Work Text:
Oh, how he wished he didn't let him go.
This was the closest he's ever felt to grieving one of his sons. And it was horrible, like a piece of his heart had been brutally ripped out of his chest. He never wanted the day to come where he would feel this way.
Where he would feel this "loss."
He dreaded this feeling. He dreaded it more than anything that life could throw at him, more than death itself.
Anything but his sons. Anything.
It wasn't like he never experienced hardship and loss before. Even after all the years of navigating this unprecedented life, the memories of his dear Tang Shen's soft caresses when perching from her shoulder, of his beloved Master Yoshi taking him to the park, of a smile so full of love and honor still ate at him every single day, but also gave him the strength he needed to carry on. Yes, he knew hurt of this kind. But for the sake of the precious, special lives he was blessed with, he kept pushing through the heavy weight of grief and guilt, persisting despite the many difficulties and challenges he faced along the way.
This time, however, it wasn't a friend whom saved his life from a sharp blade held to his throat nor a father figure in question.
No.
It was a son.
Heavy, immeasurable sorrow threatened to devour his heart.
Please. Not his son. Not his son.
Sure, there was the time Leonardo had been so severely beaten—nearly to death—by the Foot Elite that he had slipped into a comatose state. Splinter had never felt more afraid nor pained for any his children as he had that day. So cold, so bloody, so helpless. So lifeless. Still. Despite the agonizing nature of the situation, his son was still in there, somewhere, just waiting for his soul to be guided back home.
And surely enough, with his and his other sons’ help, he had returned to them.
He had returned to him.
But this…
This was different. He wasn't even sure if his son was in there anymore, if there was a soul to guide back home to begin with. The thought itself, that very possibility that his son was truly lost forever sent a violent wave of nausea washing over and through him, with nothing to anchor him but the unproven hope that, someway, somehow, he could be returned to them—he could be returned to him. That, and the invisible knife twisting in the deepest pit of his stomach.
Leatherhead, whose kindness and loyalty knew no bounds, was the only chance, at the moment, that Donatello had at making it out of this cruel sentence. But even then, there was only so much their crocodile friend could do, especially with the little research and equipment that was available to him. From Splinter's understanding, Donatello had taken it upon himself to cover most of the research regarding the mutant outbreak ever since it had started—his son, always shouldering most of the load, always one step ahead, ever so brilliant.
Of course, that only played against them.
And as he looked down at the floor with glassy eyes, the old rat held back a shuddering gasp; his child was lost in this new form. His poor, poor child, entrapped with no way to escape. A prison within one's self.
How this had come to be? He had yet to know.
One moment, he was taking advantage of the peace and quiet that came with his sons' absence to meditate, and the next he looked up to find, not all four, but three of his sons approaching him with the heaviest, most devastated looks that ever came upon their faces—Donatello not in sight.
If he could've gone back, he would've traded the peace and quiet.
His chest pricked as he pivoted his head frantically in search of his fourth son. “Where is your brother?” he asked a little too quickly, panic dripping from his voice. “Where is Donatello?” Splinter pierced his sons with pleading eyes, his old heart racing in his chest.
Without a word, his sons solemnly stepped to the side to reveal Leatherhead, as well as Casey and April, standing together with their heads bowed. Splinter doubted it was merely out of respect.
The crocodile looked at the old ninja master with sad eyes, a form of condolence in his voice as he said, “I’m… sorry, Master Splinter.”
That one, dreadful line felt like a hot, fire-tipped arrow had just slashed right through Splinter’s chest. No, worse. He would've taken the arrow rather than this.
Not his son. Not his son.
He hadn't even realized he had pressed a trembling hand to his heart. “No,” it came out strained, almost like a cry as he shook his head in painful disbelief.
Instead of further elaboration, Leatherhead simply moved to the side to reveal, to Splinter's utter shock and beyond all expectations, a giant, hulking, red-eyed, reptilian monster trapped inside a cylindrical glass container, the silence that threatened to choke the old rat broken only by the creature's endless roaring and banging.
His breath caught in his throat as Splinter slowly and painfully processed the implications of who that beast really was. Somehow, he was on feet that threatened to give out on him as he shakily neared the container, reaching out trembling hands. “Donatello?”
The purple-clad turtle gasped, his eyes snapping open before looking around wildly for a moment. Oh. He must've fallen asleep while looking over the plans of the reservoir station.
