AN: I'm back and it's only been two years! Wow, well, first of all, I'm not dead. Secondly, I'd like to apologize for my hiatus. I never meant to be gone this long, between work and my personal life I just didn't have the time or energy to write. Any stories I did start were left unfinished and my writers' block was just getting worse. Simply put, I wasn't in the best place, but I'm back now and I'd like to start writing again.

This is my first Ducktales fic (not counting the ones I posted on Tumblr) so hopefully, I didn't screw it up too badly. Dewey's a little OOC, but given the circumstances, I think it's acceptable? I wanted to touch on his feelings about Della and the Spear, I feel he forgave her too easily in the show, so here's my fix. Also, this takes place before any major events in season 2, meaning Della is still MIA and Lena is "dead" (Sorry, Webby)

Mild trigger warning for minor depictions of PTSD and slightly darker themes, so if you're uncomfortable with that or it hits too close to home, this fic might not be for you.

Shout out to Rammbook and Cl-babydew for betaing for me. This would still be collecting dust in my drafts if it weren't for them!

It was the little things that reminded Webby of her; a song on the radio, tea with her granny, striped shirts in the displays of boutiques she passed in the mall. Small, incidental things that anyone else wouldn't think twice of, hadn't they been Webby.

Grief was a foreign subject to the young duckling; she was a sheltered child, far too young to remember her parents passing. She had never experienced loss like a normal child, she never learned how to properly cope with it. It was easier to deny anything happened and just sweep it under the rug, opting instead to throw herself further into her research and adventures with the boys, doing everything in her power to distance herself from reality. If she pretended everything was okay, she could trick herself into believing it.

It was the little things that created cracks in the walls she had built, sending her careening headfirst into a storm of repressed thoughts and emotions.

And the taunting voice at the head of it all:

"Lena couldn't be your friend because she was never real!"

The witch's scathing words rang hollowly in her ears, gnawing away at her psyche with every reminder. Every glance at the woollen bracelet on her arm made them stronger until she could no longer shut them out.

"You made friends with a shadow! You gave it a friendship bracelet. Honestly, it's embarrassing how pathetic you were."

Her heart was torn asunder, the opinion of the girl she once called friend skewered by secrets and lies. They were the Beagle Birds, together they outsmarted a criminal gang, discovered the mythical Terrafirmian race, vanquished a money shark, and fought a sword horse (and lived to tell the tale.) Lena would never intentionally hurt her, that much she was sure of. The witch was gaslighting; trying to sink her spindly fingers into Webby's mind and knead it to her whim- just as she had done to the pink-haired teen.

Lena was the real victim. She had taken the brunt of Magica's abuse. She didn't have any say in it, forced to live with the devil on her shoulder for years while she plotted Scrooge McDuck's undoing. It made Webby sick just thinking about it.

However, there are always two sides to an argument and while she was adamant in her belief, doubt crept in the shadows of her mind, giving voice to the insecurities and inner demons that resided within. There, the little nagging voice in her head had nestled like a parasite, refusing to be stifled. Although Webby would never admit it, those hateful words harboured a truth that she just couldn't deny. It was a harsh sting, it crushed her, gutted her, stripped her heart bare, leaving it raw and exposed to the harsh elements. It hurt far worse than any injury she had sustained before in her adventures. Lena's betrayal was a hard pill to swallow on its own, but something about Magica's words hit her like a sucker punch to the stomach and left her reeling.

Lena was never real to begin with.

It was all a ruse, and she fell right into the trap like a hapless fly drawn to a carnivorous plant. Brave, daring Lena was nothing more than a mindless puppet Magica cozied up to her with in yet another ploy to steal Scrooge's prized dime. Really, she should've known better. Lena's suspicious behaviour had tipped her off, but she always gave her the benefit of the doubt. Her naivety would be her downfall, marking a target on her back as the pawn Magica needed. She was easier to manipulate than the boys, believing the lies she was continuously spoon-fed as Magica painted the perfect illusion.

Unknowingly, she had been the puppet all along, Magica being the one pulling the strings. She had let the monster waltz right into their home. She may as well have opened the door for her. Guilt weighed heavily on her conscience, moreso over the fact that despite everything she still found herself mourning their friendship, as fake as it was. Lena had left her mark and Webby couldn't shake how utterly betrayed she felt over her.

She sniffed, her eyes started to sting and blur with unshed tears. She angrily wiped her face in her sleeve. Sticks and stones, she was being selfish, focusing on her when there were far more important matters to fuss over. Donald's boat still needed fixing, she should be there helping with the repairs instead of languishing in her own sadness and grief. However, her feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they carried her here on their own accord, her mind on autopilot.

Webby stared out at the water, overlooking the amphitheatre from her position on the stage. The marble of the faux roman pillar she was resting against digging painfully into the small of her back. Several empty glass bottles were strewn idly at her feet, drops of Pep still dripping onto the wooden boards. These were accompanied by tossed sheets of paper crumpled into a ball and carelessly discarded.

She considered the bottle held in her hands and just how unfair it all was. Memories of phony SOS messages written by the aloof teen flooded her mind and made her heart clench painfully in her chest. Lena had called it a game; it was one of her favourite pastimes and Webby wanted to honour that. She'd spent the last half hour trying to come up with messages for her, but none of them felt right. In the end, she let her heart do the talking, spilling her feelings out onto the page. It was more of a vent rather than an obituary, but Lena had said herself that she was never good at this game.

She gave the bottle one last fleeting look before rearing back her arm and lobbing it into the water. The bottle landed with a plop several feet away, bobbing steadily in the current and sending ripples across the water.

She watched the bottle float away aimlessly, softly humming along to the songs from Lena's mp3 player. A bit too punk for her taste, but Lena had liked them and as she learned from Dewey, listening to music was something normal people did when they were sad and brooding. It was cathartic in a way. She bit back a mirthless chuckle, almost feeling like a broody teenager. Lena would be proud.

