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Chapter Text

Minnie and Baby Max sketch by @skullsemi (Thanks for allowing me to use your awesome drawings which inspired this series)

Disheveled and covered in a fine layer of cracker dust, Donald was on his hands and knees in his sister's living room, attempting to play peek-a-boo with three tiny, crawling tornados. The triplets, Huey, Dewey, and Louie, had recently mastered the art of mobility, and they were wielding their newfound power like a trio of tiny, feathered warlords.

“Peek-a-boo!” Donald yelped, popping out from behind the armchair.

In response, one of the triplets, it was hard to tell which, bit him on the ankle. Another grabbed a fistful of his tail and pulled, hard. The third launched a plastic rattle directly at his beak.

“Ow! Quit it! You little monsters!” Donald shrieked, scrambling backward on the floor. He tried to herd them toward a brightly colored playpen in the corner. “Come on, you little devils! It’s nap time! Huey! Dewey! Louie! Back to the crib!”

Just then, Della strolled into the room, a smirk playing on her face. “My sweet little angels, don't you just adore them, Donald?”

"Oh, yes, I adore them so much I wanna swat them!" Donald grumbled, trying to pry little Huey, or possibly Dewey, off his tail feathers.

She shook her head. "Get used to it, bro. This is the first babysitting gig of many."

"I don't plan on babysitting these monsters after tonight," Donald grumbled, finally prying one duckling from his tail only to have another immediately start biting his leg.

"You know, Mr. Duck and I are working on going to space one day," Della continued. "That means prolonged babysitting gigs, maybe one that will stretch to a year or two."

Donald stared at her, dumbfounded. He couldn't believe she had the confidence to think he'd actually house the three little devils in his brand new tiny house. He'd only just managed to get the house after landing a job as a deck swabber on a cargo ship.

She stooped down, cooing at the triplets. “Now, please go back to your crib. Mommy needs to get out tonight.”

The triplets responded by crawling away from her, launching themselves into a chaotic assault on the coffee table.

Della sighed, a glimmer of defeat in her eyes. “Endearing and energetic," she commented fondly.

“They're savages!” Donald yelled, trying to block a tiny fist from connecting with his face. “I swear, one of them just tried to take out my knees.”

“Children, that’s quite enough.” Mr. Duck stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. His calm, strong voice had its affect on his boys. The triplets froze as if sensing a higher authority. Mr. Duck walked over, scooped them up one by one with a decisive grace, and deposited them back into their crib, where they sat in stunned silence.

Panting on the floor, Donald pointed a finger at his sister. “I pity you,” he said, his voice full of mock sympathy. “You’re going to have to raise these little devils until they’re old enough to vote.”

Della gave him a sly smile. “I pity you more. You’re going to help Mom supervise the family reunion this year.”

Donald’s face went whiter than it already was. The image of his mother, Hortense, brandishing a spatula and a list of demands, flashed in his mind.

“Say what you want about these devils,” Della continued, gesturing to her now-contained children. “But at least they got me off the hook.”

Mr. Duck walked over to them, a concerned expression on his face. “So, how’s your friend Goofy doing?” he asked.

Donald’s face fell. “He’s still staying at Minnie’s with little Maxie.”

Della’s expression softened. “He still didn’t go back home?”

Several months had passed since Penny died in childbirth. At first, Goofy had put on a brave face, taking on the roles of both mother and father for his newborn son, Max. They all had pitched in to help, especially Minnie, but he refused their offers, too scared to let his little boy out of his sight. But the mask of strength had shattered. Following that awful day in the courtroom, Goofy had become a different man. He stopped going home, refused to lift a finger, and wouldn't even look at his son. All he did now was lie down and mope.

Donald remembered the courtroom vividly. Penny's older sister, Carol, had hired an expensive lawyer to demand custody of Max. Carol also sought to reclaim the house, which had been originally hers but given to Penny. She would have won seeing as Goofy was a jobless man with no degree. She had deemed him unfit to raise a child.

But, Minnie, acting as Goofy's lawyer, had dismantled Carol's arguments piece by piece. More than that, Minnie had secured Goofy a new job as a groundskeeper at a local high school, a position that paid decently. With a stable job and a legal genius on his side, Minnie hadn't just secured Goofy full custody of Max, she had also protected his right to the house.

Donald looked at the now-quiet children in the crib. "Maybe Goofy just… can’t go back. Not to that house, knowing that Penny won’t be there."

~*~*~*~*~

With her kitchen buzzing with the sound of a boiling kettle, Minnie was making a bottle for a hungry Max. "How's it going in there?" she called out to the living room.

From the other room, a muffled, exasperated cry returned her call. "You know, Minnie, we could have switched duties! I think I'd be much better at boiling water than..." A high-pitched yelp cut him off, followed by a frantic rustling sound. "Aah! Minnie! Max peed on me!"

Minnie strode out of the kitchen, a freshly prepared bottle in her hand, a wide grin on her face.

Mickey was holding a wriggling Maxie at arm's length, a wet stain spreading across his shirt. His eyes, wide with panic, met hers. "Tag, you're it!" he yelled, thrusting the baby into her arms and sprinting toward the bathroom.

Laughing, Minnie finished putting on Max's clean diaper with practiced ease. She settled onto the couch, cradling him in one arm and offering him the bottle. "Oh, my sweet little Maxie," she cooed, "Minnie knows you didn't mean it."

A few minutes later, Mickey emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, with a towel draped over his shoulders. He pointed a finger at the child. "I swear, he hates my guts."

Minnie couldn't stifle her laugh, her shoulders shaking. "Don't be silly, Mickey. He's just a baby."

"A baby who has now peed on me three times this week," he retorted. "Why doesn't his dad change him once in a while?"

The joke fell flat, and the living room went quiet. Both of their gazes drifted to the staircase, where Goofy was holed up in Minnie's guest room. The silence from upstairs was a heavy, suffocating blanket.

Minnie sighed, her smile fading. "He's just been like that ever since the final day in the courtroom." Her voice softened. "Carol was really..."

"A bitch?" Mickey offered.

"Well, yes," Minnie conceded. "The audacity to blame him for her sister's death was just… beyond the pale."

"Poor Goofy," Mickey said, a genuine sadness in his voice. "I hope he snaps out of his slump and goes back to his house soon."

Minnie placed the empty bottle on the coffee table and began to gently pat Max's back. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I kind of love having them here."

Mickey smirked at her. "You just love playing mom."

Minnie hugged Max close. "He's so cute," she said, burying her face in the baby's soft hair. Max let out a loud, not-so-cute burp.

"You can say that again," Mickey said with a grimace, and then the phone on the end table rang, startling them both.

Minnie handed Max to Mickey and reached for the receiver. "Hello?" she said.

"Minnie, it's Jim. I have a case for you. A big one."

"Oh, hello, Mr. McRetriever. What is it?"

"The Phantom Blot. He's been charged with murder." Jim's voice was low and serious. "He is offering a very large sum of money. A ridiculously large sum. He wants you to defend him."

Minnie’s eyes widened, and a look of deep worry crossed her face. "But, Mr. McRetriever, I've followed that case. I've read all the police reports. I think he's guilty."

"Guilty or not, this is our chance, Minnie," Jim said, his voice taking on a hard edge. "This is a career-defining case for you. It will put us on the map. He wants you to represent him, and the arraignment is on the first of April."

Minnie was silent, her hand gripping the receiver tightly. She knew it was a crucial opportunity, but her conscience was telling her to run in the opposite direction. "I… I understand," she finally said.

"Good. Don't worry about the ethics, that's not what we get paid for," Jim said dismissively. "The check clears on Monday. Good luck." He hung up.

Minnie slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle, her hand trembling slightly.

"What's wrong?" Mickey asked, his voice soft. He was sitting on the couch, bouncing a now-sleeping Max in his arms.

Minnie looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and excitement. "Mr. McRetriever wants me to defend the Phantom Blot. On a murder charge."

"That monster?" Mickey said, his own face clouding over. "You don't have to do that, Minnie."

"He said I have to. He said this is the case that will make my career. But I think he's guilty, Mickey. I don't know how I can defend a murderer."

Mickey looked down at the tiny, sleeping baby in his arms. He kissed Max's forehead gently. "You shouldn't go alone," he said, looking up at Minnie with a determined look on his face. "I'll come with you and help you."

Minnie's heart swelled. She didn't have the heart to refuse Mickey's help, knowing his recent career struggles had left him feeling insecure. But if Mickey accompanied her, a bigger issue arose. She glanced at the sleeping baby in his arms. "What about Goofy and Max?" she asked.

Chapter Text

A loud chuckle erupted from the center of the plush floral rug in Minnie's living room, where Donald had a a tiny, gurgling Max perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like a magnificent flying machine, Donald soared through the open space, his pace a carefully controlled slow trot to accommodate his precious cargo. Max let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, mimicking the sound of a prop plane in a nosedive.

"Here we go, my little co-pilot!" Donald shouted, his voice a playful trumpet of enthusiasm. "We're coming in for a landing! Right here on the sofa!"

Giggling uncontrollably, Max reached up with both tiny hands and playfully tugged on the tuft of feathers atop Donald's head. The sudden, sharp pull elicited a mock yelp from the pilot, followed by an even louder laugh. The small passenger, now firmly in control of the vessel, began to climb, his chubby knees finding purchase on Donald's neck and shoulders. Soon, he was a king on his feathered throne. Loyal Subject Donald held Max's hands and once more began to move, a wide grin plastered across his face.

From her spot on a nearby armchair, Daisy observed them, her attention only partially diverted from the documents fanned out on her lap. Her sharp eyes scanned the intricate text as she made a few quick notations with an elegant pen. She glanced up with a faint smile playing on her lips. "You're actually very good with children, Donald," she offered a casual observation.

The flying machine came to an abrupt halt, and Donald turned to face her. "And you're the opposite," he announced with a playful smirk.

Daisy let out a sigh and dropped her pen onto the papers. "It's true, I don't know what it is. That baby despises me. Every single time I attempt to hold him, he just starts to cry."

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Donald carefully unseated Max from his perch and held the small bundle out toward her. "Well, let's put that little hypothesis to the test, shall we?" 

Daisy recoiled, her face contorting into a mask of pure revulsion. She waved a dismissive hand. "Don't even think about it. I'm occupied at this moment, thank you very much."

As if on cue, Max leaned forward. His small hand shot out and fastened upon Daisy's purple bow. With a firm yank, he tore the bow from her head.

A sharp cry of indignation escaped Daisy's lips. "My bow!" she yelped.

Donald threw his head back and unleashed a roar of laughter. Max joined in the mirth with a series of delightful, high-pitched giggles. Donald swung Max into his arms and started running, while Daisy launched herself from the armchair and pursued them. The duo dodged behind a sofa, under an end table, and then around the large, circular coffee table.

