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mighty-ant · 3 years

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Sleepless in St. Canard

Launchpad starts having trouble keeping his eyes open in the middle of “Battle of the Brainteasers.”

At first, Drake doesn’t think anything of it. They’re both drained, and not a little bruised; after a particularly arduous patrol in which he was thrown into one too many walls, he’s not feeling much up for conversation. And anyway, the expansive silence of the tower feels far away from the bubble of warmth they’ve created between them just by sitting on the couch, the technicolor glow of his television set splayed across them. The occasional hum of static is a familiar offset to the episode’s slapstick violence, and comforting in its familiarity.

Not quite as familiar, but even more comforting, is the uninterrupted line of warmth against his right side; in his eagerness, Launchpad huddles close whenever they sit down to watch an episode of Darkwing Duck. And Drake who, amid a childhood that’s largely better left forgotten and a string of romantic interests that never went beyond the first date, never received much experience with casual affection, is sometimes overwhelmed by how readily Launchpad doles it out.

What started out as a hand on his shoulder has become bone cracking hugs, a much broader hand wrapping around his own and pulling him to his feet, lingering until long after he’s regained his footing. It’s the understanding and concern and care in Launchpad’s eyes that Drake doesn’t know what to do with, and it frightens him sometimes how quickly Launchpad has learned to read him.

He doesn’t like to think about what might have happened had Launchpad not been there to push him to take Gosalyn seriously, to investigate Bulba after his acts of flattery. Drake doesn’t like to think about it but of course he does, lies awake into the early hours of the morning paralyzed with terror and guilt that he has nowhere to put, nothing to do with.

He imagines what Bulba might have done to Gosalyn had she gone back to his laboratory alone, imagines her thrown into some faroff, incomprehensible dimension, never to see her grandfather or anything familiar ever again. Sometimes he imagines Bulba doing even worse; he can’t get the image out of his head, Bulba scarred and seething, looming over Gosalyn with murderous intent. The threat of the hellish deterioration of reality itself has become small when weighed against the life of one little girl.

When Drake’s mind spirals into dark disarray and terrifying what-ifs, he gets out of bed to check on Gosalyn, reassuring his paranoid, sleep-deprived mind of her safety and her presence only a few yards away. It took some doing to fashion a proper bedroom for her in the tower, but there it is, a bed, a desk, a dresser, littered with trash, arrowheads, discarded laundry, because while Gosalyn may be many wonderful things, neat is not one of them. Most times he’ll find her asleep, a shadow gently rising and falling in bed. But more than once she’s still been awake, scrolling through her phone or playing on a 3DS that she’ll stash under her pillow out of instinct rather than any genuine concern of getting in trouble because as she’s said many times before, he isn’t her family.

But more and more often, he’s frightened by how much he wants to be.

The few times he finds her awake at 4 am, after the requisite minute of stuttering and sticking his webbed foot in his mouth, he’ll make her hot chocolate like his mother used to (remaining to this day the only worthwhile thing she ever taught him) and sit by one of the massive bay windows to watch the sun rise. Gosalyn has a work station just next to his, strewn with chemistry sets snuck out of her old home before the estate sale, arrow bolts and screws and threads of tensile steel courtesy of Fenton to make repairs and adjustments to her crossbows.

If it wasn’t for Launchpad, there might not be a Gosalyn to teach tai chi or make breakfast for. There might not be a Gosalyn at all, much less a world for her to live on.

A snore jerks Drake out of his ruminations.

He looks up, startled, to where Launchpad has fallen soundly asleep, his head lolling against the back of the couch. For a moment, Drake is transfixed by the uninhibited view of his outline, illuminated by the alternating colors of the flickering television screen against a backdrop of complete darkness. His eyes travel down the long line of Launchpad’s throat and back up to the soft planes of his face, slackened in sleep. His bright hair hangs over eyes that are deeply lined with exhaustion, even as he continues to snore gently.

Drake is hit by guilt like a blow to the chest.

