Three Cursed Caballeros
Based off of @bamboozledeagle‘s Cursed Cabs AU. It’s based around the idea of See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, but each cab is cursed to lose one of those things.
It was Panchito’s screaming that jerked him awake. Donald jolted into an automatic upright position, heart beating rapidly as he blinked furiously, trying to adjust the dense darkness that had decended on them. For the moment, nothing mattered than finding Panchito and helping him. His entire body ached, as if he let the triplets and Webby use his body as a trampoline, and he doesn’t remember having such an awful migraine since… he can’t remember its been that long. It feels like an atomic bomb just went off in his brain though, it was that bad. But before Donald could shout for Panchito, he was bombarded from the left. His entire body, restricted by Panchito’s arms, and it was only because Panchito was screaming in his ear that Donald relaxed instead of fight.
Except, Panchito wasn’t making any sense. Donald could make out bits of words, mainly his name and the words hear and okay. But Panchito’s voice was so loud, so high pitch, and so panicked, that Donald was struggling to understand.
“Panchito! Panchito! Slow down! I’m fine I’m fine!”
But Panchito pulled Donald into a tighter embrace, making the duck yelp in pain. It had finally caught up to him how much pain he was in. Panchito’s yelling got louder and more panicked. Donald couldn’t follow anything that Panchito was saying and squirmed uncomfortably in Panchito’s grip. Donald tried to shout over Panchito, as loud as he could.
“Panchito! Panchito I’m fine! What’s wrong? Where’s ‘Ze? Where’s-”
Before Donald can finish though, a hand firmly sets itself on Donald’s shoulders. Panchito finally stops screaming, and his grip on Donald slacks considerably. It doesn’t feel like his ribs are going to break into a million different pieces now. Which is nice. But Donald can’t help but shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, fiddling absentmindedly with his hands as he waits for someone to start talking. A silence has enveloped over the three of them, and Donald doesn’t understand why. Why was Panchito screaming? Why is no one saying anything?
“What’s going on?” He demands, arms swinging up in outrage even though no one will likely see them in this darkness. The back of his hand smacks a short, curved beak and Donald immediately pulls his arms tightly to his side, “Sorry!”
But he’s met with more silence, and it the fuse to his temper is starting to fire up. Why aren’t they answering him? This isn’t funny! He can hardly see them and for all he knows they could be badly hurt. Why won’t they answer him. He pulls his knees to his chest and his feet start bouncing on the floor, hands shaking at his sides as he balls them up angrily into fists. He can’t help the frustrated growl rumbling deep in his throat as he waits. Why won’t they answer him? Why won’t they say anything? He can feel the rush of heat flooding his face and-
-and then suddenly someone grabs his wrist and gently coaxes his hand to open. Donald pulls back, too angry about the sudden silent treatment he is getting to want to play along with whatever nonsense Panchito and Jose are up to. He wants them to tell them what happened. He wants them to tell him they’re okay! Because what if they’re hurt? What if they’re really hurt? That thought just runs in circles in his head and he knows he shouldn’t get angry if that’s the case but… but what if they are hurt and need him? He can’t do anything if they don’t at least tell him what’s wrong. He can’t help them if they don’t tell him.
Something starts to tickle him across the palm and he tries to jerk his arm away again, but the grip on his arm is steel tight. He waves his hand, trying to bat them away. But all he’s hitting is air. The tickling sensation continues for a second, before suddenly a hand is forcing his open hand to close around a finger and open again. He stops moving, feeling the soft tickle of the finger as it skims the surface of his hand. His eyes widen in partial understanding on what they are doing. But not why.
“Why won’t you just say something?” Donald pleads, “Talk to me! Please!”
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