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piecebypiece-writing · 5 years

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Child’s Play

Fandom: Ducktales

Word Count: 3568

Trigger Warnings: None

Quick Note: Hello! This is my first official publish on this account, and this site in general. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave comments and questions. This is my first Ducktales piece, too, so I apologize for any OOC.

There was a lot Webbigail didn’t know.

Sure, she was smart. She was quick on her feet, fast thinking, and had quite an impressive catalogue of interesting facts about people and things-but mostly people.

She had everything it takes to be an adventurer. She wasn’t so sure about being a regular kid, though.

Well, okay. She understands the basics. The shows, the books, the games-even if the rules might be, well, a little off-she can still wrap her head around what it means to a a social little butterfly.

Or, at least, she thought she did. Even if the shows she watched were a little too violent or outdated sometimes, or the books were more about real people than popular fictional characters, or…

Even if her games could be a little too dangerous.

It started as a normal, safe, ‘No tackling allowed!’ game of boring old tag. (Except, really, it wasn’t that boring, not at first.)

Besides, it’s not like they had anything else to do. There were four of them, and the manor was huge, and the adults were too busy to entertain them anyway. Donald wasn’t even home, stuck at another new job, and Scrooge had been locked in his office since early in the day for some “Very important business.” Webby was pretty sure that was code for something, but oh well. Beakley had only been seen in passing, laden with laundry and dust pans and all those other things the kids wanted nothing to do with on such a rainy day.

“We’ve already seen this movie, like, a hundred times!” Dewey groaned from his spot on the couch, legs flung over the back as the blood rushed to his head held just inches above the ground. He was too restless to sit normally, now, and Disney’s ‘Snow White’ could only be enjoyed so many times.

Dewey wanted to move. That was where it started.

“We aren’t supposed to cause trouble while Scrooge is working. Better to sit and binge movies than end up breaking something important,” Huey said. His own position in the middle of the couch looked far more comfortable than Dewey’s did, Webby noted.

“Who said anything about breaking stuff?”

“Anything that you’re involved in ends up with something broken.”

“I’m trying to watch the movie,” Louie cut in, legs draped across his oldest triplets lap. The couch arm pillowed his head.

“You aren’t even looking at the tv!”

It was true, Webby noted, looking away from Dewey’s exasperated face-she thinks, at least. It’s hard to tell when it’s already the same vibrant color as Huey’s shirt. Maybe she should say something about that. Does it always do that? Will it keep getting more red, or will it start turning some other color if he stays where he is? How long would it take her face to do the same thing?

A little off topic, but she likes to think they’re good questions. Regardless, her eyes flit towards Louie, who manages to look away from his phone screen long enough to give Dewey a look she’s dubbed the ‘does it really look like I care what you’re trying to say here?’ look. It’s usually very effective.

“All I’m trying to say here is there’s so many better things we can be doing than watching our sixth Disney Classic of the day.” He rolls himself over and forward so he can land on his feet, wobbling for a second. Webby wonders if he might go toppling back onto the couch from lack of balance, before he rights himself and the red color starts to fade.

It’s a shame, too. She almost thought she was starting to see some purple in there.

Huey clearly looks unamused with the turn this day is taking, and Louie really doesn’t seem all too interested either way, but Webby can’t help the question that slips out.

“What kinds of things?”

Those were definitely the words he was looking for. His eyes spark with a triumph, and he stands himself up straighter with a sense of subtlety only he really believes. Huey rolls his eyes. Dewey pretends not to notice. “I’m so glad you asked, my dear Webbigail.”

He’s playing it up for the effect, and they all know it. They listen anyway.

“I was thinking something basic.”

Webby’s eyes light up. “Like death darts?”

The boys grimace, and Dewey pats her on the head. “Um, no, I was thinking we could do something even simpler than that. And maybe less, y’know, painful?” She deflates for a moment, before shrugging.

“So you wanna play the cowards game.”

It’s cryptic, and the look in her eye tells Dewey that he really, really doesn’t want to know. Better to avoid that road altogether.

“I mean, the manor is big enough for hide and seek, right?”

He expects Huey to protest first, but Louie beats him to the punchline. “Yeah, no. I don’t want to spend three hours cramped in the top shelf of a closet somewhere because Huey sucks at finding people. Plus, Webby would win.” She always wins is left unspoken. It doesn’t need to be said out loud.