Just as the pursuit reached a frantic peak, the kitchen door swung open, and Minnie emerged, followed closely by Mickey. "Alright, alright, you three," she declared. "Enough of the games. Let's settle down and talk."

Donald stopped at once. Seizing the opportunity, Daisy lunged forward and snatched her now-crumbled bow from Max's tiny fingers. The victory was short-lived as the baby began to wail.

Donald moved to comfort the distressed infant, rocking him gently in his arms and cooing softly. "Aw, little fella," he murmured, his voice thick with exaggerated sympathy. "Did that mean old Aunt Daisy hurt your feelings?"

Daisy responded with a swift, sharp jab to Donald's upper arm.

Minnie moved swiftly to intervene, taking the now-sobbing Max from Donald's grasp. With a gentle sway and a few soft, calming words, she quickly soothed the little boy. A moment later, peace was restored. The group, a weary ensemble of four adults and one quiet baby, took their seats around the coffee table.

"Okay, so," Minnie began, her demeanor now shifting to a tone of serious business. "Mickey and I are heading to New York for the case. We leave tomorrow morning, right around midday. That means Goofy and Max will need a new place to stay tomorrow."

Still smoothing the wrinkles out of her bow, Daisy grimaced. "I had a strong feeling that this lunch was not purely for social purposes," she muttered.

Donald shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't mind having them, but I'm helping my short-fused mom with the five-year family reunion after tomorrow. And you know," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, "my family has some very firm opinions about having outsiders attend."

Daisy's entire body gave a full-body shudder. In the last reunion, the Duck family had made it abundantly clear that she, a mere girlfriend, was a tolerable but unwelcome presence.

Minnie's gaze then settled on Daisy. "So, you'll take them, then?" she inquired, sounding hopeful.

Daisy fiercely shook her head. "Oh, no, my dear. I can't. My newspaper has specifically requested that I cover the trial in New York. I'll be traveling with you two."

"Well, Donald," Mickey said, "it seems the responsibility has fallen on your shoulders."

With a look of abject horror on his face, Donald sprang to his feet. "Wait, wait, wait. I have a perfectly logical and simple solution to this entire dilemma. Why doesn't Goofy return to his own house with his son?"

Mickey stared at him, a knowing disappointment in his eyes. "You haven't gone upstairs yet, have you?" he asked.

"Why don't you both go and invite Goofy down for lunch?" Minnie said, her expression mirroring her boyfriend's. "Mickey and I will get the table prepared."

She placed a gurgling Max, who was happily playing with a napkin, into Daisy's arms. Daisy received him as if he were a live grenade with a pulled pin. She held him at a careful distance, her fingers barely touching the fabric of his onesie. She and Donald exchanged a long, meaningful look of complete fright. 

Their journey upstairs took a minute of dreaded hesitation. Daisy shuddered with silent disgust as the baby's slobbering mouth left a growing, damp stain on her pink blouse. Walking a respectful two paces behind, Donald looked at the closed guest room door with an expression of profound apprehension. It was slightly ajar, and a low, mournful sound seeped out.

Daisy nudged the door open with her foot, and a wave of cool, stale air washed over them. The room was shrouded in a heavy twilight. The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a single, dusty lamp in the corner. Goofy was a motionless mound under a comforter in the middle of the bed. The low groans sent shudders down their spines.

Disgusted by the baby's persistent slobbering, Daisy reached for a teddy bear on a nearby nightstand, and she quickly swapped her blouse for its ear. Max happily took to the new toy, and Daisy let out a small sigh of relief.

"Hey, buddy?" Donald said, approaching the bed with hesitant steps. "Minnie and Mickey made lunch. You should come downstairs and eat."

The mound on the bed didn't stir, but the groaning didn't stop.

"Yeah, come on, Goofy," Daisy chimed in, her voice strained and a little too cheerful. "We've got... uh... pasta! And it smells really good."

Still, nothing. Goofy remained a featureless, unmoving form.

"We brought Maxie," Donald tried, gesturing to Max, who was now contentedly gnawing on the teddy bear's ear. "Look at him. He wants to see his dada."

They moved closer to the bed, holding Max out like a peace offering. Max wiggled his chubby arms and gave a tiny, happy squeal. Goofy's head, slowly, almost reluctantly, turned on the pillow. He gave his son a brief, fleeting glance and then his eyes drifted back to the wall.

Donald looked at Daisy. "He wasn't like this," he whispered. "The sight of Max used to make him light up."

Daisy nodded. "I know. I remember he wouldn't even let us help out. He'd do everything for Max himself and barely let us hold him."

"Don't talk about me like I ain't in the room," Goofy suddenly snapped.

Donald and Daisy flinched, startled, and Daisy instinctively tightened her grip on Max. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance before Donald, with a new caution in his step, approached the mound of blankets on the bed. "We just think you should eat," he whispered. "You've been up here all day."

A muffled sound came from the bed. "Not hungry."

"But it's Minnie's famous pasta!" Daisy insisted, trying to use an encouraging tone. "And you know how she feels when you don't try her food."

The blanket shifted violently. Goofy's head emerged, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "I said I'm not hungry!" he snapped, his voice cracking with frustration and pain. The sheer force of his outburst startled them both.

At that moment, Max's face crumpled. His bottom lip quivered, and he let out a loud, heartbroken wail. His tiny body started shaking with each sob in Daisy's arms.

Goofy's angry expression instantly melted into concern. His eyes darted to Max, and the anger drained completely from his face, replaced by an expression of pure agony. Then with a swift, jerky movement, he pulled the covers back over his head, retreating from the world once more.

Donald and Daisy looked at each other over the baby's head. Silently, Donald reached out a hand and touched Daisy's arm. Without a word, they turned and walked out of the dark room, carrying the still-crying Max with them.

~*~*~*~*~

Later at night, Minnie sat on the edge of the bed in her guest room. A lone lamp cast a soft glow across the room, illuminating the still form of Goofy, who was lying motionless on top of the comforter. "I hate to do this, Goofy," she said, her voice soft and full of compassion. "But Mickey and I are traveling to New York tomorrow. We have to go for my new case." She paused, letting the information sink in. "That means you and Max will be staying with Donald."

Goofy slowly pushed himself up, his movements heavy and labored. He sat on the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on the carpet. "Gawrsh, Minnie, I'm sorry for kinda dumping myself and Max on ya'll," he murmured. 

Minnie reached out and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't you ever say that. You and Max are always welcome here. I love having you both around." Her voice held a maternal warmth. "I just... I want to see you get well, Goofy."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know why, Minnie. I just can't bring myself to get out of this bed. Feels like all my bones is plumb poured full of cast iron."

Minnie gently squeezed his arm. "It's a long road, but it will get easier. I promise."

Just then, a faint, muffled cry came from down the hall. "That's Max," Minnie said, her head lifting. "Let's go see him."

Goofy let out a deep, chest-heaving sigh that a mix of exhaustion and reluctance. "No, no," he said, shaking his head. "I'm too tuckered out." He pulled himself back under the covers and turned away from her, seeking the solace of the darkness once more.

Minnie's expression faltered between disappointment and sorrow. She held her gaze on his silent form for a moment longer until the cry from the other room intensified. She jumped up and rushed to her room, where Max's small crib stood. She scooped him up and began to shush him softly, her mind wandering back in time.

She remembered when Max was a newborn. Goofy had been a different man then. He'd never let his son out of his sight, doing everything for Max himself with a kind of fierce, protective devotion. The sight of Max used to make his entire face light up.

The light in Goofy’s eyes had gone out the day after the courtroom showdown. That cold-eyed woman, Carol, had verbally torn him apart, blaming him for her sister’s death. Minnie remembered standing in his living room just months ago, practically begging him to take a shower while she cared for a screaming Max. He was a completely different man now, and she had no idea how to help the stranger he had become.

Click here to see the scene from months ago between Minnie, Goofy and Newborn Max drawn by Skullsemi 

Chapter Text

Donald's house was, to put it mildly, cozy. Downstairs, a tiny living room, kitchen, and the sole bathroom were shoehorned into a single, snug space. A steep staircase was the only way to reach the upper floor, which consisted of a bedroom and a small storage room. Goofy sat on the couch, a slump-shouldered monument to melancholy, staring blankly at a muted television screen. He looked like a man who had lost the remote control to his life.

Arms crossed, Donald paced in front of him. "I know Minnie coddled you," he started. "But none of that's gonna apply here. I need you to work with me, understand?"

Without moving his head, Goofy gave a wary flick of his ears. "Right."

Donald kept pacing. "And since I only have one bedroom, you're gonna sleep right here on this couch."

"Right."

"And Max's crib," Donald continued, gesturing to a small, wooden crib in the corner of the room, "is staying right there. In the living room. NOT in my room. I know you were leaving all the Max duties to Minnie, but that's not how we're gonna do things here." Donald stopped pacing and stomped his foot. "We're a team! Got it?"

Goofy's eyes, still fixed on the blank TV, didn't even flicker. "Right."

Donald took a deep breath, trying to calm his already-frayed nerves. "Now, I gotta go help my 'Has a hair-trigger temper' mother with the family reunion preparations for tomorrow. Can I trust you to take care of Max while I'm gone?"

Goofy's head finally turned, indignation in his eyes. "Gawrsh, of course I can take care of him. He's my son!"

"Yeah?" Donald retorted. "Then where is he?"

Goofy blinked, the realization slowly dawning on his face. "I thought he was with you."

"If he was with me, I wouldn't have asked you, you nitwit!" Donald squawked, his voice rising a full octave.

Goofy sprang to his feet, a look of abject terror on his face. "You featherbrain! He can crawl now!" He began to frantically search the room, shouting, "Maxie! Where are ya, little fella?"

The two of them began a frantic search. Goofy lifted every pillow and peered under every piece of furniture, his long limbs flailing. Donald looked in cabinets and behind curtains, quacking with alarm. Then, Goofy's eyes shot to the staircase, and he let out a horrified shriek. "Look! He's a-running for the hills!"

Max was sitting at the very top of the stairs, a giggle bubbling from his mouth. He looked down at them, a small emperor on his throne of wood and carpet.

Donald and Goofy let out a combined, bloodcurdling cry.

In a moment of pure, panicked adrenaline, Goofy leaped toward the stairs, attempting to bound up all of them in a single, uncoordinated leap. At the same time, Donald, seeing a quicker path, scrambled up the banister like a deranged squirrel. They met at the top, their heads connected with a loud thud, and they both tumbled backward. They landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, dizzy and disoriented.

Max giggled even louder and began to crawl forward, ready to join the fun.

"Noooooo!" Goofy shouted, his voice a mix of terror and guttural desperation. He scrambled to his feet and lunged forward just in time to scoop Max up before he could tumble down the steps. The victory was short-lived, however, as Goofy fell backward, hitting his head against the bottom step with a sickening smack. Max bounced out of his arms but landed safely in Donald's surprised embrace.

