Chapter Text
At exactly one in the afternoon, Donatello knocks on the door to Baron Draxum’s apartment. A part of him had really just wanted to stay home, being tired and in pain, but the other knew it would not be worth the guilt of canceling on Mikey. So he’d sucked it up, adjusted the strap on his battle shell to be looser to the point it was barely holding any weight of the shell at all, and thrown on a sweatshirt to cover up the out-of-place strap and the dark red bruise slowly growing across his shoulder. Now, the weight of the shell was balanced mostly on one shoulder and his belt, which makes it far less secure but that is a drawback he’s willing to take right now when he can’t even raise his arm above his head without it feeling like his shoulder is being crushed.
He’d showered before leaving the lair and taken another painkiller, not that it seemed to be doing much if the constant dull throbbing in his shoulder and pain in his forearm any time he flexed his hand was anything to go by. But he ignores it all in favor of appearing normal as the door in front of him creaks open, Baron Draxum standing on the other side.
“Donatello,” The man greets, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Donnie opens his mouth to respond only to be cut off by Mikey’s voice exclaiming, “Donnie!”
The sheer volume of it, even through the dampening of his headphones, feels like claws pulling at his eardrums. The box turtle ducks around Draxum and barrels into the softshell, knocking the air from his lungs and sending a bolt of pain shooting through his shoulder that makes him wince slightly. He doesn’t get a chance to refill his lungs as Mikey immediately wraps his arms around Donnie and squeezes. Hard. Dutifully, Donnie hugs him back without complaint, despite the lack of oxygen, knowing this probably won’t last longer than thirty seconds. Key word, probably. Mikey gives him a bone-crushing squeeze about twenty seconds long before letting him go, leaving him feeling just a little lightheaded.
“Greetings to you as well, Mikey,” Donnie returns, just a little breathless and starting to regret not taking more than one painkiller already. But he shoves that feeling down, gritting his teeth against the pain and shoving his right hand into his hoodie pocket. So he can have an excuse to not use it as Mikey latches onto his good arm and starts dragging him inside.
“Come in, come in!” He says quickly, tugging at the softshell’s arm, smile plastered to his face and a slightly concerning level of excitement in his eyes. “I have to show you that mystic magic thing and it’s been, like, forever since I last saw you! Also, your face looks worse in person.”
Mikey mutters the last part like an afterthought, and it makes Donnie sigh. Because the bruise has healed significantly since last night, fading into an uglier brown and lightening up slightly. It’s also receded a touch, just enough to be noticeable but not exactly significant.
“Wow, thanks Mikey, I’m definitely not going to get a complex if you keep calling my face ugly, he said sarcastically,” Donatello mutters, not really bothering to take in the apartment as he’s dragged through it. He instead focuses on keeping his feet under him, fighting the slight wave of dizziness and the exhaustion of not having slept after extricating himself from the couch and Raph. “And we saw each other five days ago, Angelo.”
“And that’s forever ago!” Mikey reiterates exasperatedly, tugging harder at Donnie’s arm despite the fact that he’s following the box turtle without resistance. Donatello’s drug through the living room into a side room, which he quickly deduces as Mikey’s room upon entering.
The walls are the same sad, monotonous off-white as the rest of the apartment—and most apartments in New York—but art supplies are scattered about the room. They cover a desk pushed in front of the only window in the room, there’s an easel with what looks the start of a painting resting on it next to the desk, and a small table on wheels on the other side of the easel covered in paint tubes, brushes, and two paint covered palettes. In the window sill is a painted canvas and a lone flowery plant. Mikey shoves the softshell over to the twin bed covered in fuzzy blankets and moves toward the desk as Donnie sits down on the bed. He’s pleasantly surprised to find he doesn’t hate the texture of the blankets, they’re surprisingly soft.
He tries not to picture how the room might have looked before Mikey got settled in it, walls barren and boring, bed probably made with generic sheets. Donnie hadn’t stayed to help his little brother properly move in, Mikey insisting he do it himself and that Donnie go keep an eye on their dumb-dumb brothers like he promised he would. Something the softshell hasn’t been doing a very good job of as of late. He doesn’t have much of an excuse for it either, balancing patrols and his family should be far easier than he’s making it. But he supposes that's part of the reason he finally agreed to team up with Hypno and Warren.
Ignoring the consequences at this point so long as he can actually be something of an adequate brother. There are drawings taped to the door, dried canvases stacked beside it. Several photos hang above the door, extending onto the other walls. All of them are of the turtles, most of them group photos. A part of Donnie aches at that.
He should’ve been here. To help hang them. To help set up the room. To provide some sort of comfort as best he could because he knows Mikey’s struggling with being away from his family. The bed dips beside him as Mikey plops down, holding a journal and pencil.
