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You’re sitting on the couch in the lair. Around you, everyone is busy. There’s the rattle of a spray paint can from Mikey’s corner, Raph is busy preparing food in the kitchen, and Leo is watching his favorite Jupiter Jim movie for the hundredth time.
But your attention has drifted, as it so often does, to Donnie.
You watch as Mikey zips over to you and throws his arms around your shoulders in a sudden, giggly hug. You laugh and hug him back. He’s holding a sketchbook, and he’s showing off his latest concept for another art piece. But from the corner of your eye, you see Donnie at the entrance to his lab.
He leans against the doorway and feigns disinterest, but his gaze fixes on the casual affection you’re sharing with his brother. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something sharp and longing that he quickly smothers. He pushes down his goggles and disappears back into the lab.
This isn’t the first time you’ve noticed it.
He builds walls around himself, but you’ve seen the cracks. You’ve seen how he stands just a little too close when explaining an invention, his energy thrumming with the need to connect. But he never makes contact. His hands will gesture wildly, coming within millimeters of your arm before twitching back as if burned.
He craves touch; you’re sure of it.
And the realization makes your heart ache for him.
Later, you find a reason to venture into his lab. “Hey, D? My laptop’s making that weird whirring noise again.”
He swivels around in his chair. “Ah, primitive 21st-century tech failing once more! A classic. Bring the patient to me.”
You set the laptop on his workbench, and he immediately dives in, muttering to himself about thermal paste and inadequate RAM. He explains the problem to you, using big words you only half-understand. But you listen intently because his voice is alive in a way that only happens when he’s deep in his element. It’s fast and technical, but there’s a rhythm to it, like music.
You lean on the edge of the table, watching him work. He doesn’t notice. Not yet.
When he’s finished, he leans back with a smug look of satisfaction on his face. “There. I have graced your inferior machine with my transcendent genius. It will now operate at 120% efficiency. You’re welcome.”
You grin, playing along. “Wow. So humble. I don’t know what I’d do without your transcendent genius.”
He makes a show of polishing an imaginary medal pinned to his chest. “Yes, well, some minds are simply too advanced for societal norms like modesty.”
But behind the usual bravado, there’s a flicker of something softer in his expression. Like he’s watching for your reaction more than he’s letting on.
You hop off the table, stepping beside him as you scoop up your laptop. “Seriously though, thanks, Donnie.” You pause before turning to leave, your fingers drumming idly against the metal casing. Then, before you can overthink it, you gently reach out. Just a light touch on his shoulder.
His entire body goes still.
For a split second, you think maybe you overstepped. Maybe it was too much. But he doesn’t move away. He stares straight ahead at his monitor, his eyes wide, but you know he isn’t seeing what’s on it.
“Donnie?” you ask softly, your hand still on his shoulder.
He swallows, a motion that seems to take a monumental effort. “Y-yeah?” he answers, voice thin and almost hoarse.
You don’t move your hand just yet. Not until you feel the slight shift in his posture, like he’s breathing through a storm inside him. He still won’t look at you. His eyes flicker across the screen as if hoping it will swallow him whole.
Slowly, you pull your hand back. The moment your touch is gone, he lets out a shuddering breath he was clearly holding. But he still won’t look at you. And you understand. It wasn’t that he disliked it. It was that he wanted it so much it overwhelmed him.
You stay still for a moment, giving him time—space—whatever he needs. But your gaze stays on him, soft and steady. “I’m sorry,” you say gently. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Slowly, he finally turns. His eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw there. Not anger. Not annoyance. Just fear. The fragile kind that comes from wanting something too much.
“No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t.” He lowers his gaze again, fingers curling over the edge of the table. “It’s not that I don’t want it. I-I do. I just … I don’t know how to want it the right way. Not like everyone else.”
You step a little closer. “There’s no right way to want comfort.”
He breathes out sharply, as if your words knocked the air from him.
You leave the lab, your heart twisting with a new, fierce protectiveness.
The next evening, you find Donnie in his lab.
He’s hunched over a project, but there’s a weariness in his shoulders. You walk over, attempting to keep your footsteps light. He tenses, sensing you, but doesn’t turn around.