Huey sputters out the beginnings of a protest, but Dewey’s mind is already moving on to the next hundred options. “Well, we could always play tag? It’s a big house, and we can elect a safe zone and everything. Plus we don’t have to worry about darts raining down on us.”

Webby doesn’t consider it for more than a moment before she’s on board, although she was on board for hide and seek, too. “It’ll give me a chance to practice my close quarters tracking!”

The boys grimace again, and Dewey steps in. “Again, I was thinking less… painful. The basic rules, ya know?”

She shakes her head.

“The first one is no tackling. Tag-backs aren’t allowed unless it’s been at least two minutes, either, and the safe zone needs to be respected. No hiding in horrifically obscure places or using bathrooms for anything other than their intended purpose, no tagging people if they’re using or leaving bathrooms, and whoever’s it can only tag using their hands, not their feet or other body parts of choice,” Huey recites with ease (and if he glares at Dewey at the last part, well, she chooses not to notice), and Webby takes a moment to process them.

“So you’ll play?” Dewey addresses the group in general, although it’s clear Webby is prepared to do anything that isn’t sit still any longer. She looks at the other two, tilting her head curiously, and waits.

Louie breaks first. “Yeah, whatever. My phone is almost dead anyway.” He swings his legs off Huey’s lap and onto the floor, standing with a stretch and a yawn. He casts and longing look at the tv as he pockets his phone.

Huey sighs, outnumbered now, even though he was only opposed for the sake of not getting in trouble. “As long as we don’t break anything, we should be fine.” He stands next, readjusting his hat, and webby leaps to her feet from where she was comfortably sitting in a nest of blankets on the floor.

“Yes!” Dewey cheers, throwing his hand up victoriously. The room falls silent, and Webby feels like an outsider for a moment.

It happens slowly, the way dewey’s hand falls back to his side, grin still plastered on his face. He meets Huey’s eyes, holds the stare, and then they both flicker to Louie. His hands are tucked safely in his pockets, and he seems to be waiting, and then nobody is moving and Webby feels like she’s watching another movie with some dramatic action scene.

“Not it!” comes tumbling out of all three of them collectively, eyes flicking between each other to see who was too late. Dewey looks smug, ready to speak, when she sees green move.

“Webby lost,” is all the youngest says, pointing at the girl in question.

The other two start, glancing at her with wide eyes, and she gets the impression they forgot she was there too.

“Oh, shoot, Webby, sorry! That was kinda unfair, I can be it if you w-”

“Should I start in here?” She cuts off, and Huey looks apologetic. She doesn’t mind starting, after all. It’s not like she’ll be it for long anyway.

The three look between each other again, and Louie shrugs.

“Yeah, start in here. We need a safe zone, though,” Dewey says, glancing at Huey.

He looks thoughtful for a second. “...Our room could work. It’s out of the way enough to not be so easy to get too. The foyer is too open, and the kitchen is too obvious,” they all nod, and Huey looks set. “Okay, Webby, just stay here and count to fifty so we can get a head start, alright?” She nods, and the boys are off immediately, pushing at each other as they squeeze through the door.

Webby watches them for a moment, trying to settle on a good target. She has to think like her prey in order to catch them, and fifty seconds is all the time she needs. Louie is lazy, but he doesn’t like to lose. He’ll hide, probably. Run if he has too. She wouldn’t doubt he’ll move his spot on occasion, granted she doesn’t find him first.

Dewey’s a runner. He’ll get as far away room this starter room as he can, she suspects. Plan from there. Slip through rooms in a straight line. She doubts he’ll go near the safe zone so early on.

Huey will try and stay anywhere the other two aren’t. Let her find one of the others, first. Someone less threatening to run from.

She settles on heading towards the safe room first, and working her way from there. Her inner clock its fifty and she’s off, a casual smile on her face. She loves these games, and she loves getting to play them with her favorite people.

She finds Dewey first on the second floor, trying to make his way back towards the starting room now that she’s left. He takes one look at her and he’s off, panic in his eyes whenever he glances over his shoulder at her. She catches him, of course, and brushes her skirt off as he huffs, starting off to find his brothers. Webby has two minutes to catch her breath now, and get as far away as possible.

Huey gets tagged next, and he doesn’t manage to catch anyone for the next ten minutes or so, because Webby keeps running in a circle around the same room, and Dewey manages to slam doors shut before Huey can get close enough.

