Chapter Text
A soft, warm glow creeps across Donatello’s face, the curtain to his room pulled.
Somewhere in the past, it’s him waking Raph, little hands going pap pap pap on his big brother’s shell.
This morning, that very same brother has to rouse him from that deep, primordial dark. The kind of sleep that begs him to stay forever.
The absolute tank of a mutant is impossibly gentle, and Donnie’s eyes blink and squeeze shut in the dark, hiding from the shadow of the snapper leaned over him, standing at his bedside with a palm tapping Donnie’s shoulder over the covers.
He resists, boneless as he melts against his bed. Batting would be futile, so he stays as still as possible.
“I know you’re awake, bubs.”
Donnie cracks his an eye open, squinting to make out the barely visible halo that outlines his brother.
“You asked me to wake you.” He’s reminded of his own self traitorous demands.
He makes a low, pissy sound of protest.
“Made me promise.” Raph reaches over him to gather up a stray blanket, and with his other hand he wiggles an arm behind Donnie’s back, urging him up.
It wouldn’t matter if Donnie fought it, so he doesn’t, letting a yawn stretch his jaws, eyes welling.
“Raph’s gotcha. You got time to be a lazybones.” There’s a soft tease behind it.
Donnie bobs his head, letting his comforter be maneuvered off of him. He hardly has a second to shiver before a different blanket is pulled over his shoulders, wrapped around his shell.
“Merry Christmas, D.” Raph tugs the blanket past his arms, and Donnie can finally make out the big, gooey smile that stretches, bittersweet, across his face.
He reaches out, hands looping lazily over his big brother’s shoulders, head drooping forward to hang against the crook of his neck.
“Gotcha.” Raph chuffs, scooping the softshell up.
Donnie lets the slow, lumbering pace of Raph’s walk wake him, hands curling against his shell. “What time is it?” He mumbles against Raph’s skin.
“Five somethin’. Real early, bubs.”
Donnie huffs.
“I can put’cha on the couch if you need to snooze a lil’ more.”
The softshell shakes his head. “Mh mmm.”
He feels Raph step up into the kitchen, and he’s carried over to the L in the counter.
Raph shifts him backwards, sliding Donnie onto the countertop.
His legs dangle over, knees knobby and calves frighteningly thin. The tile is freezing against his thighs, and he has to pull the blanket tightly around himself. It bunches particularly awkward around his shoulders.
He drags the edges of the cover up past his chin, squinting across the kitchen, warmly lit by the old outdated fluorescents.
A hand lands on Donnie’s leg and he jolts, swaying precariously.
Mikey offers him a sheepish look, hand quickly retracted. “Sorry, Don.”
Donnie leans down enough to knock his forehead against Mikey’s, the younger bumping up on his toes to headbutt Donnie back like a cat.
“Merry Christmas!” The box turtle chirps.
“Thought you were still asleep.” Raph pulls out a large spoon to wave at their little brother. He’s got a sort of apron on now, very homemade looking in a rough rough way, and Donnie distantly remembers him raving about sheepskin and wool lining.
“Asleep? On Christmas morning? While you’re in my kitchen?”
“Our kitchen.” Raph collects ingredients from the various cabinets and the smudged, tag littered fridge.
“Our,” Mikey wags a finger between himself and the hall where Leo is presumably off in his cart, “kitchen.”
“Raph’s too.” The big snapper frowns.
“I don’t trust either of you in here.”
Donnie stifles a snicker in his blanket as he watches Mikey cross his arms, head turned down as he glares over the ridge of his brows.
“Is it any comfort to you that I’m not here to help?” Donnie offers.
Seemingly, Mikey can’t find a response to that, because he just tilts, dropping his cheek atop Donnie’s knee.
Pat pat , is the best the softshell has to offer in response.
Raph turns on the radio in the corner. An old thing they rarely used, tending to prefer the ease of free trial spotify on their phones.