Dazed and seeing stars, Goofy finally looked up from the bottom of the stairs, relief washing over his face as he saw his son, safe and sound.

Cradling Max and still breathing heavily, Donald stared at his friend. "Yeah, I'm not leaving you alone with him."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hortense Duck snapped the door open, a smear of bright red tomato paste adorning her cheek. She clutched a wooden spoon like a battle-worn general's baton and glared at her only son standing awkwardly at her doorstep. "Donald Duck! About time ye showed up!" Her sharp eyes quickly darted past her son to the figure standing hesitantly behind him with a baby in his arms. "And who's that long-faced fellow lookin' like he's swallowed a bagpipe full of sorrow?"

Donald shuffled his feet. "That's Goofy, Ma. You know him, one of my best pals."

Hortense squinted, peering at Goofy with a critical eye. "Uh-huh. And the wee bairn?"

"That's his son, little Maxie," Donald said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Look how cute he is!"

Hortense gave Max a cursory glance. "They're only truly adorable when they're sleeping soundly, mark me words." She then narrowed her gaze at Donald, her spoon now pointing at him like an accusing finger. "Don't tell me they'll be here tomorrow at the reunion, Donald. Have ye not learned yer lesson from that fiasco five years ago at Matilda's? Bringing that lassie of yours?"

"It's different this time, Ma!" Donald pleaded. "I need Goofy to… to handle the music. You know how much trouble we had with the DJ last time. He's gonna be in charge of the speakers and the whole shebang. He's got a good ear for tunes!"

Hortense's eyebrows shot up. "And the bairn?"

Donald grabbed his mother's arm, gently steering her further into the house and lowering his voice. "His wife passed away. He hasn't got anyone to watch his kid. Can't we just let him shackle up with Della's little monsters - I mean, angels? They'll keep each other busy, right?"

Hortense sighed, the fight seemingly draining out of her. "Och, alright then, ye soft-hearted fool. But those speakers better be louder than a banshee at a ceilidh!"

Donald snapped to attention, a silly grin spreading across his face. He gave his mother a crisp salute. "Aye aye, Captain Duck! Consider it done! Operation Reunion Rock and Roll is a go!"

~*~*~*~*~

Mickey sat on a hard, plastic chair in a gray hallway of the police station. He had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, the silence only broken by the distant, muffled chatter of police officers. Finally, a stern-faced guard approached him. "You can see him now," he said flatly. "Follow me."

Mickey stood, his gaze sweeping the room for Minnie. This was a case that could define her career, and she was nowhere to be seen. "Just a minute," he said to the guard, who waited with an impatient sigh. He hurried to the window of a nearby office. There, on an officer's phone, was Minnie. Her face was pale, and she was gesturing wildly with one hand as she spoke.

"Minnie! What are you doing?" Mickey rushed into the room, exasperation clear in his voice. "We're about to meet the defendant! You have to talk to him!"

Minnie lowered the receiver, her eyes wide with panic. "Oh, Mickey! I'm calling Donald's house and no one is answering! What if something happened? What if Maxie cut his finger with a spork and now they've taken him to the hospital?"

Mickey stared at her for a beat. "Yeah, that's definitely possible." He reached out and gently but firmly took the phone from her hand, placing it back on its cradle. "Let's go, counselor. You can worry about spork injuries later." He took her by the arm and, with an insistent tug, steered her back out into the hallway. Both followed the guard toward the interrogation room.

The Phantom Blot sat on the opposite side of a metal table, his imposing black cloak and hood making him look like a shadowy ink stain come to life. Mickey placed a stack of documents on the table with a determined flourish. "Mr. Blot," he began, his voice firm and professional, "we're here to talk about the murder of Joseph Buquet."

The Blot stared back, looking nonchalant. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the name. I do not soil my hands with such messy affairs."

"The records show you're charged with his murder," Mickey interjected. "The document says you strangled him."

"Strangle? Tsk, tsk," the Blot said, a hint of disdain in his modulated voice. "Crude and unsophisticated. My work is far more elegant."

Mickey leaned forward. "Look, we've read the reports, we know your reputation. But we also found some of your old statements. They may help us win this case. You once claimed you were 'too tender' to directly kill anyone. Was that true?"

The Blot's shadowy form seemed to bristle. "Of course it was true! My genius lies in the art of the perfect crime, not in the vulgarity of brute force. And I have never, I repeat, never heard of a Joseph Buquet."

"Then why were you in the scene of the crime?" Mickey asked.

"I was nowhere near the scene of the crime. I was home with my precious daughter, trying out new cloaks." 

"Be honest with us, Blot," Mickey urged, lowering his voice. "We're your defense attorneys."

The Blot pointed a black-gloved finger at Minnie. "I thought she was my lawyer."

"Right," Mickey said, flustered. He nudged Minnie with his elbow. "Ask him."

Minnie cleared her throat. "Mr. Blot, you mentioned that you have a daughter?"

"Yes," he answered curtly. 

"When your daughter was about seven months old, were there any common household objects that made you take her to the hospital?" she asked, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes.

The Blot showed a flicker of surprise, his head cocking to the side. "Yes," he said, his voice softer. "The rattle. The poor thing almost swallowed the bell inside."

"Oh my goodness, I knew it!" Minnie said, her voice frantic. "And the teething rings, did you have to boil them every night? What about the… the little fingernail clippers, did you worry you'd snip a little toe?"

The Blot's voice was now full of paternal concern. "The clippers, yes. I had a whole set of schematics drawn up to invent a safer pair. And the bottles, the sterilizers! Such a tedious but necessary task."

"What about the car seat, did she hate it as much as Maxie hates his?"

"Car seat?" The Phantom Blot's voice took on a new, scoffing tone. "Please. I used to secure her with a specially braided, double-knotted hemp rope. She loathed it. Cried the whole way to the bank vaults. I mean, the grocery store. It was a nightmare."

"Minnie!" Mickey finally erupted, his face turning a deep crimson. "We're here to discuss the murder of Joseph Buquet!"

Minnie flinched, then looked at Mickey with an earnest expression. "Oh, right. I just… I can't discuss anything until I make sure Maxie is okay. Would you carry on, Mickey? I need to find a phone." She gave the Blot a reassuring smile. "Good luck with your case! I'll check in later."

With that, she scurried out of the room, leaving Mickey staring after her with his jaw on the floor and his eyes as wide as his ears.

~*~*~*~

Mickey walked out of the room, the click of the heavy door echoing in the bustling police station. He was still holding the stack of documents, his brow furrowed in concentration. He found Minnie at a police officer's desk, holding a phone to her ear and beaming. "Thank you, Clarabelle, you're a lifesaver!" she said, her voice full of relief. She hung up and turned to Mickey, her face alight with excitement.

"Good news, Mickey! Maxie is all right! I called Clarabelle, who went to check in on Donald's house, then Della's house, and then their mother's house. And Maxie is there at Mrs. Duck's house, safe and sound!"

Mickey stared at her for a beat. "That's... that's great," he said dismissively. He then gestured back toward the closed door. "What the heck happened in there?"

Minnie's smile wavered. "What do you mean?"

"You blew off your job, Minnie! You were supposed to hear from your client!"

"It's okay, you did it for me," she replied, shrugging.

"But you're the lawyer, I'm just here to help," Mickey insisted, throwing his hands up.

"And you helped," Minnie said, her tone a little sharper now. "What's the problem?"

Mickey lowered his voice, glancing at curious police officers. "Your head is not in the case. This is a serious murder trial."

"I just wanted to make sure Maxie is all right!" Minnie said, her voice rising slightly.

"You could have called after we were done, Minnie," Mickey said, his frustration growing. "Something's going on with you."

Minnie's eyes flashed with anger. "I'm fine! And there's nothing wrong with checking on your friends and their precious little baby boy! If you don't want to help, you can go home!"

Mickey sighed, running a hand over his face. "Don't worry, I'm in it for the long haul."

"Great," Minnie said, turning her attention to the documents. "Now, tell me, did he talk more about his little girl? She sounds adorable!"

Chapter Text

"April first," the editor of the Daily Chronicle grumbled, his voice a static-filled rasp over the phone. "A day for fools, and a day the Phantom Blot's trial goes live on TV. Everyone with a brain will be glued to their screens, watching every second. The judge, the jury, the witnesses, all of it. So tell me, Daisy, what's our angle? What's the story here that the cameras can't show? Our readers want something they can't already see on their boob tube."

Daisy's shoulders sagged. A live TV broadcast of a high-profile trial was a direct threat to the very soul of print journalism. "I'll get creative," she said. "I'll talk to the courthouse staff, maybe the janitors or the bailiffs. I'll get an exclusive photo from the courtroom sketch artist. Something they won't have."

She heard his dismissive scoff. "Sketch artist? Daisy, they'll have a live camera feed. Our readers will have already seen it. We need something juicy, something they can't show on the air. Something too sensitive for broadcast."

"You're right," she said, her frustration morphing into a sly, confident smile. "We need an inside scoop. We need to know what the lawyers are thinking, what the defendant is really like behind closed doors."

His sigh was heavy with a mix of exhaustion and hopelessness. "And how are you going to get that? You gonna pretend to be a lawyer?"

"No," Daisy said, her smile widening. "I'm going to talk to my best friend, Minnie Mouse. She's the lead defense lawyer on the case. I'm sure I can get some off-the-record information out of her."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mickey flopped onto the king-sized bed in his New York hotel room, a half-eaten club sandwich and a lukewarm cola sat precariously on the nightstand. He was exhausted, jet-lagged, and desperately trying to avoid any conversation about the upcoming legal battle.

A sharp knock on the door jolted him. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. "Minnie! Open up now!" Daisy's voice was muffled but insistent.

"Go away," he mumbled into the fabric.

The knocking grew louder, followed by a more demanding, "Minnie! Minnie! Minnie!"

Mickey screamed back, "This is NOT Minnie's room!"

"Oh, Mickey, you're in there," Daisy said, sounding far too pleased with herself. Mickey groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow. "Open the door, Mickey Mouse, if you know what's good for you."

With a weary sigh, Mickey dragged his feet to the door and opened it to an enthused Daisy. "We need to talk about the Blot," she said confidently.

Mickey shook his head and flung himself back onto the bed. "Nope. Not happening. Reasons? One: I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we left Mousetown. Two: This is a private lawyer-client matter that is not for the press. Three: You can watch the whole thing unfold tomorrow, or possibly days from now, as this trial is expected to go on for a while."

Daisy planted her hands on her hips, her expression a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "Where's Minnie then? My best friend wouldn't leave me hanging like this. She knows I need an exclusive!" She tapped her foot impatiently.

Mickey sighed dramatically, tossing the pillow aside. He pointed a thumb toward a closed, adjoining door. "Try next door. Last I saw, she was having a very intense conversation with a room service menu about the optimal temperature for baby formula."