“So, it’s still a work in progress. . .” Mikey starts, opening the journal and flipping through the pages until he lands on one and sets it between them. The page he’s chosen is blank. Mikey scoots back on the bed a little before shifting to face Donnie and crossing his legs, to which the softshell follows suit. “The idea is really just to be able to practice control or whatever without having to worry about getting the details of the spell right. Or something like that.”
The box turtle picks up the pencil, drawing a circle and then putting little symbols along the outside that look very vaguely familiar to Donatello. Not in the way that he’s seen them before, but in the way that he’s seen similar ones before. Which he supposes he probably has before. When Mikey finishes, he sets the pencil down and then places his hand in the middle of the circle.
“The drawing does the hard part, I just have to activate it with mystic magic,” Mikey explains, as the orange spots along his arms begin to glow. Brows furrowing in concentration, his mouth pulls into a thin line as the page drawing on the page begins to glow. He sucks in a deep breath, and then slowly begins to pull his hand away from the page and an even brighter light shines beneath his hand.
Donatello watches with as much interest as he can muster in his tired state—which isn’t as much as it probably should be, but it’s better than nothing—as Mikey pulls a small, glowing orb from the page as the drawing slowly fades away and leaves the page blank once more. Little orange wisps fall from the orb, disintegrating as Mikey holds it up triumphantly. With each thin wisp, the ball shrinks just a tiny bit.
“The goal,” Mikey says, tone distracted as he stares hard at the glowing ball in his hand, “Is to keep it going for as long as possible. My record is, like, fifteen seconds so far, though.”
Sure enough, the little ball of mystic energy starts shrinking a little faster.
“Is there a way to make it constant?” Donatello asks, mildly intrigued, “So you don’t have to focus on keeping it active?”
“Yep!” The orb fizzles out, and Mikey shakes his hand a little before grabbing the pencil again. Then he pauses. “But I don’t know the exact symbols for that one and I promised Barry I wouldn’t do any experiment spells. . . again. Do you want to try?”
Donatello hesitates for a moment. There isn’t a single part of him that wants to give it a try, especially knowing that he’s had absolutely no luck with any kind of mystic magic up until now. He’s barely even been able to open portals.
“As impressive as that was, I’d. . . rather not,” Donatello finally answers awkwardly, a small pit of guilt settling in his stomach at the admission. Because he knows Mikey will probably be disappointed, even if he doesn’t show it.
“That’s alright!” He responds with a smile and a shrug, putting the pencil back down. “But that reminds me, we were going to ask Barry about the ninpō—oh! And bracelet, wait here!”
Mikey scrambles off the bed, going back to the desk and yanking one of the drawers open to sift around inside. He pulls a few bracelets from it a moment later, returning to the bed and plopping down. He holds a bracelet out to Donnie, made almost entirely of purple beads. There are five beads right next to each other, one black, a red, a blue, an orange, and then another black one in that order. Every other bead is purple.
Donnie slips it on his wrist, the string holding it together stretching to fit over his hand. It’s a little large on his wrist, sliding around just a tad, but he doesn’t find that bothers him. Mikey makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, drawing Donnie’s attention back to the box turtle.
Mikey frowns slightly, apologizing, “Sorry, I kind of had to guess the size. I was kind of worried I’d made it too small, but. . .”
He doesn’t seem particularly upset about it, but he doesn’t appear to be happy, either. Donnie reaches out to shove Mikey gently, pulling a disgruntled noise from the smaller turtle.
“Don't worry about it. It’s perfect, Angelo,” Donnie assures as Mikey bats his hand away. Mikey glares at the softshell, but there’s no real heat behind.
“Good! Cause there’s a strict ‘no-returns’ policy!” Mikey jokes, trying to fight a smile as he lightly shoves Donnie back. A little jolt of pain courses through Donnie’s shoulder, but he ignores it. If this keeps up, his shoulder’s really going to become a problem.
He won’t exactly be able to deal with any of their enemies if even a tiny shove nearly has him wincing. In hindsight, he probably should’ve iced it the second he’d gotten away from Raph. The painkillers are barely helping, only keeping the dull ache that came with breathing at bay. But it’s better than nothing, which is frankly his only alternative.
“These ones are for Leo and Raph,” Mikey cuts through the softshell’s thoughts. The box turtle is holding out the other two bracelets, which follow the same pattern as Donnie’s. “I was hoping you’d give these to them when you go home.”
“Of course,” Donatello agrees easily. Not only will he make sure their brothers get them, but he’ll make sure they wear them, too. No matter what. But on the topic of gifts. . . “Your birthday is in eighteen days. Do you have any specific requests for the occasion?”
