Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louie remembers when he and his brothers were little, Uncle Donald showed them an old photo. It was of them, still in their eggs. It was worn out and wrinkled, but one thing had been certain.

There were four eggs.

When they looked at him for answers, Uncle Donald had fought tears as he told them about a break-in, a burglar, and how one of his dead sister’s precious eggs was lost to them forever. He told them how he’d searched high and low for years, but hadn’t found the fourth egg. Eventually, Uncle Donald broke down, crying, in front of them, unable to continue the tale.

Louie knows to this day, it still breaks Uncle Donald’s heart.

Sometimes Louie dreams about a duckling in yellow, with long hair and a happy grin, moving his hands around. Louie’s not sure why, but he always moves his hands and never his beak.

Sometimes, when they were still living on the houseboat, Huey accidentally set an extra place at the table.

Dewey’s favourite colour is blue, but his second has always been yellow.

Once or twice a week, they stay up late, laying in Huey’s bed and talk about him. They always argue about what his name would’ve been.

Dewey always says ‘Phooey’ because it’s the only word he can think of that rhymes with their names. Huey tells him that’s not a real name every time and says he deserves an intelligent-sounding name. Louie argues he deserves a cool name.

The nights that Webby joins them, she says he should have an adventurous name.

In the end, though, Louie guesses it doesn’t matter. It’s not like they’ll ever get to meet their long-lost brother... or sister. After all, they don’t know.

Or at least that’s what Louie thought.

That changed, of course, when a little boy in yellow showed up on the mansion’s doorstep, sick and drenched to the bone from the rain.

•
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•

Louie pinches himself twelve times to make sure he’s not dreaming, and his relief is overwhelming when he doesn’t wake up.

This is real. His brother is really right here, sitting in Uncle Scrooge’s bed, sneezing. Uncle Scrooge and Uncle Donald are on either side of him, fussing over his well-being. Uncle Scrooge gives him a handkerchief, which the boy accepts with a grateful smile and sneezes into violently seconds after. Uncle Donald is drying his hair with a towel, making sure he’s comfortable and warm.

Huey is furiously writing everything that’s happening down in a notebook, and Dewey is speechless for once.

Webby clings to Louie’s arm, trembling in excitement and nervousness.

Louie doesn’t take his eyes off of the boy. He can’t. Right in front of him is a miracle. His brother, who was ripped away from them so many years ago, before they even hatched.

“How are ye feelin’, lad?” Uncle Scrooge asks gently, that rare soft side of him coming out for his long-lost grandnephew.

The boy watches his beak and blinks at him. Then, smiling apologetically, he starts to move his hands.

Realization hits Louie instantly and he suddenly understands why his brother always moved his hands in his dreams.

“What’s he doing?” Dewey asks, finally finding his voice.

“He speaks sign language,” Webby answers, watching the boy’s hands closely.

Huey looks up in surprise, then quickly writes down what Webby just said in his notebook.

“What’s he saying?” Louie asks.

“It’s been years. I donnae remember a lick of sign language,” says Uncle Scrooge, looking at Donald.

“I might be rusty, but...” Donald says, tapping the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. He takes a deep breath, then starts to sign slowly.

Louie’s jaw drops.

“Uncle Donald knows sign language?!” Dewey exclaims, eyes wide with shock.

Huey drops his pen.

Uncle Donald glares at them, then turns back to his sister’s long-lost son and repeats Uncle Scrooge’s question in sign.

The boy smiles and begins to sign back, but then he sneezes.

Webby giggles, “Well, that answers that question.”

The boy sniffles and moves his hands once again, and Uncle Donald frowns, struggling to understand him.

“I can translate,” Webby says, and Donald gestures for her to come stand beside him.

Many questions are asked that evening. How’d you get here? Where have you been? Do you know who we are? Do you know who you are?

Not many answers are given though. The boy seems to have amnesia and all he remembers is running for a long time. But he knows who they are. He knows they are his true family and he’s been hoping he’d find them. He thinks that’s why he was running.