A gentle breeze swept over the depilated dwelling, scattering the remaining bottles and papers across the stage and into the water below. The decorative moon and stars dangling above clinked and rattled as they bumped against one another like wind chimes on a gusty day.

Webby shivered, curling further into the folds of the oversized sweater she wore. It was far too big, the sleeves fell over her hands and it fitted lopsidedly on her small form, exposing a shoulder and then some. Regardless, it had been Lena's and wearing it brought her closer to the girl. She was grateful she left it during their last sleepover. Nowadays, she couldn't be spotted without it; sometimes, she'd tie it around her neck like a cape or cuddle it close under the blankets at night, remembering the warmth of Lena's hugs, the softness of her feathers…

She pinched her eyes shut and swallowed, her throat thickening with oncoming tears. She wiped her face in her sleeve, a solemn sigh escaping as she caressed the material between her fingers. It had been approximately one month since Magica attacked the bin. Thirty days since she lost Lena. Webby had scoured just about every book in both Scrooge's and the public library's archives in hopes of finding just the tiniest bit of information that could lead to a potential breakthrough. She even braved online forums and ventured deep into the dark web, fueled only by her determination to see her friend again.

Weeks of extensive research had yielded no results. As resilient and strong as her will was, things were starting to look bleak.

"Oh Lena, you misguided mistress. How do I bring you back? I know you're still out there somewhere, I can feel it. Please, just give me a sign."

No sooner had the words left her mouth came the sound of glass clinking against rock, interrupting her thoughts. Her head snapped up in attention, eyes darting to the water where a bottle lay waiting beside one of the stones. Her heart skipped a beat, hope blossoming in her chest. Could it be? Anxious hands worked to retrieve and uncork the bottle, her mind racing with possibilities. Was this an SOS telling her Lena was locked away waiting for her white knight to rescue her? She couldn't help but smile at the thought; it was just like her fantasies; the beautiful princess captured by the evil sorceress and imprisoned in the highest tower where she awaited her rescuer, the valiant noble knight…

Focus.

She shook the thought away. Now was not the time to be getting lost in her own head, not when she was so close to seeing Lena again. She set her attention back on the paper, her eyes widened as they skimmed the page. She did a double-take. It was a brief message, yet the gravity of those two simple words was enough to momentarily steal the breath from her lungs and leave her reeling.

Turn around.

Her hands began to shake as her heart thumped hard with anticipation; she thought it might explode from her ribcage in all the excitement. Lena was right behind her. She didn't care how it was possible, her best friend had returned. All she had to do was turn around and she would be there. It was a dream come true, oh how she longed for this moment, had played it out so many times in her head. Now it was finally happening!

It was too good to be true because it wasn't.

In her manic relief, Webby had overlooked one crucial detail that now struck her like a slap to the face. The message, written in blue ink was a far cry from Lena's elegant script.

It wasn't hers.

Cruel realization flooded through her veins like ice. The paper fell from her hands, the small ember of hope that had been ignited within her now thoroughly extinguished. She kicked herself for being so naive. Of course, Lena wouldn't just show up out of the blue one day. It was unrealistic to just assume that. This wasn't some Hallmark movie, this was reality and reality was blunt.

Still, that didn't make it hurt any less. Hope was a powerful thing; she clung to it like a lifeline, desperately believing she could bring her back. All of her efforts and research, countless hours spent at the library and it didn't change anything. Lena was still gone. Now Webby was struggling to pick up the pieces she left behind.

She needed to wake up and smell the coffee. Lena didn't write that note, someone else had—someone who was calling her name. Webby jolted, startled out of her lamentations. She knew that voice, she practically heard it every day. She looked around the dock, spotting a tuft of white hair belonging to a certain boy clad in blue.

"Dewey?"

The aforementioned duckling stood on the other side of the beach, a case of pep tucked under his arm. He smiled when she saw him and waved to her, hollering something unintelligible. She couldn't distinguish it over the distance.

"What?!" She cried, her hands cupped around her bill.

He mirrored her, shouting back loud enough to hear. "I'm coming over!"

Webby raised an eyebrow in wry amusement as he moved to cross the stones separating the stage from the beach. His steps were clumsy and wavering as he struggled to balance both himself and the soda in his arms.

She had crossed the path many times during her visits, so she knew the way by heart and could cross it blindfolded if she wished. Dewey, on the other hand, had never navigated this section of the beach before. He clumsily stumbled along, slipping on the wet rocks and flailing to regain his balance as to not lose his precious cargo. He had made it halfway across when a misstep caused his foot to fly out from underneath him. He yelped as he was launched into the water with a resounding splash.

"You know, you could just walk around," Webby reminded him as he resurfaced with a sputter.

"Dewey Duck does not back down from a challenge!" he grunted, struggling to carry both himself and the drinks to shore.

Webby rolled her eyes at the retort and waited as he swam towards her, hefting the case of drinks up onto the stage near her feet. She took a step back as he heaved himself up and over with a grunt, flopping unceremoniously onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, soaked and panting for air, his limbs sprawled out akin to a starfish. Webby stood over him, deadpan expression on her face. He stared up at her and flashed a sheepish grin, offering a can to her.

"Pep?"

She snorted, taking his hand instead and helping him to his feet.

"What's with all the bottles?" Dewey asked, glancing around the stage once he'd found his footing. He staggered forward a little, his clothes weighed down from the water.

Webby shrugged a shoulder half-heartedly in response. "It's not important."

Her eyes searched for a distraction, finding the plastic binding the case of drinks together. "You better cut those up and throw them in the garbage after. Turtles can choke on them."

He rolled his eyes. "You sound like Huey. If I wanted a lecture, I would've stayed at the mansion."

She flicked her tongue out at him in return. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be helping Donald with the boat?"

He paused from wringing out his sopping wet shirt, blue eyes levelling with her own. "I could ask you the same thing."

