A/N: Just some one-shots I have, extrapolating the back-story for the unfamous Disney owned Darkwing Duck and Megavolt characters. Because I'm bad at cryptics, I have decided to post this. Hopefully you will get the idea.

Too Dangerous

"Whoa ... my mama told me not to become a m-musician." The back door to the paddy wagon slammed shut on The King and his gang.

"And so, with the villainous vocalist and his lyrical lackeys safely locked up, the fearless Darkwing Drakey can at last breathe easily."

"Well ... nice work son. Funny clothes though..."

"No-oh, I didn't do so much. It was Darkwing Duck who ..." He looked around. "Hey, where'd he go?"

"Who?" The officer asked. "There's just you and us here." The cop looked at Drakey like he had drunk too much red cordial.

"No, there was a Duck in a cape ..." The cop shook his head. Maybe Drakey had been imagining things?
"Son ... how about I drive you home?"
"That'd be good, thanks." Drakey took his inside out hat off his head and undid the shirt he'd tied around his neck.
"Oh, now I recognise you." The cop smiled at him. "You're Drake Mallard's son, aren't you?"

Drakey looked up at him in astonishment. "Y-you knew my father?"
The cop opened the passenger side door. "Sure did." Drakey buckled himself in as the cop went around and got into the driver's seat. "How's your mum been holding up?"
Drakey held tightly onto his comic book. "Don't tell mum about Lamont and the others."

"Well, if she asks where've you been, what're you going to tell her?"
"I ..." Drakey considered this question as they drove along the quiet evening roads. "She won't ask."

"I think you'll be surprised, son."

The cop pulled up to the curb. "You alright, son, you got a key?"
"Yes, thank you." He got out of the car and turned.

The Mallard residence was upper middle class. A gardener came to tend the gardens once a month. Rose bushes hung on trellises along the pathway as he passed beneath them. The house had a double garage without a car, a large porch without any stray leaves or cobwebs. The house had an attic and a basement and three stories in between. This suburban reality was so different from where he had just been.

He put his key into the lock and opened the door. That strange, empowering encounter with Darkwing Duck faded to a dream.

He stepped inside. The entrance hall was large and half a dozen doorways branched off it. There was a hall stand with a fancy hat, a vase of fresh flowers, and a bust of Beethoven. Large paintings of Central Park and a lofty, panoramic view of St Canard hung, filling the walls on either side with colour and grandness. There was a picture missing, however. It was the family photo that had had his dad in it, and it had gone missing shortly after he died.

"Mum?" He looked in and out of each of the rooms, and then looked up the central staircase. "Mum?" He called up. He hurried up the stairs and stopped on the middle landing when he heard her voice.

"Drakey?" She called from below. "I'm in the kitchen." He raced back down.
"Mum?" He looked around; something wasn't right.
"Oh, Drakey, where have you been?" She opened the oven. "I've been so worried about ..."
"No, mum!" He rushed to her side as she reached into the oven. She jumped back with a yelp. He pulled her over to the sink. "You forgot the mitts, mum." He ran the cold water over her hands.

The room filled quickly with the smoke and his mother opened the window over the sink.
"Oh, dear." She sobbed, cradling her fingers, coughing. "I've overcooked it. I haven't been concentrating lately."
"No, leave your hands under the water!" He insisted because she wasn't concentrating. "Did you remember to put the timer on, mum?"
"No."

"I'm sorry I was late home." Drakey dragged the small step ladder across from the corner of the spacious room. Getting up on it, he reached into the freezer for an icepack. He came back down and took the tea towel hanging on the oven handle. He wrapped the pack up and handed it to her.

Then he looked at the oven. It was a very dangerous thing. But it wasn't too dangerous for this Drakey Mallard. Not anymore. Drakey got the mitts that were hanging up and struggling, pulled the heavy roast out of the oven. He put the roast on the sink.

He looked in the oven again for another tray but there wasn't one and he closed it. He did another check of the hotplates. At this moment he noticed the oven was still on and quickly turned it off.

He turned back to his mum. "No ... no vegetables?" He asked very troubled. How could she possibly forget that part? Sure; his memory was bad too, but not even the vegetables?

"Oh, I knew I was forgetting something! I'm so sorry, Drakey."

He froze as a fresh set of tears formed in her eyes.

"Don't cry ... its okay, mum, we ..." He thought up a solution to this new problem. "We can have sandwiches." He did a mental check and that plan would work. "Yeah."
She smiled at him in wordless relief.

He smiled weakly back. "I'm sorry, mum. I promise to be more careful and not to stay out so late again." Then he peered at her hands. "You've gotten burnt, mum. I'll get the first aid kit. You go to the sitting room." He followed her out of the room, making sure she didn't stay in the disaster zone without him.

Drakey went into the study. This room was the most amazing place in the whole house. It was a whole world unto itself. The carpet was thick and colourful, thick heavyset bookshelves banked the walls. Generations of Mallards had collected these books and filled these shelves with their curiosity and interest ... including his dad.

