Summary: When Aldo is upset by Bill submitting a portrait of him to the local art gallery, Bill does everything he can to retrieve it before the unveiling.

Open the attached file to read the story in its proper format.

 readasaurous commissioned this.

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The Way I See You

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Bill was relieved by the knocking at his apartment door. It snapped him out of his concentration, and while he was annoyed at being distracted when he may finally have come a little closer to achieving his goal, his wing appreciated being able to uncurl from the brush it had been holding for the last while. The painting wasn’t going well, and Bill was glad to turn his back on it for a while. He opened the door, and a familiar shadow fell across him.

“Oh. Hi, Aldo” he greeted.

“Hi, Bill!” the alligator greeted, and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You ready to go? Boy, I can already taste that two-for-one milkshake deal down at Bev’s!”

As he suddenly remembered their plans for the afternoon, Bill clapped a wing to his forehead. He had completely forgotten.

“Ohh-hhh” he groaned, and aimed an apologetic expression at his best friend. “Aldo, would you mind if we waited for a little bit? I’ve gotten into something I need to finish first.”

Aldo’s stomach rumbled faintly, but the gator managed to keep himself from looking too disappointed.

“Well, okay” he conceded. “I guess those milkshakes will still be there, later.”

He let himself into Bill’s apartment, glancing around for the “something” that his pal was working on.

“You don’t have to wait for me; you could go on ahead” Bill said – partially out of courtesy, but also because he thought Aldo’s inevitable restlessness would disturb him.

“Naw, it’s not as much fun without you” the reptile replied, before coming to a stop in the middle of the living room. “Hey, is that what you’re working on?”

He pointed at the canvas resting on the easel in Bill’s art corner. The image Bill had been illustrating – about three-quarters of the way finished – was of a duck standing on a hill at sundown, its beak upturned at a flock of birds flying far overhead. It was a more dramatic-looking picture than Bill usually painted, and Aldo stared it longer than he would at Bill’s other works.

“Yeah, that’s it” the feathery artist replied as he waddled back to the corner to scrutinize his painting. “The art gallery’s hosting an exhibition for local artists, and I reserved a spot for me. I’ve been trying for days to come up with something new…”

He motioned towards the opposite corner, where the trashcan was overflowing with discarded canvases.

“Well, this one looks pretty great!” Aldo said heartily.

He sounded like he genuinely meant the compliment, and Bill appreciated it. He felt a little pretentious being self-critical around Aldo, and tried not to disparage his own work too much.

“It’s not bad. The shading turned out better than I hoped. But I don’t know if this is unique enough. I have a feeling that a lot of other artists will be working with the same theme.”

He looked up at Aldo.

“I’m sorry for making you wait, but today’s the last day the gallery’s accepting pieces. I only have a little bit longer before I have to take this down there. We’ll go to Bev’s on the way back.”

Aldo laughed warmly and turned away, looking for a place to sit.

“Don’t sweat it. There’ll be other exhibitions, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah…” sighed Bill, climbing back onto his stool and gazing at his picture in dissatisfaction

Aldo had been heading for the couch when he noticed the lawn chairs standing by the balcony door. Bill had brought them in the night before because of the rain, along with the bongos, and now, the midday sun was shining right onto where they stood. The sight was too tempting for his reptilian blood, and he turned the larger of the two seats around so that the sun would fall right onto his back when he sat down. He pulled the larger of the bongos towards him, but realized at the last moment that music would probably distract Bill (which in turn would further delay them getting to Bev’s). Instead of playing, he leaned on the instrument’s surface with his forearms. The pleasant warmth of the sunshine coupled with the silence in the apartment and soon had him feeling sleepy.

With half-closed eyes, Aldo watched Bill’s back. The duck was tentatively stroking the canvas with his brush, his body tensed with concentration. Though it would have been hard for him to put into words, the alligator took some abstract pleasure at the sight of his friend so involved in his passion. He personally didn’t understand the appeal of painting, but it did his heart good to see his pal immersed in an activity that meant so much to him. And while sitting and watching Bill paint wasn’t his idea of a great time, it made him feel even more serene in this moment. Gradually, the gator began to doze.

