Chapter Text
Despite living there her whole life; Gosalyn always preferred St. Canard at night than during the day. The city lights stood out more, the colors were deeper and more vibrant, like neon in a way. The city felt more alive, more lived in, more freeing in the cover of the night sky and silver moonlight. The sun was way too bright, too exposing, too many ways for others to notice her. To see her face.
She kept her purple hood up, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her green jacket with the calm slyness of someone who’s got too many secrets and too much “spirit”. Ugh. She hated that word sometimes.
Her grandfather used it to explain why she was passionate about obviously unjust things. Teachers would say it during meetings, all because she wanted respect. Taurus Bulba used it to talk about how interested she was in weapon mechanics, mainly her crossbow.
Drake never called her that. Reckless? Sure. But never Spirited. He understood what it was like to not be listened to at her age, both him and Launchpad did, and it was kinda sweet, in a way.
She adjusted the strap of her gear bag, her hockey stick poking out from it. Buried underneath her gear, her skates and her guards was her collapsible crossbow and a few rounds of bolts. Just in case. She was crime fighting alongside Darkwing Duck! You could never be too prepared!
Sure, no one knew her identity, but still!
The daytime made her too anxious, if she was honest. Sure the streets were rain slicked and the skies were dark with clouds, but it still felt too bright. Her red hair feathers showed even out of the hood, mainly her bangs, and she scowled at the obvious signs of her existence to the world.
She sighed, saw the skating rink in the distance, and chose to just go ahead and endure the exposure as she pushed open the door, feeling the rush of the ice cold air conditioning hit her face. She breathed in, feeling a little at ease as she moved towards the locker rooms they typically used during practice.
Finally, she tugged down her hood, fully exposing her red feathers and the choppy ponytail she typically pulled them into. Plopping her gear bag onto the bench beside her, she unzipped her green jacket and threw off her purple hoodie, showing the long sleeve purple shirt with her hockey number on it.
The rink was mostly empty this late at night—just the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the low hum of the cooling system beneath the ice. Her skates carved the surface with crisp, practiced precision, each push and turn slicing through the cold air like punctuation marks in a language only she spoke.
She didn’t need music. The rhythm was already in her head: the scrape, the glide, the sharp stop and pivot. The cold bit at her feathers and she welcomed it, something real and honest against the heat curling in her chest.
She was fine.
She was.
She skated faster.
Each lap blurred into the next, until she was nothing but motion—purple and green streaking against white. Her breath came in short bursts, fogging the air before vanishing like everything else that did.
She hated how quiet her brain got when she was out here. Because when the noise faded, the thoughts came creeping back in.
Drake’s worried frown when she stayed out too late.
Launchpad’s half-panicked, half-relieved grin when she walked through the door like nothing happened.
The way both of them hovered—awkward, protective, like they didn’t quite know what to be to her but couldn’t help trying anyway.
And she hated that it worked.
She didn’t want to think of them like that. Didn’t want that soft, dangerous word sitting in the back of her throat like a live grenade: Dad.
She had one of those already.
Once.
He’d left when she was seven. Didn’t even leave a note, just… gone. Her mom held everything together until she couldn’t, and Gosalyn learned real fast that “family” was a thing you had to fight to keep—and sometimes you still lost.
Then Grandpa disappeared too. Another mission, another experiment gone wrong, another dimension swallowing up the only family she had left.
Gee, thanks, Bulba. Real solid move.
Way to orphan your goddaughter and leave her with a duck in purple spandex.
She slammed the puck against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot across the empty rink.
“Not mad,” she muttered, even though she was. “Not mad, not mad, not—”
The next shot cracked against the boards so hard it bounced back toward her, and she let it. The impact rattled her stick, her shoulders, her bones, and somehow it still wasn’t enough.
She skated again, circling the rink faster this time, eyes stinging from the wind.
Drake would probably say she was overdoing it. LP would bring her a smoothie and tell her to “take a load off, kiddo.” Both would look at her like she was something fragile.
And that was the part that scared her most.
Because a part of her—one she didn’t want to name—liked that.
She caught the puck again, slower now, her chest heaving. Her reflection in the glass looked smaller than she expected. A blur of motion, exhaustion, and something she didn’t recognize staring back.
She didn’t know if it was relief or guilt that made her whisper,
“I don’t need another dad.”
Her voice cracked anyway.
The echo didn’t argue.
