Archive of Our Own

Donatello would describe himself as an outcast, in a way. Just by nature of the definition: a person who has been rejected by society or a social group. In a way, one could argue that all of Donnie’s family are outcast rejects. 

Donnie could also, in a way, argue that he is inherently not a person. Though most people he knows wouldn’t stand for that.

Sure, he feels (ew) like a human being most days. His mind, if anything, is more complex than that of an average person. Equations, calculations, stats and figures run through him faster than most people can’t even begin to comprehend. 

And then that’s the problem: He’s more complicated than a human being, logically. Donnie is more simple than a human too- in the emotions-feelsy department.

Nothing makes this more apparent then after the whole Shredder thing. 

It’s late when they get back. There’s a hug- because of course there’s a hug. Donnie’s battle shell is shattered into pieces, with light scratches scraping the soft shell. And look. He loves his brothers, god, of course he does. But he’s bleeding (the rest of them are too, he’s not special) and very, very, very tired.

Raph, his dear brother, his life-long team mate, doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Guys, guys,” Raph starts, already having his arms open. An invite, painfully obvious. “God, I was so worried.”

And that’s the warning. Leo, Mikey, April, Dad-- Everyone is sucked into the strong, unhesitating arms. Sweeping up Donnie like he weighs nothing (he doesn’t, really, without his fake shell), encompassing him entirely in warmth. It’d be nice, honestly, if Donnie wasn’t pressed up against so many people. Raph’s grip is strong, always was, holding everyone so tight together Donnie’s worried that he’ll get blood on someone. Probably is, but hopefully that someone is already bleeding enough to cover the damages. Donnie’s not the only thing bleeding out, though, as the tension seeps away from the rest of the group.

Donnie feels like he’s soaking the tension up like a sponge. Stiff as a board, he feels heavy against Raph. Cold against his warmth. 

He tries to echo the other’s softness. Tries to echo how Donnie knows past him would react, something a little more kind and a little less hard. He feels like a sound. Not a person. He touches the others in echoes and memories, rather than himself. 

Outcast.

The hug ends with some wisecrack Leo says, something about being crushed or some dumb teddy bear joke or-

“You alright?”

Mikey’s looking at him. His eyes are searching, scanning him up and down, like a watchdog.  Donnie’s in the middle of getting to his feet to work, and he can’t possibly open up to him. It’s stupid. Irrational. Deplorable. 

Donnie offers back a pathetic grin. “I’m fine.” The words are quick, seamless. Mikey smiles something bright at him, the answer giving no one anything to think about, nothing to consider. Mikey is busy, busy like Donnie is, and he can’t bring himself to throw another thing onto the youngest brother.

He feels his shell pounding. Flesh ticking like clockwork. There’s no pain, not yet, just brass bright growing stains in his flawless techwear. No one notices. 

Good. He’s got a lot of work to do.

///

The first task on his personal agenda is to bandage himself up. Can’t get work done when he’s dripping blood all over the place.

This first task breaks down into a few steps:

1: Ignore the crackle of electricity humming along the entirety of his back, threatening like a baton. The prosthetic shell has to be removed gingerly, lest he gets burned and loses the well-oiled smoothness of his muscles, the years of practiced perfection. Donnie can’t lose his grace to an electric tremor. He can’t, because years of telling time and moving the wires that make up his being would be all for nothing. He’s specialized. The only man for the job. 

2: When prying the shell off, ignore the sizzle of flesh burning. The thickened skin of his ‘shell’ allows him to somewhat repress the feeling of being branded by his own tech, but still, it’s sensitive as hell. Once the shell is off, though, he can very much feel the pain of open flesh against the cold air. Donnie represses the urge to yelp and trudges onward. 

3: Go to the bathroom and grab a cloth. Run it under cold water (his hands don’t tremble, thank God), and multitask. Cool the burns, wipe the blood. Two birds, one stone. 

4: Bandage himself. He wraps the bandages thickly around the entirety of his shell, front and back, like he’s trying to tape it down. Donnie doesn’t bother to look to see if the wounds need stitches- His brothers most certainly have worse and most certainly need the thread. 

And those are all the steps. It takes twenty minutes, tops. One thing off the To-Do list.

(He’s not someone who knows how to grieve. His brothers are out there, comforting one another, and he’s in the lab. Outcast .) 

A million more things to go. 

(Too many things to do. Too many projects to juggle. A balancing act, made for hands that have five fingers, not three. His hands can at least pull at his face like they ought to.) 

///

Donnie starts by making himself a list of deadlines. Finish remaking the tank. Finish fixing the phones. The trackers. The weapons. The dozens and dozens of hand crafted tech that got obliterated in moments against Shredder. Up the security. Change his bandages. Change the other’s bandages. Hide the bandages. Up the security again, and again, and again.

Leo’s leaning in his doorway. “Heyyy, my favorite twin!”

Donnie’s hunched over his desk, wearing his shattered goggles (more of a comfort) and a big satin jacket (Not the Purple Dragons- a copy he received for his birthday. Same everything, minus the picture) and messing with some old tools. His tech bracelet was shattered in the battle, leaving him unable to access or control much of anything. No security cameras, no tech, no contacts, no trackers- he needs his bracelet back.

Donnie sighs, pulling himself away from his work. Leaning deeply in his armchair, he forces a response out himself. “Your only twin, Leo. And we’re not even twins.” He pauses, for a moment. “What time even is it?” Donnie impulsively checks his wrist- there’s nothing there but a leather watch he can’t even read right. Non-digital things suck ass. 

Leo laughs, nervous but bright. “Does that even matter, my favorite insomniac? Anyways!” Clapping his hands together, he throws himself forward towards Donnie. “We broke the remote to the TV. And we’re all desperately bored, injured out of our poor little minds, and if we don’t have the remote, who knows what trouble we’ll get into!”

Ah, the classic guilt trip. Donnie raises an unimpressed brow, already running through everything he’d need to fix the remote. It hasn’t even been an hour since they got home. He can’t ever say no to his brothers.

Leo flounders, for just a moment, before dramatically gasping in what simply must be agony- If agony was an over dramatic play gesture, in which you could also drape yourself across your injured brother’s back (not that Leo knows that). “My only healthy brother must help his dying family! We’re bored, Donald!”

Donnie sighs, again, also for the dramatics (they’re twins, after all). Plucking the remote (Jesus, how did they do that to a remote?), he shoos his brother out. Leo leaves with a called “ Love you, my dearest brother!” and Donnie can’t help but assume that’s a part of the extended joke.

///

Donnie’s most certainly liked by the team. They tolerate him, they like his inventions and they like his humor. They accept him, all of them, yet he can’t find himself feeling loved all the time. Which is, in his humble opinion, incredibly stupid.

Of course they love him. He’s their brother! Donnie can say with complete confidence that he loves them, and Donnie’s the one who doesn’t get that kind of stuff. He’s the one that’s tech smart, the one that spends his free time sorting working hours into sense and he’s the one that doesn’t get emotions. 

Donnie can say with complete and utter confidence that he likes and loves his family. But them?

“I don’t like Donnie’s weird new remote thingy.”

He’s sneaking into the kitchen that same night (or morning, or whatever) for his rations, when he sees Leo and Raph huddled together. Whispering. About him. 

Outcast.

Pausing, of course, always painfully curious, Donnie ducks down behind the corner he’s standing at. He wanted the new remote to last goddamnit, and he thought that the new upgrades would improve their recovery experience with the ease. He added a miniature robot arm to the remote, and with the touch of a button, the remote could tell what channel you wanted and would flip directly to it! It only took him five or so hours!

…Remotes already did that, with a touch of a different button. The idea was there okay? He just wanted to make it easier on his brothers, and-

“I know!” Leo bursts into agreement. “Like, I get it, it’s his weird little comfort hobby, but I just want a remote! Keep your quirky little invention doo-dads, but sometimes it’s just too much, ya know?”

God, does Donnie know.

The others nod in agreement. Raph mumbles something about the speakers always being a bit too loud, and the others joke about how Donnie would upgrade them so astronauts could hear it. 

He loses his appetite. Maybe tomorrow (or later that day, if you consider the fact it’s five in the morning) he’ll come down. 

///

The robot is expected to walk in a single linear path. A clock, made to be right twice a day and never more. Donnie does just that, painfully aware of the evident truth of his position here on the team.