Again.
He sighed heavily, both from exhaustion and frustration, his hands coming up to rub his tired, warm face.
Wait. Warm?
He groaned to himself and shook his head, ignoring the sensation. This wasn't the first time he had accidentally fallen asleep in the middle of an important task. Lately, it felt as if his body couldn't keep up as it used to, like something was draining every ounce of energy in him.
Like his body was fighting off something.
Then again, he did have a cold.
Any slim idea of trying to get more proper rest or ameliorated self-care was never given more than mere contemplation, the heavy weight of work and responsibility to ensure his family's safety and comfort falling back on his shoulders, with no one else to bear it but him.
He was used to it, though.
He was used to being of immense aid to his family, carving a path full of certainty and ease for them through the sweat that poured endlessly from his forehead like a broken pipe. That was his purpose in life. He couldn't bare to think what state they'd be in without him.
…
A sudden, inexplicably deadly shudder rang through his bones, his heart tightening a little. As though there was a secret vault hidden somewhere in his mind that locked up the answer to that dreadful hypothetical.
He shook his throbbing head, ignoring the congestion that hindered his breathing.
Right now, though, fulfilling said purpose was tougher than ever before. The destruction of their previous home had hit all of them hard, but deep down he was almost certain that no one had it worse than him. All his work, all his notes, all his tools. All the theories him and April had been working on. All that blood, sweat and tears. Just. Gone in one night.
And yet Mikey still got to complain about losing his comic book collection.
The moment he opened his mouth to rant, to liberate the heavy baggage burning in his chest, the universe made it its job to silence him.
"Ooh, someone's cranky." He recollected Raph's words as they drummed in his pounding head.
"Change is good." Leo said, supposedly wisely.
Not always. Not for him.
A wet scoff tore itself from his sore throat, elbow joints pinned on his desk with his cheeks propped up by his palms. Cranky didn't even begin to describe how he felt about their current situation, how he felt about their loss. How he felt about his loss. His eyes stung, though nowhere near as much as his heart did. He shook his head, the realization that his eyes were watering snapping him out of it. He inhaled shakily, quickly scrubbing his visage from any sign of wetness—any sign of weakness. He wasn't ashamed of crying, just unwilling to trouble his already uneasy family. He almost felt guilty for feeling that way. No. He wasn't allowed to feel that way. What was he thinking? They've all already been through so much—nearly lost their lives. He should be grateful his family was still whole, even more so now that Leo was back home and, after many gloomy months, finally more himself again. Why bring them down when he had the power to lift them up with his expertise?
Well. It was mostly will power that kept him going at the moment. But it was the least he could do. It was all he could do. It was all he must do, if he were to keep his family hidden and safe.
Unlike before. Not like before. He couldn't—wouldn't fail them like before.
Like before.
…
And on top of this difficult starting point, he was having more and more of a hard time getting things done as time progressed. If only this stupid cold could just… go away! How long had it been? Months? He was no doctor but anybody would know just how absurd of a duration it was. No cold was supposed to last that long. He deduced it was but a result of all the pent up stress and fatigue, forcing satisfaction upon himself with the explanation given it wasn't too far fetched.
He thought for a moment.
His weary eyes dropped down at the bandaged wound on his right leg, the one that, no matter what he did, refused to heal, despite having had it for the last several months. Months. It always had to be months. It was burning a little, too, which was a recently developed sensation—an unpleasant one nonetheless. It seemed as though, instead of healing, it did everything in its power to bring him misery and discomfort, acting as an unmovable obstacle, mocking him with each passing day—refusing to leave him be. He sighed heavily; he would need to remember to change the bandage and clean up the injury… again. It became an aggravating part of his daily routine. Always so ever-present, leaving him with no option but surrendering to patience.
He could feel himself growing weaker everyday, too… which was, asides from alarming, the last thing he needed. He didn’t have time to worry about a stupid bug bite or an annoyingly persistent cold when he had a whole new lair to fix up, vehicles to tune, mutant hunting gadgets to whip up, security to set up—
“ACHOO!” A sneeze suddenly caught him off from his list-like trail of thought, reverberating in his aching chest. He couldn’t help but whine a little, the same way he whined when he was a kid. The whine transitioned into yet another groan as he grabbed the nearest clean tissue for his nose. He was just so tired. And while as much as another nap—one in a more appropriate sleeping position—seemed tempting, he just couldn't allow it. There was just so much to do, so much to—
“Donatello.”
