WARNING: implied physical abuse (not by Scrooge), emotional abuse (not by Scrooge), violence, blood, implied death, reader has a romantic partner, toxic mindsets.
A.N. - This was initially part of a series, but it became long enough that I decided to post it individually.
I was listening to the soundtrack for The Shining when I wrote this. Do with that what you will.
Dewey twirled in his seat and belted out the highest note his throat could muster, flipping his hand and knocking a half-empty can of Pep into your lap.
Louie ceased his lackadaisical singing and lurched forward in horror. "Dude! My Pep!"
As the rambunctious triplet anxiously apologized under the glare of his older brother, you raised your arms and flashed a grimace at the purple liquid seeping into your clothes in dark, viscous splotches. Stinging erupted in your forearm, prompting you to wince and clutch the inflamed area.
A coldness flooded your face as you peeked askance and caught Scrooge's skeptical stare.
Donald removed his hands from the sides of his head, a scowl present on his contorted features. "Boys-"
Della placed a hand on the temperamental duck's shoulder and smiled.
He reluctantly deflated and sunk into his chair, arms crossed.
The triplets' quarrelling fell silent when their mother fixed Dewey with a disapproving frown. "If you're going to spill Pep on someone, spill it on your brothers."
Louie pointed to him with a triumphant grin. "Ha-wait, what?" He shot Della a look of betrayal, his family's resounding laughter prompting him to tug his hood over his face in shame.
"My apologies, you know how boisterous the boys can be." Scrooge's beak curved upwards with an embarrassed smile as he pressed his handkerchief to the nearest stain, only to succeed in spreading the mess. "I hope this wasn't your favourite outfit."
Your napkin was quickly reduced to a dripping tangle of sticky, shredded cloth. Despite the expectant stare of your partner plopping a crushing weight on your shoulders like an anchor dragging you to the bottom of the ocean, you replied, "No, I haven't worn my favourite in a while."
Their expression became one of shock and outrage.
Scrooge's squinted eyes widened in relief, and he reeled backwards with a hand in the air. "Beakley, kindly escort my good friend to the wardrobes." He glanced at you and added in a quieter tone, "Take anything you'd like," before returning to his meal.
The butler emerged from the kitchen in a pink apron and approached the dining table with a serene smile. "Of course, Mr. McDuck." She shook her head in bemusement at the excess of Pep cascading down your clothing in a sugary waterfall and directed a hand to the adjacent corridor. "Right this way."
A shout for you to wait echoed in the formal dining hall, and you whipped around to spot a remorseful Webby approaching with a hand behind her back.
"I'm the one who dared him to hit the high note." She revealed a round, brown treat and presented it to you with a contrite frown. "Here, you can have my cookie."
As her shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped to the floor, your fleeting bewilderment gave way to endearment. "Oh, no, Webby." You nudged the delicacy towards the duckling. "I know it was an accident. It's not your fault."
Those same words had been repeated countless times in a much more harrowing environment, but you poured every ounce of determination into dispelling such thoughts while in the company of friends.
Feeling a spark of fire in your gut, you kneeled and whispered, "Between you and me, I can't stand this outfit. If Dewey hadn't ruined it, I would have taken a can and done it myself." A giggle escaped the girl, and you ruffled her hair before standing up and turning to follow Beakley.
As Webby skipped to the table and hopped in her seat, grateful to have the cookie in her clutches, the sound of wood scraping tile reverberated through the room once more.
"Going somewhere?" Scrooge cocked an eye at your partner's haste, fork hovering inches from his bill.
They idled at the foot of their chair long enough to murmur, "I'd like to accompany them," before marching through the doorway and out of sight.
The trillionaire stuffed a chunk of an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth and lowered his utensils, gripping the edge of the table and propelling himself backwards. "Excuse me for a moment." He snatched his cane from its upright position next to his seat and strolled out of the dining hall, suspicion briefly flashing across his weathered face as he rounded the corner.
Donald watched from a distant chair with narrowed eyes, his youngest nephew voicing his thoughts.
"Where is everyone going," inquired Louie with an incredulous wave of the hand, leaning forward to peer into the corridor his family was insistent on abandoning dinner to traverse.
Della seconded his bafflement after wrestling a fork from Dewey's surprisingly strong grasp. "Yeah, did we miss something?"
Huey gawked when his temperamental uncle rose to his feet and stormed past him. "Uncle Donald, you too?!"
The sailor lingered in the doorway and rested a hand on the wood frame, eyes trained on an unseen target slinking in the shadows.
The middle triplet regarded him with worry and guilt. "Did I make them upset?"
His voice carried a sorrowful edge that spurred Donald to shift his gaze to the duckling, scowl softening. "No, Dewey. No one's mad at you."
Webby placed a hand on her friend's shoulder and scrambled her thoughts for an antidote to his chagrin. Remorse seeped into her heart despite the older ducks' assertions of its inaccuracy, prompting a wide smile to break out across her face. "I know! I'll go ask Granny what's taking so long!"
As she swooped to the floor and dashed towards the exit, Donald's countenance twisted with panic.
The wall enveloped your back like a frigid cage, preventing you from escaping the whirlwind of threats and insults hurled by your partner.
"That outfit cost me five hundred dollars! I spent weeks saving money to buy it, and what do you do? Just smile and tell the little brats it isn't their fault. And to top it all off, you humiliate me in front of Scrooge McDuck! How selfish are you?" They knew better than to raise a hand against you, but as they jabbed a finger to your chest and shook their fist like a child being denied their favourite toy, it was evident that the rage would follow them home.