For the last month, Launchpad has kept his promise to split his time between Duckburg and St. Canard. It sounded like an impossible task from the get-go; Drake isn’t sure when Launchpad managed fit in sleeping before now, what with the frequency of the McDucks’ globe-trotting adventures, but this new schedule offers even less time to do so. But the worse the odds, the more likely it is that Launchpad will prevail because he’s somehow managed to keep his word almost every night so far.

And Drake almost let himself believe that this system might work in the long term.

Launchpad crosses the bridge just before sunset to join them for patrol, giddy every time like it’s their first night all over again. Even when he arrives worse for wear, his jacket scorched from a wayward plane crash or ancient pyramid’s booby trap, he brushes it off with a grin that makes Drake’s knees weak and take Launchpad’s nonchalance at face value. And while he hasn’t missed the signs of exhaustion, Launchpad’s slower reaction time, how often he yawns through their movie nights, his uncharacteristic quietness, neither has he done anything about them.

Drake hasn’t wanted to consider that Launchpad was putting on an act for his sake.

Because it’s always for Drake’s sake, isn’t it?

Just by being himself, Launchpad pushes Drake to be better. A better man, a better hero. He leaves his family, a warm bed and well earned rest every night to galavant across dark rooftops and darker streets in support of Drake, without him even having to ask.

But what can Drake offer in return? Danger and thrills, sleep deprivation, picking up the slack for someone who almost let the voices of his ego override that of a child who needed his help. And despite all of that, Drake still wants Launchpad to keep showing up for him. He wants Launchpad to keep smiling at him, to chastise him in that gentle way of his, to burst into song with and finish his sentences. It’s pathetic, but he just wants.

Drake is selfish. He knows that; fully acknowledges it. Just like he knows that he’ll never be happy sharing Launchpad, much less when being with Drake starts doing him actual harm.

An attempt at a deep, calming breath turns shaky when he glances back at Launchpad, snoring with his whole chest in a way that’s both worrying and terribly endearing. Drake watches him, separated by a distance of inches, and he feels a little sick wondering how many moments like this he has left. Once Launchpad stops feeling so beholden to Drake for getting him into the crime-fighting game to begin with, he’ll be lucky if they go back to phone calls and video chat and the rare in person visit.

There’s nothing for it now. Drake needs sleep, Gos needs to be at school in five hours, and Launchpad needs to get back to Duckburg. Earlier, while they were tossing some attempted burglars between them, Launchpad had offhandedly mentioned having to fly his family to Sarahuevo in the morning, and Drake doesn’t plan on letting their after-hours activities interfere with his life any more than they already have.

Still, Drake hesitates before reaching for Launchpad’s bare arm, his jacket slung over the back of the coach. Drake shakes him, wincing all the while. “Hey, LP. Wake up, big guy, you’ve gotta drive back home before it gets too late.”

But for all of his jostling, Launchpad doesn't stir. Drake knows he isn’t a heavy sleeper; it’s how he manages to catch a few seconds of sleep while driving or piloting, and snap to attention just before any catastrophic accident can occur. For Launchpad not to wake up at all speaks to the depth of his exhaustion, and the deepening of the chasm of remorse beneath Drake’s ribs. He leaves his hand on Launchpad’s arm a moment longer, squeezing his bicep gently. It’s the most openly affectionate he’s ever been, and it’s only Launchpad’s obliviousness that emboldens him.

But then again, this is a different sort of danger than the kind he willingly throws himself into.

Drake pulls away, sweeping his hand through his hair before resting his elbows heavily on his bent knees. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m tired too, pal.” He knows he should try to wake Launchpad up again. He has responsibilities, a life outside of Drake that he has to get back to. But he’s also taking a break for the first time in who knows how long, and Drake isn’t in a hurry to ruin that now. In any event, Launchpad is in no fit state to be awake, much less drive anywhere.

And again, Drake’s selfish. He wants to be able to give Launchpad a proper goodbye in the morning.

