Late Night TV - Ducktales (2017) - Fenton & Dewey friendship, a bit of fentonald
((Okay, so I had this idea before I was able to find any good layouts of the houseboat. There does not appear to be a TV or couch in the main room of the houseboat but let’s just pretend for the sake of fluff, okay?))
“Fenton?”
Of all the people Dewey expected to find rummaging around in the fridge at 3 AM, Fenton was fairly low on the list.
Of all the people Fenton had expected to find him digging through the fridge at 3 AM, it seemed as though Dewey was fairly low on his list, as Fenton nearly jumped out of his feathers, banging his head on the bottom of the freezer door as he whipped around to see who was behind him.
“Oh! Dewey,” Fenton sighed, rubbing at the top of his head, “it’s just you.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Uh… I don’t know, actually. I guess I wasn’t really expecting anyone else to be awake. Or even around. I didn’t realize you boys were staying on the boat tonight.”
“Uncle Donald made mac ’n’ cheese,” Dewey shrugged, as if that explained everything (and it did, to anyone who’d ever had Uncle Donald’s macaroni and cheese). “Then we watched a movie and then it was late, so we decided to sleep here tonight.”
“That sounds fun.” Fenton smiled, half-illuminated by the light of the open fridge.
“It was. But we would’ve gone back up to the mansion if we knew Uncle Donald was expecting his booooyfrieeeend,” Dewey teased, snickering at the immediate way Fenton flustered.
Fenton cleared his throat, making a brave effort to keep his composure in the face of a ten-year-old’s teasing. “Well, we didn’t really have a date set, or anything. I was just going to come over if I finished work in time.”
“Three in the morning is “in time?”” Dewey cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, I finished work at the normal time, but then I – uh,” Fenton stuttered to a stop, pausing for a moment. “I, uh, went for a walk?”
Dewey levelled an unimpressed look at him. “Dude, you’re a terrible liar. Besides, who’re you talking to? I know you’re Giz–”
“Shhh!” Fenton hushed Dewey loudly. “Okay, yes, but your uncle doesn’t know that!”
Dewey sincerely doubted that; Uncle Donald could be oblivious to a lot of things, but he was surprisingly sharp when it came to the people around him. If Uncle Donald didn’t know he was dating Gizmoduck, Dewey would eat Huey’s hat.
“And he thinks it’s normal for you to just show up in the middle of the night?”
“I mean, I do work weird hours at the Money Bin, to be fair,” Fenton hedged.
“Well, if it’s normal, why are you creepin’ around out here?”
“I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything, I just didn’t realize Donald was already asleep and I didn’t want to wake him and then I realized I was starving, so I thought maybe I could just have a snack and then figure out what to do.” Fenton shrugged helplessly. “What are you doing up, anyway? It’s late.”
“I was going to get a glass of water. Does Giz–” Dewey stopped and changed tracks when Fenton made another shushing motion at him. “Does you-know-who not get dinner breaks?”
“Not today. Things got a little hectic; there was a bank robbery, and then a museum heist, and then the sea monster–”
“I’m sorry, the what now?”
“Bank robbery?”
“No, after that.”
“Museum heist?”
“Does sound interesting, but after that.”
“The sea monster?”
“That!” Dewey remembered to keep his voice down at the last moment, though Fenton still jumped a little. “That sounds so cool! How big was it? Was it a kraken? Or like a giant shark? Would a giant shark even count as a sea monster or would you just call it a giant shark?”
“Well, it was… pretty big? It seemed more like something from the Malacostraca class than Cephalopoda or Chondrichthyes,” Fenton said, going pensive.
“Okay, I have no idea what any of that means, but pretty big is promising. Oh!” Dewey gasped as a thought occurred. “Do you think it’ll be on the news?”
“Probably. It made kind of a mess,” Fenton admitted sheepishly.
“Oh, let’s watch! Will you tell me about it? That would be so cool!” Dewey turned pleading eyes on Fenton, knowing full well that he had yet to build up an immunity to the look.
