Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!

Title: Scrooge McDuck Knits a Sweater

Summary: Dewey gets the flu bug and Scrooge gets the jealousy bug.

…

"I'm dying," moaned Dewey, startling Scrooge out of what had once been a decently peaceful slumber. The gentle rocking of the Sunchaser suddenly felt nauseating as he got to his spats, marching from the passenger seat up front to the ones in the back.

"What is it, laddie?" he pressed, a million or so memories of Della cropping up. "Wounded? Broken? Cursed?"

"He wishes," Louie scoffed. The youngest triplet's hoodie sleeve was being used as a tissue, much to his disgust. "Someone caught a cold."

Dewey swooned and fell onto Huey's shoulder. The oldest triplet was typing away at his cell phone; an odd change from the status quo, where Louie barely ever looked up from the thing. "This is it, guys. Tell that barista who remembered which triplet I was at Galaxybeaks I loved her."

"She spelled the name on your hot cocoa wrong."

"Tell that barista at Galaxybeaks that I will haunt her forever."

Scrooge was used to dealing with various horrible scenarios, but ducklings with stuffy noses weren't among them. He openly cringed as he set his hands on Dewey's shoulders. "Ye'll live, Dewey. Once we get back, I'll have 22 make yew a nice hot bowl of stew."

"No need," said Huey. "I just texted Uncle Donald. He'll take care of it."

Dewey cracked open an eyelid. "I'm gonna live?"

"If he doesn't smother you for being a drama queen." Louie rolled his eyes. "Big baby."

Scrooge knew not to feel hurt by that. At least, he thought he did. The old duck found himself drawing away with a scowl, turning his back on the kids. They were living with a professional adventurer and a spy capable of killing a man in more ways than there were bones in the body- what did Donald have on all that?

Fingers wrapped in the edge of his coat, stopping him from walking away. "Uncle Scrooge?"

"It's nothin', Webbigail," he answered without pause. "My knees're acting up again, is all. I gotta sit down."

It wasn't a rare occurrence that Donald was waiting for them when they landed, if said landing was scheduled beforehand. Some adventures ended earlier than expected, and some ran late, and a few between were on time. He usually had a hug and a stern word about safety waiting for the boys and Webby, as well as a stiff handshake for Scrooge, as Scrooge preferred to keep their interactions a bit more professional.

It was much more surprising to Scrooge to see Dewey stumbling off the landing pad, wailing for him. Donald calmly scooped the boy up, putting them at eye level as he blubbered, "I got siiiiiicccccckkkkkkkk."

"He got sick," Louie echoed. "In the mountains. Who would've thought."

Donald raised an eyebrow. "Did you remember to wear your warm clothes?"

"I did!"

"And a sweater?"

Dewey clamped his jaw shut. He shook his head.

Donald let out little quack-filled tsking noises. "You gotta wear the sweater under the warm clothes, buddy. Mountain weather is brutal." He ruffled the boy's feathers. "I just put the finishing touches on my chicken soup. That'll make you all better."

"Chicken soup is gross," Dewey grumped, pouting. "And also kind of weird."

"If you grandmother heard you say that, she'd smack you from here to kingdom-come." Donald looked up. "Right, Scrooge?"

Scrooge flinched, not expecting the duck to notice him. "Aye, Hortense was like that," he said, not particularly convincingly. "I'll... just go inside."

"Sounds good," Donald said, turning and waddling away. The children followed, leaving Scrooge alone and a bit chilly on his own front steps.

"Dewey?" Scrooge poked his head into the main library, finding Huey reading and Louie fiddling with his phone and Webby doing something rather heinous to her least favorite teddy bear. "Huh. No Dewey."

Louie didn't look up, even when the ripping noises got loud and stuffing-filled. "He's with Uncle Donald."

"He went crawling back to 'em?"

"That implies he ever left."

"'S been three days!"

"Flu bugs take a while, Uncle Scrooge," Huey reminded him patiently, flipping to the next page. "He'll be up and running before you know it. His fever broke the other day."

"Ah," said Scrooge, holding tight to his cane. "I don't suppose that means... he's up for visitors?"

Webby looked up, twirling an arrow in her free hand. "Mr. Duck said it was okay. Huey's been over every day-"

"Mother hen," Louie coughed.

"-So the sickness is already in the mansion. No real need to contain it now."

There's no excuses for him to ignore him, then. Scrooge summons all his courage and edges over to the houseboat. He's not afraid of illness. Not really. He's seen far worse than some gross flu. But stepping into that boat was acknowledging that, in spite of his best efforts, he'd failed the boys for nearly ten years. All his boys.

They don't talk much about the boat. And Scrooge, ever the coward, can't find it in him to ask.