Before he could form any more thoughts, he swiveled his head—regretting it for the followed up dizziness he forced himself to hide—to find his father standing at the corner of his work desk.
Normally, he would've sensed him coming, or anyone for that matter. He was a ninja, after all. He reasoned that his father was just being unintentionally stealthy, being the great ninja master that he was.
“My son?” Splinter raised a concerned eyebrow.
Donatello swallowed and braced himself; he knew that look. "Sensei, you startled me," he tried to sound relaxed, but his nasally voice reeked of exhaustion, the stuffy nose not helping much.
"Forgive me, my son," Splinter said softly. He took a step closer and reached out a hand to cup his son's pallid face, the visibly tired turtle leaning into the much needed touch.
So soft, so warm. Strangely, Don felt cold and warm at once, but he didn't think about that now. All he was thinking about this instant was the soft caress of his father's palm.
Meanwhile, Splinter's eyes were discreetly scanning his son's desk; there were piles of used tissue both on the furniture and on the floor, some appearing more recent than others. A now cold, half-full coffee mug, much like its owner, might as well had grown roots, droplets of caffeine scattered around it serving as a sign of either a fast-paced, occupied mind or uncharacteristic clumsiness. Speaking of which, he looked down at his son's hands to find them fidgeting a bit intensely, only further raising Splinter's concerns.
He hadn't decided to come to his son for nothing; he had a vision during his meditation session, one he had been having for quite some time now. It left him suffocating with anxiety and uneasiness. And though he had a couple visions throughout his mutated years, the last one being of his Master Yoshi bestowing upon him and his family the life or death mission of putting a stop to the Shredder's schemes ultimately, this one was the hardest to decipher and possibly the most unsettling of all. It started out as a lingering feeling, one that had been following him around for quite some time, floating above his head like a dark cloud for the past couple of weeks, and one he hadn't spoken about to anyone, not even his sons. Especially not his sons—they had already been through so much. The feeling spread it's poisonous tentacles through his mind, manifesting itself either during meditation or in his sleep. A few nights ago, the image became clearer, more concrete. Instead of an abstract presence, he started seeing something. Someone? He wasn't certain. The being that came before him was always bathing in darkness, its red, soul-piercing eyes being the only confirmation of its eerie presence. His vision was recently accompanied by several sounds, too—an amalgamation of animalistic roars and, even more recently, of a child-like cry.
"Papa."
The voice was so petit, so helpless, so frightened. So familiar, it tore at him. It couldn't have been one of his sons, could it? He received the answer to that question a few days prior. A small, turtle tot figure stood like a statue in his peripheral vision—nearly soulless. And what was worse, he was never able to move nor speak—he would be frozen, forced to helplessly watch as the monstrous shadow devoured the child. Every. Single. Time. And no matter how much the vision taunted him, he could never fully make out whose voice it was, for it would always be drowned out by the loud, ferocious beast lurking in the dark.
"Papa…help…me…please…sick…monster…scared…"
He had hoped and prayed many nights that they would come to an end. Eventually. But they only seemed to persist, growing stronger, more invasive, and hunting every corner of his anxiety-riddled mind.
And while Splinter was far from sure what that vision meant, he felt the immense need to check up on his sons more frequently, if only to loosen the awful knot in his stomach—even a little. He had just finished checking on his other children when he had come to his slightly unwell son.
Now that he was face to face with him, slightly unwell was beginning to feel like an understatement. “I was just wondering when was the last time you have rested?” It wasn't an unusual question, for he tended to ask it very often to his genius son.
Though he already knew the answer.
An incredulous look plastered onto Donatello’s face as he pulled away from his father's touch. “Oh, come on, Sensei! You know I—”
The sharp, narrowed eyes his father shot him shut him up immediately. The teenager cringed in his seat, his head burying into his shoulders and over his plastron, shame pouring over him from a heavy, invisible bucket.
Splinter paused in both surprise and pensiveness. It wasn't like his most cool-tempered son to lash out on anyone, especially his father—even in all the years of coming to him with the proposition of rest, to the point of losing count. That alone was troubling enough.
Something wasn't right.
