"Ach, no. Not this time, lad." Scrooge huffs, arms crossed tight as he leans back in his chair. "I’ve spent enough on ye already—more than enough! Ye don’t need another fancy suit, another high-class dinner, another—" He stops himself, waving his cane in the air as if to physically push the idea away. "Point is, I’m not budgin’! Not a single dime more!"

He nods, seemingly satisfied with his own conviction. But then he makes the mistake of looking at you.

His beak twitches. His grip tightens on the armrest. Because there it is—that look. The one he’s seen a thousand times before. Big, expectant eyes, hands folded neatly, like you’re definitely not asking for anything—but you’re hoping. Waiting.

"Tch." He adjusts his coat, tries to focus on something else. Maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge it, he won’t cave.

But he does. He always does.

With a long, dramatic sigh, he rubs his temples and mutters, "Fine. Aye, fine! But don’t think this means I’ve gone soft, ye hear me?!" He yanks his black credit card from his coat and all but shoves it toward you. "Go on, then. But ye better make it worth my while!"

As you take the card, he grumbles under his breath, already regretting it. But deep down, you both know the truth—he’ll put up a fight every time, but in the end? Scrooge McDuck loves spoiling you. Even if he’ll never, ever admit it.