Mikey pauses, eye narrowing slightly. Quietly, he hums in thought, eyes wandering away from the softshell. It almost hurts to consider the possibility that Mikey hasn’t given any thought to his birthday this year. Normally, it’s something he can’t stop talking about, insisting on what he wants and how he wants it. Which Donnie has always appreciated because it ensures that at least one of his gifts will be something he actually wants.
But then Mikey shrugs, giving a noncommittal little hum.
“I think I’d just like everyone to be together this year,” He answers finally. The answer isn’t exactly what Donnie was expecting, catching him off guard in a way that has his heart aching just a bit. The bummed out look on Mikey’s face doesn’t help.
Donnie heaves a tired sigh, his shoulder protesting as he reaches out for Mikey. The box turtle doesn’t hesitate, practically collapsing forward into Donnie and nearly knocking them both over. Donnie wraps his arms around the younger turtle, squeezing him tightly as he shifts a little to get more comfortable.
“I know it’s not, like, realistic or whatever, but I just wanna be able to pretend we’re back to normal for a day,” Mikey sighs. Donnie takes a deep breath as Mikey shifts again, hugging Donnie back tightly.
Donnie manages to uncross his legs just a second before Mikey practically scoots into his lap—and normally he wouldn’t mind, except he gets the feeling he might be stuck here awhile and he’d rather his legs didn’t go numb—resting his head against Donnie’s chest. Somehow, he manages to lean even more of his weight into the softshell to the point where Donnie’s almost convinced the box turtle has somehow managed to increase his mass for the sole purpose of pushing more of it onto Donnie. He considers what to say. Considers how to comfort Mikey.
Finally. Donnie decides on, “It’s not unrealistic. I’ll make sure that both Leo and Raph are present for your birthday.”
“Yeah, but they’ll just argue then,” Mikey mutters, and the idea alone has irritation bubbling in Donnie’s chest. If their brothers know what’s good for them, they will not argue on Mikey’s birthday. If they do, Donnie will make sure it is the last thing they do.
“False. Because I, Hamato Donatello, hereby swear to make certain that all of your brothers will be present and civil for your birthday.” Even if that means Mikey unfortunately ends up with fewer brothers than he started with. It’s a sacrifice Donnie’s willing to make.
“Please don’t kill Raph or Leo,” Mikey says flatly. Donnie hums like he’s considering it. He’s not.
“I won’t make any promises on that front, but I can make an attempt,” Donnie responds and Mikey just sighs, exasperated and dramatic. The box turtle rolls his eyes exaggeratedly as he glances up at the softshell, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“That’s better than nothing,” He mutters. A beat of silence. “Could always just have two birthdays instead.”
Donnie snorts and Mikey breaks into a smile. “Mikey, they’re not getting a divorce—”
“I dunno, Dee. That’s what they all say,” He laughs. But there’s an edge of bitterness to it, barely there but still present. Donnie can’t blame the box turtle, not when he feels that same slight edge of it himself. How much longer can this last?
How much longer can Donatello last?
Donnie just shakes his head. This isn’t how he meant for this conversation to go.
“And as for what you’d like?” Donnie presses, hoping that enough has remained the same for Mikey to have considered presents. He glances down at the box turtle, who returns his gaze for a moment. Then Mikey’s eyes narrow slightly, darting to the side as he smiles just a little.
“Well. . .” Mikey starts carefully. Donnie’s own expression softens, fondness tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You have a list I presume?” Donnie guesses and that has Mikey breaking out into a full grin. Then he’s sitting up, just a little bit, not even breaking physical contact. He’s just taking some of his own weight off of Donnie to reach for his journal with one hand, his other arm still firmly locked around Donnie.
One-handed, he flips through the pages before presumably finding the one he’s looking for. He tries, and fails, to rip the page out with one hand, awkwardly crinkling the paper in his hand and tugging while also trying to hold the journal down with the side of his hand and wrist. It doesn’t work. Donnie’s about to offer to help, only because Mikey seems dead set on not letting go of the softshell with his other arm, until Mikey shoves half of the journal under his knee and uses that to hold it down as he tears the page out. The second Donnie takes the page from him, he’s dropping all of his weight back onto the softshell and wrapping his arm back around Donnie to attempt to squeeze the life out of him.
As always, he lets Mikey get away with his murder attempt disguised as a hug, squeezing back as best he can with his decidedly bad arm—his bruised shoulder and forearm both twinging—as he reads over the list he’s been given. In hindsight, he probably should’ve taken the paper with his other hand. There are only seven items on the list, and five of them are art supplies. He spends a good minute memorizing it before reaching under his hoodie to slide it into his battle shell, taking a deep breath as Mikey finally loosens his hold.