He changes his bandages. Reviews his list (the speakers have been added. So has a remote that mysteriously got smashed within the hour of delivering it). Sets out his tools. 

And Donnie fucking works. He works and he works, the overarching fear of something burdening his worker’s brow. The world waits for no one, nothing, nada, and Donnie isn’t about to fall behind because an uncaring world decides to keep spinning without him. By the time he looks up from his stupid remote and his stupid speakers, it’s been seven hours, late afternoon. The dual project is complete (nothing else is, nothing else at all), and he feels a numb sort of joy. It feels like he’s remembering what joy felt like (something he was never good at, remembering how feelings felt until they were choking him in the moment). Not quite experiencing it. 

Still, though, he smiles a corporate kind of smile when he presents it to his brothers. The kind of smile that shimmers in the right spots and sheens in the light. 

His brothers take the remote with caution. “So, uh, Donnie…” Raph starts. “What’s the fun thing with this remote?”

Ah, a pathetic attempt at showing interest. Adorable, truly. 

“Nothing,” Donnie answers, honestly. At his brothers’ eye raised looks, he continues. “Literally nothing. I have too much on my plate right now to make everything an overwhelming invention.”

They stare back at him, looking almost dumbstruck. Dumbstruck? Donnie does something right and they look dumbstruck? Maybe he was going a bit overboard with the improvements. 

“Oh,” Raph says, holding the remote gently in his hands. “Oh! Well, thank you Donnie. And the speakers?” Raph gestures nervously towards the speakers, like they’re going to boom right into his face. 

Donnie shrug nonchalantly. The motion spikes pain in his shoulders and his back, where the burns are blistering and the cuts are… God, he doesn’t even want to look. “Fixed them, my brethren. They’re the average civilian’s speaker quality. Nothing crazy.” He turns back towards his room, leaving his brothers to stare into the drowning purple fabric of his hoodie. “Sing my praise later, dear family. I have other things to work on.” It’s not a lie.

He speedwalks away, and no one even tries to stop him.

Outcast.

They can figure out how to hook it up on their own.

///

Donnie’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this injury is something worth looking at.

The thudding in his back is rising, not quite devastating, but enough to leave him toppling over onto his desk. The drum in his head beats with every step, a march to walk to. It’s only been a day. It’s only been a day. 

It’s been a day, twenty four hours, and his head is pounding as he hunches over his latest project: Remake the suspension system and the engine of his prized turtle tank. The turtle tank is needed, urgently, for quick getaways and regular day to day life. Donnie’s the only one who can do it, of course, as usual- and Donnie’s on an urgent timeline. 

(He also just wants to help. Just wants to belong. Just wants to prove his worth for the team. Plus, he’s learned a long time ago you can’t tell the sky to save clouds for a different day. The world is uncaring and empty.) 

The tank can’t wait, you can’t just tell a falling wall to wait a day while you gather yourself. Stay standing, please, while I get my tools. Donnie balances a couple of parts and compartments in his hands, and thinks: Nothing can stop a falling wall, and nothing can get in the way of this cog in the machine. 

The wall always falls anyway. 

Donnie doesn’t fall though. Not this robot, not this turtle. The engine sits in front of him, covered in some sort of muck, maybe mud, filthy from being exposed to outside New York. Donnie’s got this. Donnie’s gears are well tuned and his wires are connected in all the right places, a snapshot of his true inner self. Fake and coded, pre-written lines. He can fix this engine. Easy, simple, dirty engine. 

He taps his tools against the filthy machine in front of him, recovering from his lost train of thought. This kind of work is as common as the mud staining his jacket ( his favorite jacket), yet the way the botched oil smears against his hands leaves him trembling. His hands have barely even scrapped the machine, but they still come away sticky, despite the leverage with his tools. The fragility of the task before him crumbles like dust, and he’s shaking, shaking, shaking.

God. What the hell is his problem? He was ready to go not five seconds ago. 

Glancing away from the engine in front of him, and the muck and dirt and grime that coats his hands, he looks around his room wildly. The bright lights hit him right in the eye, shudders rolling down his spine, and---

I’m a freak, he gasps. There’s a pressure in the base of his skull, one he can’t rub to relieve since his hands are stained muddy. The tools, long forgotten, crumble to the floor with a striking crash!, the kind of crash that leaves his ears ringing. Voices from outside his room- loud voices- have him hovering hesitant hands over his ears. If he wasn’t gross, he’d be clawing at himself, and oh----

I’m a freak! A freak! He’s trembling. There’s mud on him. Get it off, get it off. 

Frantically, Donnie rubs his hands against his hoodie, smearing the gross liquid onto himself. It’s not touching his skin as much anymore, but his hands are sticking to the fabric of his jacket like gum. The hoodie is quickly thrown off him, leaving him exposed in his baggy sweatshirt underneath (And the shirt underneath that. He’s not taking any chances with these bandages). 

Dirty. He feels so dirty. Breathing quick and heavy, he leans back into his work, holding the improv towel and wiping the whole thing down. The thing is worth doing a well done job, of course, not worth Donnie’s weird little breakdowns. If he ignores the trembling in his hands as he lifts components, then who’s to say it was ever really there? 

It takes twenty minutes to wipe the damn engine down. Twenty minutes longer than it should have, because Donnie should’ve been able to handle a little dirt. The end result is satisfying, though, clean and evident. It has a purpose, all of this, all of his pain, and he can handle it if it means success. 

And success it means. “What’cha workin’ on-- Ooo! Donnie! Nice engine, man!” 

Raph stands in the doorway, with a low whistle, holding two cups of coffee in his hands, which is strange considering it’s well into the evening by now. Perhaps even considered night. Donnie’s pretty sure he’s still trembling with the hoodie, still squinting against the light, still flinching at the sound, but Raph doesn’t comment. 

“Oh, oh thank you, brother,” Donnie says, with the most mild tripping of his words. “It’ll be a mild upgrade compared to the old tank. Simply for productivity, of course,” He elaborates, due to the look of mild fear on Raph’s face. “Nothing more than a few aesthetic choices as well. Greek amphoras held wine as well as oil, you know?” Raph most certainly doesn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. “Or Hopi vases, for corn. Still though! Productive, and pretty enough to put on display in a museum. Still made to be used in the end, as all good things should be.”

He knows he’s ranting. Something about it calms him down with the ease of it. 

“Ah- Right, right.” Raph most certainly has no idea what Donnie just ranted about. “Anyways, what I came here for- I was wonderin’ if you could, you know, make some sort of get-away type thing?”

A get-away type thing? “Like the car? I’m working on the car, Raph.”

“No, no, like-” Raph sighs, shaking his head. “Like an escape pod, almost? Just something to pull us out of bad situations.”

Like everything else he makes. Whatever. “I mean, Raph, I could try?” It seems almost impossible, the way Donnie liked it. Just something to pull them out, and then Donnie can rest peacefully knowing his brothers can come straight home at a press of a button. 

Raph, of course, takes this as a yes. Beaming, he leans forward and places both cups of coffee down, and wraps his younger brother up in a hug. The muscle on Raph’s arms hurt against the fragility of his back, but God forbid if Donnie gives in to a little bit of pain, a little bit of exhaustion. 

“Oh, Donnie, you’re the best! If anyone could do it, it’d be you,” Raph beams, squeezing harder. He gestures to the table where the two steaming cups are. “I got you some coffee, as you can see. Gosh, I have no idea what I’d do without you.”

The praise leaves Donnie breathless, but not in the sensory hell way the mud left him. It leaves a sense of euphoria in Donnie’s wired heart, stuttering his mechanical heartbeat.

All worth it. Everything was all worth it.

///

Raph leaves with more praise on his tongue, leaving Donnie to immediately agree to do whatever project Raph asked. Sure, yeah, the turtle tank’s important, but he asked. And he provided coffee which is… Interesting. He’s usually a sucker about bedtimes and what not. But either way, it’s only night two of sleeplessness, and--

Raph is watching him. Raph is following his explanation. Raph is trusting him, and Donnie has to be trustworthy back.

But the work is slipping away from him. The diagram he’s studying to figure out how he could possibly make something that could practically teleport them home starts to blur, words fading away as he attempts to read. He wants it to be similar to that of a pocket knife: A small, convenient thing that has a protective outer shell, something inconspicuous, something that no one can or would notice. And then the inside: Something powerful, strong, something that can protect. 

