Chapter Text
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No. Just no. Not happening. Please god, no.
You refuse to admit defeat. You're made of the stuff of legends, a freaking pillar of strength.
At least that's what you tell yourself. Even as you drop what you're doing, hand flying on autopilot to snatch a few tissues out of the box situated on your desk. You're successful, barely covering your face in the nick of time.
"Ah-CHOO!"
Holy hellfire, that one hurt a lot, more so than the last dozen that came before.
A voice, your co-worker Chad to be precise, calls out your name from behind the the cubicle wall next to you. "Again? Seriously. Go home."
You groan irritably, tossing the tissue of yuck into the nearby receptacle and hand sanitizing for the millionth time, skin burning from the high alcohol content. "For the last time, no, I'm fine---"
"You don't sound fine." He retorts.
Chad's right, you begrudgingly agree. Your response had been pitiful sounding to the ear, whiny, as well as stuffy. Be that as it may, you simply can't leave. The project you and your fellow coworkers are working on is nowhere near complete; there's a race against time to finish before the upcoming deadline. It was all hands on deck, sickness be damned. You refocus, sniffling loudly while pulling up a spreadsheet you've been extensively proofreading. The lines are a bit blurry, watery eyes hurting as you strain to read---
A throat clears behind you. Swiveling around in the desk chair, your spirits plummet off the roof of a 20 story building upon seeing your boss, face stern and standing a few paces back further than what would normally be deemed as appropriate distance.
You attempt to say his name but fail miserably, throat scratching that has you coughing violently into the crook of your elbow, the blazer taking the brunt. His left eyebrow raises. You don't like the look on his face, dreading what is to come next.
And he proves you right.
"You need to go home---"
"I'm fine---" You rasp, voice weak and sounding as though you just swallowed a sizeable amount of razor blades.
"You're clearly not. There's been a number of complaints--"
Great, thanks Chad, you shoot the cubicle wall a deadly stink eye.
"---and with the deadline on the McNamara proposal coming up quickly, I can't afford to have more employees down for the count as well."
You go to object. "But my work---"
He raises a firm hand to stop you.
"The work load can be shared. I have your findings on file, can access it without you here." He interjects, still stern but only enough to get a point across. "Take a few days off. Come back when you are no longer ill. I'll be in touch if there's any questions or concerns."
Well, damn. He officially stole the winds of argument from out of your sails. You nod in agreement, forfeiting to a higher command, and gather your jacket and messenger bag.
So much for saving your sick days for a little work hookie.
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By the start of the early evening, you're cursing whatever higher powers that be for the torment you're enduring. Loathe to do so, you admit defeat.
You're sick. And shit, is it ever a doozy.
Your skin is on fire, sweaty and ungodly uncomfortable. In a fevered rush, you had shed your clothes down to a plain white undershirt, the tank top kind, and a pair of underwear. You cringe upon thinking about your upcoming electric bill, having turned the AC down to near arctic temperatures. But that doesn't last long. In no time, you're shivering. A constant round of back and forth with the thermostat setting ensues.
At one point, your delusional sick brain recalls the prior engagement that you had planned for tonight. Whipping your phone out, you struggle to open the messaging app, forcing your brain and fingers to work on sheer will power to send, hopefully, a coherent message that you'll need to cancel.
Message sent, you flop back onto your bed, body aching something awful, head spinning, the whole nine yards. You pass out a handful of times, awakening god knows how long later by the occasional ping of your phone. You're positive that your friends are trying to reach out via the group chat. You want, truly want, to check the messages but your body is refusing to cooperate. Had every intention of scraping together some excuse of dinner, hell, at least grab another glass of water to stay hydrated. But the kitchen seemed miles away and the energy to do so is non existent.
So, you pass the eff back out, again, restarting the cycle.
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You're roused from another bout of fevered induced unconsciousness upon hearing your name. It's called out softly at first, only to increase in volume. Not bothering to open your eyes, an annoyed whine passes your lips, rolling over onto your opposite side, snuggling in to the cooler sheets on that side of the bed.
Something tentatively brushes your forehead then presses firmly.
You force yourself to focus, eyes finally cracking unwillingly open to peer up, the surroundings around you blurry. There's a hulking shape hovering above you, massive size and green in color; that voice speaks again coming across clearer than before.
"--you're burning up... have you been staying hydrated? Ate anything?"
You mumble a muffled 'no', absently waving weakly, trying to get the hand off your forehead unsuccessfully. Your arms feel like wet, overcooked noodles.
"That won't do." The voice tsks. "The popular belief that chicken noodle soup has medicinal benefits is mildly correct. Truth be told, it's the copious amounts of garlic ingredient in the soup that assist with clearing up mild cases of the common cold and sometimes certain strains of influenza--"
The information dump has your lagging brain connecting the dots.
Donnie.