“What are your thoughts on music boxes?” Donnie blurts. Mikey responds with a questioning hum, shifting around so he can look up at Donnie, one brow raised.
“Music boxes?” He questions, and Donnie nods. Mikey huffs, breaking eye contact to let his gaze wander. He settles back against the softshell after a moment, shrugging. “I dunno, it’s been years since I had one. Why?”
“Because I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a music box again, Angelo,” Donnie replies. Mikey just hums again, contemplatively and Donnie remains silent. Giving him time to mull it over.
The box turtle takes a deep breath, huffing it out as he somehow manages to melt even more into Donnie, finally answering, “Yeah, I think I wouldn’t mind having another one.”
“Yeah?” For a brief moment, Mikey glances up at the softshell. Then he nods, closing his eyes as he ducks back down.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, the word sounding almost sluggish and muffled into the softshell’s hoodie. Donnie smiles.
“Are you falling asleep?” Mikey’s only reply is a quiet grunt that vaguely sounds like a denial. Donnie just huffs a laugh. “Can I at least get comfortable?”
Mikey responds with the most put-upon groan, sitting up and shaking his head, “No, we have to ask Barry about the ninpō. Come on.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mikey grabs Donnie’s wrist, climbing off the bed and tugging the softshell along with him. Donnie lets him, silently grateful his younger brother had chosen his right arm. A part of him wants to protest, still wholly uncomfortable about the idea of relying on Baron Draxum in any way that isn’t strictly necessary. As though asking a question could be considered relying on the man.
But the other part dislikes the idea of denying Mikey even more than relying on Draxum. So Donnie lets his younger brother drag him out of the room without any protest. He lets Mikey drag him out of the room, through the living room, and over to Draxum, who’s sitting at the dining table in the tiny kitchen. The man glances up from his laptop upon Mikey’s rather loud approach.
“Barry!” Mikey calls loudly, despite being only a couple of feet away. The man in question just sighs quietly, closing his laptop, leaning back in his chair as he raises an eyebrow. Oddly enough, though, he doesn’t actually look particularly annoyed.
“Yes, Michelangelo?” He asks, nowhere near as loud as Mikey had been. He slides into the chair across the table from Draxum, dragging Donnie into the seat next to him.
“We had a question about our ninpō,” Mikey explains. Donnie almost, almost corrects the box turtle on the ‘we’ part. But he bites his tongue, leaning back in his chair only to immediately sit back up straight when his shell presses forward, managing to dig his loosened shoulder strap into the back of his shoulder.
Draxum shoots him an odd look from across the table that he pointedly ignores. He’s already reluctant about turning to the man for a simple question, so he’s definitely not keen on whatever that look might entail.
“We were kind of wondering if we’d ever be able to use it again?” The box turtle continues, completely missing Draxum’s expression. He sighs after a moment, finally turning his attention away from the softshell to answer Mikey’s question.
“Well, I don’t see a reason why you wouldn’t be able to. If the requirements that allowed you to access it in the first place are met, you should be able to use it again,” Draxum responds simply. Then he shrugs, seemingly losing interest almost immediately as his gaze wanders to the window by the table. “And you don’t try to force it of course.”
The answer gives Donnie pause. Force it. Is that actually something he could do? It hadn’t occurred to him that may have been a possibility.
“Force it?” Mikey repeats.
“Yes,” Draxum replies, and when the answer gets him an eyebrow raise from both of the turtles, he sighs. “Admittedly, your family’s ‘ninpō’ is not necessarily within the realm of my expertise. But considering its similarities to mystic magic, which I do specialize in, I’m guessing that it conforms to similar foundations.”
He pauses to pick up the mug beside his closed computer and take a drink from it. Donnie almost wonders if the man only does it to have an excuse to take a moment to gather his thoughts. He wouldn’t be surprised, it’s something he’s done once or twice when Leo’s asked him something especially dumb. Beside him, he can feel Mikey practically vibrating with impatience.
“Mystic magic acts similarly to a muscle,” Draxum continues, setting down the cup with a quiet tap. “Some people never really learn how to use it, much like how you’d been before you accessed your ninpō. But, once they do, they never tend to struggle to use it again. Unless something happens, like they push it beyond their capabilities or, in your case, no longer meet the requirements of it.”
“Is that a thing that can happen with mystic magic?” Mikey interjects. “Can you just suddenly stop ‘meeting the requirements’ of mystic magic itself?”
“In very rare cases, yes. But that’s not something you have to worry about for your mystic magic,” Draxum explains, a little curtly but not rudely. “Now, regarding your ninpō. You can no longer access it as you no longer meet the requirements, as we’ve established. But in theory, because you’ve used it before and know how to, you could forcefully use it still. Much like people who’ve lost their ability to use mystic magic despite having used it previously.”
