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The lair is quiet, submerged in the heavy silence of the hours just before dawn. Sleep won’t come for you, a familiar restlessness keeping your mind stirring.
And you know, with a sinking certainty, that it won’t come for him either.
You slip out of the guest room and make your way to the only light in the lair at this hour: Donnie’s lab. A blue-white glow spills from the open door. He’s there, but he isn’t working. He’s just sitting on his stool, hunched over his workbench, his back to you. His posture is all wrong—too tight, too rigid, like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.
Which might not be far from the truth.
You pause in the doorway, your heart twisting in your chest. It’s been weeks since he came back from … that. He’s tried to throw himself into his work, a desperate attempt to pretend—to prove to his brothers and to himself that he is fine. But you see the cracks.
You see the shadows that swim in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking. The way he sometimes flinches if Raph raises his voice too suddenly, the way his hands clench at his side. You’ve seen him, late at night, tracing the lines on his own hands as if he’s expecting to see something else entirely.
“Don?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
He startles. Still, he doesn’t turn around. “I’m busy,” he says, but the words are brittle, hollowed out. It’s a poor imitation of his usual focused tone, like a recording played on a dying battery.
You step into the lab and walk to his side, moving slowly to not spook him. You can now see the fine tremor in his balled fists on the tabletop. He’s staring intently at his own distorted reflection in the dark, glossy surface of a powered-down monitor.
“It’s four in the morning,” you say gently. “Even you need to sleep.”
He finally turns his head to look at you. Dark circles shadow his eyes; they’re haunted, lost in a place you can’t see. “I can’t.” The admission is a ragged, torn thing. “When I close my eyes … I see it. I feel it.”
You know exactly what he means: the mutation. The hulking, monstrous form he became. Losing his mind, his body, his family. The living nightmare he was forced to inhabit. You reach out, your fingers hovering over his arm for a moment before you gently lay your hand on his bicep.
He flinches, a full-body recoil, and pulls away as if you’ve burned him. “Don’t!” The word is choked, ripped from his throat. A look of pure animal panic flashes in his eyes before being replaced by shame.
You pull your hand back immediately, holding it up in a gesture of peace. “Hey. It’s okay,” you say, your voice as soft as you can make it. “My fault. I shouldn’t have.”
He curls in on himself, his shoulders hunching forward as if to ward off a physical blow. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out as he stares down at his hands. “I didn’t mean … It’s not you. I just … I can still feel it—how my skin wasn’t my own, the claws, the rage. That’s all there was.”
Instead of trying to touch him again, you pull over another stool. You sit beside him, but with a careful foot of space between you, a silent acknowledgment of the boundary he needs. You don’t say “I understand,” because you can’t. How could anyone? Instead, you just sit there, a quiet presence in his bubble of pain.
For a long minute, the only sound is the hum of his computer’s cooling fan. He doesn’t tell you to leave. That, you think, is a small victory. Finally, he lets out a long, shuddering breath, the air leaving his lungs like he’s been holding it for weeks.
“It’s not just the memory,” he says, his voice quieter now, less brittle. He continues to stare at his hands on the workbench, turning them over, palm up. “It’s the … feeling. The power. I was so strong. And there was no thought, no conscience, just instinct.”
“That wasn’t you, Donnie,” you state, your voice firm but not loud. “That was something done to you. Not who you are.”
He doesn’t respond at first. His fingers twitch against the surface of the bench, like he’s weighing your words in his palms. After a moment, he gives a small shake of his head. “But what if it was always in me? What if that rage—that loss of control—what if that was just something I’ve kept buried? What if … what if it just needed the right trigger?”
You turn to look at the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his neck, the way his eyes flicker with something sharp and self-directed. You want to reach out again, but you remember how he flinched. So instead, you fold your hands in your lap and let your voice carry the weight of your care.
“I’ve seen you angry, Donnie. Seen you frustrated. I’ve even seen you lose your temper. But I’ve never seen you be cruel. That thing—it wasn’t you finally letting go. It was something else taking over.”
He lets out a bitter, hollow chuckle, but it dies quickly. “That’s what scares me,” he murmurs. “It didn’t feel like something else. It felt like me, just … stripped down. Like all the things I’ve tried to be—they were just a mask.”
You shift a little closer, careful not to breach that invisible line, but close enough that he can feel the heat of your presence. “Don’t you think everyone has that? The capacity for anger, for fear, for … darkness? But you choose who you are, Don. You always have. And I’ve never seen you choose anything but compassion.”
His gaze lingers on yours for a moment, something unspoken thickening the air between you. “You make it sound so easy.”
You lean forward slightly, resting your forearms on your knees, making your posture open and non-threatening. “The Don I know thinks his way out of a problem. He doesn’t smash through it. The Don I know protects his family with his mind, with his inventions, with his heart. He doesn’t put them in danger.”