Only a short while later, Bill turned around on his swivel chair to tell Aldo that they could go. He had given up on achieving his vision, and had thrown a bit more color onto the canvas to call it complete. However, he shut his beak when he took in the sight before him. Aldo’s eyes were closed and his head was down, pillowed by his arms resting on the bongos. The sunlight streaming in behind him outlined his form in gold, exalting Aldo with an aura of naturalistic wonder.

Inspiration struck Bill like a lightning bolt.

He picked up his easel and set it so that he would be able to face Aldo as he painted. He set aside the completed failure (pessimistically titled “The Futility of Hope”) and prepared a new canvas. He cleared his palette, removing the dabs of red and replacing them with green and yellow. Mixing at top speed, he lay the first brush strokes onto the canvas within a minute, and felt a promising twinge of anticipation in his gizzard when, for the first time since beginning this endeavor, he didn’t feel as though he was already doing something wrong. Bill went on painting, increasingly aware that he was creating something good. Not only was it good, but he was certain that the theme and feelings he was capturing would not be common among the other works at the gallery. He had painted his friend many times before, but this was turning into something special.

Aldo grunted in his near-sleep but remained motionless.

“I’m actually getting something, here” Bill declared excitedly. “Aldo, is it okay if I submit this portrait of you to the gallery?”

“Mmmph” replied the gator dozily without opening his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”

He yawned, then went to sleep entirely. Bill – on a roll like rarely before – didn’t notice, and his inspiration and concentration allowed him to finish the painting in record time. He felt immensely proud as he signed his name to the bottom corner, and gave the completed artwork one more proud inspection before looking ‘round at his subject.

“Hey, you wanna see how you turned out?” he asked enthusiastically.

Aldo only answered him with a snore, making Bill chuckle. Good old Aldo, he thought to himself as he set his palette aside and hopped from his stool. Aldo didn’t wake in the time it took his friend to wash his wings and wait for the paint to dry, and as the deadline for submission ticked closer, Bill decided against rousing him. He didn’t have the heart for it, because Aldo looked more peaceful than he had ever seen him – quite in contrast to how he usually slept on the couch, with his maw open and two limbs and a tail hanging over the cushions. Bill decided to just leave Aldo here. He scribbled a note, telling him where he had gone and that he’d bring the milkshakes back to the apartment for them to enjoy at their leisure. ‘Thanks for posing for me. Everyone is going to love your portrait,’ the note concluded, and Bill left it where Aldo would see it when he awoke.

“You’re the best” he affectionately informed the sleeping alligator, and smiled when Aldo guffawed in his sleep.

Bill covered the canvas with a sheet of paper and made sure to be extra quiet as he pulled the front door closed on his way out. As he drove to the gallery and back to his apartment from the Decoy Café, a content sort of excitement radiated in his breast and he reveled in the feeling of having accomplished something noteworthy. He wasn’t a prideful duck, but he was very eager to have his work unveiled for the whole town to see the next day. Most of all, he couldn’t wait until Aldo finally saw himself.

…That is, until he got back to the apartment.

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“You did what?!” Aldo demanded, clutching the note in his hand. His eyes were wider than duck-sized dinner plates.

Standing in front of his friend with the four milkshakes still in his arms, Bill regarded the gator with surprise. This wasn’t the reaction he had expected, and he assumed that Aldo must have misread what he had written.

“I just took the portrait of you to the gallery. It’s going to be part of the exhibition” he stated. “Aldo, would you help me with these? I think Bev managed to pour a half-gallon into each of ‘em…”

Aldo groaned and turned away, striding into the living room with a hand over his eyes and leaving a surprised Bill to carry the four paper cups to the coffee table. He set them down and watched Aldo pace about agitatedly.

“Bill!” the alligator exclaimed. “When did paint me?”

“While you were in the chair” Bill replied.

“While I was-” Aldo sputtered, whipping his head around to glance at the chair by the bongos. “You should have asked me!”

“I did!” Bill insisted, his tone rising, and recounted the exchange to the slack-jawed alligator.