Of course it's Donnie. No one else you knew would know that much about soup. Boy knows everything about everything.
Half out of it, you murmur his name, a stupid blitzed smile pulling your lips upward. You hear a faint chuckle.
"It's me. I came to check on you. Gave us one hell of a scare earlier."
A moment of semi-clarity seeps in. You frown, craning up to look into his face. "Whaddaya mean?"
He picks up your phone that had fallen to the floor and plugs it into the bedside charger for you. So considerate.
"You sent a text to the group chat. Made mention of being sick and that you wouldn't be able to come by the Lair. Then it became quite confusing. An assortment of unintelligible letters, symbols and a few emojis that none of us could make heads or tails of."
Dammit. Guess it hadn't been coherent after all.
"I offered to stop by and check on you---"
Clarity still holding, you struggle for half sit up, guilt hitting you right in the gut.
"I'm sorry. You didn't need to... you're missing movie night."
Even in the clutches of illness, you can make out his slowly growing smirk. He adjusts his glasses, pushing the altered frame up his snout.
"I'll survive. You're more important."
That has your nerves all tingly. Or maybe it's whatever virus that is invading your body, who knows?
"Thanks, D." You wave a hand in a shooing motion. "Go on. I'll be fine. Don't want you catching my plague."
He chuckles again, full of mirth.
"Mutant turtle, remember? My immune system is vastly different than a human's. The mutagen keeps us from contracting illnesses. Never been sick a day in my life."
It's almost as if life is toying with you, causing your piece of junk body to sneeze as though pointing out the vast differences between you and Donnie. "Crap. Sorry. Must be nice not getting sick. Lucky duck."
"Lucky turtle is closer to apropos." He corrects, glancing around at your end stand. "I take it you haven't been hydrating?"
You flop onto the bed on your stomach, letting out another pitiful whine.
"Too far." Donnie laughs at the exaggeration.
"You're positively hopeless." He teases.
You hear him moving around the bed, assuming he's fetching a glass of water. You shut your eyes, starting to doze once more until an itch on the back of your thigh keeps you from doing so. Reaching to scratch said itch, you freeze in utter horror the moment you touch the skin of your thigh.
Bare skin.
Fucking fuck.
You completely forgot about your lack of attire, wearing just a tank top and a pair of bikini panties. Your hand searches frantically for your comforter, the sheet, anything to cover yourself. You groan, eyes clenching shut from dismay. At one point, probably half asleep, you must have kicked the comforter and sheet off the bed.
And now you're laying there, ass up, like this. There's no way in hell that Donnie had missed this horrifying development. The urge to root on for your illness to go ahead and take your life is palpable.
How can you look him in the eye now? Good god.
And it didn't help the matter that you have been carrying quite the blazing torch for your terrapin friend for years now. As depressing as that is. After all, he's a mutated turtle and you're a human. It would never work out. As it's been pointed out numerous times, you're both vastly different. Different species, opposite ends of every possible spectrum. For all you know he's not even interested in human women, much less you. Donnie's just so... larger than life, not meaning his colossal height either. He's beyond brilliant, a genius on multiple levels. So caring, selfless, taking other's needs into consideration with no expectation of arrears of his own. This, right now, is a shining example.
And he'll be back any second, you remind yourself, moving into action.
You hoist your aching, weak body enough to the end of the bed, scrambling around to find some protection for your nearly naked frame. Searching fingers find an edge of the flat sheet, yanking with what little strength you possess to cover yourself. The end result isn't what you had in mind. You had twisted and fumbled your way to the bottom of the bed, half hanging off. Hearing the creak of the bedroom door, you spend the last reserve of your energy on pulling the sheet up but only manage to cover half of your exposed body--
Not the half you had been aiming to cover, head and shoulders buried underneath it. Great.
His encroaching footsteps falter in the entryway. You didn't need to see his face to know that the sight of you had to be quite amusing, and even worse, still revealing. A few seconds drag by, feeling like hours, until the sound of his amused laughter softly fills the room.
"Good gracious..what happened in here?" Amusement echoes in his question. You reply to the best of your ability, having worn yourself out from the exertion.
"An attempt to save an iota of modesty."
His laughter dies down, aiming for respectful to your all together pathetic situation. You register movement come around the bed, a clink of the water glass set on the night stand. Hands grip your shoulder then proceed to help maneuver you back into a comfortable position.
"Better?" You can't meet his eyes. Can't let him see your mortification, merely nodding your response with a grumble of a thank you.
"Here,' he offers the sweating glass of ice water, 'you need to drink. It's detrimental to your recovery to stay hydrated."
You're flushing again, the prior engulfing heat returning. It's just so damn hot and the sheet now covering you feels like a tarp encasing you in a fiery blaze. You wish for nothing more than to kick it off again but remain steadfast. The poor turtle had already seen way more than he probably bargained for tonight. Your hand shakes as you reach for the glass, no matter how hard you try to remain steady.
