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It had been a week since F.O.W.L. had fallen, and the family was just settling back into...
No, not settling back.
They were settling into their new normal. They didn’t return from the Library of Alexandria quite the same family they had been before they left. Beakley knew that. Secrets were spilt, and dynamics were shifting. It wasn’t a bad thing... it would just take a bit of careful navigation.
And so, one morning, Beakley returned to the dining room after putting Scrooge’s breakfast plate in the dishwasher. There Scrooge sat at the head of the table, contentedly reading from his Sunday paper, either not noticing she’d come back, or else choosing to mind his own business unless she purposefully interrupted him.
She cleared her throat, and at once he looked up.
“Sir, might I have a word? ...About Webbigail?”
Scrooge raised his brows in surprise. “Certainly, certainly,” he agreed while folding his paper in half and setting it aside. He gestured to the seat at his right, and she took it.
“I suppose now that we both know the full truth... I ought to include you in decisions about Webby’s upbringing. It was simpler to make decisions about her on my own, but I don’t feel it right to prevent... her father from having a say.”
Scrooge took note of her pause before she’d said “father.”
“It’s still a bit odd to say aloud, isn’t it?” he smiled with understanding before another thought tugged at the corners of his mouth even more. “It’s still odd for me to hear! But I cannae stop smiling like a loon whenever she says it.”
Webby had been calling him “Dad,” all week. A few times she’d begun to say “Uncle Scrooge,” but stopped after the first syllable and corrected herself.
“It is quite the promotion,” Beakley smiled back.
“It is… I never imagined it would be, but it is.”
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, Scrooge smiling at the thought of his precious baby girl, and Beakley smiling at the absolute puddle he’d melted into.
“Well then,” Scrooge managed to bring his attention back to the present moment, “What sort of parenting decision did you want to talk about?”
“Well… for one thing, I thought we might file for joint custody of Webbigail.”
Scrooge stared wide-eyed for a moment before he found his words again. “Really? D’ye mean it?”
Beakley nodded. “I know it won’t make much difference either way in day-to-day matters…”
“Well in day-to-day matters, no, of course, you’re right, but it means that much you would ask!” he said, reaching into his pocket where he usually kept his phone. “I’ll get my lawyer on this straight awayyyyand it’s Sunday,” he deflated. “Lazy loafer of a lawyer doesnae work on Sundays.”
“Oh, what a sinner,” she said sarcastically with a chuckle. “Well, there’s no harm in putting that off ‘til tomorrow, anyway.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “Now, ye said ‘decisions,’ – plural – earlier… did ye have something else in mind as well?”
“Nothing in particular for now,” she shrugged. “Just that I thought from now on you and I ought to try to work together to come to agreements on things concerning her upbringing.”
“D’ye have a ‘for instance?’”
“Oh, I don’t know… for instance, when she’ll be allowed to wear makeup. I was thinking –”
“Forty,” Scrooge said at the same time Beakley said “Fourteen.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘fourteen?’ As in, twenty-six years younger than forty?”
“I did,” Beakley sat up a little straighter and crossed her arms. “Though I’m alright with her practicing around the house before then, if she wants to… as long as she washes it off before going out.”
“Don’t try to sound all reasonable when you said ‘fourteen,’ not one minute ago! In my day, the only women who wore makeup were prostitutes!”
Beakley narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “Look me in the eyeshadow and say that again. I dare you,” she threatened.
Scrooge gulped and leaned back in his chair. “Not that I’m… implying… anything of the sort. The point is… fourteen? Della wasnae allowed to wear makeup until she was eighteen and by then she didn’t want to… said it felt like rubbing orange peanut butter on her bill.”
“And Webby may feel the same, and she may not. I’ll make certain she doesn’t leave the house painted up like a chorus girl, but I started wearing makeup at fourteen. I see no problem with her wearing light makeup starting at that age… maybe even letting her try a little mascara before then for formal events, if she wants to.”
“Masc – wha –?!” He stammered before his voice went up an octave. “What in blazes does she need mascara for?! She has beautiful eyelashes! Have you not seen –? Those are my mother’s eyelashes!”
His voice had fallen to a growl at those last few words, but Beakley wasn’t fazed. She turned her attention to the large portrait of Scrooge’s parents at the other end of the dining room. Downy McDuck gazed out over the dining room with her husband, her eyes laced with lashes twice as full as Webby’s.
“Are they?” she asked doubtfully. “I don’t think so.”
“They are! And my mother never needed mascara!”
“For goodness’ sake, McDuck! If you can’t handle the idea of Webby wearing makeup someday, how are we ever going to come to an agreement about things like… telling her the details of where babies come from?”
This time when Scrooge’s eyes flew open, the top of his bill took on a reddish tint. He darted his eyes back and forth across the table a few times before taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. “That… er… that should be… easy enough in her case.”
“Oh you think so?” Beakley asked sarcastically.
“Sure, sure… all we’ve got to do,” he cleared his throat again, “is tell her the truth. We’ll just sit her down and tell her like it is… say, ‘Ye see, Webbigail… when a buzzard hates a billionaire very very much…’”
“SCROOGE.”