The game continues like that for awhile, a back and forth between the three of them until Louie makes his presence known trying to slip past quietly.

It becomes a free for all, then, because no hiding spot is safe and everyone runs out of energy at different intervals.

It’s fun. It’s more fun than Webby could have imagined running aimlessly could be. She didn’t have anyone to play these games with when she was little, and it’s a joy she can’t explain. It’s so… free, and childish, and silly, and she loves it.

The screech, and shout, and sometimes pillows are thrown and doors are slammed. They run past Beakley a few times, who looks startled at first to see them flying through the halls like madmen before deciding it isn’t worth her effort to stop.

It lasts longer than any other game of tag the boys have ever played. Huey is panting and wheezing more often than not, and Louie keeps trying to disappear long enough to actually catch his breath. Dewey keeps rolling, and tumbling, trying to be as much of a ninja as he can manage in a game of tag, and they’re all grinning like fools.

“Dewey, no, that’s not fair, Louie is closer, wait!” Huey screeches, only a room away from where Webby had just been running. She comes to a sliding ahlt, wide eyed, and turns tail immediately. Louie bursts through the same door she was about to go in, hands held out in front of himself as he runs in a panic away. She takes a moment to laugh about it later, when she’s safe.

Sometimes they duck into the safe room. The third time Webby enters, in a fit of giggles while Louie shouts disheartened from down the hall, she notes that someone has been dumping water bottles on the green sheets of the bottom bunk. She can guess who, of course, but she’s too busy drinking the whole thing in one go to actually laugh about it.

It’s innocent and out of the way, and Webby decides that she loves tag-even if it could use a few more darts.

Nothing can ever go so well, though, because these are Donald’s boys, and not even an innocent game of tag is safe from whatever the universe decides is a good time.

Webby knows, if she had the chance, she’d politely tell the universe that it’s being a little mean.

Dewey had tagged her and split, and Huey was the first one she saw. He squealed in a sudden panic, because he had been following her when Dewey came flying around the corner with a murderous intent on tagging the first person to get close.

He spun around in a perfect half circle and took off back down the hall towards the stairs with renewed energy.

“Get him, Webby!” Dewey cheered from behind her, where he had fallen in his successful attempt at an ambush. She could practically picture the excited fist in the air. Louie came around the opposite corner only a minute later, bent over with his hands on his knees, too exhausted to go away again before Webby inevitably caught his oldest brother and the round started anew.

Huey dashed forward, bringing his hand up to hold his hat as he slid to go and turn towards the stairs. He was aiming for the banister, an easy slide down and away if Webby didn’t get to him first, but his feet slipped out from under him.

He started to topple backwards, and maybe he would have landed safely on the floor behind him if Webby had been able to actually slow down soon enough. She tried, of course, because anyone could see where this was going, but she toppled into him all the same.

They both lost balance, and toppled down the stairs together. She hit her hand somewhere on the way down, and she was almost certain it would bruise. Huey twisted, a mix of his lost balance and Webby hitting less center and more left, and she could hear Dewey and Louie’s startled shouts over the horrible crack as they hit the bottom.

She held her hand, terrified that it was over, when she realized that it wasn’t her bone that cracked.

She sat up slowly, gingerly, already feeling a few bruises start to form. “Ugh…”

Dewey reaches them first, hopping off the same railing she was almost sure Huey had been aiming for in his panic. Louie wasn’t far behind, hand gripping the railing as he flew down the stairs two at a time.

Huey is laying on his back to her left, (which is weird, right? She thought he had fallen facing forward, so how was he on his back now?) and his eyes were screwed shut. He was clutching his arm to his chest, breathing shallower than normal.

Dewey and Louie only spare her a glance to see if she’s okay- she doesn’t blame them, though. She isn’t their triplet, and it definitely wasn’t her bone that made that noise.

“Huey, are you okay?” The red triplet only gasps in pain.

“I’m gonna call uncle Donald,” Louie manages, pulling out his nearly dead phone. Dewey panics, shaking his head violently.

“No, wait! He has a meeting today, we can’t tell him until it’s over,” He presses, and Huey’s eyes snap open in a panic. He pulls himself into a sitting position before anyone can protest, cradling his hurt arm against his chest as he attempts to bite down on any sounds of pain.