Webby flinched and looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Dewey sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I know Huey said you needed space. It's just, you weren't returning any of my messages. And, no one has seen you all evening. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Granny must be worried sick." She frowned as she looked down at her phone, several unread messages flashing across the screen. She promptly shut it off and pocketed it again.

"How did you find me?"

Dewey's eyes softened, "I know the history you have with this place. You weren't at the library, so I knew this was the next place you would go to."

Webby grimaced at how patronizing that sounded. She knew Dewey meant well, but she couldn't deal with how different everyone had been treating her after what happened. It wasn't what she needed. Why didn't they understand that? She was still Webby, nothing had changed. Her heart just needed time to heal.

She stepped away to examine one of the pillars, and he watched as she circled around it, her eyes searching the carvings etched into the marble. Her hand brushed over several of the inscriptions before stopping at one in particular. Her fingers curled against it, pressing further into the cold surface of the stone.

"I met her here," she finally said after a moment, her voice uncharacteristically small. "Right where we're standing."

Her hand fell away, allowing Dewey a glance at the crudely drawn heart. He squinted at the initials inscribed in the center.

W + L

4 evr

Dewey felt a pang in his chest at the implication. Friendship was meant to be everlasting; if strong enough, it could weather the harshest storms and prevail. The inscription served as a cruel reminder that morality affected everyone. No friendship was immune, no matter how powerful the spell it cast- even if it could vanquish a money shark.

He heard a sniffle and turned to the right. Webby's eyes had glossed over, the hand that touched the stone held to her chest while she sniffed back oncoming tears. She wiped her face in her oversized sleeve and gave him a watery smile.

"You know, she tricked me into believing she was a lost sailor in danger. She was such a kidder," she chuckled fondly at the memory.

Her smile faltered, then faded.

"Was..."

She swallowed thickly, her fingers trailing down her arm where they lingered, rubbing at the strands of her bracelet. Dewey rested a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

"Sometimes, I wish I didn't know," she whispered, fresh tears pricking her eyes. She hugged herself tightly, feeling her flesh crawl. "I could deal with her being a traitor, but…knowing that what we had wasn't real— that it was all Magica…" She trailed off then sniffed, "I guess ignorance really is bliss."

Bliss

They had been happier, it was true. Even if what they had believed in was a lie, but was that really so bad? Dewey remained silent, staring at the engraving as he mulled over the hidden truth to her words. The playlist of depressing songs continued to blare from Lena's mp3 player, making him feel as if they were in the scene of some dumb movie. As cliché and melodramatic as it was, it filled him with a feeling of deep sorrow. This wasn't her usual playlist of peppy upbeat tracks. No, this was the kind of music he would listen to when he was alone and brooding in his room while he thought about Della.

"I don't regret doing what we did," he confessed with a small sigh. "Minus not telling my brothers, obviously. I've been wondering about my mom ever since I was old enough to realize living with your uncle isn't well…normal. Uncle Donald told us she was gone, but I couldn't accept that. I needed to know why...back at that temple, I made a vow to find the truth no matter what it was because anything is better than not knowing."

She looked at him with wet curious eyes. "Even if it hurts?"

He hesitated, unsure of his words. "Well, yeah. It stung, still does and that pain probably won't go away. Ever since we found that note, I've been worrying about who my mom was, whether she was a good person or not. I needed to know the truth, even if it meant you being right about the Spear."

Webby shrank under the weight of his solemn stare; a storm raging within the blue eyes piercing her own.

"I didn't want to be right," she mumbled, watching as he started to pace. Dewey wasn't through yet with his inner monologue. He needed to say this, she could tell he'd kept it inside for awhile. The least she could do was listen.

"...I spent so long idolizing her and building this perfect image of the mom I wanted. I didn't want to accept that she wasn't the hero I envisioned her to be, I didn't want to be angry at her!" His voice grew in intensity as he unravelled in front of her, becoming more frantic with every sentence spoken.

"How can you be angry with someone who's no longer here? It was easier to blame Scrooge for what happened. I didn't think about how hard it was for him. He may've built the rocket, but no one forced her onto it. That was her choice, that's…" His voice caught as he reached the climax of his spiel, tears now rolling down his cheeks. He drew in a breath and exhaled shakily, regaining his composure.

"That's on her. She prioritized adventuring over us, just like I prioritized solving the mystery over everything else. What's that saying? We're cut from the same cloth, is that how it goes? Two peas from the same pod, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? It all means the same. I'm just like her, reckless to a fault."

"Dewey.." Webby opened her mouth, trying to find the words she wanted to say. She closed it again when none came and frowned, pinching her brows in thought before trying again.

"Dewey…people make mistakes, that doesn't mean you're a bad person. It means you're human. The McDucks are the definition of reckless! Just last week your uncle flew to China just for chop suey."

"That's impulsive," he corrected her.

Webby gave him a pointed look. "Who's the expert here? I have books full of this stuff. Remember Mount Neverest?"

"Touche."

"I know Scrooge said Della took the Spear, but I refuse to believe she willingly abandoned what Selene said? She loved her family more than anything, why would she give you that sphere and encourage you to keep looking if that was all there was to it?"

"Why would Magica lie about Lena?" he retaliated sourly, scrubbing his face in his sleeve.

A pained expression flickered across her face, instant regret filling him with silent shame. Dewey bit his lower beak, he immediately wished he could take the words back. Webby's face darkened into an unreadable expression, hazel eyes averting to the ground; a clouded look in them.

"Webby, I di-"

"I can't believe I didn't piece it together sooner."

"..."

"It was so obvious, her obsession with Scrooge's dime, the money shark attacking the bin," she shook her head. "I even caught her in his room."

"That's creepy," he grimaced.

"I guess we were both seeing things through rose coloured lenses."

The silence that ensued was deafening, even the wind had grown quiet. Dewey huffed out an awkward cough into his fist.

"Well, …here's to being a sentimental fool." He raised his can lightheartedly in an attempt at a toast, hoping to resolve the tension. Webby shifted her feet uncomfortably, still bothered by the unspoken words that hung between them.