“Hey,” you say gently.
“Salutations,” he replies, his voice flat. He keeps his eyes glued to the mess of wires in front of him.
You stand beside him for a moment in the silence. Then you take a breath, steeling your nerves. “Donnie?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
He finally glances at you, his expression guarded. “The probability of me having an answer is high. Proceed.”
“Can I hold your hand?”
His eyes widen. All his carefully constructed defenses crumble in an instant. He just stares at you, his mouth slightly parted. You can practically see the calculations whirring behind his eyes: the risk assessment, the potential for error.
You keep your hand open and waiting, a simple, patient offer. You don’t push. You just wait.
He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Then, slowly, he sets down his screwdriver. His hands hover above the table, fingers flexing like he’s unsure what to do with them. His eyes dart to your open palm, then back to your face, then down again.
Then—just barely—a tremor passes through his fingers.
And he moves.
Carefully, as though the air between you is fragile glass, he lets his hand settle into yours. His palm is rough from tools and years of building and fighting. But his touch is featherlight, like he’s still half-convinced you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
Instead, you curl your fingers gently around his, and something in him visibly unwinds. His shoulders drop just a little. His grip stays hesitant, but steady. And for a moment, he says nothing.
Then, “… Is this … okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”
You feel the way his thumb shifts slightly, barely brushing over your knuckles. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand.
“You’re really warm,” he mutters absently, eyes now fixed on your joined hands. “Biological heat transfer. Fascinating.”
You laugh softly. “Donnie, it’s called holding hands.”
He blushes faintly. “Yes, well. Theoretically, I was aware of the concept. Practical application is … new.”
You squeeze his hand lightly. “You’re doing great.”
That earns the smallest of smiles from him. It softens his entire face, pulling the tension from his jaw, relaxing the lines around his eyes. His fingers twitch once, like he wants to tighten his grip but is still unsure if he’s allowed to.
You give his hand another soft squeeze—permission, reassurance—and finally, his fingers settle more firmly around yours. The contact, though still tentative, is more confident now. Like he’s beginning to believe you won’t vanish if he allows himself to want this.
He doesn’t speak again for a while. Neither do you.
The quiet isn’t awkward; it never is between you two. It’s still. Gentle. A kind of peace Donnie rarely lets himself sit inside. His breathing slows, the twitchy energy that usually vibrates through him tempered now by something softer.
Eventually, he leans back just enough to look at you, and his voice, when it comes, is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “Why does it feel like this?”
You tilt your head slightly. “Like what?”
He struggles to find the words. His brows pull together, frustrated with himself. “Like … like something inside me’s relaxing and panicking at the same time. But … I don’t want it to stop.”
“That’s what vulnerability feels like. It’s kind of the worst.” A small, understanding smile tugs at your lips. “And kind of the best.”
He swallows. “I’m not used to it.”
“I know.” Your thumb brushes lightly along the back of his hand, a touch so small it barely registers, but he shivers anyway. “But you’re not doing it alone.”
He exhales slowly, a sound somewhere between a breath and a sigh. His eyes drop to your hands again, to the way your fingers fit around his so naturally, as if they were made for each other.
“I ran simulations, you know,” he says quietly, almost embarrassed. “All the scenarios—predicting outcomes of physical contact with someone I trusted. The data … it’s promising, but nothing prepared me for this.”
You laugh softly, warmth threading through your voice. “You simulated hand-holding?”
“I simulate everything.” He shrugs a little awkwardly. “Especially the things I’m afraid to ask for in reality.”
You squeeze his hand gently. “Well, you’re doing great. And you don’t have to simulate this anymore.”
For a long moment, he just stares at your joined hands. Then, with surprising boldness, his free hand reaches out hesitantly and settles on top of yours, as if testing if it’s real or some trick of his imagination.
When he finally meets your eyes, there’s something almost shy about the way he says, “I think I could get used to this.”
You smile, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “Take all the time you need.”
He lets out a breath, and the tension in his shoulders melts a little more. For once, he doesn’t need to analyze or calculate. He just lets himself be here—with you, with this quiet, simple connection.
And it’s enough.