He briefly sways on his feet when he pushes off of the couch, whether due to exhaustion or head injury is anyone’s guess. Hobbling over to the armchair on the other side of the den, he retrieves the purple and black afghan he knitted while recovering from top surgery a few years ago. He brings it back to the couch and tucks it around Launchpad, carefully keeping his eyes off Launchpad's face as he moves around him. It’s just slightly too short on him, and Launchpad’s feet stick out from the bottom of the afghan in a way that makes Drake smile.

He switches off the nearby lamp and powers down the television, plunging the sitting area into darkness that’s only refuted by the moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

Drake takes the stairs to his room one at a time, every ache and twinging muscle flaring. When he does fall into bed, he doesn’t look forward to tomorrow morning.

“Launchpad’s still here?”

Gos isn’t any more of a morning person than he is, and at seven a.m. she’s halfway through her bowl of cereal before she notices Launchpad asleep at the other end of the tower. A part of Drake had awoken thinking he’d dreamt the entire thing, so he can’t really fault Gosalyn for her own being caught unawares.

He lowers the mug of coffee he was drinking from, tapping his fingers against the ceramic sides. “Uh, yeah. He knocked out when we got back from patrol and I didn’t have the heart to wake him up.” Gos’ quietly thoughtful expression doesn’t change as she watches Launchpad, and Drake’s anxiety rises, niggling at the base of his throat like an itch. “Is that okay?” he asks.

He knows it’s a ridiculous question as soon as it leaves his mouth. While Launchpad staying the night might be rare, his presence itself is not. Launchpad, who lets Gos try out her trick arrows on him, the only one who she’ll talk to when she and Drake get into an argument, and whose bearhugs Gos tolerates with smiles and halfhearted complaints.

Drake deserves the strange look Gosalyn sends his way. “Yeah,” she says, “why wouldn’t it be?”

He starts and stops several sentences without any idea of what he intends to say, and watches with mounting dread as Gosalyn’s expression turns sly. “Did you finally ask him out!” she exclaims over Drake’s frantic shushing.

Panicked, he cranes his head to look over the railing to the level below. But Launchpad continues snoring uninterrupted, now slumped over the arm of the couch, the afghan Drake tucked around him the night before pooling around his waist. He whirls back on Gosalyn. “There is no asking out of any sort happening here! Where did you even get that idea?”

Gosalyn takes a long slow sip of her green cereal milk, because she likes keeping him in suspense. “I thought you were dating when I first met you guys,” she says, practically making Drake’s heart stop in his chest. “But then Launchpad told me you weren’t—”

“You asked Launchpad?”

Gosalyn rolls her eyes. “Uh, yeah, Drake, ages ago. But he said it ‘wasn’t up to him’ or something.”

“Wasn’t…” Drake starts to repeat, trailing off as his gaze is drawn back to Launchpad, inexorable as a lodestone. But he feels Gosalyn’s eyes on him, snapping him out of his introspection to face her mortifyingly smug expression. “I’m not discussing my love life with you, young lady,” he says as sternly as he’s able, raising his index finger and everything.

“Or lack thereof,” she mutters into her cup of orange juice.

Drake gasps. “I—you—go brush your teeth!”

Gosalyn bounds out of her seat cackling, and despite feeling like he just went ten rounds with the Fearsome Four all over again, he watches her go with a familiar fondness blossoming under his breastbone.

What he has with Gosalyn is new and at times frightening in its newness. With McDuck’s help (at Launchpad’s urging), Drake has taken official guardianship of her so that she can return to school and a semblance of a normal life that also happens to includes crime fighting on weekends and checking in with the scientists trying to invent a machine to access other dimensions that won’t tear the veil of reality apart.

