Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!

Title: Wrote this listening to FNAF bops

Summary: Louie and Della dive into the past and learn a little bit about each other along the way.

...

It's in the eyes, really. Louie's always found them easy enough to read. Webby's are bright and shiny and slightly deranged- but, like, in a good way. Lena's never hesitated to meet anyone else's, but she almost always looks away first. Launchpad's are so sparkly it's a miracle he hasn't blinded oncoming seagulls from the Sunchaser. And Della's... well, they're still too new to tell.

(They look warm and soft and sharp and stuff, but how much is Louie just reading into it? How much does he just want to look this woman in the eye and see every caricature of a loving mother or some wicked evildoer? It's just nature to want to demonize or idealize.)

But the vulture's eyes? They remind him of dead fish. And Louie's spent a good chunk of his life on the sea, watching as fishermen and fisherwomen brought in catches of the slimy things. They're dead, and cold, and a little stinky, and Louie don't trust like that.

And if he happens to keep a copy of the keys to the money bin, that doesn't need to get out to anyone but himself, especially when it leads him into the office of the beasts themselves.

There's lots of little office things scattered about- well-used rolodexes, a bunch of manila folders, enough pens to sign every cast Dewey's ever had, a few bits and bobbles Louie hazily recognizes as protection spells and amulets (probably a piece of McDuck uniform, just like the ties), and a chair that's been unscrewed slightly over the years. He tests it and, yup, it'll dunk you if you lean too much on one side.

Underneath the desk he finds the box. He doesn't think much of it at first- it was likely used as a footrest- but curiosity is a bitch, especially when he knew that great things were usually hidden in plain sight around here. He drags it out, flips open a lid (the tape is old and worn; Louie suspected it was originally scheduled to go someplace else, then forgotten) and finds a set of VHS tapes. He grabbed the one on top and flipped it over. Written on it in fancy, curling green is the words Della Duck, Year 1.

And, well, Louie's not an idiot. He knows damn well what it is.

"Awww, Huey was a chunky baby."

"Actually, that's Dewey."

Della looks from page one to see Donald waddling over to the couch with what she guestimates is around twenty more scrapbooks. She whistles. "I don't think the entire Clan has that many photos."

Donald shrugs. "Things were rough. I wanted the boys to be able to look back on it fondly, though." He plops down beside her, setting the others aside. He points out a little edge on Dewey's lips. "Dewey kept his egg tooth for ages. Drove me nuts."

"Who lost theirs first?"

"Louie. He cried for hours, thinking he was falling to bits." Donald pauses, thinking. "Babies are cute, but not so bright."

Della skips ahead. She can already tell this book is going to be a doozy, so she saves the parts that're definitely going to make her cry for later- first steps, first words, first everything. Existence is all firsts before the egg teeth come out and the feathers turn white- and pushes ahead to kindergarten. The boys are still yellow, but not for much longer. Huey's feathers are falling in clumps, Dewey's are full of patches lost from stunts, and Louie's so fluffy he doesn't quite fit into his first shirt. It's precious.

"I cried a lot that day," Donald says. "I was always a cry baby when it came to the boys. I framed those little diplomas they give out to kindergarteners on the fridge for years. They threw them in the ocean when I wasn't looking, the little brats."

"Nice to see my good taste passed on," she quips, turning the page. A pink construction paper card, titled Happy Cap'n's! Day, Cap'n! glares at her, covered in glitter that's infecting the world to this day. "What's this?"

"Hmm?" Donald breaks out of a trance, smiling, as he gently touches the words. "Oh, they called me Cap'n for years. Then they thought it was 'too lame' and switched to Uncle."

"What's Cap'n's Day?"

"A totally made up day they created to piss off their teacher when she forced them to make cards."

"Ah." Della considers flipping it open, fingers lightly brushing the edges and risking paper cuts. It hurt to see, but it's also nice? It's like drinking ambrosia- tastes great, but it'll kill you. It's so, so wonderful to see her boys adoring and loving, but... She wished it was her. No, she wanted it to be her. "They got that from me," she says finally. Swallowing feels like brushing with sandpaper.

"Unfortunately," Donald replies, and something bitter twists in her chest.