Splinter could see the heavy, dark bags residing under Donatello’s eyes, even through the purple mask which they easily blended with, even in the incredibly poor lighting. At that, his stony expression softened with concern. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight unfortunately; Donatello was prone to sacrificing his sleep more than any of his other sons combined.
Intelligence was a double-edged sword.
"I'm… sorry, Sensei," the olive-green turtle finally crooked out with a small, regretful voice, eyes locked on his fidgeting fingers. "It's just… there's so much to do. And I'm not just talking about the new lair." He flung a hand around gesturally. "This outbreak…" He looked at the floor with a somberness etched in his visage his father had never seen before. "It's artificial. Agent Bishop was responsible for creating it and it doesn't seem like he or anyone is doing anything about it, so…" He slid the plans aside to reveal scribbles and notes hidden underneath that Splinter assumed were related to the subject in question. "Even with Leatherhead's help, it's mostly up to me to figure out a way to stop it," he sighed wearily, a sigh so full of loneliness, so full of desperation. So full of exhaustion.
Splinter's heart sank deeper the more he listened. He hadn't fully realized until now just how heavy of a burden his son was shouldering. That much they had in common—a dangerous loneliness accompanied by a far too great responsibility. He had only heard from his sons about what was truly going on outside their home, about the numerous mutated monsters they'd encountered and were forced to fend off and, later on, neutralize. He was, for the most part, proud of how much responsibility his sons had taken upon themselves doing what was righteous while still in the middle of settling into their new home. His prior concern at the moment, however, was his child's health.
Without warning, he sniffed his son's forehead lightly as the turtle stiffened from surprise. The rat's ears straightened when he caught something unusual, something beyond a minor cold. Something alarming even. He would know; he had become adept at detecting colds and other illnesses in his sons throughout the years.
Traces of his vision whispered venomously in his ear.
“My son,” he started, tone more tender, ignoring the somber sensation creeping over his soul. He tended to use a more careful approach with his most gifted son, but straightforwardness seemed fitting this time around. “I understand the importance of your work." He placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder, barely giving it a squeeze. "And I know you may not like me addressing this matter, but it is clear that you are not feeling well, and refusing to rest will have devastating consequences not only on your health but on your work as well."
“What?” Don choked out, almost in a nervous laugh, which didn't help his case. "I—I mean, sure I've had a stuffy nose for a while, but—but it's nothing to worry about! I—Ah—"
The fact that, out of all timings, his nose scrunched up as a heads-up for what he knew was about to come. With no way to prevent it, he sneezed violently, enough that it caught his father off guard. Then a similar sneeze followed, and another, and another.
Don would've cringed again if he weren't busy trying to regain his breath, hands scrambling over his desk in search of yet another clean tissue—shell, there were so many, another factor playing against him—to blow his stuffy nose that made it all but difficult to protest, let alone breathe. Any chance he had at pretending he was fine was thrown into the sewage. Stupid, stupid stuffy nose. Well, it was more of a runny nose really.
Even through tearful eyes, Don hadn't missed the wave of concern that flashed before his father's eyes, the way his brow furrowed, the way his hand slowly reached out while he was busy blowing his nose, sniffling pathetically. Stupid, stupid, stupid cold. He couldn't even hide it when a visible shudder ran through his body, adding to his father's worries, a pitiful whine escaping his croaky throat as he slumped his shoulders.
Splinter hated seeing any of his children like this, even in all the years of experience when it came to caring for them when they'd get sick, it was never a scenario a parent could get used to. And this time wasn't much different, despite the child in question being a strong and capable teenager, not as frail as he once was. Splinter recalled the countless times he got overwhelmed with fear and worry, where he wished he could've taken his sons to a doctor when they'd get a little too sick. It was times like those that made him wish his sons could profit off of the norm of being accepted by society. Perhaps then, Donatello would've been able to handle his health a whole lot better.
The old rat's mind traveled back months ago, where it only started out as a few sneezes here and there, followed by the constant reassurance from Donatello that it was "just a stuffy nose." Now he doubted it wasn't anything more than that. His instincts don't lie. And while he hadn't directly pointed it out—yet—Donatello’s performance during training was deteriorating bit by bit, which he lately presumed was most likely due to his current health state. That suspicion was even more reaffirmed now.