The sound of skates scraping against ice echoed through the empty rink—sharp, rhythmic, and just a little too aggressive. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered occasionally, making the whole place feel like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stay awake or shut down for the night. Gosalyn didn’t care. The rink was hers right now—hers and the biting cold, the puck clattering against the boards, and the ache in her legs that meant she didn’t have to think.
She sped up, slicing through the ice with brutal precision, her stick snapping forward in clean arcs. The puck slammed into the boards and rebounded—she caught it again, pivoted, swung harder. The noise cracked like thunder through the emptiness. Her breath came out in short, visible bursts. The burn in her chest felt good. Familiar. Easier than feelings.
She muttered under her breath, “Come on. Just one more.”
Then another. And another.
The next hit was so loud it rattled the glass.
“Gosalyn Waddlemeyer!”
Her whole body tensed at the sound of her full name—sharp, incredulous, parental.
“Seriously?” she groaned, spinning around to see Drake Mallard standing at the edge of the rink. No mask, no cape, no dramatic purple flourish—just a dad in a button-up shirt, sneakers, and that look. The one that meant busted.
He had his hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised, looking every bit the exasperated father trying to wrangle his feral daughter out of a caffeine-fueled meltdown.
“Please,” he said, gesturing wildly toward the ice. “Please stop trying to destroy city property! I don’t want to explain to the Parks Department why there’s a you-shaped hole in the boards again!”
Gosalyn scowled, pulling her stick close. “Ugh! Drake!”
“Don’t you ‘Ugh, Drake’ me, young lady! Do you know how many voicemails I’ve gotten from your coach this week?”
“…Two?”
“Five!” he snapped. “And three from your teachers, one from the principal, and one from Launchpad that just said ‘Oops, my bad.’”
She groaned loudly, dragging her skates along the ice as she glided closer to him. “What’s he doing telling on me?! I thought LP was on my side!”
“He is! That’s the problem! You keep sending him to the parent meetings instead of me!”
Her eyes widened in mock offense. “Well maybe if you weren’t too busy with your double life,” she said, flapping one hand in air quotes, “you could actually go!”
Drake threw up his hands. “You’re lucky the teachers think he’s your uncle! Do you have any idea how confusing it is when he shows up and starts talking about how proud he is of your ‘crime-fighting potential’?”
Gosalyn barked a laugh. “What, he’s not wrong!”
“That’s not the point! They think we’re insane!”
“They’re not wrong either.”
He gave her a look. “Gosalyn.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Nerds. You and Launchpad are both total Darkwing Duck nerds. You realize that, right?”
Drake crossed his arms, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, I am not a nerd.”
“Drake, you literally have framed autographs from a fictional superhero.”
“Historical memorabilia!”
“You quote him during dinner!”
“His lines are iconic!”
“NERD!”
He sputtered for a second, then pointed dramatically. “I’m your guardian, you can’t call me a nerd!”
“Watch me!”
There was a pause—then, despite herself, she started to laugh. Loud, real, the kind of laugh that cracked through her tough exterior and echoed around the empty rink. Drake relaxed instantly, shoulders dropping as he smiled.
“Feel better?” he asked softly.
She stopped skating, standing there in the middle of the rink, her stick resting against her shoulder. For a moment, the anger melted away, replaced by something quieter—something that made her chest ache.
“Yeah,” she said finally, voice small but steady. “A little.”
He nodded, hands slipping into his pockets as he stepped closer to the barrier. “Good. Next time you need to blow off steam, maybe try a punching bag instead of city property, huh?”
She snorted. “No promises.”
“I’ll take it,” he said with a sigh, then smirked. “Come on, kiddo. Launchpad’s waiting in the car. He bought donuts.”
Her eyes flicked up, lips twitching. “Chocolate-glazed?”
“Obviously. He’s terrified of disappointing you.”
She grinned and started skating toward the exit, slowing down just long enough to glance at him. “Hey, Drake?”
“Yeah?”
“…You’re still a nerd.”
He let out a long, resigned sigh. “Yeah. I know.”
She laughed again—lighter this time—as she stepped off the ice, her skates clicking against the tile. Drake held the door open for her, shaking his head, muttering something about “parenthood not being in the superhero manual.”
But the smile stayed.
Because for all her wild energy, sharp retorts, and “ugh, Drake” attitude—she was his kid. And honestly? He wouldn’t have her any other way.