The haunted look is still there in his eyes, but it’s joined by a flicker of something else: a desperate need to believe you. “You really think that?”
“I don’t think it,” you say softly, holding his gaze. “I know it. I see it every day.”
You stay like that for a long moment. It’s an unspoken conversation, a silent reassurance passing between you. He is the first to look away, his gaze dropping back to the workbench. He flexes his fingers, one by one, as if testing them, reacquainting himself with his own body.
“I’m afraid to touch anyone,” he admits. “I’m afraid I’ll … hurt them. That the monster is just under the surface, waiting.”
“I’m not scared,” you say simply. “You could never hurt me, Donnie.”
His breath hitches. You watch as he deliberately unclenches his fists, finger by finger, forcing the muscles to relax. Then, slowly, he extends one of his hands towards you, palm up. Like a test of your trust and his control.
Your own breath catches in your throat. You understand the magnitude of this gesture. This is him handing you his deepest fear and asking you to hold it. Carefully, you lift your own hand and place it in his.
His skin is cool against yours, and you can feel the faint, controlled tremor that still runs through him. But there is no monstrous strength, no crushing grip. There is only Donnie. You wrap your fingers around his, your touch steady. You give his hand a gentle squeeze.
He lets out a shuddering sigh, and his shoulders slump, losing a fraction of the rigid tension they’ve held for weeks. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a hesitant, feather-light movement.
“See?” you whisper, your voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite name. “It’s just you. It’s just your hand.”
He stares at your joined hands like they’re something fragile and impossible. You can see the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his jaw clenches, holding back more words than he’s ready to say.
“I forgot what that felt like,” he says eventually. “Touch that doesn’t come with fear.”
You don’t flinch. Don’t avert your gaze. You just keep your hand in his, grounded and steady. “Then let this remind you.”
He closes his eyes, just for a second, and you can see the battle behind his eyelids. He’s not free of it. Maybe he never will be. But for now, he’s here. With you. And that counts for something.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same,” he says as he opens his eyes.
“I don’t think you have to be.”
He tilts his head, and you can see the words catch behind his teeth, unsure how to process that idea.
“You went through something no one should have to,” you continue. “You changed. Of course you did. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re different. And different doesn’t mean worse.”
He lets that sink in, his fingers tightening slightly around yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me,” he says, his voice fraying at the edges. “Even when I did.”
Your chest tightens at that, but you keep your tone light, a gentle deflection to hold off the emotion threatening to spill over. “I’m too stubborn for that.”
A small smile ghosts across his face. The first real one in days. Maybe longer. It doesn’t reach his eyes all the way, but it’s there. You hold on to it.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says quietly.
You meet his gaze, your own expression unwavering. “You’ve got me. Your brothers,” you say. “Splinter. And April and Casey. You aren’t going through this alone, Don. Not for a second.”
You give his hand a final, firm squeeze before you slowly let it go. The absence of his touch leaves your palm feeling strangely cold. You stand, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. “Come on,” you say gently. “Enough work for one night. Or one morning.”
He looks from his empty hand back to you, a flicker of that same panic returning to his eyes. He’s afraid to be alone again. You see it instantly. So, you offer your hand back to him, palm up, just as he did for you.
He stares at your outstretched hand for a beat before his own comes up to meet it. He laces his fingers through yours, his grip a little less hesitant this time. You lead him out of the lab and into the familiar shadows of the living area. His steps are slow, almost shuffling with bone-deep fatigue.
Instead of heading towards his room, you guide him to the couch. You sit, pulling him down gently beside you. You don’t release his hand, and he makes no move to pull his away. The two of you sit like that for a long time. You watch as the deep-set tension in his shoulders finally eases. His breathing, which had been tight and shallow, deepens.
Then, slowly—so slowly you almost think you’re imagining it—he leans against you.
First, his shoulder just bumps yours, and you remain perfectly still. He seems to take that as permission, letting his head come to rest on your shoulder. A pleasant jolt of warmth flows through you. It isn’t long before you can feel every muscle in his neck finally slacken as he gives in to his exhaustion.
He buries his face in the fabric of your shirt, and his next word is a muffled, drowsy murmur. “Stay?”
You lean your own head back against the couch cushions, careful not to disturb him. “Always,” you promise.
You feel his breathing even out completely, deepening into the first hints of the real, restorative sleep he has so desperately needed.
You know this isn’t a magical cure, and the shadows plaguing Donnie’s mind won’t vanish with the coming morning light. But as you sit there, providing a safe harbor for him, a fierce resolve settles in your heart.
You’ll sit in the dark with him for as long as it takes—until he’s ready to face the sun again.