"Do you think she's right? About Lena?" she asked, making him pause. He shook his head, meeting her concern with a warm smile.

"No way! I didn't know her very well, but I can tell she cared about you a lot. That's why she sacrificed herself to save us because that's what friends do. Ducks don't back down," he quipped with a knowing smirk.

"Ugh, stop," Webby made a face, feeling her cheeks heat up at the remark. She stretched the fabric up and over her head so he wouldn't see just how red her face had grown. In her safe space, she breathed in the familiar scent of Lena and relaxed. The memories flooded back to her in flashes, separate, then suddenly all at once.

Dark, alluring smoky eyes. Messages in a bottle. Matching friendship bracelets.

Voices.

"Lena couldn't be your friend because she was never real!"

"Get away from my best friend, Aunt Magica!"

Surging through her head, making her shut her eyes and grit her teeth.

No, not again.

"You're not my family, you're nothing!"

Shut up! Shut up!

The once comforting scent was now suffocating, it curled around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs as it tightened like an invisible corset. A whimper escaped her, the voices were too loud, it was all becoming too much. Her breathing began to spike, sweat broke out on her brow as the unwanted memories unravelled before her eyes. Unlike a movie, they had no pause button. They passed one after another, relentless as Webby squeezed her eyes tighter in a desperate effort to keep the tears at bay and will the images away. Not only had the witch poisoned her mind, but her memories as well, the only thing she could seek solace in. Everything was just a cruel reminder of the damage Magica had inflicted on them all by using Webby as the unknowing pawn.

Dewey didn't understand. It was her fault.

Her fault, her fault, her fault. She did this. She could've helped Lena, she should've pried more. She should've…

She should've…

Should've…

She gasped and let out a sob, hot tears spilling over her feathered cheeks. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the sweater, fisting it so tightly her knuckles blanched. Her breathing was growing heavy and erratic, bordering on the edge of hyperventilating with the frantic thoughts that swarmed around her. The duckling's shoulders shook from the strain of her cries as she felt herself lose control again.

"Webby?" Dewey's voice broke through the barrier, a beacon of light amidst the tumultuous waves, guiding her back to shore. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder acting as an anchor that kept her adrift and somewhat grounded to reality.

"Hey, come out of sweater town. I got something that'll make you feel better."

Somehow, his voice was enough to chase away the demons haunting her. Calm, reassuring, safe. She opened her eyes, relieved she could no longer see the visions. Webby drew in another shuddery breath, exhaling slowly. She repeated the process—this time through her nostrils—until she was calm again. Hesitantly, she inched out of her cocoon, her hair dishevelled and wild. She blinked away tears, refocusing on the object he was holding in his hand and waving enticingly in front of her.

"…I don't really feel like using tweeter right now," she said flatly.

"Well good, because that's not what we're doing."

She raised a dubious brow.

"We're watching...wait for it…...Darkwing Duck!"

She perked up a little at that. "You have it on your phone?"

"You don't?"

She rolled her eyes but scooted closer, intrigued. "I guess one episode couldn't hurt, the theme is pretty catchy."

"Heck yeah, it is!" He whooped, pulling up the show on his phone. Webby leaned closer so she could see the screen, a ghost of a smile on her face. The intro started, the catchy tune ringing through the air. Dewey danced along, lip-synching the lyrics and using his free hand as a microphone. Webby was transfixed on the screen, the titular hero's uniform never standing out to her until now; a dark deep shade of…...

Purple.

Purple—like violets swaying in the summer breeze. Like her grandmother's work apparel. Like Lena's eyeshadow. Like the streak in Magica's hair. Like-

She froze, eyes shooting open wide. The images of the video passed before her eyes, but she could no longer see them. Her heartbeat raced with her quickened breath. Her limbs had locked in place. She couldn't move. She was paralyzed, only vaguely conscious of the loss of control to all motor functions as her mind began to shut down, returning back to that familiar place she dreaded most. Despite how hard she tried to fight it, she found herself slipping back; the song and Dewey's voice fading as she fell.

It was almost as if a wave had washed over the beach, transforming everything into the nightmarish images from that fateful night.

The salty sea air now reeked of the acrid stench of sulphur and magic. The boards beneath her feet turning into an endless sea of gold. The glint of Dewey's phone became the glare of Magica's sceptre, purple haze surrounding the amethyst gem sparking to life with dark magic.

Seagulls squawked, but they no longer sounded like seagulls; their high pitched cries taking on the voice of a teenage girl screaming as she was blasted from existence. Struck down by a lethal shot to the abdomen that Webby knew was intended for her. The blast that took her a sickening purple coloration.

And at the heart of it all was that scathing, sneering voice.

"Lena couldn't be your friend because she was never real!"

"Webby..."

She was being shaken by an invisible force rocking her back and forth. It was almost as if someone had grabbed hold of her shoulders and was shaking her. She remained where she was, her feet rooted to the ground. Frozen in a waking nightmare she didn't want any part of. The witch's crooked grin trained on her and her only.

"Webby!"

The interior of the money bin started to blur and fade into the dilapidated structure of the amphitheatre. Webby gave a jolt as she was startled back into reality. A strangled gasp squeezed from her compressed lungs. Her breathing was quick and shallow, her head dizzy from the abrupt shift to the present.

"No...no, it's not true," she wept, frightened owlish eyes flooding with bitter tears. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the sobs that tore through her like paper.

"It's not true," she mumbled the mantra repeatedly, seemingly unaware of the duckling holding her, scared out of his wits.

Dewey's hands were still bracing her shoulders, an anchor keeping her grounded to shore. "Webs look at me," he implored shakily.

She stared right through him with glazed, unseeing eyes. "Lena…"

Tentatively, he removed her hands from her mouth, giving them an encouraging squeeze.

"Remember where we are."

