Fic: Happily Ever After (Max/Louie)
Title: Happily Ever After
Fandom: Disney (Max/Louie)
Notes: mizzmarvel's prompt was "the morning after." I chose to take the high road. The sad, sad high road. This is the angstiest I will ever get in this 'verse. Luckily, it's not very. It takes place after the HoM episode where Max and Roxanne go on a date at the House.
The morning after Max’s date, Louie had planned on sleeping in. Like, all day. Planning wasn’t something that usually worked out in their house, though (a fact Dewey had been lamenting for years now), and he was woken before seven by the noise. This in itself was unusual, as Louie had grown adept at tuning out Uncle Donald’s early morning calamities, but the crashes and thuds and frustrated, unintelligible curses from downstairs had grown too loud to ignore.
When a particularly loud explosion caused the whole house to shake and Dewey to come tumbling out of his bunk, Louie gave up trying to go back to sleep. He climbed down the ladder from the top bunk, inadvertently stepping on a still-drowsy Huey.
“Sorry.”
“Mmrphtygrmbr.”
“Man, I am so reminding him of this the next time he complains about how loud we play our music,” Dewey grumbled, opening the trap door.
“Mmmbgl.” Huey was not a morning person.
They found Uncle Donald in the kitchen. It took some looking, however - the place was in such a mess that only after five solid minutes of searching did Dewey spy a tuft of white feathers sticking between the slats of a neatly folded lawn chair. He and Louie opened the chair up and Uncle Donald sprang out, swinging his fists and demanding that the lawn chair fight like a man.
“Uncle D, what are you doing?” Louie asked.
Uncle Donald cheered up immediately. It was a gift he had. “I’m taking Daisy on a picnic!” he announced. “I’ve been up since five cooking.” He gestured vaguely at the wreck of the kitchen. Batter of some unidentifiable sort covered the ceiling, and the blast mark where the toaster had once stood told Louie what that last explosion had been. A neat wicker basket with the edges of a gingham tablecloth poking out of it sat on the kitchen table.
“Glad we don’t have to eat it,” Dewey muttered. Huey nodded, curled up next to the basket, and promptly fell back asleep. Louie took the seat beside him and watched with vague interest as Uncle Donald attempted to refold the lawn chair, which, in the manner of all inanimate objects where his uncle was concerned, resisted strenuously.
There was the distant jangle of keys in the lock and the front door let out the squeak it’d had ever since the fourteenth time it’d been knocked off its hinges; then Daisy called out “Hello? Anyone home?”
“We’re in the kitchen, Aunt Daisy,” Louie called back.
Daisy sauntered in, dressed to the nines in gingham, with an enormous matching bow perched on top of her head. She beamed at the boys, and was about to say something when her gaze fell on Uncle Donald. Immediately she assumed an expression Louie was by now very familiar with: concern battling with amusement.
He looked over at Uncle Donald as well and discovered that his uncle had somehow managed to swallow the lawn chair, which persisted in staying open despite this, so that Uncle Donald now resembled a very comfortable, very angry piece of furniture.
“Oh, Donald,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “Stop fooling around, would you? It’s getting late, and we’ve got a long drive.”
Uncle Donald turned scarlet. Louie wondered, as he always did, whether Daisy was really as oblivious as she seemed, or if she just enjoyed baiting Uncle Donald. It was a toss-up, really.
Uncle Donald squawked angrily and bounced up and down until the lawn chair flew out of his mouth and across the kitchen. Daisy caught it and it folded itself docilely under her hands. Uncle Donald shouted angrily at the sudden good behavior of the lawn chair, but Daisy ignored him and walked to the table to peer into the picnic basket.
“Why, Donald!” she exclaimed. “This is wonderful!”
Uncle Donald’s scowl disappeared instantly. “Anything for you, toots!” he told her magnanimously. He scooped the basket up on one arm and Daisy took the other, and they headed for the door.
“See ya, sprouts!” Uncle Donald called over his shoulder as they headed out. “Don’t wait up!”
“It’s seven a.m.,” Dewy pointed out, over a particularly loud snore from Huey. Uncle Donald wasn’t listening, though - Daisy was snuggled up next to him, her giant bow tickling his beak, and just before the front door closed behind them Louie could see Uncle Donald’s tail start to wag.