It’s playing some long forgotten station that runs off tired workers commuting with their car stereo: Good Morning Early Risers, Brace Yourselves For A White White Christmas.
“Are we gonna watch any Christmas movies tonight?” Michael sits up, seemingly just so he can chew on his clipped nails, leaving the skin red near the base.
Donnie imagines he’s having vivid flashbacks to Raph’s first time baking. The old kitchen reeked of smoke and raspberries that day.
He’s gotten much better though, and they both know Raph is beyond capable of making this years Christmas treats.
“Every year!”
“Ok but we have to watch ones that aren’t just Jupiter Jim specials too.”
Raph shrugs, cracking off a whole carton of eggs into his first batter bowl. “Like what?”
“Home Alone?” Donnie chimes in.
“The Muppet Christmas Carol?” Mikey adds.
He has to shake his head on that one. “No way. I am not sitting through the inspirationally disadvantaged trope.”
Mikey visibly grimaces. “That aged poorly.”
He’s offered another pat on the head. “It was always poor.”
“What about One ‘o One Dalmatians?” Raph pours in his wet ingredients with the dry, drowning out the powdery mess of flour and baking mixes.
“Barely a Christmas movie.” Donnie dismisses.
Mikey lights up. “The Polar Express?!”
The softshell nods with a sincere seriousness. “Without question.”
“Wha’s that one movie with the punky Santa and the two kids that barely get along?” Raph comes over with the cookie batter, sprinkling in the chocolate chunks as he lumbers.
Mikey dips a finger in, just missing his very literal slap on the wrist. “The one where he goes to jail?” He asks, finger stuck in his beak.
“Yea.” Raph holds out the spatula to Donnie, offering a far more sanitary lick of the batter which is eagerly taken.
It’s thick and sweet, all real sugar and the smoothest, finest flour Donnie has had the pleasure of testing.
“I think that’s the Christmas Chronicles? I heard they made a second.” Mikey misses his second attempt at nabbing more batter as the bowl is promptly taken away to the baking sheet and old, soon to rust tray.
“I’m vetoing Jack Frost by the way.”
“What?!” Mikey spins to face Donnie. “But I love that movie!”
“No, Michael, you’re thinking of Rise Of The Guardians. The one with animated Jack Frost.”
“Ohhhh.” He deflates.
“Honestly I get that one messed up too.” The batter plops down on the sheet and Raph gestures with the ice cream scooper he’s wielding for the job.
“Can we watch it?”
“Jack Frost?”
“Rise Of Guardians.”
“Sure.” Raph snorts.
“Klaus is a no brainer for everyone.” Donnie clears his throat pointedly. “Considering every single one of you cry during it.”
Raph lets the oven preheat while he loudly pops open a can of cinnamon rolls, wagging the end threateningly. “It’s sweet .” He glares.
Donnie perks a brow. “So you’re not gonna cry this year?”
“Raph’s gonna cry extra hard this year.” He carefully spaces the raw rolls on another tray.
“In my defense the art is that pretty.”
Donnie tilts his head towards his little brother, a smirk lifting his beak. He tosses the edge of his blanket around the younger. “Respect.”
Mikey grins, ear to ear, at him.
Donnie’s simply forced to toss the rest of the blanket around him, accepting a moment of shivering for the cacophony of squeals and squawks that erupt from under the covering.
Simply forced .
Mikey fights his way out of the covers and pulls them from around his own shoulders like an overly plush scarf, to toss over the softshell’s legs.
His hand lingers until Donnie can get a solid enough grip on the thing to pull it back around himself.
Once he’s settled again, he taps the back of Mikey’s knuckles, and points off at the hall. “Grab my cane and I’ll convince Raph to make you strudels.”
Mikey opens and closes his mouth several times, like he’s just about to say something, but ultimately just sprints off.
Donnie sits back and basks in the rush of warmth as Raph opens the oven to slip the trays inside to rise.
“You must make strudels now I fear.” He shrugs.