“Ah – sure. We could do that. Do you mind if I just–?” Fenton gestured back to the fridge, and Dewey nodded.
“Oh, yeah, you should totally have the rest of the mac ‘n’ cheese; it’s really good. Uncle Donald won’t mind. Don’t even bother with a bowl, you can just reheat it in the Quackerware. I’m gonna turn on the TV!”
The muted beeps of the microwave buttons sounded behind Dewey as he fiddled with the remotes, and he wondered vaguely if Fenton visited often, if he was comfortable enough with the old microwave that he didn’t have to ask about it – it tended to baffle most people, but then Fenton was good with technology… the train of thought drove on without Dewey as the TV blinked to life. He didn’t have to worry about the sound; Uncle Donald had gotten into the habit long ago of turning the volume down before turning the TV off. Dewey suspected it was so Uncle Donald could turn the TV on if Dewey and his brothers were in bed but, whatever the reason, it suited Dewey’s purposes just fine for tonight.
Turning on the subtitles before flipping through channels, Dewey found the news just as Fenton joined him on the couch, Quackerware and fork in hand. “Oh, this looks like right about when I came in,” Fenton commented before digging into his meal.
Apparently, “Malacostraca” meant a crab – or a giant crab, in this case, which was supremely cool in Dewey’s book. He watched as the Gizmoduck onscreen flew around the crab, analyzing the situation before diving in, aiming for the joint of one of its front legs.
“So cool.” Dewey grinned. “Do you use the lasers on it?”
Fenton chewed quickly through the bite of macaroni he’d just taken before managing an answer. “Not– not that I’m not flattered, but why do you think this is so cool? Haven’t you fought sea monsters before?”
“Well, yeah, but not in a big superhero suit of armor.” Dewey shrugged.
“Well, I think that just makes you braver than me,” Fenton said, a faint smile on his face as he scooped up another forkful of macaroni and cheese.
Dewey grinned, unashamed to preen a little under the praise. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty great, but I’ve never fought a monster or a criminal or whatever just on my own. You’re out there with just you.” The screen lit up red, and Dewey turned back just in time to see Gizmoduck turn his finger gun lasers on the crab, causing it to rear up and, presumably, screech. “And with lasers! Man, I wish my fingers could shoot lasers.”
“Your uncle’s probably glad they don’t,” Fenton said wryly.
“Bah, Uncle Donald just doesn’t know what’s cool.” Dewey waved a hand dismissively.
The fight seemed to be going well, until the crab swung one massive claw and knocked Gizmoduck through the wall of a warehouse; Fenton flinched and looked down at the Quackerware container in his lap while Dewey winced in sympathy.
“This part isn’t as… uh,” Fenton glanced up at the screen in time to see himself take another hit, splintering the wood of a dock as he crashed into it, “exciting. It’s mostly just me getting knocked around.”
On the TV, the subtitles were running Roxanne Featherly’s less-than-complimentary commentary on the fight.
[Once again, Gizmoduck is here causing thousands of dollars in property damage, wrecking the city he claims to want to protect.]
“What?” Dewey squawked. “You are protecting the city! Doesn’t she get that the monster would do way more damage if you weren’t there to stop it?”
“Well, she’s not wrong,” Fenton shrugged, still staring down at his lap. “I need to better contain my fights, and do less damage in general. Mr. McDuck covers a lot of the cost, but…”
“But nothing! Don’t they even care that you’re out there putting your butt on the line?” Dewey frowned as Gizmoduck took another blow from the crab. “I mean, what if you got really hurt or whatever? Does that hurt?”
Fenton shrugged stiffly. “The suit takes most of the impact, really.”
It wasn’t quite an answer, but Dewey let it go, crossing his arms over his chest and turning back toward the TV. Gizmoduck had regained the upper hand, finding a weak spot on the crab’s underbelly and exploiting it for all he was worth.
[Finally, Gizmoduck begins to wrap up this disaster of an encounter,] the subtitles read, and Dewey huffed.