Daisy marched over to the connecting door and slipped into Minnie's room. Her best friend was perched on the edge of her bed, a phone clutched to her ear. "Yes, Donald, that's right, just a tiny bit warmer. And make sure the little blankie with the stars is within arm's reach, in case he gets chilly... Oh! Put Maxie on the phone!" Her voice shifted into an even higher register, a symphony of coos and gurgles. "Oohgoo goo, my little sweetie pie! Yes, it's Minnie! Are you being a good little boy for Daddy and Uncle Donald? You're the bestest little widdle snuggle-puff in the whole wide world!"

Jaw clack, Daisy stood frozen in the doorway. Mickey, who had followed her in, leaned against the doorframe, a weary expression on his face. "She hasn't even glanced at the case file once," he whispered to Daisy. "All she cares about is Max."

As her journalistic instincts finally overrode her shock, Daisy snatched the phone from Minnie's ear. "Bye, Donald!" she said briskly, and hung up.

"Daisy! Why did you do that?" Minnie exclaimed, her baby voice vanishing instantly, replaced by a tone of indignation.

"Minnie, honey, about the case… you know, any little tidbit for the Chronicle? Something exclusive? Our readers are just dying for... behind-the-scenes... lawyerly insights?" She tried to sound casual, like she was just asking for the weather report.

Minnie frowned, reaching for the phone again. "Oh, I don't know, Daisy. Talk to Mickey." She quickly redialed. "Donald? It's Minnie again. Could you put Maxie back on the phone for just one little second?"

Daisy sighed. This was going to be harder than she thought. Exclusive information wasn't going to come easy with Minnie's current priorities. She'd have to find another way to get the inside track.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After a sleepless night of frantic investigation, Daisy Duck stood on the doorstep of a small, unassuming house, squinting at the name on the mailbox: "Foulfellow." She glanced at her watch; it was 9 a.m. Three hours until the trial began, and she was running on fumes and a half-cup of cold coffee. She needed to hurry.

She rang the bell. The door opened to reveal a short, old woman with a severe bun and an apron.

"I'm Daisy Duck, with the Daily Chronicle," Daisy announced, flashing her press badge. "I was hoping to speak with Mr. Blot's daughter."

The door opened wider, revealing a woman with a face as grim as the gray sky. "I'm Mrs. Fragmuffin, the housekeeper," she said in a flat tone, a hand already outstretched. "Thirty dollars for a picture."

Daisy's jaw dropped. "Thirty dollars?!"

"The price has gone up," Mrs. Fragmuffin said without a flicker of emotion. "You want the picture or not?"

"Yes, of course, I do," Daisy said, defeated. She'd just expense it with the Daily Chronicle's accounting department later. She reluctantly pulled a crisp thirty-dollar bill from her wallet and handed it over.

Mrs. Fragmuffin led her up a flight of stairs and stopped at a closed door. She knocked softly. "Miss Blot? A reporter is here to see you."

"Come in," a small voice said from inside.

Daisy pushed the door open, stepping into a room that was the opposite of the house's grim interior. The walls were a cheerful yellow, and a pink blanket with green flowers covered a canopy bed. The sweet decor, however, was in direct conflict with the room's occupants. The floor was littered with dolls, all of their heads covered with miniature black hoods. On the bed, a little girl was playing with one of the dolls, whispering to it. She, too, wore a black hood that neatly tucked her hair inside. The girl looked up. "Do you wanna take a picture of me and my dollies?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"Yes, of course," Daisy said, pulling out her camera. She snapped a quick picture of the girl as she gathered her dolls around her. "Now, I want to ask you about your father, the Phantom Blot."

"You're here to see my daddy?"

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "I thought your daddy..."

Mrs. Fragmuffin suddenly stepped into the room and stood between Daisy and the girl. "On a very special business trip," she interrupted. "He's been away for quite some time now, you see." She turned to Daisy, her eyes narrowing. "If you'll excuse us, dear, I will get the reporter some tea in the parlor." She gestured for Daisy to follow her, her posture leaving no room for argument. Confused, Daisy walked out of the bedroom.

In the hallway, Daisy wanted to ask more questions, but the housekeeper held up a hand, gesturing for silence before continuing to lead the way. In the parlor, Mrs. Fragmuffin looked at Daisy sternly. "I thought you were here for pictures."

"I am," Daisy said. "But I also wanted to ask her some questions about the trial."

"We didn't agree on questions, just pictures," Mrs. Fragmuffin said, her voice turning to ice. "Please, leave."

"Look, this child's testimony is crucial!" Daisy argued. "Her dad told the defense attorny that he was with her on the night of the crime. I just need a few simple questions for the public interest."

The housekeeper stepped forward, her polite façade crumbling. "I see a reporter who broke an agreement. You have your picture. Now get out." She grabbed Daisy's arm and pushed her toward the front door.

This was too suspicious. Daisy considered trying to sneak back in, but a quick glance at her watch told her she was already going to be late for the courtroom. She couldn't afford to be late for the most important event of the year, nor to get arrested for trespassing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Daisy pushed through the chaotic throng outside the Thurgood Marshall United States Courthouse. The sidewalk was a jungle of reporters, camera crews, and curious onlookers, all vying for a glimpse of the unfolding drama. She finally fought her way through the security checkpoint and into the grand marble hallway. It was just as packed inside, with lawyers, journalists, and nervous family members crowding every available bench. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and she finally spotted her friends huddled in a relatively quiet corner near a water cooler.

Mickey was pacing back and forth, his face etched with frustration. "I'm telling you, Minnie, you should have spent more time prepping for this trial and less time baby-talking to Max on the phone!"

Minnie wrung her hands, her expression a mix of nervousness and exhaustion. "I know, Mickey, but I just..."

Daisy dodged a reporter and a photographer and hustled over to them. "Guys! Guys, I have it!"

They both stopped and looked at her, their argument forgotten. "I have exclusive information that can help you win this trial," Daisy whispered, her voice conspiratorial. "But first, you have to promise me you'll help me get the best scoop for my newspaper. The kind of stuff the TV cameras won't get."

"No way, Daisy!" Mickey immediately objected. "This is a murder trial, not some game! I'm not trading evidence for a news story!"

Minnie, however, looked at Daisy with a spark of desperate hope. "I'll do it," she said. "We need all the help we can get."

"Minnie!" Mickey chided her in disbelief.

Daisy paid him no mind. She extended her hand to Minnie, a resolute look on her face. "Deal?"

Minnie didn't hesitate. She shook Daisy's hand. "And if you're not with us on this, Mickey, you have to leave us alone to talk," Daisy said firmly.

Mickey grunted, but he knew when he was beaten. He looked at the two of them, sighing in frustration. Reluctantly, he shook Daisy's hand as a sign of his unwilling cooperation.

Chapter Text

Donald smiled with pride at his mother who managed to pull the fanciest family reunion gathering, which had taken her a couple of months to plan, coordinate, and execute. With Donald's help of course. And Aunt Matilda. His mother looked like a vision as she stood in front of the guests, clapping her hands for attention. "Welcome, all ye fine ducks and geese!" she announced. "We've a grand buffet laid out that'll fill yer bellies, and the pipes are ready for a wee bit of dancing!" A cheer went up from the family. "And!" she continued, "We'll be sitting down together to watch the trial of that rascal Phantom Blot on the telly! The first live trial ever to be on the telly!"

The crowd erupted in a mix of whoops and exclamations. Aunt Matilda leaned in and whispered bitterly into Donald’s ear, "Typical Scrooge. Still couldn't be bothered to show his face, could he? The cheap old coot."

His mother, Hortense, descended from the riser and stalked toward him, her smile gone. "Don’t just stand there like a statue, ye wee fool," she hissed, her voice low and menacing. "Did yer friend fix the sound system? I don’t hear so much as a peep from it."

Donald gave a nervous gulp. "I'll check on him, Ma."

Her stare was a load of weight on him. "And where's his wee bairn? The one ye brought here unannounced?"

"He's in the nursery with Della and her boys, Ma, quiet as a mouse!" Donald babbled, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Hortense leaned in close, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Listen to me. If anything goes wrong with that sound system... or if a single feather on any of Della's wee terrors is ruffled... I'll take a wooden spoon to yer hide so fast yer Great Great Grandpa Hugh Seafoam McDuck will feel it!" She straightened up and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Now get on with ye!"

Donald gulped a final time, spun on his heels, and practically sprinted from the room, leaving his mother's glare burning a hole in his back. He stormed into the back room, the air thick with the smell of old pipes. His eyes widened in disbelief. Goofy was sitting on the floor amidst a tangled web of audio cables, speakers, and amplifiers, a dazed look on his face.

"What's the big idea?" Donald yelled, his voice cracking with frustration. "I already installed all of these yesterday! All you had to do was look busy!"

Goofy hiccupped, a silly grin on his face. "I didn't find a bee costume," he slurred.

Donald knelt down, frantically trying to connect a few wires. "What does that have to do with looking busy?" he fumed.

Goofy hiccupped again, pointing a wobbly finger at a speaker. "I figured ya wanted me to look like them bees, 'cause they's always buzzing and looking busy." He giggled.

Donald’s hands flew across the wires. "But Goofy, why did you undo all the hard work I did yesterday?"

"A fella's gotta get his buzz on, ain't he?"

Donald’s eyes fell to the large empty bottle of wine Goofy was clutching. "Are you drunk?!" he exclaimed.

Goofy simply hiccupped in response.

With a final, desperate tug, Donald connected the last wire. He stood up, dusted himself off, and looked down at his friend. "Stay put!" he ordered. "No more 'looking busy.' I've got to check on Della and the kids."

Goofy gave a slurry "Ah-yuck" in agreement as Donald rushed out of the room.

The nursery was supposed to be a peaceful haven of pastel colors and soft toys, but knowing Della's boys it was going to be more of a battlefield for spit-up and a repository for all the lost pacifiers. Huey was crawling unsteadily across a stack of teetering encyclopedias. Dewey was trying to yank the power cord from the VCR unit. Louie was gnawing on a plastic rattle, and next to him sat Max who was trying to eat a toy car.

Donald's eyes bulged. "Oh, nuts!”

He scrambled into the room, snatching the baby off the stack of books and diverting the other one away from the power cord. As he reached for Louie's rattle, Max whacked him in the knee with a plastic shovel. A shock of pain shot up Donald's leg, and he stumbled back, clutching his knee. He looked at Max, who stared at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Oh, phooey," Donald moaned, "they've already corrupted you!"

Just then, Della walked in, a telephone receiver tucked between her ear and shoulder. The phone cord stretched precariously behind her as she entered the room.

"I told you to watch them!" Donald yelled, exasperated.