The revelation seemed to stump Aldo, and he wasn’t happy about it. He closed his mouth and his eyes shrank back to their regular size, though they now formed an angry slant. Bill was confused, and he probed further.

“What’s the problem? Aldo, I’ve painted you lots of times and it never bothered you.”

He cast his wing about the apartment, showing off the numerous works he displayed of them: both of them riding on Bill’s scooter, both of them playing the bongos, Aldo about to launch Bill for an attempt at flight… The gator glanced at these framed pictures, but even though his aggression seemed to abate, he shook his head in discontent.

“That’s the both of us. It’s different” he insisted. “But even more than that, these are just hanging in your home! I don’t like the thought of hundreds of people staring at a picture of just me, asleep. I just don’t like it.”

Bill felt his insides go chilly. He also felt some hot irritation at how Aldo was reacting, but knowing that he had done something to potentially embarrass his friend was decisively the worse feeling. He stood silent for a moment, remorsefully reflecting on how his presumption had cost Aldo his peace of mind. Eventually, he held out his wings to the gator imploringly.

“But Aldo… It’s good” he insisted in a gentle tone. “It’s really, really good. I think once you see it…”

But the Swampwooder only shook his head and lowered his gaze. With his tail hanging low, he headed for the front door.

“I know you didn’t mean anything bad by it, but this really bothers me. I’m gonna go.”

“But- But-!” Bill spluttered, his remorse compounded by sudden helplessness. “But Aldo-! Your milkshakes…!”

“You can have ‘em” Aldo muttered, adding before he closed the door “I lost my appetite.”

The serene silence that had filled Bill’s apartment before was replaced by a voiceless gloominess, now that the duck was alone in the absence of his best friend. Eventually, Bill – whose appetite had now gone, too – sat down on his couch and watched as a hide of beaded perspiration formed on the paper cups. Two of the lids had been marked with an “A” in black marker, to identify Aldo’s, which Bev had made especially for him by crumbling bouillon into the creamy mixture. Bill sure as heck wasn’t going to drink them, but try as he might to alieve his guilt by thinking of how Aldo’s overreaction had cost him the price of these wasted milkshakes, he couldn’t ditch the feeling of his own fault in this.

He hadn’t had the slightest notion that Aldo wouldn’t want his portrait to be displayed, but he had been so eager to show off his accomplishment that he had jumped the gun on his pal. He knew Aldo hadn’t comprehended his asking permission when he had been half-asleep, and Bill admitted to himself that he had been happy to have taken the gator’s feelings for granted. Now, it had cost Aldo, and because Bill had never embarrassed him to such a degree before, he wondered just how hard the gator would take it.

As Bill eventually got off the couch to transfer the milkshakes to the refrigerator, he decided that he would have to make amends. The gallery was closed and locked now, but he would be there as soon as it reopened on the following day. He would beg the staff to give him his painting back, even if it meant replacing it with the less inspired work he had slapped together before Aldo’s portrait. The curator – Mr. Salvador Ducki – had been impressed by the portrait and would no doubt see that the replacement was not a fair trade, but Bill would insist. Even if it meant that he would be unlikely to have his work displayed in future exhibitions, Bill committed himself to retrieving the picture and mending Aldo’s feelings. Their friendship was more important than pride and fame, even when it came to the best picture that Bill had ever painted in his life.

With a sigh, Bill distractedly took one of the milkshakes from fridge, and failed to look at the writing on the lid before taking a sip. He spat the salty mouthful all over the floor.

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Much to Bill’s distress, the morning was not on his side at all.

Though he had decided to arrive at the gallery before opening hours in hopes of catching the curator in private, his doorbell had rang just as he was heading out.

“Ducktown Water Works Association!” announced the duck in the uniform. “Time to read your meter!”

This buffoon read Bill’s electricity, clocks, and television guide before finally locating the water meter. Had he finished but a minute earlier, Bill would have been able to slip past the census taker, the bow tie salesman, and the evangelists that successively blocked his doorway afterwards and cost him valuable time. At least he was able to dash out of reach of the cookie-bearing scouts heading down the hallway, his replacement painting under his wing. He may yet have made it to the gallery with a few moments to spare, were it not for the ice cream vendor whose cart he ran in to with his scooter.

