Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!

Title: Assimilation

Summary: Webby may be hesitant about the whole 'new family' thing, but no one else shares her reservations.

...

It doesn't occur to Webby that things have changed until she calls Mr. Duck Uncle Donald for the first time.

She hardly remembers doing it. She hardly remembers that whole day. One misplaced step near a rock monster and Webby's lucky she doesn't have any worse damage than she does, even with her throbbing head.

"Thanks, Uncle Donald," she slurs gratefully as he wraps a cut on her arm. Concussed Webby at least has the decency to be embarrassed about it, blushing from her feet to her ears. "Aw, shoot. 'M so sorry, Mr. Duck. The boys-" she pitches forward, almost falling off the table- "They call you Uncle Donald. 'Cause you're their Uncle. I really am sorry, Mr. Uncle."

"It's fine," he says, looking like he's trying very hard not to laugh, and they don't bring it up again. That may or may not correlate with her throwing up right after.

(Donald is her childhood, in a way. He's her hero. Webby still wants to be like him when she grows up- ready for anything, willing to go the extra mile for family. It's not easy to move past that childish fancy and see him as a person. It's even harder to call him her Uncle, no matter how accidental- too informal, too personal.

Maybe he prefers it that way, but she doesn't.)

Webby is wise to most card games, though her interest in them is minimal, and it's a long flight home. Playing most anything that requires a flat surface in a plane Launchpad McQuack is flying is a gamble all on its own, but Louie and Webby make do.

She's too excited to sleep, and she's under the impression that Louie didn't like sleeping so soon after a near-death experience. Dewey and Huey share none of his reluctance, snoring quite loudly, limbs tangled together like un-buttered spaghetti noodles.

A quiet chime goes off on Louie's phone, which he pulls out of his pocket, promptly turning it off. "Well, it's midnight."

"You set an alarm for midnight?" she asks, face buried in her hand. Webby wonders, not for the first time, why Louie always seems to have a deck on him. "What for?"

In the time it takes for her to blink Louie is awkwardly draped across the cheap pull-out table. Webby doesn't even startle. Her instincts recognized the smell of well-loved hoodie and Pep. It knows he's not a threat, even if he did want to hurt her. "Hey, what's that behind your ear?"

"What?"

Louie pulls back with a smarmy grin and a decorative box that fits in the palm of his hand. "I do believe it's something for the lady of the hour."

Increasingly baffled, she tips it open, watching as copper oval after copper oval spills out over the deck, the clinking too loud for the quiet of the plane. "Are these-"

"Pennies stamped with every place we've been to so far?" His voice oozes pride. "Why yes, yes they are."

Webby holds one up. It's Mount Neverrest, complete with George Mallardy and Scrooge on it, the latter in his typical ninny depiction. "Wow. This is exactly the kind of knick-knacky stuff I love!"

"I thought it might be. I keep my people satisfied." Louie has the audacity to wink. "Happy birthday, Webs."

"It's my birthday?" Webby whispers with no small amount of awe. She hadn't even noticed the date. She hopped off her seat, cards forgotten entirely, and went around to give him a hug, unintentionally getting him by the throat. "Thank you so much!"

Louie gurgles a you're welcome.

"What's going on back there?" Launchpad calls, effectively breaking into the moment.

Louie waves his arms like a drowning sailor seeking land. "Webby's ensnared me in a hug trap! LP, you gotta help me! Cuddles are imminent!"

Launchpad nods soulfully. "I'm sure, whatever happened, you totally deserve that hug trap, bro."

(Louie's fun. They mesh well together. And, sure, they often disagree on things- like that dangerous situations are never a good time to make a quick buck- but it never feels completely serious, even then.

At the end of the day, she can curl up near the pool with Louie and not feel like she has to make excuses for it. Webby appreciates that.)

Webby and Dewey dangle their legs off what is undeniably the highest ledge they've ever dangled off of, their snowsuits firmly zipped up, munching on oatmeal.

Dewey is telling her a story between bites. His is cinnamon flavored. "So we're this close to getting beat up, right, when suddenly Louie pushes between us and holds his hand out. Smith is like 'what is that for?' and- I swear to duck, Webby- Louie looks him in the eye and says, 'it's our cut. If you hurt us, you pay for the band-aids. That's a fair bargain, don't you think?'"

Webby snorts inelegantly, a spoonful of apple oatmeal half-raised to her lips. "That's so like him."

"Smith's trying to be extra tough, right, and is like 'how about I take your hand clean-off instead?' and Louie shrugs and says 'that'll cost you extra. The black market ain't buying those puppies cheap.'"

"Holy crap."

"I know, right?" Dewey spares her an extra smile. "Huey's freaking out at this point. He's doesn't want anyone to fight, and Louie is doing the completely opposite of help. I'm doing the Uncle Donald thing-"

"Which Uncle Donald thing?" she asks before she can stop herself. A familiar pulse of mortification rushes over her. "I mean- Mr. Duck does a lot of things."

"That one thing- where he hops on one foot and puts up his dukes?"

Webby's eyes lit up. "Ooh, that thing!"

"Yeah," he agrees. "I'm doing that thing. Smith goes to grab Louie, but I rush 'em. I was planning on high-kicking his face, but I'm a shrimp, so it didn't quite work out." Dewey triumphantly swallows a bite of food. "And that's how I learned to kick someone between the legs when they mess with you."