Louie ends up skipping year one. He can guess what that one is all about- healing legs and panicking and maybe a few tears and Louie just. Isn't up for that today. He's not. He grabs year nine- near to the end, but not too close for her to be fully aware of it, right? The frustrated silence of time. He drags an old TV set out of a closet, the likes of which substitute teachers make appear for a healthy dose of Bill Nye, and shoves the doohickey in. Ultimately he has to fish it out because he put it in backwards, but he likes to think he did better than Uncle Donald did with his first iPhone.

The screen opens up on Della chewing gum with a dour expression. It's darker than the anger he's seen before; filled with the intent to destroy. "Still no gold," she reports, as if Louie is supposed to know what she's referring to, and if he listened to year eight maybe he would. "I'm getting off this rock. If I die here, and they find my skeleton, they might think I actually liked black licorice and I just... I can't. That is literally worse than hell."

Della blows a bubble. The gum reminds Louie of tar.

He skips ahead.

"Had another run-in with the Moonmite today. It's like my own personal Moby Dick, and I'm Captain- oh my gods, I have the leg. I have Captain Ahab's leg."

He skips ahead.

"-and I'm a farm girl, alright? I'm used to working hard. But if this damn lever doesn't learn to cooperate I'm gonna fu-"

He skips ahead.

"You boys must be getting so big."

Louie hits rewind.

Della's slumped in her seat now, eyes red. She laughs wetly and gestures to it. "Sorry about that. I just had a lengthy conversation with a mirror and... gosh, it's been so long, hasn't it? I keep seeing you as these little eggs tucked up safe and sound in that carrier your Uncle Donald bought you, but... You boys must be getting so big." She sniffled, running a hand over her face. "There's so many things I wanted to teach you. How to adventure, how to rock climb, how to knit those ugly little sweaters and stuff your Uncle Donald into them. I know Scrooge and Donald have given you boys the best, but I wanted to be your best. And I'm not. I'm your weird TV lady. And I'm sorry. It'll never be enough, but I'm sorry."

Louie turns the TV off.

That's enough for today, he thinks, but mostly he just cries.

They get to the middle school photos before Della can finally tell them apart. Once the molting was done, the boys had spent a period where they just wore the same things and said the same lines and had the same interests. She thinks most kids are like that? They play together and do stuff together and think together. It's when they get older that they become so different.

"Is that Gladstone?"

Donald snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yup. The boys loved him. I woulda had Fethry visit too, but, you know, underwater thing."

Somehow, it's more boggling that they know and love their cousin than it is that Scrooge is in none of the photos, or videos, or anything. Della knew, of course, that they weren't talking, but seeing it is harder than being told. They really didn't have an Uncle Scrooge in their lives. All they had was Donald, and Gladstone, and maybe the odd weird ghost adventure in a hotel or something. Whatever modern, normal kids did these days.

"I wish I'd been there," she says finally.

Donald shrugs. "Wish you had been too." He calmly grabs the other scrapbooks and sets them on her lap. "Here. Keep these. I have more in the storage unit."

Della holds them like she's held a ticking time bomb. "Literally what do I do with these things?"

"Whatever you want."

"But what if they get ripped? Or wet? Or-"

"Dell, it's a scrapbook. They'll survive the apocalypse. They're the roaches of books."

They meet in the main hallway, each carrying a cardboard box.

"Hey," says Louie. "Whatcha got?"

"Just some scrapbooks," Della says. "You?"

"Just some tapes," Louie says.

"Didn't think kids these days knew what tapes are."

"Didn't think adventure moms knew what scrapbooks were," he shot back. "And these aren't for me. I'm taking them to Uncle Scrooge."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure he'll appreciate having some older tech to fiddle with."

"Probably not," Louie says, and leaves it at that.

Della awkwardly shifts the box to the hip with a leg full of blood and muscles and ruffle his head feathers. "I love you, kiddo. Get some sleep, alright?"

Louie winced, but tried to cover it with a smile. "I know, mom. And thanks."

They part ways; then, almost on a whim, turn back, and notice each other's eyes. In Della, Louie sees a stranger. In Louie, Della sees Donald. And then, carrying their own personal burdens, they continue on.

Author's Note: Commission for Darkmasterofcupcakes! I won't lie- I don't really like the ending for this. I think it's mostly because I've set up this whole side bit about the vultures and Louie going to tell Scrooge. But it wasn't really about that- it was about Della and Louie seeing how the years affected each other differently.

-Mandaree1