Della's eyes scanned the chaos, but she didn't seem to notice. She held the receiver out to Donald. "Here," she said. "I have to go."

"WHAT?!" Donald shrieked.

"It's NASA!" Della said, her voice filled with a tremor of excitement. "They called. Mr. Duck and I were accepted into the program for the space launch! I have to be there!"

Donald stood in front of her, blocking her exit. "NO! This family reunion is your mother's, too! You have to contribute to the family!"

"But Donald, this is the chance of a lifetime!" Della pleaded.

"Let your husband go then! You don't have to go together!" Donald yelled, his voice cracking. "I need you!"

“Donald! What’s taking ye so long? I’ve been waiting on yer behind! Come find the trial on the telly!” his mother's voice bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.

Donald dropped to his knees, clutching Della’s hand. "Della, please! I can't do this without you!"

Her expression torn, Della pointed a shaky finger toward the doorway. "Donald... look."

A small baby, dressed head-to-toe in blue, was steadily crawling out the door. Donald's eyes widened in horror. "HUEY!" he screamed, lunging for the little duckling. He scooped him up, a sigh of relief escaping his lips, and rushed back inside. "I got Huey!"

Della gave him a bewildered look. "No, Donald, that's Dewey. He's the one in blue."

He looked at the baby with the blue shirt in his arms. “Who cares! Let's just put them all in the crib and we can talk!" He gently placed Dewey in the crib and turned to find the others. But there were no babies on the floor, no babies on the couches, no babies on the chairs. No babies anywhere. He let out a bloodcurdling scream. "Where are they?!"

Just as terrified, his sister scanned the empty room. "They must have all crawled out!"

A simultaneous, horrified shriek ripped through the air as the two siblings rushed out of the nursery and down the stairs. Their mother stood at the bottom, her hands on her hips, her eyes like daggers. "Donald! Find the channel that shows the trial!"

Della started to speak, "Not now, Mom, we..."

"We're on it, Ma!" Donald interrupted, his voice tight. He leaned in close to Della, whispering through gritted teeth. "Don't tell her about the babies on the run, or she'll fry me for dinner!" He grabbed the remote and frantically started flipping through channels. He must find the trial and get his mother off his back. Suddenly, he spotted a flash of green. Louie! The little duckling was crawling straight for the buffet table through a forest of adult legs.

Donald launched himself after the baby. He chucked the remote at Uncle Ludwig, who was a few feet away, and it hit him on the head. Ludwig merely blinked, confused, as a chorus of gasps filled the room.

"Look at him go!" Gladstone Gander laughed, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. "That's my cousin, folks, the world's greatest baby-chaser!"

Donald ignored him, weaving through the legs of his relatives. "Louie! Get back here, you little menace!"

"That's his life story," Gladstone said with a smirk. "Always chasing after something, never quite catching it. You'd think a guy with that much bad luck would just sit down and give up."

Donald stopped and spun toward his cocky cousin, his jaw tight. The last thing he needed was to be reminded of his failure since graduation. He'd earned his degree and expected it to qualify him for a solid career in the Navy, but that had amounted to nothing. With a tiny house, a lousy minimum-wage job, and his thirtieth birthday looming in three years, Donald knew he was not a source of family pride.

He wasn't Della, who was soaring toward a bright future as one of the few female astronauts and who, on top of that, was married with children and owned a large home. He was clearly the disappointing twin in their family.

Just as he was about to lose his mind on Glandstone, Della, holding Huey, darted forward. "Oh, pipe down, Gladstone," she said in contempt. "The only reason you have it so easy is because you're a spoiled snowflake who wouldn't survive five minutes in the real world without your so-called luck to bail you out. Get a life."

The "ooh"s rippled through the crowd. Gladstone’s smirk faded, his face turning a shade of purple.

With a grateful smile at his sister, Donald carried on with his task. He rushed to scoop up Louie, who was covered in half-eaten shrimp puffs. He clutched him to his chest and looked at Della. "Now where's Max?"

A sudden rustling from the doorway drew everyone's attention. Mr. Duck stood there, holding Dewey. "Della," he said, "why would you leave this little guy alone upstairs?"

"Just take them!" Della said, shoving Huey and Louie into his startled arms. "We have to find Max!"

Before anyone could react, Donald's mother appeared at the foot of the stairs, her face a mask of rage. She pointed the remote at Donald. "Stop yer screeching and put the trial on the telly!"

He snatched the remote from her hand and frantically began flipping channels. Again. That was when he spotted Max perched atop the armoire, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. Donald shrieked, and for the second time, he hurled the remote. It struck Uncle Ludwig, who was standing a few feet away, right on the head. Again. Both Donald and Della scrambled toward the armoire, hands outstretched, their hearts pounding in their throats.

Just as Max was about to leap, Donald was frozen by a long, lanky shadow that fell over him. Without a word, Goofy simply reached up from behind, plucked his son from the high cabinet, and cradled him in his arms. Max giggled and babbled, and Goofy regarded him with a sad, distant smile.

"Hand him over," Della said gently. "I'll take him to the nursery."

Donald was about to ask if his friend was okay, but a glare from his mother shot daggers across the room. He scurried to Uncle Ludwig to get the remote. Uncle Ludwig, still smarting from the previous two times, angrily smacked him on the head with the remote.

Finally, Donald managed to find the right channel. On the TV screen, Minnie and Mickey were visible in the courtroom, looking strained and serious. The entire family gathered around the television, their chatter replaced by rapt silence.

Donald walked over to a drained Goofy, who was gazing blankly at the screen. "Do you want to watch with them, or head upstairs to the nursery?" he asked softly.

Goofy sighed and moved toward the stairs. Donald followed in silence.

They walked into the nursery and found Della already there, feeding the triplets their bottles. She looked up at them in their crib, a serene smile on her face. "There, my little angels, fill your bellies and go to sleep." She reached out to caress Dewey's head. Donald figured it was Dewey because he was wearing blue, or was Louie the one in blue? He really needed to get a grasp of Della's color system for the boys.

Della's eyes then fell on Max, who was sitting on the floor, smacking his lips together as he stared at the milk bottle set on the table. "Aww, little Maxie wants his bottle, too," she cooed.

She picked Max up and sat him on her lap, holding him close as she fed him. As she began to softly sing a lullaby, Donald glanced at Goofy. He saw the way his eyes went from Della to Max, a shattered look of longing and pain in them. Della, holding Max in her arms, feeding and singing to him, was a painful mirror of the life that should have been. It was the life Penny never got to have with her son.

Knowing Goofy was about to break down, Donald gently pulled him to the adjacent room, out of sight. His friend collapsed onto the floor, his frame shaking with silent sobs. Donald knelt beside him, his hand on his shoulder, his chest twisting in sadness.

Chapter Text

From his seat in the courtroom, Mickey watched Minnie with growing unease. He could tell she was floundering. Her shoulders were hunched, and her voice lacked its usual commanding presence. She clearly hadn't read the case file with a clear mind, fretting over Baby Maxie's pacifier, his bottle, and the teddy bear whose ears he liked to chew. She was supposed to defend the Phantom Blot, and yet she missed all the strategies they had worked on last night.

If it wasn’t for Daisy bursting into their shared hotel room, Minnie wouldn't have even looked at her notes. Daisy had to snap her back to reality, laying out everything from her investigation. She described the strange and telling details about the housekeeper, and pointed out the unsettling facts about some odd, hooded dolls. They had stayed up late, poring over the documents and planning out every question. Mickey had been so confident then, so sure that with this new information, they could poke holes in the prosecution's case.

But now, sitting here, he saw Minnie’s mind was a thousand miles away. Her questions were weak, her arguments disjointed. She kept glancing at the clock, her worry over Max's well-being overriding her professional duty. Mickey felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Her job was on the line, and Minnie was lost in a world of baby blankets and bedtimes. If he didn't intervene, her client was going down.

He glanced at the Blot, who sat at his table and steadfastly denied any connection to the victim, Joseph Buquet. The stagehand had been found hanged, but the missing rope hinted at a crime far more sinister than suicide.

The prosecution's first witness, Madame Valérius, took the stand. Barnaby, the smug bulldog prosecutor, pointed to a brand-new piece of equipment: a massive video screen that loomed over the front of the courtroom. On it, a grainy security camera feed flashed to life, showing a shadowy figure in a long black cloak near the scene. The jury sat forward, their eyes glued to the display.

"Madame Valérius," Barnaby began, "can you tell the court what you saw?"

"The machinists found the body first,” she answered in a trembling voice. “They saw a person wearing a black cloak. It was just like the one that Phantom Blot wears."

Daisy, seated next to Mickey, nudged him hard. "Do something!" she hissed, her hand freezing on the page of her notebook.

Mickey leaned forward, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Ask her who was working on the chandelier!" he hissed.

Minnie nodded. "Madame Valérius," she said to the witness, her voice gaining strength. "In your role as the Opera House's caretaker, did you observe who was working on the main chandelier the day before the incident?"

Madame Valérius shifted nervously on the stand. "Yes, I did," she said, her voice a bit shaky. "It wasn't Mr. Buquet. It was the new stage manager, the one who took over after the last one disappeared. He said he was doing a safety inspection."

Minnie gestured toward the humongous screen showing the security footage. "So, to be clear, Madame Valérius," she said, "the man working on the chandelier, just hours before the victim's body was discovered, was a man who, unlike my client, was in a position to be in contact with the victim's workspace?"

Barnaby let out a smug chuckle. "And what does that have to do with anything, Ms. Mouse?" he scoffed. "Whether it was the victim or someone else working on a chandelier, the real evidence was found on the floor of the opera house. An item that links your client to the scene of the crime." He snapped his fingers, and a bailiff brought forward a small, velvet cushion. On it sat a familiar, pitch-black mask. The very same kind the Phantom Blot wore.

He gestured to the mask. "This, Your Honor, was found mere feet from the victim's body."

Minnie slammed her hand down on the table. "Wait just a minute! There was no mention of this mask in the police report or the evidence log! This is a sudden reveal, and there's no way this was found at the scene of the crime!"

Barnaby’s smile widened. "Oh, but it was, Ms. Mouse." He produced a large, glossy photograph and held it up for the court to see. The image showed Joseph Buquet's body on the ground, and just beside his outstretched hand, half-hidden by some debris, was the black mask. "It was right here. Perhaps it was simply overlooked."

"Overlooked?!" Minnie was fuming. "How could the police possibly overlook something so significant? And how is it that a crucial piece of evidence like this was not among the exhibits in the evidence log until just now?"

"This photograph is evidence enough," Barnaby declared as he gestured for the velvet cushion with the mask to be brought forward to Minnie's table. "And now, Ms. Mouse," he sneered, "I ask you, does this mask not belong to the Phantom Blot?"

Minnie stared at the object, her shoulders slumping in defeat. 

"Yes, that is my mask," the Blot said, the words cutting through the tense air. "But I have never stepped a foot in the Opera House."