Her wet, bloodshot eyes finally seemed to focus on him. Though her vision was marred by tears, she could distinguish the trademark blue of his sweatshirt. His face was a mix of concern and thinly veiled fear as he held her arms tightly to keep her from lashing out.

Her eyes cleared as realization finally clicked within her fractured mind. She opened her mouth to try and speak his name, but could only utter a pathetic squeak.

His heart sank as he took in the broken sight of her. The rich brown of her irises had lost their lustre and the innocence they once held. The dark shadows beneath them suggested many fitful, sleepless nights.

He'd never seen her so vulnerable before. This was the girl who laughed over broken bones and brushed off third-degree burns like they were nothing. Webby and vulnerable just didn't fit in the same sentence together.

"Dew...Dewey?" She trembled, her face ashen. She felt faint.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, releasing his grip on her. "You were really out of it."

She let out a sob and charged at him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Dewey yelped and staggered back, overpowered by the sudden weight in his arms. He quickly found his footing, steadying them both. Webby bawled as she clung to his feathers, her anguished cries twisting the blade in his heart. She muttered broken apologies; whether she was apologizing to him or Lena, Dewey wasn't sure.

He enveloped her convulsing form in his arms as she fisted the fabric of his shirt. The blue-clad duckling hesitantly rested a hand on her head, still a little shaken from her episode. Huey was better during situations like these, he was always the one who calmed Donald down when his fits were particularly bad. Louie usually curled up in his designated corner and rocked himself, and Dewey? Well, he tried to help, but Huey would thwart his efforts. After all, the JWG had an answer for everything.

How he wished he had it with him right now. It never got easier.

"Hey…it's okay," he reassured himself more than her. "Magica's gone, she can't hurt us anymore," he crooned gently as she trembled against him.

"It...it was so h-horii-b-ble," she cried, sobbing coughs fragmenting her words. "Lena, she. She- "

"I know, Webs. I was there, remember? It messed me up too." He rocked her gently as she trembled in his embrace, her tears soaking his shirt. He began to hum the bars of a lullaby that was unfamiliar to her, but it was soothing. She liked it.

"Have you been having nightmares too?" Her voice was muffled against his chest.

"Sometimes. Deep breaths, okay?"

Webby nodded against his chest, swallowing back the lump in her throat as he resumed his song. She tried to focus on her breathing; four in, hold seven, eight out. Gradually, she started to calm down to the point she was no longer in hysterics. Still, she maintained a firm grip of his feathers, afraid they would dissolve from her touch at any moment.

"It…it still feels like I'm there…."

Dewey hummed in acknowledgement, his fingers combing through her hair soothingly as she relaxed in his arms. "Look around, Webs. Tell me what you see."

Timidly, she turned her head to do as he asked.

"The...the beach," she sniffed, looking around the dwelling. "There's those columns on the stage. The sky's really pretty..." Her eyes flitted from the stage to the water, absorbing the familiar sights and sounds.

She took another deep breath, feeling the boards, cool against her feet. The salty sea air kissed her damp cheeks and tingled in her nostrils, reminding her where she was. Dewey asked her a few more questions about their surroundings, asking her to describe what she could hear and smell. Then, a few moments later, as if waking from a dream, she was back.

"How...how long was I out?"

"About five minutes. You were screaming bloody murder and scratching at that bracelet until I grabbed you—which probably wasn't the wisest idea, now that I think about it."

Webby winced, peeling her face from his shirt. She examined the claw marks around the bracelet. A few feathers were plucked from her wrist, nothing too painful or incriminating. Hopefully, Granny wouldn't notice and question her on it. She then looked at him, noticing the scratches on his face for the first time. Her mouth felt dry.

A soft "Oh," was all she could mutter.

"What was it this time?"

"Pu-purple," she croaked, the words caught in her throat.

Dewey blinked, then facepalmed as it hit him like a slap to the face. "Webs, I'm so sorry. I forgot." He internally kicked himself, remembering the girl's last meltdown when she saw Beakley, her grandmother, adorned in the dreadful colour. How could he possibly forget that it upset her? She had to change her wardrobe because of it.

He sighed as she wept into her hands, skewered by the hot stinging needles of guilt. "We should head back to the mansion. If we leave now, we can catch the next bus."

Webby feebly shook her head defiantly. "Need…need air," she gasped out.

"Okay, but just for a little longer. Mrs. B will kill me if I have you out past curfew." He sat them both down on the stage. She was quiet beside him, rocking and clinging to her sweater like a security blanket, a glazed faraway look in her eyes.

Dewey eyed her warily, moved to touch her but then hesitated, debating whether he should follow through on it or not. He didn't want to spook her and make it worse. Webby fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, deciding to break the silence.

"Sorry about your face," she mumbled in a subdued voice. Dewey wouldn't have heard had he not been sitting next to her. Instinctively, he raised a hand to his cheek, staring at the red beads dotting his fingertips. He cringed, wiping it off on his shirt.

"I think I deserve it."

"It felt so real, like…like I was there again."

"It's okay, Webs," he tried to console her, placing his hand over hers. She flinched at the contact but didn't pull away.

She tried to steady her shaking hands. "I keep seeing it happen, like a never-ending movie. I can't get it out of my head. If Lena wasn't real…how did she come back? Why rebel against her master? It doesn't make sense, I don't understand." She carded her fingers through her hair.

"If only I could talk to her again. Wait..." she trailed off, looking up as an idea dawned on her. "Her journal!"

"What?"

"I have to go back down there." She moved to stand but was stopped by Dewey's hand grabbing her wrist.

"You can't! What if you see something that upsets you again?"

"I have to know." She tugged her arm out of his grasp.

"Then at least wait until next time when you're-" The words died on his tongue as her gaze hardened. He froze in place.

"What?" she glared, a fire ignited in her furious eyes. "Not sickened with grief? I'm not made of porcelain, so I'd appreciate if you didn't treat me like I was."