To say life has thrown Gosalyn a series of curveballs would be a severe understatement. Every parenting book he’s spent hours pouring over between sleep and training while Gos is at school tells him that a sense of stability is among the most crucial things to maintain in the life of a foster child. A superhero lair within a massive, looming tower does not a proper living situation make, so Drake has been looking into renting a small apartment somewhere in the city. He still has the payout from his scrapped movie sitting pretty and virtually untouched in his savings, and he sold his old studio apartment months ago. Besides, if money were to ever become a problem, he could always take on stunt work again.

The point is, he wants to be there for Gos in every way that counts, every way that he can, until her grandfather is found. Or until she doesn’t want him in her life anymore.

As Drake starts cleaning up the kitchen, he can’t help but look back over at Launchpad and wish that their time together didn’t feel even more finite.

When Drake returns from dropping Gos off at school, Launchpad’s phone is ringing.

The jazzy rendition of the Darkwing Duck end credits theme is playing from within the confines of Launchpad’s jacket, which had fallen to the floor sometime in the hours of the early morning. Launchpad is still sleeping like the dead, and Drake’s hesitant attempts at waking him via poking him in the shoulder don’t yield any result. He grudgingly fishes the phone out of a pocket and through a screen engulfed in spider webbing cracks sees that the caller ID reads “Uncle McDee.”

Holding the phone in one hand with the same caution he would give a grenade, Drake puts off doing anything about it by neatly folding Launchpad’s jacket over the opposite arm of the couch. The ringtone comes to an end, and Drake has a handful of seconds to guiltily enjoy the silence before it starts up again.

He answers the call before he can talk himself out of it.

“Er, Hel—”

Drake is immediately steamrolled by a cacophony of sound, grinding machinery and half a dozen voices that are undercut by a thick Scottish brogue. “Launchpad, where in blazes are you? We were meant to take off twenty minutes ago!”

Reminding himself that the man no longer has the ability to fire him or actively allow him to be arrested, Drake takes a breath and says as succinctly as he can, “Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. McDuck, Launchpad can’t come to the phone at the moment. He’s still asleep.” The silence on the other end of the line lengthens, taking on a threatening quality that makes Drake’s feather’s stand on end. Perhaps he should’ve rethought his opener, considering the sinister crime syndicate that has been actively targeting Scrooge McDuck’s family for the last few months.

“Who is this?” McDuck demands.

“It’s Dra—arkwing,” he stutters.

“Who?”

“You know, Darkwing? Darkwing Duck.” This time, the pause is decidedly one of confusion. Drake closes his eyes with a sigh. “The purple guy?”

“Ach, it’s you. Next time, lad, lead with that. I was halfway to having Beakley trace this call and storming your ludicrous lair.”

“Uh—”

“Where’s Launchpad? Asleep, you said?”

Drake furiously grasps at his scattered wits. “Yeah, yes, he’s still asleep. I don’t...he hasn’t been getting much rest recently, so I didn’t want to wake him. But if you need me to—”

“No, no,” McDuck says at once, surprisingly cavalier. “That lout will wear himself into the ground if we let him. My niece can fly us, no problem there.”

“Okay then, I guess I’ll just—”

“And, eh, ‘Darkwing,’ was it?”

Drake grits his teeth. “Yes?”

Before McDuck speaks again, the commotion in the background fades as he presumably moves somewhere quieter. “Take care of Launchpad for us, will you?” he says without preamble, keeping his voice low. The words wash over Drake with numbing effect, taking an inordinate amount of time to process. By the time he understands McDuck’s meaning, and possible implication, his heartbeat is thundering in his ears and McDuck has already carried on speaking.

“Zeus knows what sort of tomfoolery the three of you get up to, but well. Calling Launchpad an important member of our family would be understating it. Do you take my meaning?”

“I...yes,” Drake replies on autopilot.

“That’s a lad!” McDuck says. “Have Launchpad give us a call once he’s back on his feet.” His voice grows slightly tinny and faint as he moves the phone away from his beak and shouts at someone on his end. “False alarm, everyone! He’s with that superhero of his—”

Scrooge McDuck hangs up, and Drake almost loses himself to the ringing silence that follows.