Mickey and Daisy shared a knowing glance. Daisy leaned closer to Mickey, her voice a fierce whisper. "I feel the housekeeper has something to do with this." Mickey gave a small nod. He quickly scribbled a note on a slip of paper and passed it to Minnie. She unfolded it, read the words, and a flicker of her old fire returned to her eyes.

"Your Honor," she said, her voice clear and strong once more. "We request a two hours-long recess to confer with a key witness."

The judge sighed, running a wing over his tired face. "Granted. But make it quick, Ms. Mouse."

As they pushed through the courtroom doors, Minnie's boss was waiting, his face beet red. He immediately cornered Minnie, jabbing a finger toward the courtroom. "What on earth was that, Minnie?" he snapped, his voice low and furious. "You're all over the map! One minute you're sharp as a tack, the next you look like you're sleepwalking! This is a big deal! Are you even in this to win it?"

Minnie’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t back down. "I've got a plan," she said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. She then shot a quick, unsure glance at Mickey. He returned her look with a concerned frown, the weight of the situation now fully on his shoulders. He knew Minnie was determined, but he also saw the fear behind her eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

The taxi driver zipped through the streets with Mickey, Minnie and Daisy in the car, pulling up to the house that served as the Phantom Blot's home. Daisy strode up to the heavy door and rang the bell with a fierce jab of her finger.

The door creaked open a crack, and the housekeeper peered out. 

"Hi there," Daisy said with false sweetness. "Remember me?"

The housekeeper's eyes widened in recognition. “You're that reporter!" she stammered, trying to slam the door shut.

Daisy thrust her foot forward, wedging it in the doorway. "I believe we haven't finished our talk this morning," she said, as the door gave way and she pushed her way inside. "Now, why don't we all go inside where it's a little more cozy?" She held the door open for Mickey and Minnie, a smirk on her face. Her friends rushed in after her, and the door clicked shut behind them, leaving the three of them standing in the eerie, silent hallway of the Phantom Blot's house.

Mickey faced Mrs. Fragmuffin, who was still trying to compose herself after Daisy’s forceful entry. "The mask, ma'am," he began, his voice low and serious. "The one they found at the opera house. Mr. Blot says it's his, but he claims he never set foot in the building. Can you explain that?"

Mrs. Fragmuffin's face went rigid. "I don't know anything about a mask," she said flatly. "Mr. Blot's personal affairs are his own business." She folded her arms tightly across her chest in a silent wall of defiance.

"But a mask like that is very distinctive,” Mickey said. “Did you ever see him wear it?"

"I'm a housekeeper," she said, a new shade of annoyance in her voice. "I clean and I cook. I don't pay attention to what the man wears." She shot a venomous glare at Daisy.

Daisy didn't flinch. "Maybe it was never at the scene of the crime," she said coolly, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Fragmuffin. "Maybe the photograph was fake."

The housekeeper’s glare intensified, her mouth a thin line of fury.

"Fake?" Mickey asked.

Daisy nodded. "I see it all the time in my line of work. There are a dozen ways to do it. You can take a picture of a mask and a separate picture of the crime scene. Then you take the negatives into a darkroom and use a special process called composite photography. You cut and paste the two together, or use careful dodging and burning to make a new negative that looks like the mask was there all along." She leaned in, her voice hushed. "Or maybe it's simpler. You get a cheap, knock-off mask, put it on a desk in a staged set, snap a photo, and tell everyone it was found at the scene. It’s all about creating a sensational story, a juicy headline that sells papers. People do it to frame rivals, to get out of trouble, or for a bit of money."

Her gaze sharpened, never leaving the housekeeper's face. "The only question is, what would make someone so desperate to frame Mr. Blot?"

Mrs. Fragmuffin’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Her silence was more damning than any confession.

Mickey leaned in. "Mrs. Fragmuffin, why do you have such a problem with Mr. Blot? I get the feeling this isn't about some mask. This is about you, isn't it?"

The housekeeper's eyes darted between Mickey and Daisy. "I don't know what you're talking about," she stuttered. "I've told you everything I know."

Daisy stepped forward, her voice low and dangerous. "We're not leaving until you tell us the truth. We know you have a grudge against the Phantom Blot. Did he hurt someone you love?"

The housekeeper’s composure shattered, and she finally let her arms drop. "He ruined my sister," she choked out, her shoulders shaking. "He promised her a job, a life of luxury. He used her for his plans and then discarded her. She was never the same."

Mickey looked at her, his expression filled with sympathy. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. But what does that have to do with the mask?"

Mrs. Fragmuffin buried her face in her hands. "The person who actually killed Buquet knew about my grudge. They said they'd make sure the Blot paid for what he did, once and for all. They said I could have my revenge. All I had to do was plant the mask, and they'd make sure the police found it."

“So the mask was a setup to frame the Phantom Blot?” Mickey asked.

Mrs. Fragmuffin looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. "The real killer said they'd hurt the little Miss if I didn't," she whispered. "I just wanted him to pay for what he did.”

Mickey exchanged a knowing glance with Daisy. Then he frowned looking around the silent hallway. "Where's Minnie?" he asked, a knot of unease forming in his stomach.

The housekeeper pointed a shaky finger toward the stairs. "The girl version of you?" she stammered. "I saw her going up the stairs. She must have gone to the Miss's room."

"She means Blot's daughter," Daisy clarified.

"I cracked that code, thank you," Mickey retorted. "Keep an eye on her, Daisy. I'll go get Minnie."

He took the stairs two at a time, finding the yellow-walled room from Daisy's description. He pushed the door open and found Minnie on the floor, surrounded by unsettling, hooded dolls. She was playing with the little girl, who was giggling as Minnie made the doll in her hand dance. Minnie looked up, her face bright with a childlike joy he hadn't seen in days.

A weird sense of displeasure settled in his gut. Lending a hand to Goofy was one thing, but Minnie's recent fixation on all children had become a strange, unsettling preoccupation of hers.

"Minnie," he said, hating how harsh he sounded. "It's time to leave."

She gave the little girl a quick kiss on her masked cheek, then stood up and followed him outside, casting a longing look back at the room.

A heavy silence hung between them. He felt a deep sense of sadness, watching her go from childlike happiness to a stone-faced professional again. "Minnie… do you, uh, we haven't really talked about this, but... with Goofy having a kid and Donald being an uncle, do you... do you want to take that step?"

Minnie stopped dead, a look of pure shock on her face. "What?" she gasped.

"I know we haven’t discussed having kids, heck, we haven't even talked about getting married," Mickey continued, the words tumbling out. "But I see how you are with Max, and now the Blot’s daughter. It just looks like... you’ve got baby fever."

"Mickey!" she said, her voice a sharp rebuke.

"What?" he asked, genuinely confused by her reaction.

Minnie shook her head at him. "I just found out who killed Joseph Buquet."

He stopped, all his previous thoughts evaporating instantly. "Really?"

Minnie just shook her head again. Without another word, she walked out, leaving him standing in the hall. Maybe he was way off base with his assumptions about her after all.

Chapter Text

A knot of helplessness twisted in Donald's stomach, watching Goofy hunched over on the armchair, his gaze locked on the floor. His friend had been a mess, and Donald was completely lost. He wasn't the type who knew what to say or how to give a hug, but this was his best pal, and his best pal was hurting.

"I...I just can't go back," Goofy finally mumbled in a heartbreaking sound that should never belong to him. "That house is like one them museums, you know? A museum of what ain't there anymore."

Donald shifted uncomfortably. "But… how long are you going to avoid it? Max needs his own bed, his own room. You gotta go home sooner or later."

"I know that," Goofy said, shaking his head slowly. "But every wall's got one of them Penny pictures, and her little knick-knacks are still sitting on the dresser. It's all... all her. Going back there without her... it's just too painful."

Donald let out a long, quiet sigh. "But you went back, Goofy. After she passed, you went back. You and Max lived there for months, remember? Until..."

"Until Carol happened," Goofy interrupted, the words a raw whisper. He lifted his head, and Donald saw the true despair in his eyes. "Carol’s right. She said it to my face. I robbed Penny of years of success and a good life. She died so young."

"That's crazy talk. It wasn't your fault she died. You didn't steal anything from her. You gave her a wonderful life, and she was so happy. I remember that!"

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Della slipped inside, her expression soft and knowing. "He's asleep now," she whispered.

Goofy nodded listlessly, his head hanging low. 

She knelt beside his chair and gently began to rub his back. "How are we doing now?" she asked softly.

"I’ve had better days," Goofy whispered. "Much, much better."

Donald stood over him, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. "Goofy," he began, swallowing hard. "Look, this is crazy, but... do you blame Max for her death?"

Goofy's eyes snapped up, wide with shock, as though Donald had slapped him.

"Donald!" Della chided, her hand stopping on Goofy's back.

"No, really!" Donald shot back, his voice rising in frustration. "Della, you don't see them everday like I do! Goofy doesn't seem interested in taking care of Max at all. He just dumps him on Minnie, and now that he's living with me... he didn't even know where his own son was." Donald looked right into Goofy's wide eyes. "And now Della fed him and put him to sleep. Do you resent him because he got to live and she got to die?"

Goofy looked completely taken aback, his face a mask of shock and hurt.

"No, Donald, that's not it at all," Della said, her voice firm. She looked Goofy in the eye with understanding. "What Goofy's going through is postpartum depression."

"That's a mom thing," Donald blurted out, a stubborn look on his face.

"Dads can go through it too," Della insisted, her voice full of empathy. "Don't you worry, Goofy. I had it. I couldn't stand the sight of my kids, and could barely feed or change them. But I got through it. It's all gone now!"

Donald let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, you're sure about that? Mrs. ‘I can’t wait to fly to space and dump my kids on their good-for-nothing uncle’."

"It’s not my fault I’m more ambitious than you are," Della retorted, her voice low and sharp, the last of her patience gone.

Goofy slowly lifted his head, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. "Where's Max sleeping?" he asked, his voice so quiet and broken it was barely a whisper.

Della's expression softened instantly. "In the crib with the boys," she said gently.

Donald watched as Goofy pushed himself up from the armchair. His movements were slow and heavy, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Without another word, he headed down the hall, and Donald and Della followed in silence.

They found the nursery door ajar. Inside, a soft nightlight cast a gentle glow over a single, large crib. They watched as Goofy walked to it, his tall frame leaning over the side. He leaned down, gazing at his sleeping son. His eyes, glistening with tears, were filled with a love so immense it made Donald's own throat tighten.

"I love you," Goofy whispered, the words trembling. "I love you, son. Don't you ever think anything different."

A cold wave of shame washed over Donald. He felt the weight of his cruel words crushing him.

Della shot him a glare. "He's just depressed," she hissed. "It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about his son."