She politely clapped. "That was way more interesting than just kicking a dummy over and over again until it became natural."

"It mean, it was basically the same thing, so..." Dewey's beak wrinkles. "Webby?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate oatmeal."

"So do I," she admits.

"Then why are we eating it?"

Webby shrugs. "It was all the thug had on him."

"Oh, right." Dewey turns to the thug in question, currently tied up behind them. "Seriously, dude. You could've brought tastier snacks."

The creature let out a pitiful groan.

"Haha, yeah. That's exactly what Smith said."

(Dewey is the only one her age that can keep up with her, and it's hard not to enjoy his company. Webby likes having someone willing to jump off roofs and fight vengeful chupacabras with her.

With Louie, Webby feels she can relax and do nothing. With Dewey, she feels like she can do anything, provided she has the proper boo-boo care nearby.)

"So, what are the chances of this place caving in?" Huey asks as he tucks some moss together into a makeshift nest.

Webby ran her fingers down a wet wall, feeling how porous and crumbly it was. "Well..."

"Don't answer that."

She salutes and gets to work making her own bed. Nobody likes spending the night in a submerged, unstable cave, but you gotta do what you gotta do, and they couldn't keep walking forever. Webby knew that Mr. McDuck would find them sooner or later. How could he not, in a place this glaringly noticeable?

Huey flicks off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. Webby stifles a shudder and pulls her limbs in close. An adventurer has to be ready for anything, she tells herself. Even sleeping in horrible, dangerous places like this.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

Huey breaks the silence. "I hope Uncle Donald doesn't know what's going on. He'll be worried sick."

"I hope so too," she replies. "Uncle Donald is so nice..." Again? Really? Webby covered her face with her hands, groaning. "Mr. Duck is so nice. I'd hate to worry him."

The oldest triplet rolls over so they're facing each other, despite it being too dark to see. "You've been doing that a lot lately."

"I'm sorry," Webby says. "I've just gotten so used to hearing it from you guys and-"

"Webby." Huey's voice is gentle. "I don't mind. Honest. None of us do."

"Really?"

He nodded. "We talked about it. And, well, you're family. If Uncle Donald is okay with it, he can be your Uncle too."

Webby plucked at the moss. It was a bad idea for her comfort, but the whole situation is uncomfortable already. "Is it really that easy?"

"Pretty much." Huey flipped over, satisfied. "It only took so long because Dewey and Louie suck at talking about stuff. Like. They suck lemons. Super sour lemons." A quiet chuckle echoed throughout the spongy terrain. "It's kind of what I'm here for."

(Everyone needs a Huey Duck in their lives. Webby is lucky she's got the original, temper and all. It's just a plus that he likes to adventure too.)

"What're yew waitin' fer?" Scrooge asks when Webby hangs back, trying to be respectful. "It's a library, lass, not a funeral."

Webby stumbles a bit to join him, awkward and uncertain. She can handle any adventure, but social stuff is never going to be easy. "Sorry, Mr. McDuck. I thought you said it was a family thing."

"I did." A firm hand settles on her shoulder. "Now, let's get in there 'fore Quackfaster gets a bug up her britches 'bout it."

She nods, smiling maybe just a little too big. "Yes, sir."

"None of that sir stuff, Webbigail," Scrooge scolds, though he can't look at her while he does it. He's just as awkward as her, really. "I jus' said yew were family."

"Yes-" she pauses- "Scrooge?"

"Better," he decides.

(Scrooge reminds her of the boys. Webby knows that it's the other way around, but Webby knew the boys before she knew Scrooge. She knew him as a concept; a shadow in her home. He ignored her, and she envied him, and that was it.

Now she sees Louie in his business-like attitude, Dewey in his thirst for adventure, and Huey in how he cares for them. She sees a lot of things in Scrooge. She wonders if he sees anything in her, or if Webby's just someone he brings along for the heavy lifting. If that's the case, she won't fight him on it. Webby loves adventures too much to even consider it.)

"Mr. Duck says it's okay to call him Uncle," Webby blurts out. "And-and Mr. McDuck says I'm family to him."

Beakley, halfway through pouring a cup of tea, finishes before answering. "Okay."

"Is it okay?" she insists, unsure. "Doesn't it feel a little informal?"

"It's not informal if it's their wishes, dear," the housekeeper replies, going to pour her own cup. "They're fine gentlemen. A bit scattered, but dependable."

Webby stares at her hands. "Yes, Granny."

"I know that tone," Beakley says as she sits down, scooching closer with a frown. "What's the matter, Webby?"

"Nothing," she reassures her, not knowing how to explain that she worries her grandmother will feel she was lacking before they all moved in. Sure, Webby was lonely, and awkward, but she didn't want to rub her nose in it. "I love you, Granny."

"I love you too, dear." She takes a sip. "Now, let's get this tea party underway, hmm?"

(No matter what, Webby will always feel the most at home around Beakley.)

Author's Note: Whelp, the first half of this I wrote at like four in the morning with no sleep under my belt. The second half came about with three hours. Thankfully, Sleepy Me is usually pretty decent with her writing, so enjoy this bit of Webby introspection.

-Mandaree1