Drakey pulled the first aid kit from out of the bottom drawer of the ancient wooden desk that stood darkly in the middle of the room.

He lugged the heavy first aid kit through the adjacent door into the sitting room. The grand piano took up a quarter of the room and stood near the blue chenille curtained windows. Lamp stands framed them, and cast their light onto yet more paintings of St Canard. One was a Jazz club scene; another was a ballet in session at the opera house. The King of Rock, live at the St Canard Ritz. Plush chairs, a record machine cupboard, a fireplace and a coffee table made up the rest of the furniture.

"That's your father's kit." His mother eyed it tearily as he sat it down on the coffee table. "He got burnt sometimes too." Her train wrecked emotions sounded in her exhausted voice as Drakey organised the things he needed from the kit. "I miss him so much." Drakey blinked back tears for his mother. He couldn't cry anymore, this was it. He had to move on with his life.

Drakey concentrated on putting cream on the burns and making the assessment that it wasn't too bad that they needed to go to the hospital. He wrapped her hands up in cotton. It was good doing something practical.
"Look, mum." He hesitated. What a scary idea, but he took his courage into his hands. He knew he could do it. "From now on, let me cook."
"No, no! You're only seven years old."

"Mum, you're not well. You can't think of so many things when you're not well. You need to rest instead."
"Oh! My little boy's growing up so quickly. Give me a hug, sweetie." He sat down next to her, hugging her. "Where did you get all this courage of a sudden?"
"I guess ... I-I had a dream." He scratched his head. "I don't remember it much anymore. It was really good though." He struggled, but too many things had happened since then, and the entire memory had gone.

His mother sighed. "I can't cut up the roast with my hands like this. Gosh it stings." He looked down at her hands. She was cradling the ice pack in her cottoned fingers.
That meant only one thing. He took a breath. Even if she hadn't burnt herself, a knife in her hand was still a bad idea when she couldn't concentrate. "I'll do it, mum." He stood up and went into the kitchen.

Drakey opened the knife drawer, trembling with his nerves. "Mum needs me to look after her." He looked at all the sharp pointed ends. "Let's g-get d-dangerous."

A few minutes later and he'd safely cut the roast up. He was emptying the fridge of things to put into sandwiches and piling them on the breakfast table.
"I'm very proud of you, Drakey." He beamed up at his mother. "You remind me so much of your father." His smile faded.

"I'm not like him!" Drakey quacked. "I'm careful."

"Oh, sweetheart, don't you know? Your father was always careful." She sighed and reached for the butter knife. He pushed her hands away and got up onto a chair. He made her sandwich for her. "Your father was a very clever man."
Drakey put down the butter knife. "Then why isn't he still alive?" He said, tears in his eyes. "You can't be clever and careful and then still die like he did."

"Yes, you can; because nobody's perfect sweetie. You can't think of everything all the time. Nobody can."
He grabbed the knife again. "Then I'll just fill my head with only the important stuff." He completed the sandwich with a spread of mayonnaise, cut it up into corners and slid the plate in her direction.

She blinked back more tears. "I'll never know why." She said quietly. "I just know how empty my life is now he's gone."
"Dad thought it was the right thing to do." Drakey said with conviction.
His mother sighed. "It doesn't matter anymore. Let's not argue about it. He's dead."

"It matters to me." He mumbled as he made his own sandwich. "It matters to you."
"What your father did for a living was very dangerous, Drakey."
"You've told me that before, mum." Constantly, in fact.
She carefully picked up a sandwich corner. "And it finally caught up with him." Tears filled her eyes again and she took a mouthful. She swallowed. "Maybe he just didn't remember us."

Drakey felt sick. Also, the meat was too dry from the overcooking. After all that effort to save the roast and make the sandwich, he pushed his plate away. "Dad remembered everything." Drakey wrote the story as he sat there at the table with his mother. "Somebody's family needed help. If people needed my help, I'd want to help them too. Only he could help them, and that's why he went in. He had to try."

"That doesn't make it right!" She said snapping suddenly. "You should always do the right thing first."

"Yeah, but we weren't in danger." He slid off his chair and put the rest of his sandwich into the disposal.
"What's the matter, sweetie?"
"I'm not hungry." He yawned.
"Bed time then."
He nodded. "Be careful, mum. Goodnight." He kissed her cheek. "Love you."
"You too, sweetie." He turned and headed out of the kitchen. "Wait, don't you want me to ..." She hooked her bandaged hands around the icepack as he spun around on the spot.

"What, mum?"
"Check your closet before you turn off the light?" The feathers on the back of Drakey's neck prickled with the seriousness in his mother's voice. "And make sure your windows are locked. Check under the bed too?"
"I'll do it, mum. I'm alright. You won't be able to with your hands like that."
"Do you know where the broom is?"
"Yes; it's leaning against the landing banister. I'll check your room for you too, and then we can both go to bed safely."

His mother sighed, relief filled her face. "Thank you, sweetie."