"I know. Believe me, no one knows that more than I do. Webs, you're the strongest person I know. But, you're not invincible. You just lost your friend. It's okay to be vulnerable, it doesn't make you any less of a warrior in my eyes."

Her face softened as the weight of his words set in and she crumbled, her face contorting in anguish. Hot, angry tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. Dewey quickly wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a comforting hug. Webby fell back into his embrace.

"It's not fair!" She cried. "Lena should've had someone to care about her. You guys should have your mom- "

"Should've, would've, could've." Dewey waved it off nonchalantly. He cracked a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's no use dwelling on the what-ifs, what's that gonna do?"

The duckling in the sweater sniffed in response. He decided to change tactics. "Tell ya what, how about I get the journal for you? It obviously means a lot to you."

She hiccupped and nodded in agreement with his plan.

"Just stay here, I'll be right back."

It took her a moment for the request to register. She quickly relinquished him from her tight hold, huddling her knees to her chest as a substitute.

"Deep breaths," Dewey reminded her as he departed. She listened to his fading footfalls until she could no longer hear him, only the creaking of a pushed board as it was shoved aside with a noncommittal grunt.

Webby steered her attention back to the sky. Soft strokes of pink, orange, and yellow dominated the skyline, the golden rays of the sun touching down upon the water.

Webby's chest tightened. Pink...Lena's hair was pink, as was the nickname she had given her when they first met here. Lena liked sunsets, she thought sadly as she recalled an old memory of the two sitting side by side, eyes admiring the sky as they basked in the warmth of the fading sun, content smiles on their faces.

She dug into the pocket of Lena's sweater for her phone. The blank screen came to life, an image of the two ducks flashing across it. It was a selfie taken at one of their sleepovers, made apparent by the camera angle. Lena was pulling down her eyelid, sticking out her tongue as she shot a goofy smile at the camera. Her arm was supporting Webby and reaching past the screen to hold her phone steady. The younger duckling had positioned two fingers above the pink-haired girl's head. Her other hand pulled down the corner of her mouth into a silly face just like the older girl beside her.

A tear landed on the screen, splattering across their faces. What was once a fond reminder of their everlasting friendship was now just a bitter notification of everything she lost. Webby rubbed her face in her sleeve, feeling the remainder of dried tears stained into her cheeks. She unlocked the screen with fumbling fingers and pulled up her gallery. The duckling thumbed through photos they had taken together, mainly selfies. She was so swept up in her stewing that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps as Dewey returned, journal in hand. Only when his shadow fell over her did she lookup.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He looked apprehensive, rubbing the nape of his neck as he stared down at the book in his hand with growing uncertainty. "It's not gonna be pretty."

She nodded eagerly, setting her phone aside. "More than anything in my life," she affirmed, taking the journal from him.

Dewey knelt beside her as she flipped through the book. Just as she anticipated, Lena had chronicled her daily life during her fifteen years in waiting. Dewey waited patiently as she skimmed over the entries, absorbing the information drafted across the weather-torn pages.

"What's it say?"

Webby squinted, brows furrowing in concentration.

"What?!" he leaned over her shoulder, trying to sneak a peek. Webby held the book out of his grasp.

"I'm not letting you read it."

"Why not?!" He groaned in exasperation, reaching for the journal. "It's not like it matters now."

"Because these are her inner deepest thoughts," Webby hissed in return. She stood, holding the book over her head as she continued to read. Dewey rose up on the tips of his webbed feet to counter her height, trying to nab it as she deftly dodged his advances.

"Then why do you get to read it?"

"Because I'm her best friend." She stuck her tongue out at him, shoving her foot into his abdomen. He toppled back, landing on his rear with a pained grunt, palms stinging from the impact.

"Ugh, fine. Just tell me what's in the dumb thing," he relented, folding his arms over his chest crossly. "Should've just read it when I was down there," he grumbled to himself as an afterthought.

Webby smirked, satisfied. As she settled back into her reading, the smugness of her smile faded.

"Well?" Dewey looked at her expectantly.

"Lena wanted to be free from Magica's influence. She felt guilty about lying to us and taking advantage of our hospitality. I knew it! I knew that witch was wrong. Take that, voice in my head!" she cheered triumphantly. "She was real!"

Dewey looked at her like she had gone insane, this thought only solidified as she latched onto his shoulders and shook him fervently, shouting in his face.

"She was real, Dew!"

"Okay, okay! I heard you the first time," he yelped. "Stop shaking me like a snow globe."

"I can't believe I actually believed Magica's lies. I let her poison my memories and sour Lena's good name, and in doing so I gave her exactly what she wanted!" She babbled animatedly, holding Dewey in a vice-like grip. The duckling grabbed her wrists to pry her off him.

"I never should've doubted her. Sorry, best friend." She smiled down at her bracelet as if Lena herself were residing within the braided strands of wool.

"Webby, my shoulder," Dewey winced as her grip tightened, fingers digging painfully into his feathers.

"Oh, sorry." She immediately drew back. He massaged his shoulder with a groan.

"Glad you're feeling better."

Her cheeks darkened at the comment, and so she twirled a strand of her hair around her finger with a bashful smile.

"Thanks, Dewey…for everything."

"It's the least I could do after you helped me with the Della case," he smiled in return, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. The pair stared at their feet, trying to hide the blush spreading across their faces. Webby pivoted her foot around in a circle, hands held behind her. Dewey continued to rub his shoulder, unsure what to do next.

"Are…are you gonna be okay?"

She looked up and nodded, a small smile shaping her face.

"I'm sorry again about the whole Darkwing Duck thing."

"It's okay, you didn't know."

"I just really wanted to help."

"It's not your fault. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn't for such a stupid reason," she groaned into her hands.

"It's not stupid," Dewey said sternly, surprising her. "We've both been through a lot over the past few weeks. I still get spooked by my own shadow, and…. between the two of us, that money shark kinda messed me up."

Webby stared at him, wordlessly urging him to continue.