“And what would happen if we force it?” Mikey interrupts again. But Draxum doesn’t snap at him, like Donnie almost expects him to. No. The man just sighs, somehow sounding oddly patient.
“In all honesty, I’m not certain. As I said previously, your ninpō is already not my area of expertise and it’s incredibly rare that yokai lose access to their mystic abilities. It’s even more rare that they manage to forcefully use it afterward. The few documented cases have consequences that range from minor injuries to death,” Draxum replies, reaching for his mug again.
And Donnie can’t help himself, he has to ask, to make sure, “But in theory, we could use our ninpō?”
Draxum pauses, mug halfway to his mouth and he gives Donnie a look again. One that’s not entirely dissimilar to the one he’d given the turtle just a couple of minutes ago. The man lowers his mug back to the table slowly.
“Yes,” he says carefully, leveling the softshell with a hard look, “But that shouldn’t matter as it’s definitely not something you should ever even attempt, Donatello. Even trying to force it could have consequences. It could permanently affect your ninpō, hindering it in some way should you ever gain free access to it again. And that’s disregarding the threat of bodily harm or even death.”
Donnie supposes the man is right. He shouldn’t attempt it, not when the consequences are technically unknown but likely dire to some degree. Yet, it’s almost. . . comforting in a way. Knowing that he might have a last resort in case of some emergency.
Even if that last resort may just end up killing him. Though, that is what makes it a last resort.
“Not to mention the fact that you still have access to your mystic abilities to some degree,” Draxum mutters, picking his mug back up and taking a drink. Right, because struggling to open portals is definitely comparable to what Donnie was capable of when he could use his ninpō.
But he doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to point that out.
Unbidden, he wonders if there might be some loophole to regaining his ninpō. If he might somehow be able to ‘meet the requirements’ for it despite their family being what it is. But he pushes the thought aside, reminding himself that he doesn’t need his ninpō. Beyond that, their current family situation is only temporary, so there’s no need for a fix like that.
“Does that mean when we get our ninpō back, our mystic abilities will get stronger?” Mikey asks excitedly. Which makes sense. After all, learning that their current lack of ninpō is only temporary should be good news. So long as Donnie can actually get his act together and start fixing their family.
“In theory,” Draxum affirms. “Was there anything else you needed me for?”
“Nope! That was all.” Mikey stands, chair scraping the ground as he turns to Donnie. “Want to help me with lunch?”
Right, Mikey had mentioned having lunch yesterday over the phone. Somehow, he’d managed to forget that.
For whatever reason, he hesitates before responding, “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
Mikey smiles brightly, practically skipping the few feet between the table and the kitchen. Donnie can’t help but smile slightly, Mikey’s enthusiasm is almost contagious. Almost. He catches Draxum’s eye as he stands, the man wearing that same odd expression from earlier. It’s his normal flat expression but there’s just something off about it.
But he’s turning back to his laptop before Donnie can even think to respond with a look of his own. Internally, he sighs, deciding that whatever Draxum’s problem is, isn’t the softshell’s problem. So long as the man looks after Mikey, the rest doesn’t matter. Even if ‘the rest’ is just making Donnie uncomfortable. Mikey smiles at him as he joins the box turtle in front of the small pantry.
“So I was thinking something easy,” Mikey explains, pulling the pantry door open. He holds a hand to his chin, like he’s contemplating. “Like veggie soup with potatoes. How does that sound?”
“That sounds like a wise choice, Angelo,” Donnie replies easily and Mikey nods, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a bag of potatoes and a whole onion. He sets them on the counter, closing the cupboard before turning to Donnie, looking a little sheepish.
“So,” Mikey starts, dragging the word out. Donnie raises an eyebrow at his little brother, immediately suspicious. Especially when the box turtle avoids his eye. “Only the potatoes and onion need to be cut, cause I got frozen vegetables. But I was kinda hoping that maybe, kind of, since you’re, like, the greatest brother ever, you’d cut the onions? Pretty please?”
Mikey tops his request off by doing his best impression of puppy dog eyes. Even going the extra mile to exaggeratedly bat his eyelashes.
“Mikey,” Donnie sighs, more amused than anything. Of course Mikey would ask for help with cooking for the sole purpose of getting someone else to cut onions. He’s done it to Raph a dozen times over and even managed to sucker Leo into it once or twice. But then Leo had caught on, avoiding cooking with Mikey if there was even the slightest possibility of onions involved.