With a long, quiet sigh, he moved to stand beside Goofy. He laid a hand on his friend's arm, the simple gesture an apology for his thoughtless words. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with shame.

Goofy nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on the crib. "No hard feelings," he whispered back.

They looked down at the four little devils nestled together. Max was in the middle, and the triplets were tangled around him. One had his arm slung over Max's tummy, his tiny hand half-closed in a sleepy fist, probably dreaming of pulling feathers. Another had his leg draped over his brother, leaving a foot sticking out from under the blanket.

"Sweet little angels," Della cooed with a sigh.

Donald just scoffed. Right. They looked like it now, all tucked in and sleeping soundly. But when they were awake, those four were a full-blown disaster. He'd suffered at their tiny, chubby hands more than he ever did enduring years of being Gladstone's punching bag. Their soft little snores were nothing more than a temporary lullaby before the next round of chaos once they woke up.

Chapter Text

The duck family was all crowded into the living room, crammed onto the sofa and an old, worn recliner. Everyone was glued to the hulking television set, a massive wood-paneled monstrosity with a 50-inch screen that took up half the room. Donald's dad had rented this TV set for this special occasion, which he'd promised his mom, reluctantly, to return as soon as this reunion was over. Hortense Duck was more than satisfied with their regular-sized picture tube. Donald sat with one of the triplets on his lap, while his mom, Hortense, held another, and Della held the third. Goofy was next to them, holding a drowsy Max, who had just woken up from his nap and was sucking on his thumb. Everyone was silent, watching the drama unfold on the screen.

Aunt Matilda was glued to the TV, a notebook and pen clutched in her lap as she wrote furiously as a self-appointed expert on the case. “Och, something about this Phantom Blot just doesn’t sit right,” she murmured to herself. “I don’t think he's the killer, meself.” She paused, her brow furrowed with concern. “But can the defense lawyer prove it?”

Draped across a love seat like he owned the place, Gladstone let out a smug chuckle. “Looks like Minnie Mouse is in way over her head,” he said, not even bothering to look away from the screen. “That prosecutor's got her cornered. Seems like she's not much of a lawyer after all.”

Donald pulled Dewey off his lap and set him on the floor. “Hey!” he squawked. “You don’t know Minnie. She’s never lost a case.”

His father, Quackmore, peered over his spectacles at the screen. “Now, hold on there, son,” he said in a calm, thoughtful tone. “Maybe it was the glare of being filmed on television. Some folks just go all haywire being on TV.”

“Wheesht, everybody!” Hortense hissed, glaring at her husband. “It's starting!”

On the television, the camera panned to the witness stand. The nervous, timid face of the housekeeper, Mrs. Fragmuffin, filled the screen. Then, Minnie appeared on the screen. “Mrs. Fragmuffin,” she began, her voice clear and confident, unlike it had been in the first half of the trial before the two-hour recess. “You testified that on the day of the crime, you didn't see my client wearing his mask. Is that correct?”

The housekeeper nodded stiffly. “Yes. I didn't see him.”

“And is it true you have full access to his home, including his closet?” Minnie continued, her voice gaining a steely edge.

The housekeeper hesitated. Barnaby, the prosecutor, looked on with a smug expression, clearly not seeing where this was going. “Y...yes,” she stammered.

“So, to be clear, it would have been possible for you to take something from his closet and... plant it at a crime scene?” Minnie asked.

Donald grinned and then checked the others' reactions. Aunt Matilda clapped in excitement. Della's jaw dropped. Gladstone's eyes widened in interest. Goofy... well, Goofy remained passively sad. 

The housekeeper’s face went rigid with defiance, so Minnie held up a small, black cassette recorder. “The defense would like to submit Exhibit 12: a recording of a conversation that took place in Mr. Blot's house an hour ago,” she announced, her voice as sharp as her gaze. “This recorder belongs to the reporter, Daisy Duck, who was there to record the confession.”

She pressed the 'play' button, and a crackle of static filled the courtroom. Then, Mrs. Fragmuffin’s voice, raw and filled with emotion, filled the room. "All I had to do was plant the mask, and they'd make sure the police found it."

The duck family collectively gasped. On the screen, the camera panned to Daisy, looking elegant and smug. Donald’s chest puffed up with pride. "That’s my girlfriend, folks!" he exclaimed. "And you all thought she wasn’t good enough to attend the last family reunion!"

Filled with panic, Mrs. Fragmuffin's eyes darted around the courtroom. She let out a choked sob. "Fine!" she wailed. "I… I took the mask from his closet and put it at the opera house days later!"

“She confessed!” Aunt Matilda hollered, tossing her notebook and pen aside.

"WHOOOA!" Donald shouted, leaping to his feet and pumping his fist in the air. In his arms, baby Dewey cheered too, his little fist pumping furiously in the air, echoing of his uncle's joy. The family cheered in a chorus of delighted yelps and hoots. Della held baby Louie’s hands and made him clap. With a huge grin on his face, Goofy pulled baby Max closer, and the little one happily gnawed on the collar of his shirt.

Hortense fed little Huey some baby cereal and nodded approvingly at Donald. "I’ve always loved that girlfriend of yours, son. She's sharp as a tack."

The cheers in the living room were cut short by the shot of the prosecutor in the television who shot to his feet, his finger jabbing furiously toward the witness stand. "Objection, Your Honor!" he growled. "This witness is biased and her testimony is hearsay!" His smug smirk spread across his face as he continued, "She has a vested interest in protecting the Phantom Blot, and nothing she says can be trusted!"

Donald's blood began to boil. But then, on the screen, Minnie held up the small black cassette tape again. "On the contrary, Your Honor," her clear voice rang out across the courtroom. “If we rewind the tape, we can hear the motive behind the planting of the mask.” She placed the tape in a small player on her desk and pressed a button. A hiss of static filled the courtroom, followed by the housekeeper's unmistakable voice.

"He ruined my sister. He promised her a job, a life of luxury. He used her for his plans and then discarded her. She was never the same."

Mickey's voice came on next, a gentle attempt to keep the interview on track. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. But what does that have to do with the mask?"

Mrs. Fragmuffin's voice returned. “The person who actually killed Buquet knew about my grudge. They said they'd make sure the Blot paid for what he did, once and for all. They said I could have my revenge. All I had to do was plant the mask, and they'd make sure the police found it.”

The hiss of static returned as Minnie stopped the tape. The courtroom was silent.

Barnaby's smug look had vanished, replaced by a slack-jawed stare. "That evidence is prejudiced and manufactured, Your Honor!" he stammered, looking at the judge with frantic eyes. "They've had time to coach the witness and record this tape as part of their conspiracy!"

Minnie just smiled. "We have one more witness, Your Honor, to confirm the identity of the killer mentioned on this tape and the circumstances of the conspiracy. The defense calls Miss Brat to the stand!"

On the television, the Phantom Blot, who had remained calm and unmoving throughout the trial, shot halfway out of his chair. "What?!" he roared, his voice filled with outrage. “My little girl?! You can't do this! Don't drag her into this!"

Donald just let out a low whistle. “She's good,” he bragged, shooting Gladstone a glance. “She's really, really good.”

The cheers died down as Minnie turned to the witness stand. The camera zoomed in on a small, timid girl in a black cloak and a black mask, holding a doll with a pink dress and a black mask as well. 

"Miss Brat," Minnie began in a gentle tone, "can you tell the court about a visitor you had at your house? Someone who looks like your dad?"

The little girl nodded shyly. "Uncle Erik came a few times to play. He talked to Mrs. Fragmuffin for a long time. And he gave me this doll!" She held it up proudly for the camera.

Minnie's voice remained calm. "Did you like Uncle Erik?"

"Yes!" the girl said, her eyes lighting up. "Because he looks just like Daddy, but he wears a white mask, not a black one."

"He wears a white mask," Minnie repeated for the court, her voice now sharp and clear. "Your Honor, the shadowy figure in the security footage was seen in a long black cloak, but the mask itself was obscured by the shadows. The evidence suggests that the Phantom of the Opera, Erik, is the real killer of Joseph Buquet!"

Barnaby shot to his feet, his face red with rage. "Objection, Your Honor! This is purely circumstantial! It doesn't prove it wasn't the Phantom Blot just wearing a different mask to fool everyone!"

"I agree," Minnie said calmly, holding up a hand. "Which is why I have one more piece of conclusive evidence." She turned to the little girl. "Miss Brat, would you be so kind as to hand me that doll?"

The girl looked to her father, the Phantom Blot. He watched the scene with a pained expression, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. But when she looked at him, he gave a slow nod.

Hesitantly, the girl handed the doll to Minnie. The camera on the television zoomed in as Minnie gently took the doll. She carefully removed its pink dress, revealing a seam. She unzipped it, pulling the small doll's body apart. From within the doll's torso, she pulled out a length of tightly wound rope.

Aunt Matilda bounced excitedly as she sat cross-legged on the floor. "The murder weapon!" she exclaimed, her finger jabbing at the screen. "That's the rope the killer used to hang the poor wee fella!"

"This is the missing rope," Minnie declared to the court. "The one used to hang the victim, Joseph Buquet. And inside of it," she said, holding up the tiny piece of rope for the jury, "is a clear note from Uncle Erik to Mrs. Fragmuffin, explaining that she needed to get rid of this rope."

She then turned to the judge, her voice gaining a final, powerful clarity. "We request that this rope be immediately fingerprinted, and compared with the fingerprints of the Phantom of the Opera, Erik."

The camera on the television was focused on the lab technician, who was carefully dusting a small section of the rope for fingerprints. Minnie, meanwhile, looked sure and confident. Donald watched her, a knot of pride and anxiety in his gut.

Suddenly, a small, determined figure in a red onesie crawled from Goofy's lap. Max waddled on his knees and sat just inches from the television screen, his face almost touching it. He placed a chubby hand on Minnie's giant face on the screen.

"Mama," he said, his little voice as clear as a bell.

Eyes widened and breaths were held, gazes swiveled from the television to Goofy, who looked as if all the air had been sucked out of him. His face was pale, and his wide, terrified eyes were fixed on his son patting the screen where Minnie's face was still there. 

Della quickly stuffed baby Louie into a flustered Uncle Luke Goose's lap. "No, no, it's nothing," she said, reaching for Max and scooping him into her arms. "Babies' first words are almost always a fluke. He’s only seven months old, that's too early. It doesn't mean anything."

As if to prove her point, Max looked up at her, giggled, and then babbled, "Dada, gaga!"

Della held him close, looking directly at Goofy. "See?" she said, her voice a quiet, firm whisper. "It means nothing."

"Look, look!" Uncle Ludwig said, pointing a finger at the television. "The judge is talking!"

On the TV, the judge cleared his throat and addressed the courtroom. "Given the new evidence, and the pending laboratory results on the rope, this court will go into recess. The verdict will be given once the testing for the fingerprints is completed. This trial will resume in one week."