“Okay, my turn to ask a question. Where is my mo—” Webby cuts herself off in the middle of translating. She gulps and starts again, after the boy is done signing. “Where is my mother?” she says sadly.

The boy is smiling, oblivious to the weight of his question. He looks around, excitedly, for a person who isn’t there.

Louie and Dewey hang their heads and Huey looks at him sadly.

Uncle Donald and Uncle Scrooge share a look, then Uncle Donald sighs.

“She died a long time ago,” he signs.

The boy’s smile fades.

Huey, ever the big brother, reaches forward and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. He startles at first, then slowly leans against Huey.

“So, lad,” Scrooge signs stiffly, brow furrowed in concentration, “do ye have a name?”

This only makes the boy sadder. He shakes his head.

Uncle Donald puts a hand on his back, getting his attention. “Your mother wanted your name to be Peter,” he signs.

The boy... Peter smiles.

Uncle Donald’s eyes water and he pulls Peter into a hug. Peter returns it immediately, smiling against his shoulder.

The rest of them join in too and Peter blinks in confusion, like he’s never been in a group hug before. Maybe he hasn’t.

•
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•

“But now we don’t rhyme!” Dewey complains loudly to Webby later that evening.

Webby just blinks at him. “Why do your names have to rhyme?”

“Rhyming is our thing!” Dewey exclaims.

Huey and Louie roll their eyes.

“We have to convince Uncle Donald to rename him Phooey, okay? We just have to!”

“I don’t think your uncle will like that name very much,” Webby says.

“And Pete seems to really like the name Peter, Dew,” Huey tells his little brother.

Dewey gasps. “But—”

“Are you really going to try to take the kid’s new name away?” Louie asks, arching his eyebrow.

Dewey deflates. “No,” he sighs. Just like they all knew he would.

Louie smiles and pats Dewey’s head. “You’ll live.”

•
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The same night that Peter miraculously comes back into their lives, Huey, Dewey and Louie sneak out of their bedroom. They stop at Webby’s room, waking her up, and taking her with them. Then the four of them sneak into Peter’s new room and climb into his bed.

Huey shakes his shoulder.

Blearily, Peter blinks up at them. He sits up, yawning, and tiredly moves his hands.

“He wants to know why we’re here,” translates Webby.

“It’s a tradition of ours,” Louie says, Webby signing for him, “We stay up late and talk. But don’t tell Uncle Donald. It’s a secret tradition just for the Duck brothers.” He smiles and puts an arm around Webby. “And the Duck sister,” he adds, making Webby beam.

Peter looks at Webby, then at Louie and signs.

Webby looks at his hands, then translates, “What do you talk about?”

Dewey jumps up and starts blabbering about a mile a minute, Webby struggling to keep up with him. Louie decides they’ll have to learn sign language themselves eventually. Huey gets the same idea apparently, writing it down in his notebook he took along.

Although it’s a bit of a clumsy conversation, they still make Peter smile. And they don’t need to worry; they’re going to have lots of practice communicating with their new family member.

This is only the first of many sleepovers, after all.

Chapter Text

Donald first sees him on the streets. He's on his way to work, in a rush because he’d slept in and Dewey had broken something.

Then suddenly, a small hand tugs on his jacket.

“Hey, old man.”

What? Old man! Donald immediately whips around. “Who you calling old man?!”

A duckling in yellow, about the same age as Donald’s boys at home, stares back at him, unimpressed. He holds out his hand. “You dropped your wallet,” he says.

Donald blinks and checks his pocket. Empty. “Thanks,” he says, taking his wallet back gratefully.

“Be more careful,” the kid tells him with a kind smile, then walks away.

Donald can't help but wonder about him after that.

•
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•

The second time Donald sees him, it’s on the side of the road and he’s got a black-blue eye as big as the moon. Donald pulls over and gets out of his car.

The kid looks at him. “You’re that old man.”

Again, with the old man! Donald takes a deep breath and sighs. There’s no need to get all worked up over a nickname. Besides, he’s not about to yell at a little kid with a black eye.