The worst thing about this wasn’t being shouted at in Italian, the police citation, or the broken headlight, but the fact that he hadn’t thought to wrap the replacement painting in paper. It now looked as though it had been painted in gelato. Bill didn’t even entertain the thought of trying to exchange it in this state, and stuffed it in the nearest trash can.

By the time Bill finally ran up to the steps of the art gallery, the exhibition had already been opened. He knew it would
be: he had looked at his watch while his citation was being written, and his heart had sunk in realization that he would no longer be able to keep everyone from seeing his painting; at least the art connoisseurs would get to see it. But as Bill saw a moment later (with a helpless cry of despair), not only Ducktown’s resident art-lovers were there. In the biggest, cruelest jest played on him all morning, he would have sworn that the entire town had turned out for the exhibition. He even spotted Fred the penguin in the crowd streaming into the building, sporting a dozen ice packs strapped to his little body.

“How…? Why…??” Bill asked aloud. “Why is everybody interested in art now?”

“Eh, eet’s something to do” said a familiar voice, and Bill looked about to see Raoul the crow striding his way, slurping a boxed drink and clearly just having exited the building. “And there’s some prooblem weeth the satellite station, so there’s noothing on TV anyway.”

As Bill uttered a despairing groan, Raoul nudged him with an elbow.

“Cheer oop, Señor Duke. As laughable as your attempts at flight may be, so mooch better ees your picture.”

“Oh, no” Bill moaned, hiding his face in his wings. “If you’ve seen it, that means everyone’s seen it!”

“So looovingly painted” Raoul teased. “’Choo better be careful, unless ‘choo want people talking about your friend and ‘choo.”

Bill was already off running by the time Raoul finished his sentence, his need to remove the picture now positively urgent. The crowd wasn’t tightly-packed, but he had to weave around other ducks as he searched the white-walled hallways for his painting. He had no idea how many local artists there must be in the city, for there was no shortage of art that wasn’t his. He felt weakly vindicated by his decision to ditch his first painting, because flight was indeed the predominant theme among the paintings, sculptures, and performance pieces. In search for his picture, he peered through the arc of a statue featuring two airborne ducks forming a figure eight, dashed through a corridor lined with a series of paintings successively illustrating a duck taking off in a field, and almost ran into a painted performer who was doing an impressive job of miming flight.

He had almost circumnavigated the entire gallery and was growing hopeful that his painting may not have been displayed (after all, it didn’t fit the gallery’s central motif) when he finally found it. Given how the rest of the day had gone, he supposed that he shouldn’t be too surprised that the curators had gone the extra length to ensure that everyone would see his picture: he had hoped that his painting may at least have been hung in some shadowy corner, or perhaps behind a sign telling visitors not to touch the art, but instead, it had been hung in the center of a wall, slightly apart from the works that bookended it, and one of the overhead spotlights just happened to shine its beam right on it, highlighting Aldo’s portrait.

A crowd was gathered in front of the picture. The curator, Mr. Ducki, was talking rapturously about it to the audience, gesticulating and pointing for emphasis. Bill wanted to cry.

Nevertheless, he rallied his resolve and began a slow walk towards the crowded painting. Under different circumstances, he would have been thrilled at how his art was being received and would have liked nothing more than to stand up there and let people know that he had painted this fantastic work. He felt prouder of his painting now than he had yesterday…but all of that didn’t matter. He had to get it off the wall. If he couldn’t successfully appeal to the curator, he was earnestly considering shredding the canvas with his own wings. He steeled himself for that distinct possibility, and wondered whether he could be arrested for destroying his own painting.

“Ah! The artist himself!” exclaimed Mr. Ducki as he spotted Bill making his way through the crowd. “Up here, please!”

The crowd parted and a moment later, Bill had the mustachioed curator’s wing on his shoulder. He tried to say something confidential to him, but Mr. Ducki was going on too loudly to hear him.