His stomach rumbles. He pushes it down, chugging the second coffee with ease. The project sits before him, daunting, but Donnie’s never said no to a challenge before. 

Until he tries to get up.

The world, for the brief moment he pushes himself from his desk, goes blurry. Colorful spots dance around his vision, darkening around the edges, slowly closing into the blackness.

Huh? He thinks, for the split moment of a faster beating heart and jittery limbs that don’t quite hold him up right. The seconds run away from him as he shudders, desperately trying to focus his vision onto his watch.

The world sways, and sways, and sways, leaving Donnie swaying too, the only patch of clearness being the hands he has gripping the desk-- then that’s gone, and the dull ache rises in the back of his head.

He’s weightless.

He hits the floor.

///

Okay. So fainting’s new.

Donnie wakes up on the floor of his room, splayed outwards, a knee propped up. His arms are the only thing really holding him up when he pushes himself forward. According to his watch (the damn thing he still can’t read quite right), he’s been out for a minute, tops. Which is-- normal? For fainting? He’s not quite sure. He doesn’t even know what caused the unfortunate event; He wasn’t quite in agony and he’s gone longer without sleep. 

His hands are clasped around his ears. He moves them down to grip his shoulders, shaking at the sudden cold that washes over him. Should he move? Get back to work? 

Dragging himself forward, Donnie finds himself slumping against the wall and rock of his lab. His face feels like running on empty: expressionless, eyelids sticking every time he blinks. 

Jesus, he’s a mess. He needs more coffee. No- what he needs to get back to work. Coffee would help, though. 

Pulling himself from his own mind, he pushes himself onto his desk. Limbs, too heavy, weigh him down onto the papers and diagrams in front of him, but he has to work. Or then what? He’d be a useless thing. A junkyard of broken tech no one can operate. He’s a man that works, goddamnit, it’s all he knows. 

Pushing the misery from his mind, he makes a new goal: Make it to the kitchen, and get some coffee. More coffee. Fuck it, take the pot and bring it back to his room.

Donnie’s made it this far (a day. He’s made a day) without giving up, and goddamn if he’s going down now (He already did, techincally, but fuck you).  

It’s late. Raph came in right after the regular bedtime, so there should be only a few people wandering about, if any. A perfect time to sneak into the kitchen and claim his sweet, sweet prize.

Using his old wooden bo (the tech one, despite the high grade titanium, also ended up broken) as a clutch, he gets to his feet and staggers forward into the hallway. The only thing illuminating the place is old fairy lights and the lights in the bedrooms of his brothers. The TV’s still on, Donnie’s (average, normal, basic ) speakers quietly playing whatever commercial that his father must be watching. 

Limping through the hallways-he must’ve busted his ankle when he went down, which is just great- Donnie approaches the kitchen as quietly as he could. The thumping of wood against the ground certainly didn't conceal his identity the way he wanted it to, but alas, sacrifices must be made sometimes. 

Opening the curtain to the kitchen, Donnie pushes forward, and-

Mikey is hunched over the kitchen counter, first aid kit splayed out on the tabletop, sobbing.

Mikey is crying. He has a first aid kit. Mikey is hurt, and Donnie doesn’t know where, but he can assume who hurt him. 

“What-?”

Mikey squeaks out a whimper (a whimper), clearly involuntary and simply laced with panic. He whips his head around to stare wide-eyed at Donnie, clutching a trembling arm to his body. The tears are a gut punch, a sight to behold. Mikey seems to fold over the arm, hiding whatever damage that must’ve happened to it with his other, also shaking arm. 

“Mikey?” Donnie moves towards him, abandoning the wooden bo in hopes Mikey wouldn’t notice his limp and decide that Donnie’s problems are worth more than his own. “Mikey, what happened?”

Mikey makes a desperate little sound, vocalizing whatever emotion he’s trying so very hard to keep quiet. 

Approaching him with a gentle sort of slowness, Donnie takes his little brother’s arm from his chest, prying it away with ease. There’s a hole in the center of his gut, deep dread filling his bones. Mikey doesn’t put up much of a fight, although he looks mortified to be caught in such a situation. 

Donnie doesn’t understand why he’s crying until he sees the arm. It’s swollen, with distinct bruising trailing the entirety of the lower arm. It’s broken.

His little brother broke his arm, and didn't tell anyone.

Then, he realizes with a start, that the other arm is also bandaged up. 

“Mikey,” Donnie says, slowly, carefully. “What happened?”

Mikey breathes out, shaky. “I-” His voice hitches for a second. “I think when I threw that ship. I overdid it, a bit.”

Oh. The pressure, probably- Too much strain for his arms to take with no braces.

Donnie, despite himself, finds himself raising an eyebrow. “And you didn't tell anyone?” He doesn’t intend to sound mean, really, but the voice still comes out with that stupid emotionless tilt it has that makes it sound so cold. “Angelo, Raph squeezed us hard with that hug.”

Mikey glances away, almost looking embarrassed. “I-I know. I didn't really feel it at the time? I don’t know why, but-”

“Shock, maybe. Or adrenaline. Actually, scratch that, definitely both. The body can numb feelings of pain and injuries for a few hours, sometimes even days after accidents or incidents. You almost certainly received a headrush from battle, almost losing our lives, and a general sense of extreme anxiety. Plus, the pure excitement from being able to accomplish such a feat, I mean, Mikey-“ He cuts himself off. Oh, shit, he’s rambling. “Sorry,” Donnie says, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. 

Mikey doesn’t look at him, burning a hole into the counter with his stare. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rant.” There’s an even deeper dread settling into his bones. Outcast. “I’m just- Angelo, your arms are broken. Broken bones are serious injuries.”

Mikey sinks at the worried tone. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you- I just- I just-” Mikey trembles against Donnie, another sob wracking his frame. “I dunno. I didn’t want to bother you.”

And, oh, that’s the worst thing he could’ve said. “Mikey, look at me.” Mikey continues to drive his gaze into the counter. “ Mikey.”

He glances up, nervous, eyes still shining with tears. Donnie continues on. 

“I’m here to help. I’m always here to help,” Donnie places one hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “I want to make sure you guys are okay, and you’re never going to bother me. Not ever.”

And when Mikey sobs anew, and leaning forward into Donnie’s touch, who’s Donnie to push him off of his aching back?

///

After around twenty minutes of comforting, Donnie was able to drag Mikey to his lab, never too far ahead of him and never, ever behind Mikey. He catches Angelo staring at the mix-matched pieces of shattered tech on Donnie’s desk, but he doesn’t say a word, nor does he notice Donnie’s limp. Donnie directed him into his X-Ray, and like he predicted, Mikey had a clean break in his left arm, a perfect fracture. The other arm only had a sprained wrist, thank God. He had incredible luck. Donnie made sure to tell him such.

Donnie wrapped Mikey’s arms up in his high quality bandages, and Mikey also doesn’t comment on the fact he has it. Donnie also made sure to cast his right arm and sling it, and put a compression bandage on the wrist.

“This is gonna suck for the next couple of weeks. Do not be afraid to ask for help from anyone. I’m completely certain Raph and Nardo would drop anything to help you.” Mikey snorts a wet laugh. Donnie smiles at the success of his dry humor. “Really. They would, as would I. Now, go rest, Mikey. You’re injured. I’ll clean up the kitchen, you tell our brothers about your injuries in the morning.”

Mikey groans at the end of telling Leo and Raph, slinging his head back dramatically. “Ughh, Donnieee, they’re gonna be so dramatic about it!”

“Maybe,” Donnie says, finishing the last wrap, teasing smile on his face. Even in the dark of his room, he keeps his hand open and shining. “You should’ve thought of that before you didn’t tell anyone. Now, shoo, goodnight.”

Mikey pulls himself out of his chair, still groaning, dragging himself to the doorway.

Then, right before he exits, he pauses. “Actually, Donnie?”

Donnie pauses his approach back to his desk to return to work to glance at Mikey’s fidgeting figure. He was, sigh, already pulling at the bandages. “Yes, Angelo?”

“Do you think..” Mikey glances away, already reverting back to his anxious form from earlier. “Do you think that you could make something that could, I dunno, like.. Absorb? The shock? Or the recoil, or the pressure, or whatever it is that made me break my arm?”