He notices. "Hang on."
Adding insult to the injury, Donnie bends down, settling on to one knee to the floor by the bed. He loops an arm around your shoulders, lifting your torso up with ease so you're sitting up and brings the glass to your parched mouth. "Drink."
You do as instructed, sipping tentatively until the first drip of life affirming coolness hits your tongue, only realizing how truly dehydrated you've become. All focus turns to gulping down what you can, doing all you can to not let your thoughts linger to Donnie's sturdy yet gentle arm around your back, holding you securely to him. His plastron brushing your arm and shoulder, his breath fanning over your super heated skin, tickling you in the process. In the past you had purposely kept from being too close in his immediate proximity, if only to keep your nerves from becoming frazzled on high alert. To keep the warring emotions in check, afraid that he may notice the effect he has on you.
But now, you don't have the strength nor the willpower. His cool skin against yours feels heavenly. Finishing as much as you can of the water, you move on autopilot, leaning as close in as you can to press your heated flesh to his naturally cooler skin. Mumbling incoherently about how how good he feels. The fog you had been suffering through is returning, dragging you back into it's feverish hold.
The last cohesive moment you recall before passing out again is that cool embrace encircling you, holding on all the tighter.
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Time holds no meaning for you. Brief seconds here and there you can manage to stay awake, not fully processing what's around you. Sometimes you rouse from what feels like a cold, wet cloth pressed to your skin to only be pulled back under again. Others you're awoken to have another blessing of icy water offered which you greedily consume then, lights out once more. And occasionally, the sensation of being wrapped in something you can't place in your delusional state, something cool yet pleasantly hard. A comforting gesture that encompasses you. The merry go round of consciousness goes round and round but for how long you have no idea. Then, at some point, the haze begins to diminish.
The fog of sleep lessens it's hold as you slowly come to. At first, you don't want to move, still achy but nowhere near as bad as it has been. Your eyes feel as though they're glued closed, takes a long moment to pry them open. Successfully, you squint, not liking the early morning light that hits your eyes, withdrawing from the harsh intrusion. You didn't realize that you are physically moving until your back collides against a wall. Or at least that's what you thought it was at first. A quick glance backwards proves this wrong, your stomach jumping at what you see.
In a deep sleep, the wall turns out to be Donatello, a very much out cold Donatello at that. His face is slack from sleep, glasses gone, one corner of the deep purple mask you always see him wearing is pushed up, partially exposing the rest of his face. You've never seen him without the symbol of his ninja status. Your fingers twitch, itching to finish the job and see what he would look like without it but you refrain. Donnie, like his brothers, take their Ninjitsu, their code, very seriously and it would be wrong. Not your position to infringe.
This new development of waking to your long standing crush in your bed has you frozen in spot, too scared to move, afraid of waking the poor guy. He never sleeps enough, mind constantly going a mile a minute. You have no clue how long he's been here or what day it is, nothing. The fevered state left you fully incapacitated and oblivious to how much time has gone by in it's wake. Has he been here this whole time, however long that's been? The cold compresses, the water, all of it, that had been him. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest, moved beyond words at the realization.
He had stuck around to take care of you. And it's this realization that has unspoken tenderness welling up in your throat, choking you. He didn't need to, didn't have any reason to stay but he did nonetheless. And that means everything.
On that note, you make the conscious effort to let him sleep. Your bladder is screaming for relief, who knows when the last time you used the restroom. You couldn't remember. As gingerly as you're able, you turn, throwing one leg then another over the side of the bed and push yourself upwards---
---only to fall back onto the bed as a wave of dizziness bitch slaps you. So weak, legs refusing to cooperate.
There's an abrupt snort from behind you. Sure enough, your lack of a graceful tumble wakes the napping turtle. He sits up, rubbing his eyes then rights his askew mask before fixing a bleary stare at you.
"You're awake, ho--ho--how do you feel?" He yawns mid sentence. You give him the best attempt of a smile you can muster while doing what you can to make yourself small, trying to cover the fact that you're still half naked.
"I'll live. Have you been here the whole time? How long was I out?"
"About 14 hours. And yes, I stayed. You were in no state to be on your own." Donnie leans in, placing one long three fingered hand to your forehead. "Appears that your fever has finally broken."
"Thank god." You mutter mostly to yourself, slightly sad, stupidly when his hand leaves you.
"I had Mikey bring you some of his infamous chicken noodle soup. You need to eat something."
Your arms squeeze tighter around your knees. Wonderful. Now Mikey had gotten a lewd view of your undressed state. The universe is really gunning for you.
Donnie smirks, catching the inconspicuous movement.