Donald kneels down next to him, gently taking his face in his hands and studying his eye. The kid is taken aback, but he doesn’t do anything.

“Did someone do this to you?” Donald asks, as if he were talking to one of his own kids.

The boy frowns. “What’s it to you?”

Donald gives him his best Dad stare.

He sighs. “Yeah.” He touches the bruised skin tenderly, testing its sensitivity. It makes him wince, so it must hurt pretty bad. “I’m on my own,” he explains, “I work in this garage for a guy named Russ. He gives me food and shelter and stuff. But I mess up a lot, so he usually just slaps me around.”

Donald feels red, hot anger bubble in his chest, but he pushes it down. “That’s not okay,” he says, “You don’t deserve to be hurt like this.”

The kid shrugs. “It is what it is.”

He sounds sad and it hurts Donald’s heart. He grasps the boy’s shoulders. “You said you were on your own.”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my parents are.”

“Why don’t I give you a home?”

The boy blinks at Donald’s words. “You... you want to give me a home,” he says in quiet disbelief.

Donald nods. It’s going to put a strain on his already tight finances, taking in a fourth child. But he’ll figure it out along the way.

The boy gazes at him with glassy eyes, swallowing. “You mean it?”

Donald squeezes his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Why do you care?”

Donald gives him a small smile. “I’m a parent. I have triplet boys at home, about your age. And I can’t stand to see a little kid with bruises all alone.”

The boy thinks for a moment. Then he takes a shaky breath and wipes at his glassy eyes. He smiles shakily. “Okay.”

“Good,” Donald whispers, ruffling the kid’s hair fondly. He stands up and gently guides him to the car.

“Thanks, old man.”

Donald squawks. “I’m not old!”

The kid smirks. “You’re old in my book.”

Donald sighs, as he helps the kid into the backseat, making sure he’s buckled in safely. “So, do you got a name?” he asks.

The kid looks at him. “No. But people call me Phooey.”

•
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•

Dewey likes Phooey right away. Huey takes a little bit to warm up to him, but grows to like him too. And Louie, surprisingly, acquires a soft spot for him very quickly.

“So your name’s really Phooey?” Dewey asks skeptically, while they’re waiting at the table for Donald to finish cooking dinner.

“Well no,” Phooey replies, “but I don’t remember my real name. And it’s what people call me.”

“That’s mean,” says Huey with a disapproving frown.

“Yeah, you deserve a real name!” Dewey agrees passionately.

Phooey’s a little surprised by their kindness.

“Like, a really awesome name!” Dewey says, “Like Swoosh!”

Phooey blinks and arches an eyebrow. “Swoosh?”

“Yeah!”

“Dewey, that’s not a real name,” Louie says.

“But it’s an awesome name!”

“No. He needs a cool name. Like Ryan.”

“No, he needs a smart name!” says Huey, “Like Albert or Sigmund.”

Phooey stares incredulously at the oldest triplet. “Are those even names?”

“Yeah!” Huey exclaims, “You know, like Albert Einstein? Sigmund Freud?”

Phooey blinks. “Who?”

Huey gasps and Dewey and Louie groan.

“You just dug your own grave, man,” says Louie.

Phooey is confused. “What?”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHO ALBERT EINSTEIN IS?!?!” Huey shouts.

Phooey is sitting right beside Huey and he scoots his chair away. “...No...?”

Dewey then jumps to his feet on his chair. “I got the perfect, awesome name! Waterfall.”

Louie scowls at him. “Waterfall? Seriously??”

Phooey finally has enough. “Okay!” he shouts, “It’s my name, right? I should get to pick!”

Huey, Dewey and Louie each share a look, then return their gazes to Phooey.

“What do you wanna be called?” Louie asks.

Phooey calms down and thinks. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

At that moment, Donald comes into the room. “How about Peter?” he suggests.

Phooey thinks. He doesn’t hate it. Actually, it’s kinda nice. “Sure,” he says with a smile.

Donald gives his shoulder a little squeeze. “Welcome to the family, Peter.”