Launchpad continues to snore softly from the couch, and rays of sunlight that are steadily growing in brilliance illuminate dust motes in the air. Drake is distantly aware that he should close the blackout shades soon. But all he does is clutch Launchpad’s phone a little too tightly, to the point that his knuckles ache, and replay his conversation with McDuck in his head.

He feels...shaken is the best term to describe it. Shaken by the assumptions of Launchpad’s family, the implication that he and Launchpad are... more than what they are.

Drake carefully places Launchpad’s phone on the coffee table. In an attempt to bring his overwhelmed thoughts to order, he lowers himself onto the opposite end of the couch, putting more than a foot of space between himself and Launchpad. None of that ends up mattering when he accidentally sits on the TV remote and the television blares to life with the same Darkwing Duck ending theme that Launchpad’s phone had been playing, only about ten times louder.

Drake’s alarm throws him back onto his feet while Launchpad flails under the afghan, a mess of tangled limbs, until he tumbles off the couch altogether.

“WHUH?!”

“Launchpad!” Drake exclaims, dropping to his knees beside him. But the frisson of worry that starbursts in his chest fades as quickly as it appeared when he sees Launchpad is no more harmed by his fall than he would be totalling the front end of the limo.

“Huh...Drake?” Launchpad says, blinking dazed, owlish eyes that take only a moment to widen in alarm. “Aw man, what time is it? Mr. McDee and the kids were expecting me to fly ‘em to...to, uh.”

Drake is already shaking his head before Launchpad’s sleep-addled brain catches up with him. “No, no, Launchpad, you’re fine. McDuck called just now, while you were asleep and he said it was...fine. It’s fine.”

Launchpad slumps against the couch in relief. “Thanks, DW,” he says, smiling crookedly. “And sorry for knocking out like that! Guess I was more tired than I realized.“ His tone is casual, but with the heel of his palm he rubs at eyes that are no less exhausted than they were five hours ago. Drake watches that same hand moves up to run distractedly through his hair. Free of his usual chauffeur’s cap, it’s mussed from sleep and his tie’s half undone, shirt collar rumpled.

He paints a picture of domesticity that Drake hadn’t known he wanted until he met Launchpad, until Gosalyn fought and kicked her way into his life. Except now it taunts him, like a mirage permanently out of reach.

Drake’s heartbeat rabbits beneath his sternum and his tongue sits heavy and dry in his mouth, still he feels compelled to blurt, “Launchpad, why are you doing this to yourself?”

Launchpad blinks, expression going blank in his confusion. “Uh...I don’t...what are you talking about?”

But the lightning is out of the bottle and now it’s singing through his veins, and Drake can’t stay seated without feeling as though he’s going to explode with nervous energy. “This!” he insists, throwing himself to his feet. “This, the-the constant driving back and forth, days in Duckburg and nights in St. Canard! It’s not-it’s not safe or healthy or sane—”

“Whoa, hey,” Launchpad cuts in, his brow furrowing as he pushes himself to his feet. “Drake, I’m happy to do it.”

“But I never asked you to!” Drake’s mouth runs away from him as ever to his detriment, his mind too busy buzzing with weeks’ worth of anxiety to bite the words back. But once they’re out, everything in him freezes. He’s practically swallowed in the deafening silence that follows.

Launchpad couldn’t look more shocked if Drake had suckerpunched him.

After an eternal, breathless moment he tears his gaze away from Drake’s, his features downcast. “I...um.” Launchpad lets out a sigh that uses up what little air remained between them as Drake looks on in horrified rictus. “Sorry,” he says, eyes going glassy before he turns to gather his jacket from off the arm of the couch.

Guilt chokes Drake until he’s sick with it. But it’s not until Launchpad moves that he regains mastery of his own limbs, and he desperately throws himself in Launchpad’s path. “Wait. Launchpad, wait .” He raises his arms, palms out, hovering inches above Launchpad’s chest, just shy of touching.