“Don’t call Uncle Donald. I’m fine, see?” Nobody is convinced.

“You’re arm is swelling!”

“You kinda look like you’re gonna cry, actually,” Webby points out, almost unheard over Louie’s rising tone of distress. He looks a little queasy, and he’s clutching the hem of Dewey’s shirt.

“I am not going to cry, because it’s not that bad,” he defends, instinctively moving his arm to gesture. It results in a hiss of pain. “Okay, maybe it’s kind of bad, but it’s not worth worrying Uncle Donald.”

“What do we do, then?!”

Dewey snaps his fingers, grinning. “We get Scrooge, duh.” He’s off towards the stairs before anyone can find issue with his logic.

It takes all of two minutes before the two are rushing down the stairs to where the kids had yet to move, Webby trying to look at the injury while Louie finds every excuse not to.

They’re relieved when Scrooge seems to share the sentiment of not telling Donald until after his meeting is over, choosing instead to scoop the injured triplet up. (Nobody points out that it’s his arm that’s hurt, not his leg. Of course, prior to this day they hadn’t exactly broken anything, although they’d had close calls. None of the boys like seeing each other hurt and dealing with the situation isn’t something they want to be in charge of.)

Donald is informed before he even steps into the manor, alerted by the call in doctor that had been in the process of leaving.

He storms through the house with a blind panic that borders on rage at the fact that he wasn’t told-the anger is outweighed, of course, but that doesn’t stop the pinching nerves in his face from coming together, eyebrows drawn down as he runs faster than he can remember because one of his boys were hurt and he wasn’t there for it.

Huey is rested on the bottom bunk, in Louie’s green blankets. Changing the colors was decided as not the important thing to focus on. His arm was in a cast already, and Donald’s face softened as soon as he could take in the sight.

His boys, his terribly loyal boys, scattered around the room. Dewey was in a chair haphazardly pulled up next to the bed, chatting away with his oldest brother, while Louie was curled up at Huey’s side in a way that the green triplet probably thought looked relaxed. Donald knew better. He also knew that pointing it out would be a waste of time, so he sighs instead.

Webby is at the foot of the bed, legs crossed like he remembers his boys sitting when they were younger, the criss-cross-applesauce that they had used all the time after that first day at daycare.

She isn’t talking, though, watching rather. She’s the one that sees the stress leaves Donald’s shoulders when he finally lays eyes on his boys, all of which are fine. She sees Louie’s desperate attempts to stay close without being too obvious, and how Dewey had slipped into the responsible role for now.

She watches the dynamics, and how Huey-despite being the one with a broken arm- can’t stop laughing, fully amused with Dewey’s story, and far content with Louie’s warmth.

She feels like an outsider. It doesn’t help that she was, technically, the one who pushed him. Accidentally or not.

The younger triplets had already proudly printed their names on the bright red cast, in their designated colors. Webby hadn’t been there when they signed, busy being grilled for details by Beakley.

It was almost funny, actually, how surprised she was when she found out that it wasn’t in fact some horrible moment of ruin, but a simple child's’ game. Almost.

She’s so busy studying the dynamic, and thinking about how little she really understood it, that she didn’t realize Donald had already looked him over and slipped out of the room.

She didn’t even notice the three sets of eyes on her, until Dewey is poking her foot to gain her attention.

She startles, smacking his hand away before she grins sheepishly. “Sorry, ha.”

He draws his hand back slowly. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

“I was trying to ask if you wanted to sign it?” Huey asks, looking at her pointedly.

She looks surprised. “But… I knocked you down the stairs?” “I mean, yeah,” he sighs. “But you didn’t really mean to make my arm, like, shatter. Besides, I want all my friends to write their names.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t have known. Besides, we’ve all fallen from worse, so the last thing we expected was careful old Woodchuck Huey to break his arm,” Dewey adds.

“On the bright side, we didn’t break anything important,” Louie mocks, and Huey glares at him. There’s no heat behind it, but it gets Dewey howling with laughter that raises Webby’s mood. Louie’s snickering, too.

It’s nice, she thinks, as she takes the sharpie Dewey waves at her with an eyebrow wiggle.

There are a lot of things Webbigail doesn’t understand. She gets the basics, usually. She’s a little lost when it comes to friends, though.

Still. She’s learning. And that’s enough for her.