"I know it sounds silly, but falling into the jaws of that shark was the scariest thing I've ever experienced. I actually thought that…" He choked on his words and closed his eyes, a pained look on his face. Webby laid a reassuring hand on his knee, prompting him to finish. "That…I was going to die."

"Oh, Dewey…"

"And even now, whenever I'm up somewhere really high, all I can see is myself falling back into that shark's mouth."

He quickly composed himself, taking her hands in his and gave them an encouraging squeeze. "Purple is not a good colour, and it's okay to be bothered by it. We'll make sure you don't have to see it anymore."

Webby snorted at the proposal. "Are you gonna be the colour police?"

"If that's what it takes," he winked.

She shoved his shoulder, unable to keep the smile off her face.

"Hey, I mean it. Just say the word."

"That's not necessary, but thanks."

"At least I got you to smile, I'd call that a victory," he grinned. "Extra brownie points for making you laugh."

She looked down at Lena's journal, her smile withering. She hugged it close, feeling morose again.

"I wish things could've been different, I wish you were still here," she whispered to the book, her eyes growing misty again. The duckling thought she had exhausted all her tears by now.

"She'll always be with you."

It was a tired phrase, as corny and cliché as they come, but Webby clung to it. If you remember someone, you never really lose them, right? That's what they said in the movies. Magica hadn't removed Lena's entire presence. They still remembered her and who she was, even if it hurt more than forgetting the pink-haired teen.

Dewey remembered the nights he had spent cuddling Della's scarf hoping and wishing on every star for his mother to come back— just as Webby did now. He racked his brain for an idea. There had to be something else that would console the inconsolable. Then it hit him.

Webby was stirred from her lamentations as Dewey took her phone and shut the music off.

"I was listening to that."

"Sorry, Webs. Evanescence just isn't your style—none of these songs are. They're too dreadfully depressing and bad for morale. Here, let DJ Daft Duck enlighten you." He pulled up his own personal playlist, an annoyingly upbeat song breaching the short period of silence between them.

Webby shot him a dirty look. "Not fair, you know that song's my favourite."

"Sometimes you gotta play dirty," he remarked with a Cheshire cat grin as he started to dance along.

"C'mon, I know you like to sing into your hairbrush while dancing to this song."

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "I'm brooding like a normal kid," she huffed, arms folded crossly.

"We're past brooding now. C'mon, dance with me." The blue duckling pranced around her, shimmying along to the rhythm as he strutted his stuff.

"I'm ignoring you," she replied curtly.

"You know you wanna," he sing-songed, hips swaying and foot tapping.

She bit the bottom of her beak, trying to quell the urge to join him as he tugged at her sweater sleeve. She rolled her eyes and tried to brush him off, but the beat was infectious and Dewey's ridiculous moves just couldn't be ignored. The corner of her beak twitched and a bubble of laughter escaped her. She slapped her hands over her mouth, but Dewey had heard it. With a triumphant smirk, he started lip-synching; using his hand as a makeshift microphone.

"Heyyyyyyy, I just met you and this is craaaaaaaaaazy. But here's my number, so call me maybe!"

Webby squirmed, cracks forming in her composure. It was growing increasingly harder to maintain her stoicism. Her defences were crumbling with each side step and shuffle until she was on the ground holding her sides and guffawing loudly, tears springing to her eyes.

"Oh gosh, stop, stop. My sides."

"What? I'm just Deweying what I was born to Dew!" The blue duckling shredded his non-existent guitar, headbanging to the beat.

Webby had to muffle her hysterical laughter as she sucked in a breath and tried to steady herself.

"Okay, okay. Enough."

"What's that? Can't hear you over my amazing dance skills! Aaaaaaand JAZZ HANDS!" The final beat rang out, signalling the song had come to an end. "Cue the applause! Thank you, thank you!" He bowed dramatically to the imaginary audience. Webby decided to bite and clapped for him.

The next song started shortly after, a much slower melody. Dewey smiled and offered her his hand.

"May I have this dance?"

"Oh no, I can't dance—especially with another person." She twiddled her fingers uneasily.

"It's kinda like fighting, except you're not trying to knock out your opponent—and your opponent is actually your partner. You just have to keep up with them."

She stared at his hand for a moment, then set the journal aside, hesitantly taking it and letting him carry her to the center of the stage. He instructed her where to put her hands and guided her into the dance.

"Just follow my lead and try not to step on my feet."

Webby took in a deep breath and nodded, her hands positioned on his shoulders. They glided over the stage, swaying gently to the soothing dulcet tone of the singers' voices. She kept her head down, watching her feet for errors and trying to match his pace.

"Watch me, not your feet."

"O-okay. Am I doing it right?"

"You might be better than me."

Her cheeks burned at the compliment. "I doubt that, but thanks."

"This is nice," she smiled at him.

"Sorry the song's so cheesy, it's from one of my favourite musicals."

"I like it."

"You like every song you hear,"

"Mm, they're all great when all you've been reared up on is Scottish music."

"Ew, no thanks." The two laughed at his remark.

"Thanks again for cheering me up."

"Hey, you'd do the same for me. I'm glad I could get your mind off it, even if only for a little while." Gently, he twirled her, gracefully bringing her back into his arms. Webby giggled gleefully, her eyes twinkling. They continued their dance as the sun descended below the horizon; the soft creamy colours of the sky transitioning into a dark inky star peppered canvas.

She looked up and gasped. "Didn't realize how late it was."

"We're so gonna be grounded," Dewey realized with a frown.

"Granny's gonna KILL me! She's probably already frantic looking for me."

"And Uncle Donald's gonna have an aneurysm when he realizes I'm not back yet."

They exchanged nervous glances, both sharing the same apprehension about what awaited them once they returned to the mansion. Webby bit her bottom beak.

"I think I'm ready to go back now."

"Right behind you, Webs. But, let's finish our dance first." An impish smile curled across his face. "We're already in trouble. What're a few more minutes?"