Launchpad chuckles, and it sounds all sorts of wrong. “C’mon, Drake. I don’t wanna overstay my welcome.” He won’t look Drake in the eye.

“No, LP, I’m sorry,” Drake says, his voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. What I’m trying to...what I meant...I don’t want you to feel obligated. To stay. To-to help me.”

Launchpad takes a step back. His expression of deep devastation has cleared, to Drake’s relief and lingering shame. Now he just looks hurt.

“Obligated?” he repeats incredulously. “Drake, Gosalyn is my responsibility too. I’m the one who talked you into investigating Bulba. We both fought the Fearsome Four, we both promised to help find Dr. Waddlemeyer. I get that I don’t...I don’t need to be here 24/7 to be there for Gos, but if we can work something out—”

“No, Launchpad, of course I want you-want you here,” Drake rushes to interrupt, desperate to set things right, to make up for his gaffe and his guilt and his inability to do anything right. “You’re my best friend. I just...I don’t understand why you’re so willing to go out of your way to be here. Your family’s in Duckburg. You’re working yourself half to death trying to be there for both of us, and I’m not...I’m not worth that.”

Launchpad smiles, which is perhaps the most baffling response he could’ve had to Drake’s blatant self-deprecation. “I’m your best friend?” he replies.

A startled huff of laughter escapes Drake without meaning to. “What—LP, of course you are,” he says. He clutches at Launchpad’s wrists, determined to make him understand. “But did you hear what I said? I’m not...I’m not asking you to leave. I just don’t get why you’re so willing to stay.”

This time he expects Launchpad’s frown, but the way his expression gives way to uncertainty only further unbalances Drake. “I thought...you don't know?” he says. His eyes are intense in a way that makes Drake’s pulse thud, loud and heavy, in his eardrums. “Drake, I...You’re my family too. I’m not just trying just to help you. Well I am, but not in that sense. I want to do these things with you. Crime-fighting, taking care of Gos, and...just being with you.”

“Being with me,” Drake somehow repeats, despite his lungs being devoid of oxygen. “As friends.”

His eyes do that thing where they soften and Drake’s knees do that thing where they weaken. “If that’s what you want,” Launchpad says gently. He twists his wrists out of Drake’s weakened grasp only to clutch at his hands instead, engulfing Drake’s smaller hands in his own.

“And if I don’t?” Drake manages to say around the nerves making it difficult to swallow.

It’s Launchpad who looks flustered now, an attractive blush climbing up from under his rumpled collar. “Well,” he stammers, rocking forward slightly as though out of a desire to close the distance that remains between them. “Well, then um.”

Deciding that it’s high time he was the brave one, Drake wraps his arms around Launchpad’s middle. Launchpad lets out a startled exhale at the contact.

Drake, incredibly aware that this may be one of the first hugs he’s ever initiated, shakily fists his hands in the back of Launchpad’s shirt. Launchpad remains frozen against him for a handful of excruciating, breathless seconds before his warm palms settle hesitantly on Drake’s back. A moment later, he makes a ragged sound above him before he overwhelms Drake in his arms in a way that only intensifies the feeling that Drake is drowning in him. Launchpad buries his face in Drake’s shoulder and he melts into the embrace, cupping the back of Launchpad’s neck.

“You’re my family too, y’know,” Drake says, and admitting it lifts the weight of the world from his shoulders.

Launchpad’s drift lower on Drake’s back until they’re near his waist, and he resists the urge to shiver. “I, uh,” Launchpad murmurs into the juncture of Drake’s neck and shoulder. “I-I meant that in the boyfriend sense,” he confesses nervously. “If that’s okay.”

Drake laughs, closing his eyes as he wraps both arms around the back of Launchpad’s neck. “Me too, LP.”

#ant writes #drakepad #post lgd #this took me 3 weeks and i knocked out the last 3rd this morning #enjoy!!#drama queen drake #darkwing dad #launchdad #darkwing duck #launchpad mcquack #gosalyn mallard #LP's emotional intelligence is my actual favorite thing

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