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Drake can’t remember the last time he was awake after nine a.m.
Before Mayor Owlson’s crime prevention tactics went into effect, he’d get some decent action out of a few arms deals now and then, a meeting between low-level crime bosses, maybe nab the occasional Beagle Boy who got lost on the turnpike. Then, seemingly overnight, he finds himself saddled with purse thieves and carjackers, muggers in the park with nothing but a puny switchblade to their name. Drake learns very quickly that his speeches and smoke bombs are wasted on the likes of them.
Is it wrong of him to long for a little drama, just a dash of panache? Maybe, but it’s not like he wants anyone to get hurt . He just wants to prove, if only to himself, that he’s more than a tower full of flashy gadgets and cheesy one-liners. He doesn’t have a suit of armor or magical powers between him and the rest of the world; it’s just him, fallible and human, bruised and bloody, raising his fists in preparation of the coming blow because he’s never learned the meaning of surrender.
And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, he gets his wish granted in a big way —read, the worst way.
It’s deception hiding behind an ingratiating smile, the scream of a child braver than he could ever hope to be as she plummets, witnessing reality be torn asunder and knowing they’re too far away to stop it. Drake never imagined he would run away from his first real supervillain fight but if nothing else, this has been a night full of surprises.
Or, morning now, technically.
After a power surge so great it blew out most of the windows at McDuck Labs and ascended into the heavens to part the clouds, it’s been...almost quiet. If one counts the inexplicable flooding keeping any sort of police force from entering the building or the hundred foot vines that sprouted out of the bay and are currently blocking any passage to or from the city as quiet .
As Drake waits for Fenton to return his call (poor guy was dragged away to help with some Gizmoduck related business) he cycles through all the morning news channels with dread burrowing into his gut, seeping into his veins, and weighing down every inch of his body like lead. There’s panic in the city that has for so brief a time known peace, and they are all asking the same question:
Who is responsible for this?
Some hero he is, falling for easy flattery and leaving the literal key to all their problems in the hands of a madman. Bulba must have used the RAMrod again and Drake has a terrible, sinking feeling that he knows exactly what has entered their dimension (or rather, who ). And if he’s right ...well, if he’s right then he just made a happy ending that much harder for the little girl in the next room who he doubts is getting any more sleep than he is.
Drake grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, and the pressure momentarily overwhelms the burning ache of exhaustion. He has to fix this. He has to.
“You won’t fix anything if you don’t get some sleep.”
Drake stiffens at the low voice before his mind catches up with him. He must’ve spoken aloud.
He looks up, blinking thickly as black spots take their sweet time clearing from his vision. Launchpad is staring back at him when he’s able to make out more than blurred shapes and color, his smile verging on wry but the pinch of his brows betraying his true worry. He removed his chauffeur’s cap at some point, his thick red hair mussed without it.
Drake’s fingers flex with the urge to reach up and smooth it out for him. He realizes he’s been staring at Launchpad too long when he tilts his head to the side, the concern in his expression overtaking the humor.
“Buh, what?” Drake says quickly. “I mean, it’s—I’m fine, LP.”
“Uh huh,” Launchpad replies, his shoulders releasing a tension that Drake hadn’t noticed they were carrying. He wonders how much of that concern was for him.
Launchpad sets something down on the console in front of Drake and he blinks at it, out of surprise rather than bleary vision this time.
It’s a cup of coffee, steam steadily rising. And it smells heavenly, nothing like the blackened sludge he cajoles out of his coffee maker every evening before patrol. Launchpad even knew not to put it in one of his limited edition “Shatters in the Night” Darkwing Duck mugs that he only uses for display. This mug is old and chipped and reads: Goose Lee-In-Training. It was a gift from a few friends he’d made on the set of the first movie he ever did stunt work in. Some straight to DVD nonsense over a decade ago.
Even with the evidence right in front of him, it takes Drake’s tired mind a few seconds to put two and two together and make five.
Launchpad made him coffee.
Launchpad, who stepped away an hour ago to make some calls, because Scrooge McDuck and his great-nephews are missing, and Launchpad had an extensive family to inform of the grim news. But they’re Launchpad’s family too, and Drake knows that. Know that McDuck is less a boss than an uncle, the triplets more his brothers than friends.
Launchpad, who is supposed to be occupying himself with helping his family, not puttering around Drake’s kitchen, somehow wrangling his coffee maker into submission, and being careful about which mug he used.
The thought of Launchpad learning to navigate his kitchen, going through the same motions Drake does every night, is frighteningly domestic in a way he hadn’t known he wanted until recently. Until Launchpad barrelled into his life and dared him to achieve his dreams.
“Hey.” Launchpad’s touch, careful on his shoulder, jolts him out of his spiraling reverie more than the low timbre of his voice, rough with exhaustion. “It’s gonna get cold.”
“Right, sorry,” Drake says on autopilot. He reaches out to grab the mug with both hands, the ceramic just shy of scalding against his palms. It’s a miracle he doesn’t spill any on himself.
The coffee’s delicious, because of course it is: only slightly sweet with plenty of cream, just the way he likes it. Although Launchpad could probably hand him a mug full of dishwater and he’d still cherish every drop because Drake is just that sort of pathetic.
“It’s good,” he manages after chugging a third of the coffee.