Oh. That’s smart, actually. “I mean-”

“If not, that’s fine!” Mikey bursts. “I get it, you’re busy, and it might be impossible, but--”

“No, Mikey, that’s a very smart idea,” Donnie interrupts. “I definitely could. Don’t you have any faith in your brother?” He says the last part with a teasing tone, and Mikey visibly relaxes. 

“Oh, okay, good! That’ll be nice,” He gives Donnie a happy grin, the sight of it absorbing most of the tension Donnie built up in his shoulders. “Thank you so much!”

“Of course, Mikey,” Donnie attempts to send a grin back. “Anytime.”

Another project for the count.

Anything for his brothers.

///

His brothers know he’s here to help, right? They have to know that Donnie’s here and available, right?

Sure, the base is weaker than it’s ever been (The security, the tech, it’s all been shot), and sure, it’s because of Donnie, but they have to know that they can trust Donnie despite his past mistakes, right? They don’t--They don’t hate him because he destroyed everything, right?

There’s no way he ruined his friendships, his relationships, because he was overconfident in his tech, right? Donnie couldn’t’ve ruined his allies. Donnie just- he just- he--

( Outcast.)

He’s been a horrible teammate. And he has to work, to redeem himself. In fact, he craves the work, he’s desperate for something to distract himself from the way the pain washes over everything he sees, the way it taints everything he hears. He’s a pitcher crying for water to carry. A servant waiting for the command. A robot begging for a code to input.

So Donnie makes a sign. It’s simple, but it’ll drive the point home.

He’s moving slower than he’d like, slower than Mikey did when he was trying to bandage a broken arm with another broken arm. It’s a cautious kind of slow, because he missed the marker three times when trying to grab it and that’s just plain embarrassing. There’s a weird lag between what he wants to do and making himself do it, where he feels like he’s fighting through jelly. Donnie’s trying so, so hard to move, and he does, because no one can stop Dona-fucking-tello.

He makes a sign. Here to help. 

No, no, that’s too emotionless. Not enough meaning. It’ll scare them away.

Here to help! 

Perfect. He stumbles out to the hallway, to the curtain that covers his lab, and tapes it down with way more tape than necessary.

They’ll let him help now. He can be useful now. 

Right?

///

The sign works.

Leo brings him a bunch of little doo-dads and gizmos that he continuously keeps breaking. He plays it off like a joke, like something he’s doing to tease his twin, but Donnie keeps catching the way Leo’s arms tremble with overused muscles. He drops glass after glass, remote after remote, and his phone has around twenty something new chips on the screen.

Raph comes in a couple of times, each time with some new idea for something to keep the family a bit safer. A tracker. Better armor. Stronger braces. A portable first aid kit, compact enough to be discreet, but have enough medical supplies to help with almost anything on the fly. It’s all smart, really, and Donnie finds himself going soft over his older brother’s clear worry and love for his family.

Donnie also finds that he’s gotten to the point of weird numbness mixed with indescribable agony (Maybe not agony. He’s being dramatic). Another project, and another, and another all slide their way into his queue, and his breath catches on some type of dry sob. He can’t. 

He has to, even if there’s never enough hours in the day for him. 

His stomach has long stopped complaining, which is nice. A million coffee cups are scattered across his room, and he’s not quite sure what number he’s on now, considering the fact he started to reuse them after cup fifteen. Whatever number he’s on now, he started shaking even worse a long time ago.

All he can really put his focus on is the next project. The next, then the next, and then the next. He can’t stop until he’s done, and he refuses to sleep in case he doesn't wake up for a day or two.

(He’s exhausted. He’s miserable. He can barely think. The work is never done.) 

Every hour there’s a new idea, or a new broken cup, or a new bandage to be rewrapped. His heart (his traitorous heart) clenches every time something new pops up on his to-do list, but goddamnit, he’s gonna earn this life. He’ll earn his place on his team, if he dies for it. 

(He doesn’t think he’s gonna die. The cuts on his back never seem to stop slowly bleeding, though. Probably his bent posture slowly ripping them open.) 

Splinter visits on day four.

“Purple,” He says, startling Donnie from his work. It takes a moment for Donnie to understand what he’s saying, despite it being a singular word. “I’ve come to check on you. Are you doing alright?”

It’s physically painful to listen, even more agonizing to respond. “I’m fine,” Donnie says, short, brusque. A distraction from his clearly un-fine state.

The brush-off seems to work. “We’re having a family dinner tonight. April will be there.”

“Hmm,” Donnie says, not really paying attention. Dad lost him after there wasn’t anything for him to fix. “That’s nice.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been working very hard.”

Donnie reaches over for the screwdriver. Leo really did fuck up his phone, Jesus. “Yep.”

“Perhaps it’s time for you to stop?”

Oh, that gets through to him. Whipping his head to look at his father (which, ow, that hurt), Donnie stares at him with a disbelieving look. “Leo just broke his phone again.”

“And? You kids need a break from your techno-gadgets anyways.” The terrible wording of technology makes Donnie cringe. “It’s time for you to take a break.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of convincing me, dear papa.”

“It was more of a demand.” Ah, there goes the lovely moment they were having. “Join us for dinner.”

Donnie knows, realistically, that Splinter’s right. But, Donnie just got to the point where the empty hunger was comfortable, and his fixation on the project finally kicked in, so he can work without feeling the minutes tick by agonizingly slow. “I think I’m fine, dad.”

“I think you’re not.”

“I think I am,” He spits, angry. Now the anger of being told what to do was kicking in, something Donnie never really liked (or is it? He liked being told when it was helping his family--why not when he’s helping himself?).

Splinter has the nerve to sigh, like he’s the one being inconvenienced. “Purple, there’s no need to treat yourself like a pawn--”

“A pawn? A pawn?!” He pushes himself away from his desk now, his own yelling and the fast motion leaving his head spinning. The sounds are too loud, but he has to hear them to do his damn job. His damn job that isn’t over yet. “I’m helping my brothers, not acting like a pawn for them to play with!”

Splinter sighs again. “Purple. You’re backing yourself into a corner with all these tasks. You can’t overdo yourself like this.”

“No, no, let’s go back to the pawn thing. What, are you trying to get a checkmate with me right now? Is that it?” Donnie knows he’s being irrational, but his head fucking hurts and his dad was always a goddamn liar.

“I’m putting an end to this conversation--”

“Yeah!” Donnie blurts, throwing a hand on his desk. He hopes it comes off more as anger than a need to catch his dizzying balance. “Yeah, I suggest you resign from this conversation! Since you want to keep bringing up chess.” 

“ Donatello,” His father says, angry. It’s the kind of voice that leaves Donnie trembling, but jokes on dad, he was already shaking. “You will be joining us for dinner tonight, and taking a break.”

“I’m fine!” Donnie hates how his voice teeters on furious, hates how he has to keep saying that in the middle of this pointless argument. Rage simmers within him, festering and hot. 

“I understand you’re upset, Purple, but I meant well when I said that. You’re a liar, son.”

Oh, and that does it.

“I learned it from you, father,” He spits, a fake grin on his face. “I’ll be down for dinner. See you then.”

Splinter looks shocked for a second, before his face falls into some sort of disappointed anger. “Fine. See you then.” And he turns around, mumbling something that Donnie couldn’t care enough to hear.

The moment he’s out of sight, Donnie feels himself growing dizzy. Too dizzy, the same type of faint that led to his collapse before. And, oh shit, his back hurts too fucking much for him to possibly stay standing.

Donnie reaches over to the desk in front of him, desperately latching onto it, hoping to lean against it, until his arms tremble and crumple. No, no no- 

He grabs onto his chair, then his desk again, then anything that’s on it, until he’s accidently slowly lowered himself onto the ground with his hand locked around the leg of the table. He didn’t collapse, thank God, but there’s tears streaming down his face and he’s crying on the goddamn floor. 

It’s messy down there. Dust against the wall, with a bunch of loose parts and screws scattered across the floor, and God, he’s really just laying on the floor crying right now, huh? He slowly, gradually collapsed onto the ground. 

Jesus Christ. He needs to learn how to forage around his room better. There’s so many parts on the ground that he’s been needing for utilities, parts he stole from other people in a mortgage style, with promises to repay. 

