling her hair as she took off for the kitchen. She was still grounded, but he could let it slide for another hour or two.

Launchpad tapped him on the shoulder, startling Drake out of his reverie.

“Hey, guess what, DW, my family is coming through St. Canard on their way to the air show down south. My baby sister, Loopy, called to say they planned on stopping by the house for a a few days.”

Drake snapped into himself with a sardonic glare, and looked at his faithful side kick like he was crazy.

“Your family? LP where would we put them? The Tower?”

Launchpad smiled broadly. “They can stay? All right! I better call Loopy back, they’re only a few hours out.”

He picked up the phone and started dialing. Drake was wide eyed.

“Wait, LP, how many people are we talking about?”

Launchpad looked up. “Huh? Oh, only three, my mom, dad, and Loopy. Why?”

Drake sighed in relief, three people he could deal with.

“Oh, nothing. I was just afraid you say something like you had five brothers and sisters and a grandfather.”

Launchpad laughed a deep, light chuckle. “Oh no way, my grandfather hates road trips.”

Drake paled. “You have that many brothers and sisters?”

Again his friend laughed, only harder this time. “Naw, it’s just me and my sister. Although I know a set of triplet boys that are like nephews to me, they would jump at the chance to come and stay.”

Blue eyes narrowed in fatherly suspicion, he did have a young daughter to think of.

“And just how old are these boys?”

“Ah, let’s see . . . thirteen last month I believe.”

“No way! I am not letting teenage boys anywhere near my daughter, not now not ever!”

“Aw, don’t worry, they’re good kids, Junior Woodchucks, all three of ‘em.”

Drake pouted.

“I don’t care if they were trained by S.U.S.H., they are not coming near my daughter.”

Launchpad raised his finger to call for silence and turned back to the phone, obviously which ever relative he had called had answered finally. It was a short conversation that ended with Launchpad happily exclaiming that his family would arrive within the hour. Drake felt his feathers rise, the house was a mess. After delegating who would be tackling what chore, and where the McQuacks were to sleep, Drake pulled Launchpad aside with a indiscernible expression clouding his face.

“Hey, LP, lets not go to the Tower while your family is here. I don’t want to give them any clues as to what we really do.”

Launchpad grinned. “Hey, sure, no problem, they think I’m a shop teacher anyway.”

Drake felt his stomach drop. “You teach shop during the day?”

Upon seeing his friend’s expression, he smiled all the wider. “What, you don’t think I can teach shop? Think about it, clumsy or not, if I can keep a plane in the air I can teach a kid how to make a spice rack.”

Drake shook his head and chuckled. “Right, how silly of me.”

He tried smiling, but there was something in Launchpad’s swirling, honey colored eyes that made him falter.

“You okay, Drake?” Launchpad finally asked.

“Yeah, why?”

Launchpad considered him for a moment, giving Drake the oddest feeling; almost like being caught just out of the shower. A few breathless moments later, his best friend smiled warmly.

“Yeah, you’ll be okay. Come on, lets go get some ice cream before the kids eat it all.”

He slapped him on the back and headed for the kitchen. When he realized the crime fighting mallard hadn’t budged, he turned and called out, “by the way, what flavor did you get?”

The might masked mallard smiled shrewdly, following Launchpad up. “Oh, just banana. Gosalyn’s least favourite.”

Launchpad laughed. “You know she’ll eat it just to spite you.”

He smiled for real then. “Yeah, I know. Let’s go stop her.”

“Okie-dokie, DW.”

They entered the kitchen, Drake rolling his eyes at what could have been a war zone. Gosalyn didn’t know it yet, but she would be stuck cleaning the kitchen after she finished her ice cream. For right now, though, she was happy, and Drake would not have said a thing to burst that smile for all the world- even if it was just to get her to do chores. For right now, he needed her smile.

I officially - and quite happily- declare this finished. I may add a little here and there, but I'm happy with it being short and sweet. I just hope you fine readers think so. Drop me a line and tell me what you think. Thanks for reading.

-Anna