Mikey had actually tried it with Donnie once, but the softshell had refused, knowing full well Mikey could easily con Raph into it. But Raph’s not here right now, and even if he was, Donnie’s not so sure the snapper would agree to now. Though Donnie is sure that Mikey absolutely despises cutting onions, hence his desperate attempts to get anyone else to do it. Not that the softshell blames his younger brother considering every time Mikey even slices the skin off an onion his eyes water like an overflowing sink.
“I’m sorry! I thought you’d have your goggles so it wouldn’t really be an issue!” Mikey exclaims, his voice just quiet enough that it only barely grates on Donnie’s eardrums. He supposes it’s a fair assessment, he usually has his goggles whenever he leaves the lair. “I’m sorr—!”
“Angelo, it’s fine. I can cut the onion,” Donnie says, cutting Mikey off before he can finish his apology. Mikey’s shoulders immediately drop, relief washing over his features before he tackles Donnie in a quick hug.
He only squeezes the life out of the softshell for about two seconds before letting go, sighing a relieved “Thank you!”
Mikey spins back around before Donnie can say anything, opening up a cupboard and pulling out two cutting boards, setting them on the counter. Donnie just rolls his eyes fondly, watching Mikey for a moment longer as he starts opening drawers. He mutters something Donnie can't hear, but he assumes he likely wasn’t meant to. So he rolls up his sleeves, turning to the sink only to immediately freeze.
His gloves. He’ll have to take his gloves off, which wouldn’t be an issue if there wasn’t a giant bruise on his left forearm and bandages still wrapped around his hand. He didn’t want Mikey to know about this. He’ll ask questions and sure, the cuts on his hands can be traced back to Meat Sweats, so that wouldn’t raise more than an eyebrow. But the same can’t be said for the bruise spanning the length of where his tech gauntlet would normally be. It’s big, it’s obviously newer than the one on his face, and it’s bad.
When he’d yanked on his gloves this morning, it’d been mostly a dark brown surrounded by purple but he’s sure it’s probably a little worse now. This is not ideal. But it’s not like he can just suddenly refuse to help Mikey make lunch. Donnie racks his brain for something, because he definitely can’t wear his regular, albeit water-resistant, fingerless gloves to cut onions. That would be incredibly unsanitary and he’d get onion juice on his gloves—water-resistant or not, that doesn’t sound ideal.
But revealing the giant, obviously fresh bruise on his forearm doesn’t sound ideal, either. Cutting onions with the bandage on his hand also doesn’t appeal to him. Speaking of which, had he changed it earlier? No, no he hadn’t. But he’d meant to.
He’s really going to have to do that when he gets home.
But for his current situation. . . he can pull his sleeves down enough to cover the bruise, he supposes. There’s also the disposable gloves he keeps in his battle shell. With a quick glance over to the box turtle, who’s still distractedly opening drawers, he yanks his gloves off, shoving them into his shell. He nearly freezes at the sight of his own arm, not at all expecting it to be too much worse from this morning. But it is.
Muddy red mottles the back of his forearm along where his tech gauntlet normally sits, fading into a dark purple. He can nearly make out the distinct lines where the edges of his gauntlet sit, where the purple suddenly gets significantly lighter, quickly fading away. He only frowns at this discovery, making a mental note to scan his forearm later for any damage beyond his skin. His other arm is definitely fairing better, with only the faint bruise and scrape on the back of his wrist. He pulls out one of the few disposable pairs of gloves he has left in his battle shell. He manages to pull the disposable gloves on and his sleeves down just in time for Mikey to turn back around, knives in hand.
He pauses for a second, face going completely blank before he blinks, setting the knives on the cutting boards. Okay, so maybe Donnie’s raising more than just an eyebrow with this approach.
“The gloves I can kind of understand,” Mikey starts, frowning. Donnie’s heartbeat ticks up slightly, the look on Mikey’s face not exactly boding well for the softshell. He opens his mouth, closes it, pauses for a moment, and then opens it again, eyebrows raised as he asks, “But are you sure you don’t want to at least roll your sleeves up?”
“Uh. . . nope! No, I’m perfectly fine like this. Thank you for the suggestion, though, Michael!” Donnie responds a little too quickly, and even he recognizes it as suspicious. Mikey’s eyes narrow, boring a hole into the softshell’s face as he avoids eye contact. This is not ideal.
“Okay. . . just make sure they don’t touch the onions,” Mikey says slowly, staring at Donnie for a moment longer like he can intimidate the softshell into caving. But he gives up shortly after, turning to the cutting board in front of him only to pause. “Do you know how to cut an onion?”
Donnie pauses, considering before answering, “You peel off the first layer, cut the ends off, and then chop.”