God, Donnie’s the worst. The absolute worst. He’s crying on the floor right now. His tech is the only part of his legacy that’ll survive at this rate. 

He should get off the ground. 

Unclasping his hands from the table leg, he pushes himself up. He puts the entirety of his weight into his chair, for leverage, then collapses into it. He needs to graph and calculate how much left he has to do tonight, before the dinner starts and he has to deal with everyone again. How much does he have left to earn?

Maybe, maybe instead Donnie should stop thinking of himself and think of his family. Why does he always think of himself? 

(Maybe it’s because he’s the only one he’s got, outcast . Always depending on himself.) 

The fight’s not over yet, the job’s not won. A trembling, pathetic pair of hands is better than none.

He’s earned this job. He’s earned his place here on the team, and he’ll continue to prove it to them. 

(What did he do to get this job?)

///

Dinnertime comes faster than expected. Donnie’s pretty sure he did nothing in the hours he had between the, ahem, conversation between him and his dad and now. 

The moment he steps out of his room to go to dinner, the light burns too bright for his head, and he immediately knows that this is gonna be the most miserable dinner of his life. Maybe his dad was right. Jesus.

Flexing cramping fingers, Donnie makes his way downstairs, putting his weight on his wooden bo. Everyone’s already down there when he makes it all the way down, grinning and talking.

The only seat available is right in between April and Splinter. God fucking damnit. 

“And, anyways, it’s not like--Oh, Donnie!”

The conversation stalls for a moment, as everyone greets him. There’s smiles and laughter and bright lights that sear into Donnie’s soul. His back hurts. He hasn’t changed his bandages in a while. He feels hot, and tired, but he’ll sleep when he’s dead.

“Salutations, dear family,” Donnie says, easily taking on the emotionless tilt again. Maybe no one will notice the exhaustion lacing his entire body. 

When he sits down, directly between April and Splinter, with the food directly in front of him, he realizes this might be too much for him.

Uh oh. Donnie’s really gonna reach his limit over a group dinner?

Donnie will be fine. It’ll be alright. Exhaustion always has its limit, but he can push his body a little longer before it shuts off, right?

“--Donnie? You good?”

Leo’s staring at him. Actually, scratch that, they’re all looking at him. This will be a challenge, huh?

“ I’m fine,” Donnie says, reaching over for a glass of water. He grips it a little too hard, but if he held it any looser he’s pretty sure he’d drop it. Time to distract. Raising a hand, he gestures at Angelo. “How about you, Mikey?”

He’s finger pointing, he knows, but the distraction works and everyone seems to immediately forget about Donnie. Angelo goes wide-eyed for a second, before sheepishly laughing. “Oh, Don, you should’ve heard the earful I got!”

Donnie huffs a half laugh. Leo and Raph’s faces immediately darken with a protective anger, before they both burst into some angry half-rant about Mikey needing to be more open. Distraction secured. Sorry Mikey, but someone else had to go down.

His wounds are worse (more obvious) anyways. 

Satisfied with the distraction, Donnie leans back in his chair, smirking and sipping his water. 

Until: “You sure you’re alright?”

Donnie startles, trembling hands spilling some of the water. He passes it off as being startled, with a dramatic hand on his chest. “I’m fine,” He says, for the fifteenth fucking time. Glancing up, he sees April’s tilted eyebrow. 

Of course. He offers a smile, certainly more tired than cheerful, but good enough by Donnie standards. “How’ve you been holding up, dear April?”

April gives him a skeptical look (goddamnit April), but shrugs off his attempt to engage in conversation. “Meh, whatever. Recovering from trauma, you know, the usual.” 

He barks a short laugh at her monotone voice. “I think we’ve all been doing that,” Donnie says, keeping his tone calm and level. He won’t betray the pain underneath, deep within his shoulders and his back and his head.

A shiver runs up his spine. He feels so hot. 

“Donnie, dude, you’re shaking.” Donnie looks down, and oh. Yeah. He is. 

“I’m fine,” He repeats, stale and rote. The oft-repeated refrain comes easy, and he prepares himself to stabilize shaking fingers for the fifth time. 

But April surprises him. “No you’re not.”

What?

“What?” Donnie slides his admittedly blurry gaze over to her. She’s staring at him, eyebrow raised, arms crossed. “I’m fine, April.”

“That’s not good enough of an answer for me,” She says, reading through his chattering frame like a book. 

“It was good enough before,” Donnie says, honestly, sipping his water and tearing his gaze back to his still bickering brothers. Was it not good enough now?

What was he supposed to say?

“Donnie. Look at me.” He doesn’t. 

Fuck, she knows. She knows. He has to go back to his room, change his gauze, go to bed. Go to work. Do something.

“ Donnie-”

“Well, this has been great,” He says, moving to get up. A heat washes over him, again, but Donnie attempts to repress it deep down. “I’m just gonna-I’m just-”

The world goes wobbly, completely tilting on its axis the moment he stands up. Fuck, fuck- His hands can’t catch the edge of the table, fingers too cramped from hours (days) of work. 

His breath stutters in his chest, words trailing off with the heaviness of his breathing. His legs aren’t working, his eyes are fluttering, and he’s definitely without a doubt going down.

Donnie can feel his eyes roll back, and then---

///

There’s a soft thud behind him.

Leo, admittedly, was not at all paying attention to what his lame twin and his lame friend were talking about. Probably something nerdy, to be honest.

But the thud draws his attention, along with the slam of something against the table and the frantic noise April makes. 

Leo’s head turns back in unison with his brothers, and-

He wasn’t prepared for that. Donnie’s on the floor. April is hovering over him, scrambling around him, touching his neck and his head and his wrist. 

“ Fuck,” Raph curses, and Jesus. Yeah. Donnie’s looking rough.

“Oh, shit, ” Leo’s already scrambling across the table, to where his twin is splayed on the ground. His eyes are closed and are definitely not opening any time soon, and Leo presses his figures against his brother’s (his twin’s ) throat. His pulse is there, beating rapidly, but his skin is hot. 

“Oh, shit!” Leo’s heart is racing, panic clutching at his throat. Why was Donnie so hot? And why was he wearing a sweatshirt if he was burning up this bad? Whatever, whatever, just get this shit off him, deal with the questions later. 

“April,” He starts, snapping into medic mode. Leo can feel the presence around him shift with the serious tilt his voice takes on. “Take the sweatshirt off. He has a fever.”

“He just-He just dropped-” 

“ April,” Leo doesn’t mean to snap at her, but fuck, his sibling’s on the ground and burning. “Sweatshirt, off, now. ”

April hesitates for a moment, before awkwardly ripping it off Donnie’s limp frame. 

The room goes dead silent, except for a wet gasp from Mikey, who Raph pulls close. 

“Are those--”

Donnie, splayed on the floor, is covered in bandages, thickly wrapped around the entirety of his front and back, and when Leo rolls him over, the ones covering his back have blood ( blood) spotting through.

“Fuck ,” Leo hisses. “ Fuck!”

Donnie picks that moment to wake up.

///

--He blinks, and he’s on the floor. His side is aching, and why-?

Donnie blinks hard, again, squinting against the light. His family is surrounding him, eyes wide and hands poking and prodding at him. He’s curled under the table, head pressed against the cold, blissful tile, hands over his ears. His head is pounding.

His sweatshirt is off. Well, damn. 

“Why,” Donnie mumbles, curling in on himself. “Why am I on the floor.” He doesn’t inflect the question into his tone, instead choosing to curl up more. He’s cold.

“ Donnie,” April says, and he realizes she’s moved him so he’s laying on her lap. “Donnie, why are you bleeding?”

Why is he on the floor? His head hurts. “I’m fine,” his voice is clipped, curt. Donnie can feel Leo and April’s hands moving to investigate, and he pushes them off. It doesn’t work, he more weakly swats at them. “Can I please put my sweater back on?”

Leo laughs. It’s dark, not all meant to be humorous. The lying just seems to fuel the fury. “Fine? You’re fine? Yeah, sure, Donnie, let’s just send you back to work, huh? Is that what you want?”

Honestly? Yeah. “That would be ideal.” Donnie’s voice cracks and breaks, tripping over itself like a kid on a playground.