“I’d like to see her do better,” he muttered. “Fenton, do you–”
Dewey trailed off, his question forgotten when he looked back over at Fenton; the other duck was practically curled over the container in his lap, staring down and picking at it with his fork, avoiding both the TV and Dewey’s gaze.
It was difficult, sometimes, to reconcile the idea of Fenton—the friendly, dorky guy who was dating Uncle Donald, who sometimes cooked them awesome dinners, who built model rockets with Huey and talked about the mechanics of spy gear with Webby and watched soccer with Dewey and was occasionally unwittingly roped into Louie’s schemes—with the idea of Gizmoduck—the awesome, in-control, mecha-crimefighter who didn’t back down from anything. At times like this, though, Dewey could see how much it mattered – how much Fenton cared about what he did, and how much it bothered him that the media still painted him as a menace, no matter how hard he tried to help.
Watching himself get knocked around by a giant crab on TV less than an hour after it had actually happened probably wasn’t helping Fenton’s mood either, Dewey would admit.
“…do you ever watch late night infomercials?”
Fenton looked up from his congealing macaroni and cheese, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s actually pretty fun – especially when you have the sound turned down and make up what they’re saying,” Dewey said, grabbing the remote and flipping channels.
“Don’t you want to finish watching the fight?” Fenton asked.
“Nah, the news is bogus. Anyway, you obviously won – you’re sitting right here. Ooh,” Dewey stopped clicking through channels when he landed on an informercial for the Smack Mince, “this is a good one, let’s do this one.”
Though some of the tension had drained from Fenton once Dewey had changed the channel, he still seemed uncertain. “It’s 3:30 in the morning. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Eh,” Dewey shrugged, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“That’s… not really how it works,” Fenton chuckled, “but okay. Another half hour, then we’ll both go to bed.”
“Deal.” Dewey grinned, settling back against the couch cushions.
-/-/-
Donald hadn’t always been an early riser, but had become one over the years as a consequence of raising three kids and working jobs with odd hours. The houseboat was nearly always still sleepy and quiet when he got up, and this morning was no exception. He did note with some disappointment that his bed was occupied only by him – Fenton had never managed to stop by.
Wondering vaguely if it was work at the lab or work as Gizmoduck that had kept Fenton away (and considering that, at some point, he should really come clean that he’d figured Fenton for Gizmoduck in the first place), Donald slid out of bed and blearily began to pull the sheets into order. Sleeping in a bed again, versus the hammock he’d kept for so many years, was taking some getting used to, but a hammock didn’t easily fit two people; it hadn’t really been a hard decision to switch.
Waffles were on the menu that morning, Donald decided as he shuffled out into the main room of the houseboat. Eggs, too. Maybe bacon, if there was any in the fridge. The boys didn’t sleep over on the houseboat very often, and Donald usually went the extra mile for a good breakfast when they did.
(Besides that, waffles traveled pretty well, and Donald figured he could bring a plate to Fenton when he found out where he’d crashed.)
(Hopefully not literally.)
His attention was diverted on the way to the kitchen by a flicker of movement – it was the TV, Donald realized as he turned to look, playing some kind of infomercial.
“Did I leave that on?” He mumbled to himself, uncertain with half his brain still stubbornly asleep.
Only when Donald had rounded the couch, searching for the remote, did he realize what must have happened; Fenton was there, half leaning onto the arm of the couch and fast asleep. Beside him was Dewey, burrowed into Fenton’s side, the same way he always unconsciously cuddled up to anything warm in his sleep. Fenton’s arm was wrapped almost protectively around Dewey’s back, and Dewey was clutching a fistful of Fenton’s shirt as he snored softly.
Donald shook his head, unable to stop the spread of the fond smile on his beak as he pulled the forgotten throw from the back of the couch and tossed it gently over Fenton and Dewey; they were both going to wake up with such cricks in their necks.
He wondered if he would be able to grab his phone and snap a few pictures before they did.