“As I was saying, the concept of this piece – absolutely inspired!” he declared in a tone usually reserved for addressing audiences ten times this size. “As ducks, it is natural for us to recoil at the sight of an alligator, and to thank our lucky stars should he be asleep, but the feeling that this young man has captured here – the enticement, the temptation… Fascinating impression, dear boy. Why, just look at how the use of shading – the shadows brightening into sunlight – beckons the viewer closer to investigate the beast! I almost want to reach out and pet him!”

Bill pursed his bill and tried to withstand the praise. He so very much wanted to bask in the commendation of an art expert and wallow in the validation of his skills, but he couldn’t let himself, lest he lose his nerve. He opened his mouth to get the curator’s attention…but a familiar voice from the crowd beat him to it.

“I’m struck by the intimacy of the picture” said Bev, who had slipped Bill’s gaze despite standing near the front of the throng in her gaudy glasses and leopard-print hat. “Someone who’s never met an alligator before – or who’s only been chased by one – can look at this painting and feel as if they’re in the presence of someone they’ve known for years.”

She caught Bill’s eye and smiled at him. “Bill, this is a very moving portrait. I’ll bet Aldo loves it.”

The uncertain smile that squiggled across Bill’s beak conveyed his mixed feelings at her words. Mr. Ducki, on the other hand, didn’t look pleased at all for having been interrupted, but before he could go on, a few more familiar voices intruded on his monologue. Ed, Oly, and Waddle had wriggled their way to the front of the mass, and the two foremost brothers gave the picture a cursory glance before loudly offering their opinions.

“I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just Aldo” Ed said critically.

“Yeah, and he’s jus’ sleepin’. What’s so special about that?” Oly added.

“Why don’t you bring one of the pictures you did of the both of you?” Ed asked Bill. “At least there’s some action goin’ on in those. Heh, like the one where he’s about to go long with you – you know the one I’m talkin’ about?”

“Or the one where you’re both dancin’ like a coupla fools” Oly added with a reminiscent grin. “Jus’ sayin’. Nothin’ personal, Bill. Seeya later.”

“Seeya!” Ed added, and moved with Oly to detach themselves from the crowd.

They had gone several paces before realizing that their remaining brother wasn’t with them. They turned in time to see Waddle stepping closer to the painting. He peered up at it intently, and offered his analysis to the crowd.

“I see a slumbering predator who could wake up and become dangerous at any moment” he began, his childlike voice uncharacteristically serious. “But at the same time, he looks vulnerable. As dangerous as he appears, there’s an implication that he’s worth the risk.”

Bill, Bev, and everyone else who knew Waddle stared at him in the wake of such unexpected astuteness. His brothers were the first to recover, and turned their beaks up towards the painting for a longer look.

“…Okay, now I see it, too” Ed said matter-of-factly, and glanced towards Bill. “Nice one, Bill.”

“Yeah. Really cool, Bill” Oly added.

It was finally too much for Bill’s conviction to withstand, and he burst into an ear-to-ear grin. In this moment, pride and recognition eclipsed his sense of loyalty. Other people thought his work was good; they were praising something that he had put a lot of effort into. He was receiving the reward that all artists worked for, and he had to clasp his wings before him to keep from fidgeting with happiness. He looked at his picture, delighting as he saw for the first time that it was hanging above a card bearing his name and the title he had given it: “Alligator at Rest.” He gazed back towards the crowd and drank in the sight of them. Some were smiling outright at his work, others were scrutinizing it. A few pairs of ducks in the back were even discussing it amongst themselves.

And behind them, standing close to the opposite wall and staring up at the mounted canvas, was Aldo.

Cold dread splashed over Bill, every bit as bad as if he had been faced with the chopping block.

“Aldo…!” he choked.

The alligator went on staring, his eyes wide once again.

Almost whimpering with anxiety, Bill pushed his way through the crowd until he stood before his friend. The reptile didn’t even look down.

“Aldo, no-! I’m- I’m so sorry!” Bill cried. “I- I was going to be here early and tell them to take it down, but then… The meter guy…! The ice cream cart…! And then I couldn’t find…! Oh Aldo, I’m sorry!”