Raph shoots him a look from the corner of his eyes, beak upturned. “Yea?”
Donnie nods in faux seriousness. “I just promised Michael, you see.”
“An’ if Raph don’t wanna?”
“I’ll spit my sick person germs all over your cookies.”
The snapper shakes his head. They both know it doesn’t work like that. “Suppose I have no choice then.” He makes his way over by Donnie to open the fridge, eye scanning for available fruits. “Anything in particular you want for Christmas?”
“Raph-A-Doodle, I hate to break it to you but it’s way too late to Christmas shop. You missed your window.”
He snorts, pulling out a large plastic container of semi-fresh strawberries. “I meant to eat.”
Donatello pushes out a dramatic, overly long breath, and kicks his feet. “You know I probably won’t be eating any of this.”
“But if ya’ did?”
Donnie stills. “I don’t know. Sponge cake?”
“Plain?”
“Yea.”
“Raph has been wantin’ to try to make a swirly log sorta’ cake for the holiday.”
“You’ll be disappointed if I don’t eat it.”
Raph pats Donnie’s leg before heading back to the powder dusted counter space he’d been working at. “I won’t mind at all.”
Mikey back skids into the room, cane in hand. “Why was it under your desk?”
“To fight temptation. I would just get up and come trap Santa if I didn’t make it a challenge.”
Mikey sticks his tongue out. He refrains from flipping Donnie off until Raph turns around.
“Leo up?” Donnie hikes up his blanket and gratefully takes his cane.
“Silence from his subcar.” Mikey chirps.
The little turtle is sneaking across the kitchen towards where Raph is prepping the fruit, on his toes to peer around a big spiked arm.
“I’m gonna wake the guy.” Donnie slides off the counter, goosebumps tickling his skin when his feet meet the frigid stone flooring.
It chills his bones, and he rolls his weight towards the balls of his feet, heavy on the cane as he walks off down the way to the line of sub cars.
Today, Donnie skips knocking on the wall or announcing his presence entirely, not that he made it a rule or anything, toeing around a stray pair of rusted scissors, a genuinely crazy hazard , and strips after strips of chopped up wrapping paper.
There’s not much to grab onto on his stumble to the bed, and he thinks his blanket takes out some of the memorabilia that’s lined up in crooked rows. There’s always something or another heaped onto every available surface.
Leo is slumped at the very edge of his bed, laid sideways with his feet flat on the floor. Like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
His phone sits on the ground by his feet, miraculously plugged in. Some pirating site is paused, clearly timed out after a while of of inactivity. Donnie is certain whatever was playing was a mockery of good plotting.
It would normally surprise him that Leo wasn’t at least properly in bed, considering the slider had always been eager to sleep on Christmas Eve despite the plight of insomnia. Everyone wanted Christmas to come sooner after all.
But last night? Leo had been borderline desperate in his attempts to keep Donnie up with him, shoving various games and movies in his face until Raph took it upon himself to make the guy a bedtime, even if that just meant banishing him to his room for the night.
Donatello reaches out with his free hand and butts his palm against Leo’s shoulder.
The slider jolts, jumping awake. His wide eyes find Donnie’s.
“Merry Christmas.” The softshell whispers for the first time that morning.
In a split second he has his arms full, cane knocked out of his hand and blanket swept off his shoulders.
Donnie absolutely cannot support his brothers weight or the urgency in which he throws himself, and they’re both sent crashing to the floor.
Leo’s arm snaps out to brace against the floor behind Donnie’s shell, the other wrapping around his back to save him from hitting the ground full force.
They’re both shaking, and once Leo manages to rebalance himself, his back curves out to hold them both up, hand rising from the floor to join the other across Donnie’s back, holding him tight.
“Sorry- fuck- so sorry-“ Leo’s head jerks up, eyes borderline teary. “You good?”
“Oh geez .” Donnie wraps him up in hug. “I’m fine. Are your knees alright, man?”
