Work Text:
When they were twelve years old, Leo’s brother carted home a ton of psychology books (Literally carted! As in; stole shopping cart from kiosk, somehow dragged into sewer tunnels and rolled home. The cart was still in the lair, serving as their portable laundry basket that was never really filled with actual laundry and rarely encountered the laundry room).
Anyway! Psychology books were not Leo’s Thing, and were in fact one of the Things that he literally could not share with Donnie, unlike Shakespeare and the basic chemistry required for making things go Boom. But that didn’t mean he didn’t listen when his brother rant-lectured about his newest interest.
Which is how Leo discovered, completely by accident, that he was… not normal.
He had already known that, of course. Objectively, none of them were normal. The mutated turtle and rat-dad shtick was kind of a dead give away. He’d even learned to embrace the abnormality. Really lean into it sometimes, for the bit.
However there was a difference between Not Normal and Wrong. A difference he was smacked in the face with one fine, soggy Friday when he was huddled with Donnie in the newly constructed laboratory while Raph was busy soothing Mikey through a pair of a bruised knees and an even more bruised ego (both of which were Leo's fault for triple dog, Cerberus daring him to penguin slide down the skate ramp). It really was for the best he be out of sight and mind for once-- at least until Raphs disappointment and Mikey’s tears tapered off a bit.
“Psychopaths, huh?” Leo had said, heart in his throat and beating like a caged moth in a lamp shade, seconds away from burning. “Scary!”
“Not particularly,” Donnie said seriously, flipping pages. “Thats predominately the Hollywood interpretation. I posit that they are no more inclined to senseless violence than anyone else, and their motivations are decidedly more clear cut than, for example, a hyper violent drunkard.”
“Ha ha!” Leo had said, slapping his knees. “Tone it down with the nerd words, Donado! I can’t keep up.”
Donnie had given him a weary side eye. “Sigh. You are not stupid, Leonardo. I know you can keep up. Barely, he added sarcastically.”
“Aw, you say the sweetest things!” Leo had cooed and scooted closer. But his trapped heart was still fluttering, and a shakiness was creeping up his spine. A sour-cold fear he’d never felt before. “But anyway; tell me about the spooky scary psychopaths. I’m invested!”
And Donnie, because he never turned down an opportunity to lecture, had complied.
That night, Leo hadn’t slept. He’d laid on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling and listening to his dads snores rattling through the ducts. Thinking.
The subject, Donnie had read from one of the books, thick as a dictionary and probably twice as boring, displays all hallmarks of classic psychopathy as measured by modern psychology. He displays an arrogance and self-absorption that is admirably masked by a charming demeanor, which he wields to excellent effect for personal and professional gain. However, when he allows that mask to drop, there is an undeniably coldness. A void of personality and warmth that, one can infer, is his natural state.
Likewise, Donnie had continued to read in a pompous, slightly mocking tone, the subject is of a mercenary disposition. His relationships are parasitic in nature, manipulating those in his sphere for financial or personal gain. He perpetually seeks validation, reward and acknowledgement of prowess. To this end, he maneuvers those around him, be they friend, coworker or peer, as a Chess Master would his pieces, and with just as little concern regarding their wellbeing. He is willing to sacrifice or risk others without hesitation or sympathy, and therefore has the advantage over the average man in matters of strategy. By all standards, the subject exemplifies the idiom “The end justifies the means”.
However, his success is tempered by an impulsive and thrill seeking nature. He does not tolerate tedium and will go to great lengths to keep it at bay. Hunger for new experiences and sensations are his constant companions, and he does not hesitate to sate them, frequently at the expense of others.
Therefore, one can only conclude that the subject, who by all outside metrics appears the Ideal Man, is in fact fatally flawed and devoid of that which, by general consensus, makes one human — Empathy.
By the end, it felt like being struck by lightning, every word another zing! through his brain. It had been a revelation, but horrible. Devastating.
So he spent the night thinking about The Subject. Mulling over everything about the mysterious Him, and realizing that He was not so mysterious after all. In fact, He was horrifyingly, undeniably familiar.
Didn’t Leo slather on the charm every day like a full face of stage paint, gleefully prepared to play a role? Didn’t he joke and laugh and talk, all while watching hawk-eyed from the other side of a smile? Carefully cataloguing what worked, what didn’t, what he could do better, and applying it next time. Building a better, brighter mask.
And didn’t he manipulate people? Didn’t he trick his brothers, his dad, April, into giving him attention? Didn’t he scam them out of pocket money, or the last slice of pizza, or a hug? And during a melee, didn’t he arrange everything just so, manipulate his brothers just right, that he could come out on top? It sure wasn’t because he was better than them, obviously. It was because he knew how to make them, if only for a moment, worse.
And just that day, hadn’t he manipulated Mikey into doing something stupid, something dangerous, something that hurt him, just because Leo was bored?
And sometimes… sometimes, when he was scheming, when he was thinking, when he was making his little plans, he didn’t consider ‘will this hurt them?’. He only wondered ’how much’?
He’d pressed a hand to his heart. Even hours after leaving Donnie, hours after lying down, it was still racing. It didn’t feel defective, didn’t feel like something cold and empty.
But it had all been right there. Black and white, printed for everyone to see. A perfect portrait of Hamato Leonardo.
Psychopath.
It was a good thing he’d realized it, Leo decided. A good thing Donnie had carted all those dumb textbooks home. Because now he knew. Now, he could watch himself. Keep the psychopath in his head on a leash and make sure it didn’t slip. Didn’t hurt anyone.
And make sure that no one else ever, ever found out.
And for a few beautiful, blissful years, no one ever did.
Until Shredder. Until Leo abandoned his brothers to an enemy they were terrified to fight. Until he manipulated his father onto a battleground that haunted his nightmares. Until he had looked at the situation, made a plan, and hadn’t once thought ‘will this hurt them?’ or even ‘how much’?
Instead, he’d looked at them with a big beaming smile, and thought ‘they’ll survive’ and hadn’t even hesitated before deciding that was good enough.
And sometimes? The worst part was that he’d been right.
But being right didn't make it any better. Didn't make him any better. He'd tipped his hand, shown his true colors, and there was no taking it back. The monster was loose. And now everyone knew it.