That’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Leo’s face darkens even more and he’s suddenly all up in Donnie’s space. “Donnie, you just bashed your fucking head on the ground. You’re bleeding, feverish, and you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

Raph’s suddenly behind Leo. When was Raph here? “Leo, I think that’s--”

“No!” Leo bursts, shoving Raph back. “No, let’s hear why I should send Donnie back to work! Come on, Donnie, let’s hear your stellar excuse for this mistake!”

“Leo--” 

“I don’t have time to not be fine,” Donnie slurs, curling in on himself. He makes no move to push himself off of April, despite his want to. 

“Oh, so it doesn’t fit in your schedule? That it?” Leo presses, leaning in to touch Donnie’s forehead again, which is stupid and pointless because his mask is still on. Leo still jumps back though, like Donnie shocked him. “Your fever from the clear neglect is saying otherwise.”

“Leo, that’s enough.”

“No!” Leo snaps, whipping back towards Mikey, who’s now standing beside Raph. His arms are bandaged- Why was Mikey bandaged? “No! He lied, and now look at him!” Leo’s screaming a bit, or maybe it’s just the way Donnie’s frying brain translates it. Leo’s definitely shouting though, and it’s loud and searing. Donnie can’t deal with this, he just can’t. 

A hand touches Donnie’s cheek, twisting his head towards them. It’s April, with Splinter standing behind her. “Donnie..” April says. She sounds disappointed.

His head hurts. Why was Mikey hurt? Why was he on the floor?

“Angelo,” Donnie starts, lazily drawing his gaze back to Mikey. “What’s ‘rong with your arms?”

The room’s chatter drops for a few cold seconds. Donnie trembles. 

Then, all at once, Mikey bursts into tears as Leo rubs a hand over his face and goes: “Oh, Christ, he busted his fucking head.”

That… That would explain the pounding in his skull. Not why he’s on the floor, though. 

“Donnie,” Leo says, tone still conveying how pissed he is. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

There’s a blurry mass in front of his face Donnie can only assume are fingers. It takes him a second to count, just to make sure he’s precise, before he states with confidence: “Four.”

Leo looks surprised, maybe shocked. Perhaps a little disappointed. Donnie can’t tell. “Donnie, we only have three fingers.”

“Oh,” Donnie says, leaning back into April. His head hurts. It’s all he knows. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” Leo laughs, the same toxic laugh from before, with a deep worry buried within it. “ Shit.” 

///

Donnie passes out again, some point between there and the med-bay, right in Leo’s arms. He’s carrying Donnie cradle style, like a bride, and he’d totally be making fun of Donnie if he wasn’t delusionally muttering to himself in his sleep and literally a thousand degrees too hot.

Leon hates this. Hates Donnie for hiding this, hates the fact he never noticed. Hates that Donnie’s too small for the hospital bed, because it was made for people with bigger shells then his weaker twin. Hates that Donnie did an alright job of bandaging the cuts, and he really fucking hates that if they were a little more shallow Donnie could’ve easily hidden this from everyone. They were just a little too deep for him to get off scot-free, for him to get off with no infection like the one he has now.

“Raph, can you grab me a towel? I need to cool down this fever,” Leo says, gesturing to the cabinets behind him. One of them has to have the towel he’s looking for. Not sure which one though-- Donnie was the one who put everything into the Medbay, all by himself. 

(Leo never asked if he needed help.) 

A damp towel finds its way into Leo’s hands, and he nods a silent thank you to a scared Raph. Raph is fluttering around the room, a bit more than everyone else, older brother instincts probably preventing him from relaxing for even a moment. 

The towel is pressed against Donnie’s flushed, feverish skin. Only after he peels off the mask, of course. Glancing around the room, he notices literally everyone is moping around. Which like, fair, but. You know. 

Time to work the Leo charm. “Maybe we should draw some eyebrows on this towel for him, when he wakes up,” He jokes, charming (nervous) smile working its way onto his face. “Make him feel right at home.”

No one really laughs. Tough crowd.

Damn, Leo is off his game. His arms tremble as he wipes down Donnie, as Leo gets the thermometer to check Donnie’s temp. Hundred and one. Definitely a fever.

“Raph,” Leo says, more out of pity for his poor anxious brother. “Can you bring Mikey to his room?”

“Oh- Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” Raph says, now rushing towards Mikey- Who glares at Leo with the same determination he had with going out on his own. Leo mouths a silent I think Raph is gonna have a heart attack from worry and Mikey softens and nods in the way that says I’ll let him take care of me, so I can take care of him. 

Jokes on them, it’s a win-win- They both take care of each other for the other’s sake, and Leo gets two more worried faces out of the picture, leaving himself, April, and dad. 

 “April,” Leo starts, with the same serious medic voice as before. “Help me take off these bandages. I need human hands for this.” And my muscles won’t stop aching, but that part goes unsaid.

April nods, finally recovering from her shock from before. She was always so strong.

Using a pair of scissors to cut away the first wrap, the pair slowly unwrap Donnie’s handiwork.

It’s gross. It’s really fucking gross. Donnie’s back has three diagonal cuts scoring across the entirety of his (soft, too soft) shell, with two of them being mostly healed and the middle one angry, red. The skin is too hot, with leaking pus ( GROSS ) and red streaks of blood and other nasty discharge running down Donnie’s back ( DOUBLE GROSS). The moment the cut hits the air, Donnie in his sleep whimpers-- fucking whimpers, a painful low groan that turns into a hiss when the pain flares up. It practically sounds like a suppressed scream. Leo wants to scream. 

There’s mild burns too, but Leo’s ignoring those for his own sake. 

“Yuck,” He says, instead of screaming. “That’s gonna stitches and helluva lot of cleaning.”

April doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are glued to the throbbing slash, eyeing it like if she looks away it’ll suddenly kill Donnie (Don’t think like that, Leo, you psycho. Donnie’ll be fine.) 

“Can you grab another towel? With warm water on it? I need to flush these out.” Leo’s good at giving direction. He can do that, at the very least. He doesn’t have the same amount of medical knowledge as his twin, but he knows the basics, and Leo knows that this definitely needs to be cleaned ASAP.

(It should’ve been cleaned yesterday. The day before. The day before that.) 

April nods, turning towards the cabinets to rummage through the supplies. Leo takes the moment to wash his hands thoroughly, and to leave the sink running just in case they need more water fast. April returns with several towels (always the smart one), and Leo gets to work.

///

There was metal lodged in the middle cut. Metal. In his brother. 

“I can’t believe he would just ignore that!” Leo rants, using a sterilized pair of tweezers to pull out a third piece. There were only a few small pieces, nothing extreme, but still. “Oh, yeah, I’m just bleeding out! I wonder what this horrible sensation in my back is-Oh, must be nothing! I’m Donnie and I’m stupid!” 

April, wonderful fantastic April, just nods and hums and goes I know, wow. She’s doing a great job at running water over the wounds, patting them dry, and putting a thin layer of antiseptic ointment over the shallower ones. She’s doing an even greater job at ignoring Leo’s angry rant. 

“God, I just--” Leo pauses, throwing his hands up. He represses the urge to rub at his face (no use in having to re-wash his hands over and over simply so he can be dramatic) and instead spins in his chair until he feels calm enough to keep going. “Ugh! Donnie!” 

“I know, wow,” April says, for the fifth time. “Do you think we should start on stitches?”

“Do you know how to do those?” Leo asks, fire from before fading. He’s still frustrated, don’t get him wrong, but Donnie just looks so bad and feels so hot, Leo wants to die. “I mean, I normally could, but.” He gestures to his arms, overworked muscles still keeping a slight tremor. They’re incredibly sore, but feeling way better then before since Leo actually knows how to ask for help. 

“...No,” April admits. “Donnie was gonna teach me, but we never got around to it. I never thought…” 

“Yeah.” And fuck, there goes that plan. “Mikey knows how to, but-”

“-His arm is broken and his wrist is sprained?”

Right on the money. “Yeeppp,” Leo says, dragging the p. Leaning back into his chair, he continues. “And Raph’s hands are way too big to do any kind of dainty work. I mean, the guy’s been tryin’ to learn how to sew, but I’m not sure he’s on ‘work on the most fragile brother’ level yet.”

April makes a noise of agreement, slathering on the last of the ointment. “Well, maybe we could--”

“I know how to do stitches.”