Louie rested his head on his folded arms and stared at the wreckage of the kitchen. When they’d gotten old enough to think about it critically, the triplets had been rather perplexed by the relationship between Daisy and Uncle Donald. After all, Daisy was a beautiful, successful, confident woman who could have any man she wanted, and Uncle Donald…Uncle Donald couldn’t make tuna salad without destroying the house.
Their inevitable conclusion had been, in Huey’s words: “Love is bogus.” Louie had yet to see evidence to the contrary.
It didn’t make a lick of sense, but Uncle Donald and Daisy had been together for longer than Louie could remember, apparently content in their bogusity. And every night at the House he saw couples everywhere: Mickey and Minnie in their matching outfits, princes slipping him song requests for their princesses, Lady and the Tramp and that damn spaghetti. His world was full of cuddling, cooing, impossibly happy couples.
Max and Roxanne were one of those couples, really. Great hair, shared adolescence, the same species…they would go on to have perfectly-coiffed babies with perfect little moles and perfect little buck teeth and perfect little perfectness, and why not? There were plenty of Happily Ever Afters to go around. Most people got them.
And those who didn’t?
Well, Louie reflected as he got out the broom and the dustpan and began to sweep up the remnants of the toaster, someone had to clean up the mess.
Poor Louie. Let's lighten the mood, shall we?
poisonivory: "After all, Daisy was a beautiful, successful, confident woman who could have any man she wanted, and Uncle Donald…Uncle Donald couldn’t make egg salad without destroying the house."
mizzmarvel: Egg sandwich? No, Donald!
poisonivory: Hmmm. Good call.
poisonivory: Not that they don't indulge in borderline cannabalism constantly, but still
poisonivory: *changes to tuna*
poisonivory: A duck "making egg salad" sound like a euphemism anyway
mizzmarvel: Oh God
mizzmarvel: *dies inside*
poisonivory: Although as we've seen, Donald and Daisy destroy the house when they "make egg salad"
poisonivory: Or "jitterbug," as the kids call it
mizzmarvel: Yikes.
mizzmarvel: YIKES.
Fandom: Disney (Max/Louie)
Notes: mizzmarvel's prompt was "the morning after." I chose to take the high road. The sad, sad high road. This is the angstiest I will ever get in this 'verse. Luckily, it's not very. It takes place after the HoM episode where Max and Roxanne go on a date at the House.
The morning after Max’s date, Louie had planned on sleeping in. Like, all day. Planning wasn’t something that usually worked out in their house, though (a fact Dewey had been lamenting for years now), and he was woken before seven by the noise. This in itself was unusual, as Louie had grown adept at tuning out Uncle Donald’s early morning calamities, but the crashes and thuds and frustrated, unintelligible curses from downstairs had grown too loud to ignore.
When a particularly loud explosion caused the whole house to shake and Dewey to come tumbling out of his bunk, Louie gave up trying to go back to sleep. He climbed down the ladder from the top bunk, inadvertently stepping on a still-drowsy Huey.
“Sorry.”
“Mmrphtygrmbr.”
“Man, I am so reminding him of this the next time he complains about how loud we play our music,” Dewey grumbled, opening the trap door.
“Mmmbgl.” Huey was not a morning person.
They found Uncle Donald in the kitchen. It took some looking, however - the place was in such a mess that only after five solid minutes of searching did Dewey spy a tuft of white feathers sticking between the slats of a neatly folded lawn chair. He and Louie opened the chair up and Uncle Donald sprang out, swinging his fists and demanding that the lawn chair fight like a man.
“Uncle D, what are you doing?” Louie asked.
Uncle Donald cheered up immediately. It was a gift he had. “I’m taking Daisy on a picnic!” he announced. “I’ve been up since five cooking.” He gestured vaguely at the wreck of the kitchen. Batter of some unidentifiable sort covered the ceiling, and the blast mark where the toaster had once stood told Louie what that last explosion had been. A neat wicker basket with the edges of a gingham tablecloth poking out of it sat on the kitchen table.