His twin tucks his face against the bony crook of his shoulder, and Donnie’s heart jumps with the hitch of Leo’s breath.
“I swear to god I was fucking terrified I cursed you.”
“Oh that’s so dumb.”
“Really dude, I thought I like evil hallmark movie-d you when I said that stupid Christmas thing- I totally thought I messed up like so so bad. ”
“Hey, Leo-“
The slider sniffles.
“I’m not fucking dead.”
Leo dissolves into laughs. “You’re not.” He lifts his head and wipes his wet eyes.
“Unless I’m a zombie.”
“You’d be a robot.”
“Y’know what? I’d have laser eyes.”
“Plus I’d know if you were.” He grins, big and fucking stupid. “Twin powers.”
Donnie groans for show, knocking their heads together. “Yea?”
“Oh I’m way beyond codependent. We’re actually a colony organism that happens to have separate bodies.”
“Reminds me of rat king.”
“I was thinking jellyfish and coral.” Leo sniffles again.
“Christ on a fucking stick.” Donnie huffs. “C’mere.” He holds his twin as close as he’s physically able, like he can mend the clear mistake the world made when it created them separately.
Who’s to say if they can be any more apart than he can be from his own lungs. In a way, Leo is right. That’s not codependency. It’s necessity.
He smushes his head against his brother’s neck, chin resting on the edge of his plastron.
There’s a beat before he’s suddenly grabbed by the arms as Leo pulls them up together, joints popping. He takes the softshell’s weight readily when the wobbly turtle stumbles and trips.
“C’mon!” Leo’s positively beaming, spinning around and grabbing Donnie behind the knees before shooting a, “Grab on,” and hoisting him up, pulling his legs over his hips.
Donnie scrambles, arms thrown over Leo’s shoulders, wrapped infront of his neck, and holding tight.
There’s no doubt about his shit grip strength though, and Leo bends just enough to be sure Donnie won’t fall off his back, before he takes off in a janky run, trying to sprint through his loud, gleeful laughter.
It spreads, contagious, infecting Donnie’s lungs and leaving him in delightful gasps for air as they both cackle and hoot.
Leo dashes around the tv room, making an intrusive dart past their brothers in the kitchen, a trail of infectious delight left in their wake.
Raph yells out a warning not to break anything.
Mikey shouts out in envy, begging for a turn.
It’s a sound Donnie has heard all his life, the overlap of all his brothers, the smiles in their voices as they struggle to speak past the giggles.
By the time he’s dumped over the back of the sofa, flipped over on the battered, moth eaten cushions, he’s in stitches and smiling so hard it hurts.
The dizziness rocks him, and he’s so caught up in all the movement it’s not even a bother, skin hot against the lair chill.
His muscles feel over exhausted, airy and listless, like they weigh the world and nothing at all. A tremble has long come over them, and now it shakes him like the violent whip of wind does to lost litter and rotten leaves far away in the subway wind tunnels.
Leo comes around to drape himself over the sofa arm by Donnie’s legs, crawling over them. He drops his chin on Donnie’s hip which, honestly, is bony enough it hurts them both.
Donnie’s back aches something equally fierce as it relaxes, as if his muscles are determinedly squeezing the shit out of themselves, and relaxing is the greatest crime he’s ever committed against them. He hisses through his teeth, but he’s too buzzed on bliss to be all that upset.
Plus, it fades fast.
“Ok?” Leo frets.
“Good.” Donnie gave up being bugged over his brothers checking on him every time he so much as breathes wrong.
And in their defense they’d genuinely gotten better at worrying less. Audibly at least.
“RAAAAAPH.” Leo yells.
Donnie, still panting and thoroughly winded, presses his brows.
“WHAAAT??” Raph yells back.
“CHRISTMAS PRESENTS WHEN?”
Raph stomps in from the kitchen, and Donnie doesn’t bother lifting his head to peer over the back of the couch. He does the exact opposite actually, closing his eyes.