Launchpad laughs, deep in his chest in a way that makes Drake want to press his ear to Launchpad’s sternum and feel the vibrations. The thought has heat zinging through his cheeks and he feverishly raises the mug again, because he clearly isn’t as awake as he thought he was.
“I’m surprised you were able to taste any of it,” Launchpad replies, leaning back against W.A.N.D.A.’s console.
Drake narrows his eyes at him and purposely takes a long, slow sip. “Mmmh,” he hums, with emphasis. Launchpad snorts, which immediately sends Drake into fits of laughter that results in him practically inhaling his coffee. That sets them off into new peals of laughter, and frantic attempts at shushing each other lest they wake Gosalyn.
As their exhaustion-fueled hysteria peters out, Drake scrubs a hand down his face, dislodging his mask on the way down. “It’s way too late for this,” he groans, the lingering smile on his face turning into more of a grimace.
“Which is why you should get some rest,” Launchpad says, his tone already more even than Drake’s. The humor on his face has softened, becoming something hazy and warm to Drake’s eyes. He takes another sip of coffee to negate the image his mind has conjured.
“What about you?” Drake redirects unsubtly. He’s too tired to put up a veneer Launchpad would see through anyway.
“Me?” he replies, brows raised.
Drake hesitates before nodding at the screen behind Launchpad, where McDuck and the boys’ photos have been displayed since the news channels first declared them missing.
Launchpad looks at them for only a moment before turning back around, his shoulders hunched. “I’m not too worried,” he says, words belied by the darkness of his furrowed brow. “Mr. McDee and the kids have gotten out of plenty of tough scrapes before. They’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they will,” Drake says at once, and his confidence is even mostly genuine because Launchpad would know best, wouldn’t he?
Drake’s breath catches when Launchpad leans forward, suddenly occupying his personal space and his face very close to Drake’s own. “Just like we’re gonna be fine,” he says, gently tugging Drake’s mask back into place. His heart leaps up into his throat, pounding a staccato rhythm.
Launchpad moves back, and while Drake can breathe easier again, he’s left feeling strangely bereft. He musters a smile though, for Launchpad’s sake. “I hope you’re right, pal.”
“Course I’m right,” Launchpad retorts, his grin bright in the darkness provided by the tower’s blackout shades. “You’re DW, DW. And I’m DW’s best friend. Together, there’s nothing we can’t handle.”
As ever, Drake is blindsided by Launchpad’s faith in him. In them . He doesn’t know how to put his gratitude into words, how to be smooth and collected and confident. Drake Mallard flounders where Darkwing Duck flourishes.
Overwhelmed, and at the risk of becoming horribly tongue-tied, Drake takes a breath and falls forward, pressing his forehead against Launchpad’s chest. Launchpad doesn’t stiffen at the sudden contact, doesn’t startle in any way. He let’s Drake in, just as he always has, but there’s more to it now. He welcomes Drake, resting his hand on the back of his neck, cupping the base of Drake’s skull. Drake shivers a little under his cool palm, arrested by the feeling of his fingertips against his skin.
“I don’t want to let you two down,” Drake admits in a mumble, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his fears. He knows things are going to get worse before they get better, just like he knows Gosalyn is counting on him, just like he knows there’s little he wouldn’t do to become the man Launchpad already believes him to be.
Launchpad gently squeezes the back of his neck, the pressure grounding him. Then Drake’s heart promptly skips when Launchpad rubs his thumb back and forth just beneath his jaw.
“Never gonna happen,” Launchpad says, confident as anything. “You know why?”
“Why?” Drake responds, amazed by the ease with which Launchpad draws a smile out of him. He leans back, needing to see Launchpad’s determination for himself. It’s exhilarating in a way that’s tentative and new, the way Launchpad’s grip adjusts, sliding down onto his shoulder. Even then, his thumb lingers above the collar of Drake’s uniform, brushing against his pulsepoint.
“Because there’s a great kid up there counting on you,” Launchpad says, ducking his head to meet his gaze fully, like Drake would bother looking at anything else. “And when Drake Mallard gets knocked down, he gets back up every single time.”
The breath rushes out of him in a rough exhale, and he feels unbelievably light despite the weight of Launchpad’s faith in him. The idea of standing and reclaim the barest inch of height between them seems enticing rather than daunting, especially with the knowledge that it would do little to change the way Launchpad towers over him.
Drake is already lifting his hand, with half a mind to card his fingers through Launchpad’s hair like he’s been longing to, when the computer chimes with an incoming call.
Without any further warning, Fenton’s face appears, blown up giant on the screen.
“Hello, Darkwing? Sorry that took so long, I, uh, Gizmoduck needed—”
Drake and Launchpad jump apart like they’ve been shocked. Drake goes the extra mile and leaps out of his chair.
“Fenton!” he exclaims too loudly. “Good to see you, buddy!”
“Um…”
Launchpad snatches Drake’s mug off the console. “I’ll make some more coffee,” he says in a rush before vanishing down the stairs.
Drake stares after him, if only to avoid looking Fenton in the eye.
Fenton clears his throat, sounding far too innocent, and still Drake risks a glance up at the screen. There’s an expression of mischief he’s never seen on his friend’s face before. “Am I interrupting something?”
Drake hides his face in his hands. “Fenton, buddy, no offense but you’ve got the worst timing in the world.”