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Most of the time, April smelled of wildflowers. Donnie wasn't sure what it was but it was like she carried the summer in her hair, the sun in her skin. Even when she tried to cover it up with perfumes he could always scent it, just beneath the surface. He knew that his brothers were gifted with the same prodigious sense of smell he was, but Donnie liked to pretend that this was something only he was privy to.
That wasn't April's only scent, though. He knew what her apartment's air freshener smelled like on her skin, the sharp tang of her adrenaline during a fight, the horrifying, metallic scent of her blood and everything in between. Donatello had them all sorted and categorized in his head so he could respond accordingly. For example, when she smelled of coffee he knew she had just come from chatting it up with Irma and was in high spirits, but if there was a hint of formaldehyde in it, coffee meant she had spent way too long in the lab without sleep and he should offer help. Then there was the acrid, chemical scent of a hospital ward that would sometimes trail after her like a heavy shroud, and then Donnie knew not to ask about Kirby, to brew a pot of tea and set aside all his projects. He would wait until April either started talking or broke down and sobbed into his shoulder. Either way, Donnie would stay with her until he could smell the wildflowers under the tea again.
Sometimes, though, her scent would change of its own accord. He'd noticed it before and he knew what it meant, when her usually sweet, dry scent turned musky and utterly, devastatingly enticing. It was too much, too private, and Donnie would always find an excuse to put as much distance between them as possible. After all, it was never meant for him.
Until one day it was.
The first time it happened as he kissed her, it took him completely by surprise. The wildflowers vanished just as she pressed flush against him and he reeled, head swimming. He was then seized by a panic, disbelief warring with the fire that had been lit low in his belly, and he almost made to excuse himself as always. But then April's tongue claimed his mouth with a possessive sweep and she tugged on the lip of his plastron until they both collapsed on her bed. After that, he was helpless and he was hers. He lost himself in her scent, every last reservation forgotten, every last worry, every last care.
When it was over and they lay in a contented tangle of limbs he realized with a jolt that he couldn't really tell their scents apart anymore. The wildflowers were still there but now they wrapped themselves around him like a cocoon. More wondrous yet was finding his own scent in the crook of April's neck.
And sometimes, like those times when she smelled of him, a different kind of fire would rise within Donatello, the kind that lodged itself in his chest and made his eyes sting. If April minded being scooped up and pressed tight against him every time this happened, she'd say nothing, merely continue idly stroking the patterns of his shell with nimble fingers. All the while he would breathe in the wildflowers from her hair, and once again struggle with disbelief.