“ Jesus-!” Leo jumps, bumping into the bed and placing a hand over his mouth (there goes not being dramatic). The startled shaking makes Donnie groan again, still knocked out on the bed, and also makes April jump like five feet straight up in the air (which is another thing that would’ve been hilarious, if not the circumstances). He whips around at the voice, and-

“Dad?”

Splinter is standing at the foot of the bed, staring determinedly at his knocked-out son with a sort of determination a father can have. “I can do stitches. Let me help.” 

“Uh, yeah, and I can tap dance. Dad, we need to be realistic here-”

“ Blue,” His father says, cutting him off. Splinter’s eyes are burning with stubborness. “I have already washed my hands while you were arguing. Allow me to stitch up the wound.”

He doesn’t want to pass the life of his brother off to his father. It’s stupid, and irrational, because Splinter has saved them a thousand times before and taught them the basics (and some of the advances) of the medical field, but Leo can’t help but hate the idea of giving up Donnie right now, especially when it’s so important. 

Still though, Leo got his stubbornness from his dad, and April is already handing Splinter the needle and medical thread. 

“Thank you, April,” Splinter says, a polite smile on his face. His arms don’t tremble like Leo’s, aren’t cast like Mikey’s, aren’t clumsy like Raph’s. His nimble thin fingers work the thread into the needle with practiced precision. Leo hates this.

He hates seeing Donnie bleeding even more, though.

“Blue, I’m going to need you to be prepared in the event Purple might wake,” Splinter says, finishing tying the thread. “He is going to wake in pain, in an unfamiliar place, with someone stabbing him. On top of that, he has a concussion with a actively frying brain. He is going to be alarmed. Prepare.”

Leo nods, and brainstorms on how the hell he’s supposed to prepare for that.

///

Donnie wakes up in pain, in an unfamiliar place, and there’s someone stabbing his back. The suddenness of his consciousness has him jolting as upright as he can go, half-choreographed movements fine-tuned to the panic that’s bubbling in his back. The nightmare he was having vanishes from his memory as soon as he’s awake, immediately disappearing only into fear and dread and pain. 

Something’s stabbing his back. His open, vulnerable, softshell back. 

Move. Move!

“Woah, D..!” Someone says, above him, voice trailing off into nothingness. This has to be the person hurting him. Someone’s hurting him, and Donnie finds he can’t move. He can’t move.

A whimper tears its way from Donnie’s throat, fearful. It’s a low squeak, because there’s nothing he can do, nowhere to run, and the thing is getting closer and closer and closer.

Donnie can feel himself quivering, legs pulled up close to his shell, fist trembling. The mass approaching is blurry, with every step the pain in his back spikes a little higher, and a little higher, and a little higher from there. Focus, he thinks, Don’t let it leave your sight.

Except his eyes just won’t focus right, and there’s nothing but fear and adrenaline humming in his veins (like electricity, like burns), the threat ever growing in his trembling fingertips. Where is he? Where’s Leo? Why’s it so cold?

“Right here,” Something mumbles, pressing its hand (or weapon? It’s cold) onto Donnie’s forehead. “Leon’s right here. And the cold’s just you, bro.”

Whatever it is, it’s lying. Leon doesn’t know about his back, and Leon wouldn’t let someone stab him over and over and over again. Donnie finds himself hunching over, then finds himself biting back a scream as Donnie’s injuries fiercely protest the sudden, manic movement. “ Leo,” He bites out, a desperate cry for his twin to come and save him, where is Leo?

“...” Something above him speaks again, but it’s way too muffled, and the touch on Donnie’s forehead leaves and the pain suddenly spikes.

This time Donnie does cry out, the feeling of fear gnawing on his heart as his limbs give out, quit working on him. Whatever blow that just hit him isn’t something he’s recovering from, and his eyes fill with something salty as he cries out again. Fuck, fuck- It hurts, it hurts. Donnie can only tolerate so much, his body fragile, his mind weak.

Donnie can feel his breathing pick up against his own will, fast and shallow as he pants away the pain pain pain. He’s frozen in place, completely laid out against his will at the mercy of whatever’s in the room with him. 

He can hear a heartbeat beat faster, and faster, escalating up and up and up in the sudden growing silence that washes over him.

He’s gonna die.

///

Donnie does, in fact, wake up. Practically immediately, actually, which is unfortunate on his part. 

Splinter carefully sticks the needle in the first part of the skin, and that sends a previously knocked out Donnie lurching up, moving so fast it sends everyone flinching.

“Woah, Donnie!” Leo says, catching himself on the back of his chair. Donnie’s eyes flicker over to him, unfocused, and Donnie whimpers again, eyes wide and body trembling. 

“Donnie, bro,” Leo starts, slowly putting his hands up to show he’s not a threat. Leo glances over at April, who’s helping Splinter with the stitching process, and she sends back a nod that says Keep doing that. “It’s me, it’s me! Bro, you’re alright, you’re alright, stop.”

“Where..” Donnie mumbles, almost incoherently. His eyes still aren't focusing fully on Leo, which is concerning in of itself, but the fact Donnie’s pupils are so blown out also brings a spike of fear into Leo’s heart. The rest of the sentence Donnie’s trying to push out is lost under incoherent mumbling.

“Donnie, Donald, Don,” Leo says, desperately trying to get his brother’s attention. Splinter continues to work on Don’s back, with a seemingly more hurried pace. Donnie still doesn’t look at Leo though, just around him. 

“W’ere…Leo..?” Donnie says, squinting against the bright light, and Leo takes that as an invitation to touch Donnie. “Cold..”

“Right here,” Leo says, pressing a gentle hand to his twin’s burning forehead. He tries to keep his voice quiet, gentle, for his brother’s aching head. “Leon’s right here. And the cold’s just you, bro.” 

Donnie looks up at him, eyes widened again, and that must be good right? He’s recognizing Leo, right?

Then Donnie flinches back, shuttering, before hunching over himself yet again. Donnie bites his lip hard, trembling harder, pressing his own hands against Leo’s. That one stitch must’ve hit a sensitive spot-- Leo’s wincing in sympathy, doubly so when Donnie croaks out a “ Leo.” 

“Leo, can you grab us a towel from that pile? I can’t drop this needle, in case there’s no other sterilized ones,” Splinter says, directing Leo towards the tower of towels. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Leo says, pulling away from Donnie. “Shh, you’ll be alright, I’ll be right back, your mind’s just being mean to you.” 

Then it all goes to shit.

Leo doesn’t know what Splinter does- If it’s just another stitch, or maybe he missed, or maybe it’s the fact Leo left Donnie- but Donnie cries out something desperate. 

It has Leo whipping back around immediately. “Donnie-?”

Donnie yells again, arching away from Splinter’s touch and April’s hands that are attempting to hold him down. Donnie’s arms are laying slack by him, and his breathing suddenly rises into a desperate pant. 

“Donnie!” Leo drops the towel he’s holding, because fuck whatever dad wants him to do, his brother’s hurt, and Leo rushes over to his brother. “Donnie, lay back down before you-”

The fast heartbeat monitor fills the room, escalating and escalating, like the moment before someone flatlines in one of Mikey’s medical dramas (do not think like that, Leo, do not.)

Donnie doesn’t help though. “I’m ‘onna die.” 

“No, no no, Donnie, don’t say that,” Leo says. He’s panicking now too, and he can see April’s eyes are wide too, lips drawn. Splinter just narrows his more, into careful precision. Donnie ignores him, or plain doesn’t hear him, because he writhes in the bed to try to escape April’s grasp.

Leo’s never seen his smartest brother so out of it. So incoherent- and not in the way that Donnie usually is, when he’s ranting and raving about some cross dimensional theory or quantum physics or anything else. No, Donnie’s being irrational. 

(At least, Leo hopes he is.) 

“ Leo-!” Donnie chokes on a cry, eyes searching the room. His eyes are wide and mad with pain. He needs to lie down before he hurts himself. “ Leo, I’m dyin’-!”

“Donnie, no, don’t say that, you’re Donnie! You’re gonna be fine!” Leo’s completely panicking now, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. Something in the desperate tone of Donnie’s voice awakes a deep urge to protect within himself, to shove off Splinter and to just hold his older brother. “Splints, you fucking better be close to being done!” Normally he wouldn’t dare to cuss directly at his dad, but normally his brother would be alright.