Donald answers the door with a flat look on his face. "He's on the couch."

Scrooge reluctantly followed his nephew inside. The house part of the boat isn't too shabby, really; it's comfortable. There's plenty of little knickknacks and photos, no doubt all signifying memories Scrooge had absolutely no part in, and despite the lack of size it doesn't feel all that suffocating. The gentle rocking of pool waves is soothing.

Dewey is wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and clutching a cup of something steaming. He perks up as Scrooge enters his line of sight. "Uncle Scrooge! Did you figure out that cursed idol thingy?"

"Not yet." Scrooge hasn't touched it yet out of respect for his fellow adventurer, but no need to get too mushy. "How're you feeling?"

"I stopped hurling yesterday." The duckling sounded far too chipper about that, even trying to wiggle his feet. "So, uh... what's up?"

"I cannae take a break to check in on my nephew?"

Dewey's eyes positively lit up. "You took a break? From work? To see me?" he squealed. Scrooge thought he saw tears gathering. "I love you too, Uncle Scrooge!"

"Yes, yes, very touching," Donald groused, though his touch was gentle as he took the cup from the middle triplet's hands. "Try and take a nap, Dew. I'll wash this for you."

For once, Dewey followed his instructions, leaning on the arm rest. "Can we get ice cream soon, Uncle Donald?"

Donald chuckled. "Sure thing." He quickly pressed a kiss to the duckling's brow, ignoring the gagging noises Dewey made. He made no other acknowledgement of Scrooge as he walked over to the sink, turning the faucet on.

That rumpled the old duck's feathers. "You donnae have to be so rude, Donnie."

"You should've visited sooner," Donald replied. "He's been asking for you all week."

"I dinnae know if I was allowed! Yew just swept 'em off his feet!"

"That's what you do when kids are sick, Uncle Scrooge." Donald squirted some soap onto a washcloth. "You keep them comfy and rested."

"Dewey could've gotten all that at the mansion!" Scrooge argued. "He didn't need ta'-"

The duck whirled around, hands covered in suds. "You've already took them from me for everything else," he accused sharply. "Don't you dare take this from me too!"

Scrooge flinched. "I never-"

"Are you guys fighting again?" Dewey's voice, clogged with mucus, made them both pause.

"No," Scrooge said.

"Yes," Donald said. "It's how we communicate."

Dewey seemed to accept that, rolling over. "Can you guys fight a little quieter, then?"

Donald shut the water off. "Of course, Dewey."

Scrooge awkwardly leaned on the bow of the houseboat, Donald nearby. Neither man had spoken since they left the house and entered the boat, as though the argument had been ripped to shreds and stuffed down the toilet like many an iffy report card.

"Not much of a view, ey?" asked Scrooge, half expecting a rude retort.

"It was nicer at the marina."

That hurt more, however. "Donald, I didnae mean-"

"Relax, Uncle Scrooge." He held his hands up. "I know I'm the boring Uncle. I gave them as normal a childhood as I could. I got up every morning, went to work, came home and cooked."

"Your cooking is terrible."

"So is my job record, but the point is that I tried." Donald shrugged. "And they hated it. Got too much McDuck in them, I guess. Too much Della. I don't mind that they wanna adventure and be great, you know? As long as you're keeping them safe, I think it'll be okay. They're not like me'n her. They know normal. They know when to stop." He took in a shaky breath. "But they're still my boys. Nothing will change that. Not even your fancy mansion and fancy friends."

Scrooge hesitated to respond, rubbing his thumbs together. "I... kind of wish I could be that too. A little. I feel bad when these kinds of situations pop up, and I cannae be of any help."

"Then be it."

"Yew make it sound so easy."

"Scrooge, they worship the ground you walk on. They love you." Donald lightly punched his shoulder. "But you gotta work for it. You gotta learn their names."

"I know their names!" he guffawed. "'S just a little joke, is all."

"They hate the joke, Scrooge."

Scrooge realized he hadn't considered that, and briefly considered jumping into the pool and letting the waves overtake him. "Oh. I- I dinnae mean any harm by it. When yew and Della were little-"

"We weren't identical," Donald interrupted. "The whole world tries to lump them into one duck, Scrooge. Let them be individuals. Let them be themselves. Don't make that into a gag. And, for pete's sake, get them some sweaters."

"I think I can do better'n that."

For the first time in about twenty years, Scrooge dug out his old knitting needles and got to work. Bright blue yarn sat by his squishy chair as, long into the next day, he tried to knit over a decade's worth of mistakes.

Author's Note: -Dabs- I felt like writing something cute but also kind of somber bc Scrooge and Donald both need to Communicate MoreTM

-Mandaree1