"No need to fret. I made sure you were properly covered when he arrived. Though, you didn't seem particularly thrilled. Kept trying to kick the covers off but I managed long enough until he left."
That helps, a little. You're still embarrassed that Donnie had to be subjected to your unintentional near nudity. He makes no remark on the matter and you're eternally grateful. You try standing once again with a touch more success but not much.
"Bathroom?" The guy has to be psychic.
"My bladder is killing me."
Nearly tumbling to the floor, you're saved at the last second by green hands clamping on your shoulders, hauling you up. Words are exchanged, insisted words about your current lack of coordination and you give in; allowing him to lead you to the attached bathroom. Thank heavens he has the modesty to step out, closing the door behind him. You know he hasn't wandered far, waiting diligently nearby in case you require assistance. You are able to finish the deed on your own. One quick glance in the mirror has you wincing. Your hair is a sweaty, grease filled mess, the pony tail losing its hold. The white tank top sticks to you like a second skin. A shower is desperately needed.
Wobbling to the door, you crack it open. Sure enough, there's Donnie waiting patiently.
"I'm gonna take a quick shower. I'm hideous."
He frowns at the remark. "You're not hideous. You're ill, big difference. Are you steady enough to do this alone?"
He momentarily pales, as much as the guy can being green, after all. "Do--um--do you...need...me...what I mean---"
It's not often that Donnie stumbles with his words but this time, it's completely understandable. You pale as well, processing the meaning behind his stuttering.
"Oh! I, no, I'm fine. I'll go slow and take my time. You don't have to stick around anymo---"
He firmly shakes his head, shutting you down automatically. "I'm not leaving you, especially since you're still unstable and want to shower."
"Donnie, really. I'll---"
"I'll heat you some soup up while you freshen up. Just yell if you need me, I'll hear you." He's gone before you summon the will to argue.
In the event that you do lose your balance, with his keen hearing and mad mutant ninja skills, he'd probably be in the bathroom to catch you before you hit the tub. You let out a low sigh, shutting the bathroom door. It's not that you don't appreciate everything he's doing but it's odd, having him here, feeling as though he needs to wait on you hand and foot. Taking your time in the shower, you mentally make a note to do something nice for your friend. What that maybe, you're not sure. Gotta be something good, he went above and beyond for you, after all.
It took longer than you like but you're finally feeling a hair closer to being a human being again, freshly showered and dressed albeit in a pair of your comfiest pjs but it still counts. That strangled emotion in your throat bubbles up once more when you notice that Donnie had taken the liberty to change out the undoubtedly sweat laced bedsheets with a fresh set from your cupboard.
Whatever you plan to do had to be epic now. The guy deserves the best.
Since you're no longer in the throes of death, feeling stronger, you opt to make your nest of recovery on the living room sofa, wanting to have the option to veg out in front of the TV. Donnie, bless his little mutant heart, insists on setting up the area with not just your soup, but plenty of bottled water. Made sure you had an extra box of tissues handy and refused to leave until he personally made sure you took some of the cold medicine from the stash in the bathroom closet.
Only when he leaned in, insisting on bundling you into a blanket cocoon did you put your foot down.
"Seriously, Donnie, this is more than enough. I'll be fine." You eye the dark circles under his eyes, visible against the green pallor of his skin. "Go rest. You more than earned some R&R. You can crash here if you want. You're more than welcome to."
He still appeared to be apprehensive, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "Are you sure? I could---"
"Positively sure." You interrupt. Seems that he is only gonna listen to a firm tone. "You need to sleep."
Donnie hesitates, remaining awkwardly in place a moment longer then nods. He turns to the alley facing window in the living room, suggesting that he'd prefer to return home. Just before he steps out of reach, you grab at his wrist, stopping him.
You speak, genuinely sincere, once you have his attention. "And again, thank you, Donnie. For taking care of me. For everything. Lord knows how bad off I'd be right now if you hadn't shown up. Can't begin to tell you how much it means to me." You give his wrist a reassuring squeeze, hoping that he fully understands the true depth of your words.
That hesitant yet utterly sweet toothy smile lights up his face, the one you absolutely love but don't witness as often as you'd like. Doesn't matter that he is what he is and you are what you are, from two opposing worlds, he's utterly breathtaking to you. It makes your chest hurt, both in a good and bad way; reminding you just how deep in you are for the ninja turtle. As it's done a million times before and surely will a million more to come, the ache in your chest leaves you saddened.
If only you had the guts to tell him---
"You're welcome...and, well..." He trails off, appearing to stop himself, that smile falters for breadth of second before it's back in place. "You get more rest. Plenty of fluids, take the medicine and that chicken soup is your best friend right now. Doctor's orders."
"Aye, aye, sir." You reply with a silly salute, letting the mask of happiness slide back into place.
He gives you a quick nod then heads to the window, disappearing with that ninja stealth of his once the glass slides shut.
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