“Language,” Splinter says, and Leo suppresses the seething anger that fills him. “Last one, then I pull it all together, okay?”

“Okay,” April says, answering the question for Leo. Her hands are shaking, or maybe it’s the trembling form of Donnie she’s holding down. 

“Three,” Splinter starts, and Leo tightens his grip on Donnie. April does the same. 

“Two.” The heart monitor goes crazy, screaming and begging. Leo winces at the sound, and April does the same.

“One.”

Donnie screams, for a split moment, eyes alive.

Then, almost instantly, it chokes off. Donnie’s eyes dull, rolling back into his head, then drift closed. It’s over. The cries have died into instant silence that sweeps the room, except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

Donnie’s slumped back into Leo’s hands, seemingly asleep, like the shrieking from before never happened. Dead, sudden, stillness. 

Donnie literally passed out from the pain. Not exhaustion, not dizziness, pain. 

“Oh, thank God,” April says, falling back with a grunt. 

She couldn't have said it better.

///

Donnie wakes up, in pain, in a familiar place, with an even more familiar face buried in their own arms on the edge of his bed. Leo. 

His head feels a bit light. Or maybe heavy? Donnie can’t really tell, to be honest. Whatever it is, the bright lights aren’t helping with the searing pain that starts to rise (although not nearly to the level of before). His arms hurt, and he stretches to pop his shoulders with a satisfying crack! 

“Oh, someone’s feeling better, huh?”

Jumping back with a curse, Donnie hits his head against the plastic-y mattress of the hospital bed. “Jesus, Leo,” He says, voice gruff with unuse. Leo just gives a cocky sort-of smile that is clearly supposed to mean more than just ‘ gottem’, but Donnie doesn’t care enough to translate it. “Fuck, my head hurts. And my throat.”

“Yeah,” Leo says, still eyeing Donnie up and down like he’s expecting something to happen. “Makes sense, considering you’ve been asleep since Tuesday.”

Now that catches Donnie’s attention. “What day is it?”

“Oh, you know,” Leo says, waving a hand around nonchalantly. “Only Friday.”

“Fr-” What the fuck. “- Friday?! Oh God, I’ve gotta be so far behind on my work, Jesus, Leo, why didn’t you wake me up sooner?” He wants to get up and start pacing, but Leo’s arms are still leaning on him, and why was Leo giving him that look? “You guys probably broke so much while I was out, and oh, the Turtle Tank! She’s gonna get rusty, Leo, rusty!” 

“Donnie.”

“Oh, and I never ended up finishing fixing your phone, sorry about that, Leon. I need to get my stupid wrist pad back in operation so I can actually operate the damn machines, which would make working with the little manuel tools so much easier-”

“ Donnie.” 

“Oh, and my damned tech bo! My baby’s busted! Busted, I tell you!”

“Donatello!”

Donnie rolls to a stop, the continuation of his rant slipping off his tongue at his brother’s voice. He could’ve kept going, but something in Leo’s voice was threatening enough to drive Donnie to a stop.

“Jesus, you just keep-Never mind,” Leo says, picking up an arm to rub at the spot where the bridge of his nose would be. “Donnie, I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions, for medical sake.”

“Okayy..?” 

“Perfect,” Leo says, and only then does Donnie really catch the angry glint in his twin’s eye. Donnie’s in for an earful, he can sense it. “Okay, first off, did you hurt yourself?”

What? “What? No?”

“So you didn’t get those cuts from say, a lab accident or anything?”

Donnie thought it was pretty clear where those cuts came from. Did Leo have a concussion? Memory loss? “No? They’re clearly from the Shredder, Nardo.”

Leo’s fingers twitch, almost in perfect unison with his eye. “I was almost hoping you wouldn’t say that, but either way, I was gonna kill you.”

Woah, woah, back it up, what?

“Leo--”

“No, no! Let me finish!” Leo says, pushing himself up from the chair to pace in front of the bed. “You got deep--and don’t deny it-- deep cuts from the villain we fought over a week ago, and thought oh! Let’s just not bring this up!”

“You were all hurt, and I had work to do-”

“No! No! You’re not a robot Donnie! You don’t get to just--You don’t--” Leo’s breath catches on something, as he rubs his face even harder. “Error 404, Donnie! Blue screen of death! You’re done, out for the count--I don’t know how else to say it!” Leo’s tripping over his own words, leaving half finished thoughts to hang in the air between them. Confessions, one could call them. 

“Leo--” Donnie finds himself trying to push out of the bed, but his shell strains against him and he falls back down into bed. “Fuck, I need to lay down.”

Leo’s by his side in an instant. “You think?” He jokes, but there’s a wetness to his voice that is usually never there. “I’ll get you some water.” 

Donnie simply hums a response, sitting back with his eyes closed. 

When he opens them, Leo had perfectly placed the glass right out of his reach. Donnie’s sure that his unamused glare says exactly what he’s trying to convey, but Leo simply bats his eyes and leans back into his original spot.

“ Leo,” Donnie hisses with as much malice as he can muster (it’s not a lot). 

“Yes, my brother, whom I love dearly?” 

God, Leo was such a bastard. “Could you please pass me the glass?”

Leo feigns surprise (very poorly, may Donnie add), and places a hand over his heart while the other reaches for the glass. “Why, yes of course! See, isn’t it so easy to ask for help?”

“Yes, yes, whatever. Leo’s right and Donnie’s wrong. Yadda, yadda.” Leo frowns at that, weirdly enough, as he hands Donnie the glass (he chugs it in seconds).

“You know that I’m not just trying to prove you wrong, right?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Donnie replies, keeping his lips around the cold glass, more as a distraction than anything.

Leo’s frown deepens, before he’s suddenly yanking the glass out of Donnie’s hand (“Hey!”) and leaning towards Donnie, making deeply, deeply uncomfortable eye contact that leaves Donnie squirming. He’s so close, that they’re touching foreheads.

They haven’t headbutted since they were really little, before they really suppressed their more animal-like tendencies. He thinks that’s what Leo was attempting to do now.

“Please get off me.”

“Your eyes aren’t blown out and all dilated anymore.” 

“Yeah, I bet--Wait, I had a concussion? You let me sleep with a concussion?”

Leo at least has the decency to look sheepish. “You were really fucked up, dude. And besides, it’s not like you gave us the chance to check you out.”

Ouch. “Low blow,” Donnie says, now the sheepish one. 

Leo pulls away from the brotherly affection to fake punch Donnie in the shoulder. “Now, don’t you ever hide anything like that from us again! I have a list of your injuries and I’ll be happy to read them all to you if you try this again!”

“In my defense, I didn’t really think it was a serious thing.” Leo glares at him, and starts to open his mouth. “No, no- I really thought it was a shallow cut. Not deep enough for stitches or anything.”

“It definitely needed antiseptic and gauze. That’s serious enough for me.” 

“I think we have different definitions of serious.”

“Oh?” Leo says, raising an eye ridge. “Okay, how’s a high running fever for serious? How’s being sick enough that you have strong dizzy spells? Or is it just life-threatening injuries, because you definitely thought you were dying there for a second? Or is it just whenever you go unconscious, ‘cause you’d never admit to injuries when you’re awake, idiot?”

“Alright, alright, I get it, Leo,” Donnie says, putting his hands up. Jesus, Leo really did have a laundry list. “Is this the same lecture Mikey got, or was his a little to the left?”

“I’m not done yet,” Leo says, crossing his arms and leaning back yet again. “..And we got on Mikey’s case more for the emotional I-Don’t-Deserve-Help part rather than the arms thing. But don’t think you’re not getting that too, mister! In fact--They’re waiting downstairs for you.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Leo confirms. “April’s called out of school for her ‘grandma in the hospital’.” Donnie huffs a half laugh at that.

Then the words hit him. They’re all waiting for him. For him. 

A swell of love fills his heart- His real, beating, person heart. 

“Well,” Donnie starts, slowly pushing himself up. “We better not keep them waiting, huh?”

Leo looks surprised for a moment, before quickly recovering. “I’ll go get you a wheelchair, grandma.”

“Oh, watch it, sonny.”

And yeah. Leo’s laugh makes it all worth it. The tech can wait for later-- Donnie’s got a family to see.