The living room erupted in cheers and applause as everyone celebrated Minnie's victory. Donald hugged Aunt Matilda. Della handed Max to Goofy who squeezed him in a big hug.

Unable to contain his pride, Donald turned to Cousin Gladstone. "So, what do you think now, big shot?" he crowed, a victorious grin on his face. "Looks like Minnie's got this whole thing in the bag! You don't have a genius lawyer friend like I do, huh?"

Gladstone was sitting in a sulk, his arms crossed and a sour look on his face.

Della leaned in, a sly smirk on her face. "That's if he even has friends," she said quietly.

Gladstone's face turned a fiery red. He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, glared at Donald and Della, and stalked out of the room in a huff.

"Och, Hortense, this has been a right braw family reunion, it has," Matilda said, a genuine smile on her face. The whole family chimed in with their agreement, praising Hortense for her excellent planning.

Hortense beamed. "Thank you, everyone! We all had a grand time.” She then turned to Della, a mischievous glint in her eye. “For the next shindig, I think it’s high time my daughter hosted.”

Della's eyes went wide. "What?!" she yelped, looking about to stangle her own life, running frantic fingers over her throat as if testing for a cord. Donald immediately started to laugh at her.

"But Mom," Della pleaded, "I have little babies! I can’t handle a whole family reunion."

"They’ll be older by then," Hortense said dismissively. "And ye’ve got a grand big house to host everyone in!"

At that very moment, Della's husband, Mr. Duck, walked in, his face lit up. "Honey, guess what?" he said excitedly. "I just got back from the meeting with the NASA representatives! We've been accepted into the astronaut program! We can be on the next shuttle flight in '86!"

"Nope," Donald said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Can't do it. Della's hosting the family reunion in '87."

Della's head swiveled between her husband and her mother, her face a mask of panic. "But honey... the program! We can’t just say no to NASA, right?"

"Well," her husband said, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looked at Hortense. "Family is more important."

"NOOOOOOO!" Della shrieked, letting out a dramatic, drawn-out scream as she fell to her knees. Donald, holding his stomach, doubled over, completely overcome with laughter.

Chapter Text

The courtroom was electric with the press, flying accusations, and intense discussions. Minnie's eyes were locked on the warm embrace between Phantom Blot and his daughter, that was until the gaurd urged the Blot to follow him back to his cell. She watched the father reassure his daughter that he would come back home soon, then instruct his housekeeper to look after the girl, as if she hadn't betrayed him by planting that false evidence against him.

"Minnie!"

Her intense staring at Phantom Blot and his family was interrupted by the sudden, crushing hugs of her boyfriend and best friend.

"Minnie, you were amazing!" Mickey exclaimed, squeezing her tight.

"Bestie, you are officially the coolest, most brilliant lawyer ever!" Daisy squealed, her eyes wide with admiration.

Minnie merely smiled.

Their celebration was cut short as her boss approaching them. "Ms. Mouse, a brilliant move," he said. "That was the final nail in the coffin. With the evidence you presented, I'd say the acquittal is a foregone conclusion. Consider that promotion yours."

Minnie gave a small nod of thanks. Once he was out of earshot, she turned back to her friends, a different expression on her face.

"A promotion!" Mickey said, grinning from ear to ear. "That's incredible, Minnie!"

"I told you she was the best!" Daisy said proudly.

Minnie took a deep breath. "Once this case is over, I'm going to quit."

Mickey and Daisy just stared at her, their smiles vanishing in an instant.

"Quit?" Mickey stammered, his happy expression replaced with confusion. "But... why? Is it because of Max?"

Daisy's eyes widened, a look of desperate disbelief on her face. "Of course not! She's not going to throw away her entire career for a baby who isn't even hers, right?" Her voice became a frantic whisper as she stared pleadingly at Minnie. "Right?"

Minnie shook her head. "No," she said softly, her voice filled with a calm conviction that silenced them both. "It's not because of Max, and it's not because I want to have a baby of my own." She looked pointedly at Mickey, who looked away in embarrassment. She sighed, the smile fading to a more somber expression. "I just... it's like I'm going through the motions. It's not what I want to do with my life. It's not what fills my heart."

"But you're so good at it!” Mickey argued.

Minnie reached out and gently took his hand. "I'm good at anything I put my mind to. But being a lawyer is your dream, not mine. I just... tagged along. I was so 'gone on you' that I wanted to be with you every day. I didn't think far ahead about what I really wanted." 

"Well, if not a lawyer," Daisy asked, her voice filled with a desperate curiosity, "then what do you want to be?"

"I don't know yet," she said softly, "but I'll figure it out."

Mickey and Daisy exchanged a quick, worried glance. Then, Mickey stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Minnie in a warm, comforting hug. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you," he said, his voice full of genuine love. "One hundred percent."

Daisy moved in and joined the hug, her arms squeezing them both. "I think you're making a big mistake," she said in her usual bluntness. She paused, and her grip on Minnie tightened. "But you're my girl, and I'll support you too."

Minnie's smile widened as she hugged them back. "Thanks, guys," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "That means everything."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mickey's car slowed to a stop, its engine sighing to a halt in front of Goofy's house. The front yard was overgrown with weeds, the paint on the porch was peeling, and the windows were dark and hollow. It looked just as empty as Goofy felt inside. A heavy, familiar dread settled in his chest regardling the idea of walking into it, a sadness so big it felt like a stone.

The car doors opened one by one, and the gang got out in silence. Minnie walked to his side of the car, her smile soft and reassuring as she handed him Max, who was sucking happily on his favorite teddy bear's hand. 

Goofy took his son into his arms, the familiar weight a comfort and a burden all at once. His feet felt heavy, each step a chore as he shuffled toward the door. The key felt cold and alien in his hand. He pushed it into the lock, a quiet click echoing in the stillness, and slowly pushed the door open.

A wave of stale, dusty air washed over him. The house was shadowed and dim, the thick, heavy curtains blocking out the sun. But the light from the open door cut a straight, dusty path across the living room floor, and in that light, the memories came to life.

He just stared, his gaze sweeping over the place. Pictures of him and Penny were everywhere: on the walls, on the tables, in every corner. They were smiling, laughing, holding each other in a series of frozen moments that felt like a million years ago. Old toys of Max were scattered on the floor, a tiny rattle lying next to a stack of alphabet blocks. The mess felt like a ghost of a happier time, before the courtroom with Carol and her cutting words that tore his life apart.

He stared, the guilt gnawing within him as his eyes fell on a photo of Penny on the coffee table, her bright smile a painful memory.

Max let out a little gurgle, pulling Goofy's attention back to his son's warmth. Goofy hugged him close, burying his face in Max’s soft black hair as the little guy happily sucked on his teddy bear’s ear, his innocence shining light in the darkness of the house.

A gentle hand settled on his arm, and Goofy’s gaze lifted from the dusty floor. Minnie stood before him, her eyes soft and full of concern. The rest of the gang, Mickey, Donald, and Daisy, were a semicircle around him, their smiles a quiet reassurance.

"We're here," Minnie said softly. "You're not alone."

Goofy gave a small, shaky nod. He took a hesitant step further into the room, his eyes scanning the familiar, ghost-filled space. He stopped when he saw the framed photo of Penny on the dusty coffee table.

Donald stepped forward and pointed a finger at the picture. "Hey, Maxie," he said, his voice cheerful and bright. "That's your mama..."

Goofy’s hand shot out, snatching the frame from the table and, with a shuddering breath, turned it over, hiding Penny’s face from view. "He'll never know her as a mom," he said in a low, hollow voice. "He'll never know the pain of losing her."

Without another word, he handed Max to a startled Donald and began to pull pictures from the walls. His movements were frantic and jerky, as if he couldn't get them down fast enough.

"Uh, pal?" Mickey asked, stepping closer. "What are you doing?"

He turned, a picture of Penny and him on their wedding day in his hand. "This house is for me and Max now," he said, his voice flat. "Ain't no need for them pictures of someone who ain't here no more."

He could feel his friends’ eyes on him, their concern an intense weight. "But Goofy," Minnie said hesitantly, "Max needs to know his mom..."

“I am his mom, and his dad,” he cut her off, his voice rising with a desperate, heartbreaking conviction. "I am all the family he needs. And I will never let him out of my sight."

He had expected them to argue, to try to talk him out of it. Then a gentle hand reached past him and unhooked a small picture frame from the wall. Daisy didn't say a word, just took the photo and placed it neatly into a box on the floor. Then Mickey and Minnie started helping too, moving quietly and with purpose.

A lump rose in Goofy's throat. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he watched them. They didn't understand, not really, but they were there. They were helping him erase the past so he could face the future.

He looked across the room and saw Donald sitting on a dusty armchair, holding a gurgling Max in his arms. Their eyes met, and Goofy saw it instantly in Donald’s gaze: the sadness, the disapproval. Donald must be thinking he was rejecting Penny's memory. He looked like he thought he was doing something heartless.

Recent painful memories from the reunion piled in Goofy's head. Donald accusing him of resenting Max for Penny's death stung. So did Max assuming Minnie was his mom. Goofy's own thoughts were a swift of hurt and confusion, but one thing was clear: he would never, ever let anyone assume he hated his son because Penny died giving birth. He tore his gaze away from Donald's disapproving stare and looked back at the empty wall, a raw, desperate truth solidifying in his mind.

This was his grief, messy and selfish as it was. This was his love. He was protecting Max, not from the memory of a woman, but from the pain of a loss so deep it had broken him. If he had to choose between Penny and Max, it was Max. It would always be Max.

The End

Chapter Text

Donald's April Fools 1982 References

Donald vs Gladstone: They are first cousins and rivals. Gladstone relies heavily on his luck, which has rendered him lazy and arrogant, while the unlucky Donald relies on hard work and struggles throughout his life. Gladstone's first appearance was in the comic Wintertime Wager.

Della's pursue to be an astronaut: Della's passion to fly to space is shown in the comic Family Ties written by Evert Geradts.

Huey, Dewey and Louie's naughtiness: In the comic Family Ties, we see a panel with the triplets as babies wrecking Donald's house.

Joseph Buquet's murder: This storyline is taking from The Phantom of the Opera.

Phantom Blot: He appears in many Mickey Mouse comics and has appeared on Ducktales and House of Mouse. His first appearance was in Mickey Mouse Outwits the Phantom Blot.

Phantom Brat: She's Blot's daughter who appeared in two issues of Mickey Mouse Adventures.

Mrs. Fragmuffin: She was the Blot's housekeeper in the 8^th issue of Mickey Mouse Adventures.

Goofy's decision to hide Penny's existence: Max's mother was never mentioned in Goof Troop, both Goofy movies, House of Mouse or the Christmas movies. Goofy never wanting to relive that pain or subjecting his son to it is based on him never mentioning her or talking about her with Max.