“Glad we don’t have to eat it,” Dewey muttered. Huey nodded, curled up next to the basket, and promptly fell back asleep. Louie took the seat beside him and watched with vague interest as Uncle Donald attempted to refold the lawn chair, which, in the manner of all inanimate objects where his uncle was concerned, resisted strenuously.
There was the distant jangle of keys in the lock and the front door let out the squeak it’d had ever since the fourteenth time it’d been knocked off its hinges; then Daisy called out “Hello? Anyone home?”
“We’re in the kitchen, Aunt Daisy,” Louie called back.
Daisy sauntered in, dressed to the nines in gingham, with an enormous matching bow perched on top of her head. She beamed at the boys, and was about to say something when her gaze fell on Uncle Donald. Immediately she assumed an expression Louie was by now very familiar with: concern battling with amusement.
He looked over at Uncle Donald as well and discovered that his uncle had somehow managed to swallow the lawn chair, which persisted in staying open despite this, so that Uncle Donald now resembled a very comfortable, very angry piece of furniture.
“Oh, Donald,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “Stop fooling around, would you? It’s getting late, and we’ve got a long drive.”
Uncle Donald turned scarlet. Louie wondered, as he always did, whether Daisy was really as oblivious as she seemed, or if she just enjoyed baiting Uncle Donald. It was a toss-up, really.
Uncle Donald squawked angrily and bounced up and down until the lawn chair flew out of his mouth and across the kitchen. Daisy caught it and it folded itself docilely under her hands. Uncle Donald shouted angrily at the sudden good behavior of the lawn chair, but Daisy ignored him and walked to the table to peer into the picnic basket.
“Why, Donald!” she exclaimed. “This is wonderful!”
Uncle Donald’s scowl disappeared instantly. “Anything for you, toots!” he told her magnanimously. He scooped the basket up on one arm and Daisy took the other, and they headed for the door.
“See ya, sprouts!” Uncle Donald called over his shoulder as they headed out. “Don’t wait up!”
“It’s seven a.m.,” Dewy pointed out, over a particularly loud snore from Huey. Uncle Donald wasn’t listening, though - Daisy was snuggled up next to him, her giant bow tickling his beak, and just before the front door closed behind them Louie could see Uncle Donald’s tail start to wag.
Louie rested his head on his folded arms and stared at the wreckage of the kitchen. When they’d gotten old enough to think about it critically, the triplets had been rather perplexed by the relationship between Daisy and Uncle Donald. After all, Daisy was a beautiful, successful, confident woman who could have any man she wanted, and Uncle Donald…Uncle Donald couldn’t make tuna salad without destroying the house.
Their inevitable conclusion had been, in Huey’s words: “Love is bogus.” Louie had yet to see evidence to the contrary.
It didn’t make a lick of sense, but Uncle Donald and Daisy had been together for longer than Louie could remember, apparently content in their bogusity. And every night at the House he saw couples everywhere: Mickey and Minnie in their matching outfits, princes slipping him song requests for their princesses, Lady and the Tramp and that damn spaghetti. His world was full of cuddling, cooing, impossibly happy couples.
Max and Roxanne were one of those couples, really. Great hair, shared adolescence, the same species…they would go on to have perfectly-coiffed babies with perfect little moles and perfect little buck teeth and perfect little perfectness, and why not? There were plenty of Happily Ever Afters to go around. Most people got them.
And those who didn’t?
Well, Louie reflected as he got out the broom and the dustpan and began to sweep up the remnants of the toaster, someone had to clean up the mess.
Poor Louie. Let's lighten the mood, shall we?
poisonivory: "After all, Daisy was a beautiful, successful, confident woman who could have any man she wanted, and Uncle Donald…Uncle Donald couldn’t make egg salad without destroying the house."
mizzmarvel: Egg sandwich? No, Donald!
poisonivory: Hmmm. Good call.
poisonivory: Not that they don't indulge in borderline cannabalism constantly, but still
poisonivory: *changes to tuna*
poisonivory: A duck "making egg salad" sound like a euphemism anyway
mizzmarvel: Oh God
mizzmarvel: *dies inside*
poisonivory: Although as we've seen, Donald and Daisy destroy the house when they "make egg salad"
poisonivory: Or "jitterbug," as the kids call it
mizzmarvel: Yikes.
mizzmarvel: YIKES.