Mikey nods, turning back to the bag of potatoes and pulling one out, rinsing it off in the sink. With a quiet breath, Donnie grabs the onion and extra cutting board, plopping them in front of him. He only regrets agreeing to cut the onion a tiny bit as he cuts the first layer off to discard, reminding himself that Raph isn’t here to sucker into it instead. Once again, also has to remind himself that even if Raph was here, there’s a chance he wouldn’t agree to it anymore. He’s been so quiet and irritated recently, holed up in his room when he’s not arguing with Leo most of the time.
He’d been mad at Donnie—mostly for good reason, of course—when he’d pretty much kidnapped the snapper just to get him outside. While normally Raph would’ve been irritated anyway, he would’ve at least entertained it to some degree. But Donnie supposes Raph had entertained it. Not right away, but he’d given in eventually. But it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, anyway, because Raph went back to practically ignoring him right away, only to later yell at him for his broken phone.
Donnie cuts the ends off, setting them aside as well before chopping the onion into halves. Holding the layers together, eyes just barely starting to burn, he begins slicing.
But Raph hadn’t known Donnie’s phone was broken, nor had he known the extent of Donnie’s emergency when he had tried to call the snapper. It’s not like Donnie had told him, either. He’d instead decided to keep it a secret, arguing with his older brother. Then, going beyond that, Raph had been the one to apologize first. So it’s not fair that Donnie’s still dwelling on it.
It shouldn’t matter anymore, and it shouldn’t matter that Raph’s not here to cut a stupid onion for Mikey. Especially when Donnie is here and his only grievance is that he doesn’t want to. It’s not fair to hold the possibility of Raph not wanting to cut an onion against him in a hypothetical scenario Donnie made up in his head.
He sighs, eyes burning uncomfortably as he finishes the first half, vision blurring just slightly. He hears Mikey sniffle slightly beside him, before huffing and sliding down the counter away from him. He can’t help the little laugh that slips out at the action.
“Don’t laugh, it’s not funny,” Mikey bites out, sliding even further down the counter. There’s no real anger in his tone. “It’s not fair that you’re the one cutting the onion but I’m still crying!”
Sure enough, when Donnie glances over, he sees tear tracks on his little brother's face. Donnie snorts, two-thirds of the way done with the second half.
“It’s not funny!” Mikey insists, sliding all the way to the end of the counter and glaring at the softshell. Donnie pays it no mind, finishing up the onion as Mikey angrily chops the potatoes.
“Of course, Mikey. I would never dare laugh at you suffering,” Donnie replies, tamping down on further laughter when Mikey just huffs loudly. “What would you like done with the onion?”
“Leave it on the other end of the counter,” Mikey huffs, not even looking up. Donnie just smiles, leaving the diced onions on the cutting board as he slides it down the counter, as far away from Mikey as possible. “The garbage is under the sink.”
Donnie nods, thanking him before opening the cabinet and tossing the onion waste in the small trash can sitting there. Glancing over to make sure Mikey’s still distracted, Donnie slips the disposable gloves off, throwing them in the can as well. He takes the bracelet off to put his regular gloves back on, pointedly not looking at the large bruise before sliding the bracelet back on his wrist.
“Donatello,” Draxum says, making Donnie jump as the man gets out of his chair. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Donnie’s first instinct is to say no, Draxum absolutely may not speak with him for a moment. But he hesitates, frowning. Does he want to talk to Draxum? Absolutely not.
But does Donnie want to risk upsetting the man? No, even more so than he doesn’t want to talk to the yokai. So he takes a breath, glancing at Mikey who returns his gaze with confusion.
“Alright,” Donnie finally agrees, reluctantly following Draxum. The softshell’s reluctance only increases when Draxum leads them out into the hall. Not a good sign.
Donnie’s best guess is that this isn’t a conversation Draxum wants Mikey to be privy to. That idea is only further cemented when Draxum puts a little distance between them and the door. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out two small, round containers and holding them out to Donnie. He doesn’t take them right away, eyeing them suspiciously instead and awaiting an explanation first.
“They’ll help with some injuries,” Draxum explains. But the explanation only confuses Donnie more, brows furrowing as he looks from the containers to Draxum. “One will help with bruises, the other will help with small cuts and abrasions.”
Why would he need these? Actually, he knows why. But why would Baron Draxum think the softshell would need them? The man sighs.
“If you’re going to insist on continuing your. . . ‘vigilantism’ without your brothers, I’d prefer you at least have these,” Draxum elaborates, and Donnie swears his heart stops for a moment. He can feel the blood drain from his face, eyes frozen on Draxum’s face, who only stares back with that same flat expression as always.