You were thankful for Beakley providing fresh clothes, but her preoccupation with burning the old apparel had left you as defenceless as a rabbit in a wolf pit. The weight in your throat sank to your stomach. No matter how much you yearned to scream and throttle the beast before you, the thought of the triplets and Webby's horrified faces forced your indignation to stew in the depths of your gut. The ducklings did not need to see such appalling behaviour.
A ringing of metal sliced through the air thick with adversity and unspoken sentiments, prompting your partner to halt their tirade and peer into the darkness encircling the two of you like a fog.
"Dinner's getting cold." Scrooge emerged from the shadows bordering the entrance to the dining room, black wisps receding from his face to reveal a cold sneer. His eyes were barely visible under their lids but harboured a tranquil rage unfettered by the most puissant foes.
The glimmer of a curved lip of steel reflected in a streak of moonlight filtered through the pristine window at the end of the corridor.
Faces of sculptures and portraits lining the walls contorted into masks of terror and condemnation as if the ancestors of the trillionaire were clamouring for death within the eroding confines of his mind. Each step was gradual and deliberate, snatching one more sliver of sanity from a depleted reservoir. The twitching of the corners of his beak, his eyes fluttering between the size of saucers and the slit of a blade, and the heaving of his chest against the red frock coat all assimilated into a nightmare image you had beheld only once before.
This lack of experience did not dissuade you from retreating to the entrance of the wardrobes, but your partner's delusions of befriending the wealthy waterfowl blinded them to their missteps. They pushed their hands down their extravagant outfit and turned with a strained smile. "Mr. McDuck! Can I help you with anything?"
Scrooge paused once all that stood between him and the two of you was a single foot, fixing them with a cold stare.
Before you could retract your arm, he seized the end of your sleeve and yanked it to your shoulder.
Purple and black blotches littered your skin like stamps, sending a spike of grief to impale his heart. He released you with a quivering hand as his eyes brimmed with immeasurable fury and remorse. "I invite you into my home, introduce you to my family," muttered Scrooge, voice barely above a whisper and dipping with an audible tremor. "Let you eat my food, and-"
By the time you blinked, your partner was pinned to the wall with a double-headed axe pressed against their neck.
"You repay me by putting your filthy hands on my best friend!" The trillionaire's thundering roar reverberated through the corridor, waves of unadulterated rage emanating from his trembling figure. "You're lower than the lowest. You're not worth the dirt under my spats!"
Words had abandoned your partner as every inch of their body shook with terror. Their pleading gaze stared into nothing but malice, any attempts to repel the weapon resulting in the frigid metal burrowing deeper into their flesh. The feeling of blood crawling down their neck like worms made them squirm, but the sight only intensified Scrooge's panting.
You nearly tumbled to the floor as the door embracing your back was flung open, and Beakley dashed into the scene in a flurry of confusion. Apprehension flashed across her face before she collected herself with one sweep of her gaze and exclaimed, "Mr. McDuck!"
The wealthy waterfowl whipped around with a snarl. "What?"
She paused to take a breath and extended a hand towards the formal dining room, eyebrows furrowed and tone stern. "Mr. McDuck, the children are watching."
Your gaze flickered to the troubling sight of the Duck family standing as one at the outer edges of the doorway.
Webby was several steps ahead but had been rendered as motionless as the statues that surrounded her, mouth agape and eyes wide with disbelief.
The triplets stared with varying degrees of horror and bewilderment as their innocent minds scrambled to make sense of the atrocity unfolding before them.
Della took a step forward, only to rescind it and rest a hand on Dewey's shoulder. The pilot was torn between intervening and shielding her children from the climax of her uncle's insurmountable wrath, but her twin brother was not as indecisive.
Donald's fists were clenched at his side, gaze narrowed and expressing a vengeance too fiery to be impersonal. "Need any help, Scrooge?"
The trillionaire's feverish gaze swept across his family and briefly faltered when he met the fearful sights of his great-nephews. "No, Donald. I'd prefer to do this myself." He withdrew the axe and tossed your partner to the floor.
A series of strangled gasps burst from them as they pressed a hand to their throat and clutched a handful of the carpet, bristles impaling the underside of their fingers like thousands of microscopic thorns.
Scrooge approached with the grace of a skulking leopard, lifting his weapon in minuscule increments.
A glimmer of alarm sunk its teeth into Beakley's nerves. She spun around and hurried to her granddaughter's side, kneeling on the floor next to her and placing a hand on the duckling's shoulder. "Webby, go back to your seat."
The girl's confusion simmered, gaze darting between her grandmother and you.
A gasp escaped Della, and she began herding the triplets into the dining room.
Louie resisted and slipped from her grasp to watch you fiddle with your sleeve, his pensive expression catching Donald's eye.
The sailor's furious visage acquired a dismal quality when the lackadaisical triplet looked at him with a silent question. The moment passed, and he followed his brothers.
Beakley's insistence was the only detriment to Scrooge's fury.
The butler leapt to her feet and proclaimed with a swipe of the hand, "Mr. McDuck, I understand your anger, but you cannot-"
The trillionaire waved his weapon in defiance. "Then send them to their rooms. They don't need to see this."
Your partner's frantic gaze shifted to you, beseeching assistance of any kind.
For the briefest of moments, you considered stepping forward. Scrooge's intentions were evident, but as your foot pressed against the carpet, memories of screaming and tears permeated your mind.
They reached out and grasped nothing but a cold stare.
Running a hand through his hair and clasping a handful of his plumage, Scrooge shook his head and bellowed in a voice simmering with guilt, "The refusal to go home, the panicked, tearful telephone calls, the silence-the signs were all there! I should've seen them sooner!" He planted a foot on your partner's chest and reared the axe behind his head, a shimmering beam of silver light reflecting on the curved horn of the steel.
"You may never forgive me, but I'm not failing you for one second longer."