“Leo, ya jus’ got up. Sun’s barely up.” Raph exclaims.
“So?”
“I’m makin’ food.”
“Baking?”
“Mhm.”
“Is it all in the oven?”
“… most’ve it.”
“So we could do presents while it bakes?”
Raph lets out a long suffering sigh. “Teaching you to count was my worst mistake.”
“You did not teach me.”
Donnie feels Leo lift his head from his hip.
Raph makes an unconvinced sound in his throat before moving on. “I know Mikey’s gonna want to. Donnie?” Footsteps fall closer and the couch rustles.
He grunts.
A finger prods the center of his forehead and he opens his eyes, waving a lazy, trembling hand at it.
Raph’s peering over the back of the couch at him. “Presents before you fall asleep?”
Donnie nods, forearms locking with Leo’s as he’s pulled up to a sit.
“Where are my gifts?” The slider’s donned a shit eating grin.
“My lab. Massive sparkly bag in the far right corner behind the tool cabinet.”
Leo wastes no time vaulting over the couch, feet pattering down the hall. He slaps a few walls taking corners on the way.
Raph lumbers off to his own room and Mikey’s sure to have done the same the moment he caught wind of gifts.
Aluminum glows in the copper wire lights, red green and bright bright brigh t, when everyone gathers back around the couch with their respective bags, Donnie’s clutched in Leo’s arms.
“We’re gonna be seeing this glitter forever.” Donnie reaches over the back to take his from his twin, sliding off the cushions onto the rug where his brothers are gathering.
Splinter has appeared, expression unusually rich with affection as he grants the boys his full attention, one watchful eye open from his spot at the edge of the room. He always places his gifts to them under the tree on Christmas Eve, and they sneak theirs outside his door. A habit made long ago on the Christmas he struggled to leave the confines of his bed.
Donnie hasn’t held that against him for a very long time. And he doesn’t ever plan to.
He pulls his attention back to root through the large bag he’d fashioned and pulls out several smaller ones. Each was overdone with large, gaudy bows, to make up for the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to wrap a single thing.
He passes the respective color coded bags out, tossing them into his brothers growing piles as they all do the same with their own wrapped gifts.
By the time he’s emptied his bag, there’s a stack of gifts infront of him, and some little bit of him dreads the waste until Mikey’s hand lands on his jutted out knee.
“I really hope you like it.” He points to the gift he must have tossed into Donnie’s lap. “I tried to get you stuff you could still enjoy.”
Donnie doesn’t know what to say to that, throat thick, and so he just points to the bags he’d pushed over to Mikey’s pile and says, “You’ll like them.” Because he takes great care nowadays to know exactly what they want.
Everybody splits to their spot on the rug to tear open gifts. There’s no pressure to take turns or put on an expressive show. To smile extra big or tilt the gift just right to express appreciation. Donnie’s allowed to relax. To unmask.
He digs his fingers against paper and rips, clumsy and uncoordinated. It wrinkles and crinkles and gets tossed off to the side in a growing pile.
It’s from Mikey.
Inside is an art book. An art book filled with all of the designs they’ve made together, except instead of the rushed sketches they’d thrown together for Donnie to go off on, it’s full on detailed diagrams and bright, colorful machines.
He pauses on one of their oldest ideas. A motor carriage. With an oil spill and laser guns of course. If he squints, he can see speckles of rust in the bent corners.
His eyes flick up. Mikey isn’t looking. He mouths ‘ thank you ’, and moves on.
Raph’s is next, and Donnie makes quicker work of the loose wrapping, fighting off the clingy box top.
Inside sits a thick, heavy blanket, wrapped in what looks like a second blanket, or a crocheted cover, yarn chunky and gaps big enough for Donnie to easily stick his fingers between. When he really properly feels it up, he finds wires and beads inside, and a set of soft, rubber-y buttons. A heated blanket, he figures.