The doors of the city bus peeled back, revealing the disgruntled driver at the wheel. Her eyes narrowed at the two ducklings standing before her; the same ducklings she had forcibly removed due to the disruption they had caused months prior. Webby gave a nervous grin and waved to her. The driver pointedly directed their attention to the photo posted above of the four children, dark bold text reading "DO NOT LET ON THE BUS!"

So much for forgive and forget. Fortunately, Dewey had anticipated this. He was already searching his pocket for the bribe money. He suavely handed her the $20. The driver snatched the bribe with a huff and barked at them to take their seats. Her eyes followed them as they scurried up the stairs and rushed to claim the first available seat.

Dewey took the spot beside the window, Webby sliding in next to him. He watched her carefully to ensure there wouldn't be a repeat of last time. He did not want to walk halfway across the city in the dark, even if Webby was with him. She seemed much tamer than when they took her out and she got her first taste of city life. She sat quietly, swinging her feet, engrossed in the book she was reading. Her overzealous enthusiasm noticeably subdued.

Dewey caught the driver's glare from the front mirror and turned to the window. He counted the passing lamp posts, his head propped up on his hand. He could feel himself starting to nod off to the classic rock playing over the radio. It was well past his curfew and he could feel the fatigue starting to settle in. He held back a yawn, watching the streets through half-lidded eyes. Nurturing a broken spirit was exhausting, and he was spent. The duckling longed for the warm confines of his bed and his fuzzy pyjamas.

He leaned against the window, pressing his forehead to the glass. His brothers and uncle Donald were probably still up waiting for him. He texted Louie, who only confirmed his fears about their uncle. He winced at the thought of Donald red-faced and screaming at him in rage. Huey would poke and prod too until he finally caved and spilled everything.

Simply put, it was gonna be hell.

Webby's head rested against his shoulder, bringing his gloomy thoughts to a grinding halt. Startled, his gaze averted from the window to his best friend, finding her slumped against him, out like a light. Webby's eyes were closed, a content smile on her face. Her small form was curled tightly around Lena's journal, holding it protectively as she mumbled nonsensical words about sword horses in her sleep.

She looked so peaceful that Dewey's heart throbbed. They had all suffered from the ordeal, but no one had suffered more than she had. To the sheltered girl, losing Lena was like losing a part of herself. Sure, she masked her pain behind fake smiles and a sunny disposition, but Dewey saw through it all. She wore her heart on her sleeve, he could read her like a book. It hurt to see her so unlike herself. He'd take hyperactive Webby over depressed Webby any day.

She couldn't face Beakley's wrath alone. He decided then that whatever the verdict, he would be there with her. They would face the consequences together, even if the housekeeper chewed him out in the process- which was highly likely. He was deathly afraid of that woman, Beakley put the fear in everyone. Still, he would endure it all for her.

Dewey was about to turn back to the window when he thought he saw something shift from the corner of his eye. He looked back and did an immediate double-take, his bill falling open as he stared at Webby's shadow. It was no longer her shadow; the silhouette had morphed into a different shape, with wayward feathers sticking from its head and a distinctive fringe of hair.

The duckling blinked, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. Another quick glance and the shadow had returned to its normal form. Dewey shook his head, dismissing the thought as he went back to watching the world behind the glass. It may have been a trick of the light, but for a fleeting moment, he could've sworn he saw something in her shadow. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought.

"So, what do you wager the punishment will be?"

Webby thought for a moment. "I've never snuck out on my own before. There was that one time when I was five, but I never got past the stairs. Granny's gonna be pretty mad…"

"So, grounded for a week?" Dewey suggested helpfully.

"If they go easy on us. I don't know what your uncle is gonna do," she added. Dewey frowned, knowing Donald's overprotective nature he wouldn't get out of this with just a slap on the wrist. Webby grabbed his hand and squeezed it for moral support. He sighed, breathing in his last minutes of freedom as they continued past the iron bar gates and up the path to McDuck manor.

Beakley greeted them as soon as they reached the door, her expression stern and composed. Yet, they could see the fury burning behind her rimmed specs as she herded them into the living room for Donald's hour-long lecture. Louie and Huey were also there, chiming in every minute or so as the duck ranted and raved that he had been mad with worry, angry spittle pelting both Dewey and Webby's feathers.

In the end, the sentence was a week without adventuring and restricted access to their phones, emergencies being the only exception. At least he had a PVR full of Ottoman Empire episodes to entertain him, and Webby had her books and research. Still, it sucked. Scrooge's announcement about the trip to the Amazon was added salt in the wound, but at least they could suffer through their punishment together.

After changing into her pyjamas, Webby decided to pay her fellow jailbird a visit before bed. She found him with the sphere Selene had given him during their trip to Ethaquack. He was swiping through the photos with a wistful smile, his face illuminated by the blue glow emitting from the spherical artifact. She gently knocked on the door frame, getting his attention.

"Sorry to interrupt and uh, getting you in trouble." She rubbed her arm nervously, not quite meeting his eye.

"There will be other adventures," Dewey scoffed, waving it off as he tentatively set the glowing orb aside.

"I guess so." She lingered in the doorway, her fingers playing with the bottom of her nightgown.

"Do you wanna come in?"

"Oh no, I shouldn't bother you. You're probably tired and I should go myself," she chuckled nervously, her cheeks ablaze.

"I was tired, but now I can't sleep. My brothers are downstairs watching a movie with Uncle Donald, but I managed to snag Huey's phone."

"Dewey," she admonished him with a frown.

"What?" he laughed. "Uncle Donald said I couldn't use my phone, he didn't say I couldn't use someone else's. A loophole." He tapped his bill with a sharp wink.

Webby rolled her eyes.

"I was gonna watch some Ottoman Empire, but I wouldn't mind some company." He patted the spot beside him on the bed. She eagerly crawled in beside him, her reservations forgotten.

"Oooh, is that the show where they make ottomans for snobbish rich people?"

"Yeah, it's a riot."