“Donatello,” Splinter’s voice was both firm and soft, camouflaging the worry in his heart. He reached out and felt his son's forehead with the back of his paw, before sliding it down to cradle his tired, flushed face.
Donatello went still for a moment, then found himself leaning into the touch once again.
Soft. Warm. Comforting.
His mind took another detour.
Outbreak. Mutants. Cure.
In sudden remembrance, he shamefully pulled away, not wanting to worry his father any more than he already had. "I'm… fine, Sensei," he slurred out sluggishly.
Splinter fought the sadness that crept into his heart, retrieving his hand to the crown of his walking stick. “My son," he sighed, willing to put a stop to Donatello's stubbornness. "You clearly haven't been feeling well these past few months. Perhaps you should try and get some—”
An alarm sounded from Don's computer; a possible mutant outbreak.
The turtle turned his attention to the screen, fingers fast as lightning on his keyboard as he pulled up a recent online video of the power plant where a bunch of employees were fleeing for their lives from what he could somewhat recognize as mutants much like the ones he and his brothers were used to encountering, screams of terror coming close to exploding his audio speakers along with the alarm.
Saved by the bell.
"Sorry, Sensei. Duty calls!" Don bolted from his seat after shutting down the sound and planned to go gather up his brothers for yet another one of their usual mutant hunts before his father could get another word in.
Planned was a keyword. His body, however, had other plans.
A dizzy spell hit him out of nowhere and he staggered, clutching the edge of his desk as he lost his footing in an attempt to thwart his fall. He hissed like a cobra as his knees came crashing down into the cold, solid floor, pain shooting up his lower-body—and through the cut on his leg.
"Donatello!" Splinter felt his heart jump out of place for a split second, reaching out worriedly.
His son clumsily picked himself up and leaned his elbow against the surface of his desk, knees buckling as he breathed heavily. "Agh—I'm fine, Master Splinter," he forced out through gritted teeth, the spell seeming to vanish pretty quickly. If he felt nauseous, he decided to ignore it.
Splinter came around to look into his son's eyes, only to find them closed shut. "My son," he sighed anxiously.
"Sensei," Donatello’s voice turned into a plea. "Please. I need to be there. I need to help." He finally cracked his eyelids open, the feeble light from his lamps glistening off of the mildly wet counters of his eyes.
His father's heart broke at that; the look in those eyes conveyed so much. He reached out to hold his son's shaky hand.
"I can't stay here; they need me," Don's voice cracked.
A lump formed in the old rat's throat. He had the authority to make his son stay. He could've made him stay. He should've forced him to stay. "Very well." But he didn't. "Be careful, my son."
"Thanks, Sensei."
Splinter could've sworn time had slowed as his son's hand slipped out of his.
"We'll be back before you know it. And maybe then, I'll try to take a nap," Donatello chuckled at the last part, his father watching uneasily as he disappeared out of sight, fighting back the dark feeling in his gut, the insidious voices in his mind.
The ones he should've listened to.
And, oh, how he wished he didn't let him go.
He shouldn't have let him go. Not after the vision that befell him. Not when his son was exhausted to the core. Not when he was evidently unwell. Not when he was fighting a dangerous foe within himself. Not when he was clearly in no shape to go after and fight mindless, dangerous creatures.
Not when his son needed him most.
Roar.
He traced fingers that were shaking with remorse and despair over the glass surface that separated him and his family from…
Scratch. Screech.
Images of a passionate, curious child running around with broken toy parts, carrying around tools that were a bit too heavy for his size and fixing up things for his family flew by his eyes, a cacophony of laughter and cries echoing in his mind, crushing the already shattered pieces of his heart.
Oh, Donatello.
How he wished he didn't let him go.
Based on what Leonardo told him, the infection had set into Donatello's system months ago. Nothing could've stopped the outcome, even if he had been by his side. But it didn’t change the fact that he wished he were there for his son the slightest. A small, selfish part of Splinter was almost glad he didn't have to witness his child painfully transform into this… thing. But a stronger, more regretful side of him wished he were there for him—wished his son didn’t have to face the darkness that swallowed him whole. All alone.
Growl.
And as his watery eyes met the red, lost, blood-thirsty ones—once warm, gentle and passionate—he couldn't help but wish, with a heaviness in his very, very aching heart, threatening to kill him, that he didn't let him go.