Aldo said nothing. He strode forward, parting the crowd. With Bill trailing in his wake, he walked right up to the painting and beheld his illustrated self point-blank, with his lower jaw delicately hanging.

“Please, sir – no panting on the painting” Mr. Ducki bade him.

Slowly, Aldo turned from the painting to look at Bill, who was wringing his wings.

“Bill… This is what you painted yesterday?” he asked. “I had no idea. This… It’s the best thing you’ve ever done. And not just because I’m in it.”

Bill, who had been ready to migrate on the spot, relaxed incrementally.

“But…how do feel about this?” he asked. “I promise, if you want to rip it off the wall and run, I’ll distract security!”

Aldo laughed pleasantly, and the sound loosened the muscles that had tensed deep inside of Bill. The alligator reached down and gently shook his best friend by the shoulder, which had the effect of shaking a smile back onto the duck’s face.

“Everyone!” Aldo addressed the crowd. “Do you see this painting? Do you see how good it is? My friend painted that in less than an afternoon! And he even did it on an empty stomach! Can you get any better than that?”

The crowd knew to value that sort of achievement, and an appreciative applause rose up. That was just gravy for Bill, who was happiest for the fact that Aldo was smiling at him again.

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It was as though nothing had happened. For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Bill and Aldo walked in circles around the gallery – sometimes looking at the art but otherwise remaining deep in conversation. They talked about painting, artistic themes, and exhibitions in general, and from there branched off into milkshakes, scout cookies, and unwanted visitors. Inevitably, they ran into Bev, Ed, Oly, and Waddle again, but even the brothers seemed able to sense the reconciliation going on and didn’t press their conversation on the two friends for too long.

Eventually, the gallery began closing its doors, and the last few visitors began heading for the exit. Bill and Aldo were among them, but paused on their way out. Their path had taken them by Bill’s painting, and both stopped to look at it again. “Alligator at Rest” was rendered darker by the overhead light being turned off, but hadn’t lost any of its grandeur. It would hang there for the rest of the week, and then Bill would take it back. He planned to offer it to Aldo to hang in his own home.

“So… You’re really alright with it hanging here?” Bill asked, keeping his voice low to reduce his echo in the empty corridor.

“Aw…” Aldo replied. “It still bothers me a bit – just a tiny bit. But it also makes me feel good. I look good, definitely. And people love it.”

“You are a great model” Bill stated.

Aldo chuckled, and his laugh faded into silence. The two stood before the picture for a while longer, tempting the curator to find them and shoo them out. Despite this threat of intrusion, the mood between the friends had grown intimate; personal. It was as though the world at large had gone away and Bill and Aldo were the only ones who existed.

“Hey, buddy” Aldo murmured, eyes still on the picture. “I’m sorry I got so upset at you yesterday.”

“It’s okay” Bill assured him. “And I’m sorry for having done this without your permission.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Bill’s mind had begun to drift to other matters, like whether those milkshakes in his fridge would still be good, when he felt Aldo’s hand on his wing. He looked down to see the alligator’s thick, green digits clasp the tip of his wing, pressing their palms together. He looked up and found Aldo’s eyes on him. They were serene and warm, as was his smile.

“I like how I look to you” Aldo quietly confessed.

This simplest and most heartfelt compliment, coming from the person he cared most about in the entire city, was the nicest thing that Bill had heard all day. It warmed his heart so much that he couldn’t keep a renewed grin off his face, and he beamed at Aldo while giving his hand a heartfelt squeeze. The two of them were still holding each other’s gaze when Mr. Ducki finally found them and imperiously directed them off the premises.

“C’mon, you big lug” Bill chuckled moments later as they headed down the sidewalk. “There are four milkshakes still waiting for us at my place. When we’re done with those, maybe I’ll teach you how to paint, and you can let me see…y’know…how I look to you.”

“That sounds great” Aldo replied, meaning what he said; painting suddenly seemed more of a worthwhile endeavor. “Don’t take it personally if you come out a little two-dimensional at first – I’m still new at this.”

The two of them held hands all the way to Bill’s scooter.

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The End