“What?” Donnie breathes, voice an octave higher than it should be. A small, fruitlessly hopeful part of him hopes he may have misheard or that Draxum is referring to Donnie continuing patrols in his brothers’ absence. But he knows what he heard and the items Draxum’s currently trying to give Donnie don’t feed into that pointless hope.
But he holds onto it anyway, because Draxum knowing is the last thing the softshell wants. If he knows, he’ll tell Donnie to stop or he’ll tell Mikey or he’ll blame Donnie or—the yokai sighs again, face softening almost imperceptibly and there’s something about that expression that Donnie hates. Something that takes a second for Donnie to identify and when he does, he only hates it more. It’s pity.
Or he will look at Donnie with pity.
Like Donnie’s done something pitiful, like fighting their enemies so his brothers don’t have to in their current states is something to be pitied. Like it’s pathetic and pointless and he should’ve known that.
“Some of the mutants have been talking about it,” Draxum tells the softshell. Of course they have. Of course his enemies would talk about him fighting alone, of course they have. Why wouldn’t they? “I won’t tell you to stop, though I’d prefer you did. So I’d like you to take these, and to remind you that I will answer if you call me.”
Donnie swallows, heart still pounding as he hesitantly takes the containers. One of the lids is labeled with a small piece of tape, ‘bruise’ scrawled across it.
“But. . . you’re not going to tell Mikey?” Donnie asks, because he has to know. Draxum already knows and there’s nothing Donnie can do about that, and he supposes there’s nothing he really needs to do about that anyway. Though he would like to.
But Mikey is who Donatello’s truly worried about. Mikey’s dealing with enough, with Raph and Leo fighting, April being out of state, and having to live with Draxum. The whole reason Donnie does this is to try and lessen the load he knows is weighing on Mikey as much as possible. He worries enough as it is.
It was bad enough when the arguing had cut into patrols, Donnie could see it. Mikey no longer looked forward to them as much, and he’d even started dreading them near the end. When they’d stopped patrolling altogether, Mikey had admitted to Donnie that he was worried about what might happen in their absence. Donnie had tried to assure his little brother New York would manage without them, but he’s never been good at that. Especially when he had his own doubts.
He can’t even begin to imagine how Mikey would take this information. He’d be mad, of course he’d be mad. And he’d probably feel betrayed, because why didn’t Donnie tell him? Why didn’t Donnie include him? Why didn’t Donnie trust him?
And Donnie doesn’t know how to explain any of that.
Baron Draxum cuts off his spiral with a simple, “No. Unless you give me a reason to, I won’t tell Michelangelo. He worries more than he should have to as it is.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Donnie argues, because that was the whole point of all of this. Keeping Mikey from worrying more than he has to. Draxum shakes his head.
“I’d have to disagree with you, Donatello. He shouldn’t have to, but he’s not unwarranted in his concerns,” Draxum replies. “What you’re doing is dangerous. I’d advise you to be incredibly careful, your brothers’ fighting has been hard enough for him.”
With that, Draxum walks past Donnie back to the apartment, leaving before he can reply. Fuck.
Fuck.
This isn’t good. None of this is good. Baron Draxum knows about Donnie’s solo patrols, he’ll tell Mikey if Donnie ‘gives him a reason to’, and apparently their enemies are talking about Donnie fighting alone. He doesn’t even want to begin unpacking the implications of the last one, mind already swirling with the possibilities of what that could mean. He shoves those thoughts down, shoulder aching as he pulls out his phone and hesitates.
If his enemies are talking about him being alone, that doesn’t bode well for him. He knows that much. So now more than ever he needs some kind of assurance for his safety, like backup. Or that dreaded team-up he’d agreed to with Warren and Hypno.
But then. . . what if their insistence on it was because they knew? Because they’d heard his other enemies talking about it, and they saw an opportunity? He swallows, fingers hovering over their contact. They’d said they were ‘taking a break’ from villainy or whatever, but that doesn’t mean they hadn’t still been circulating among Donnie’s other enemies. Assuming that’s a thing they did in the first place.
But considering they joined the Evil League of Mutants when Draxum organized it, they had to be speaking with the turtles’ other enemies to some degree. Right? Yet that doesn’t really matter, does it? Because at the end of the day, Donnie’s only other option is to keep fighting solo. Maybe Hypno and Warren are going to betray Donnie, maybe they are playing some weird long game to try and gain his trust.
And maybe that possibility is still a better option than continuing to fight alone.
So he takes a deep breath and types out a quick message to them. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, asking if they can meet him on top of the library again, this time at eight at night. He doesn’t wait for a reply, shoulder twinging again as he puts his phone away and returns to the apartment. Mikey doesn’t ask him what he and Draxum talked about, though Donnie can see he wants to.
He’s grateful for it.