The texture is beyond heavenly and he tugs it out with some difficultly, draping it over his back.
He makes a contented sound low in his throat and reaches for his next box, eyes tracking his little brother momentarily when he rapid taps the floor, free hand skimming over the set of professional quality painting knives and oil paints.
He spares a warm glance to the teddy bear closely held in Raph’s lap, before returning to his final gifts.
The bow on Leo’s gift could rival the ones Donnie used. It’s exactly what always makes the slider’s presents so recognizable, even without his name anywhere on them. Donnie would know, he stole from his hoard to make his own gifts.
The bow on this one is not discarded, but rather gently placed to the side for later use. Leo lost his mind if any of them dared even wrinkle the perfect ribbons.
The box is well stuffed this time, bubble wrap and gift paper clumped inside like a nest.
When he peeks around, he’s incredibly pleased to find a large purple object, metallic and cylindrical with gears and caps and levers. Like an overly complex puzzle or fidget.
Moral of the story, his brothers are fucking saps and it’s way too obvious how badly he misses being able to interact with his special interests.
There’s one more gift to him. There’s no name, no color coded paper, just a purple wrapped box.
Donnie can hardly bat back the well in his eyes when he opens it.
He’s careful, oh ever so careful, picking up the small, purple plush that sits inside. It wobbles in his too-shaky hands as he runs his thumbs over the head, drawing lines in the run of the fabric.
A joyous cry erupts from across the rug.
His eyes are stuck on the toy.
Something cold taps the side of shoulder and he lifts his head, rapid blinking.
The Jupiter Jim laser gun he designed for Leo is poked against his shoulder, and Leo’s leaned over towards him.
“You like it?” Leo holds his gaze, making no comment on his watery eyes.
Donnie touches his fingers to his chin and then brings them forward, nodding.
Leo points the gun at him and flashes and laser a few times with a smile.
Donnie clears his thick, stinging throat, and offers a shaky laugh, batting the butt of the gun away.
Leo moves on to lunge after Mikey who shrieks. “I DO NOT CARE IF YOU BOUGHT THE CANVAS I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL YOU IF YOU BREAK IT LEON!”
Donnie drags himself up onto the couch, mortified as he’s practically crawling up over onto the cushions, little plush cradled to his chest.
He sits as far to the edge as he can manage, against the curved arm, and covers his eyes with a hand, braced and praying he doesn’t feel the drrrip of tears.
His breathing is off, ragged and short, cutting off in hitching gasps that don’t fully reach the capacity of his lungs. He’s quiet about it, naturally.
If he were confident he could, he’d creep off to his lab and wait for the biting regret to pass, but his clumsy departure would attract more attention than anything. The last thing he wants is to be discovered, perceived in his sudden, shameful misery.
Not like he has a choice though, does he.
Footsteps slowly lumber infront of him, and still. His big brother peers into his narrowed view, looking for the gaps between his fingers. “You alright big man?”
Donnie nods, tucking his face down so his chin doesn’t tremble. “No worries.” He rasps.
“Is it ok if Raph brings ya’ some cake? When it’s ready?”
Donnie can’t muster anything to say to that. Not without sounding worse.
Saying no would be offensive to Raph’s baking. Saying yes and not eating it would be worse. He dreads the idea of having sneak to one trash can or another and bury it within.
Mikey shrieks again and his brothers trample across the living room, starting to slow and grab at each others arms.
Donatello takes the coward’s way out and pulls up a whole arm, hiding his face.
“I’ll come back to check on you soon.” Raph’s sighs and his heavy footsteps retreat.
Donnie pulls his arm off his face.
Distantly, down in the doorway to the kitchen, he hears his brothers pause and convene.
“Yo, D get tired?”
“I dunno’…”
“He feelin’ sick?”
“Didn’t ask.”
Donnie curls his knees up to his chest, sick to his stomach.
He doesn’t want to introspect. Honestly, he knows what he’ll find. The body of his robot, head swept aside under the rubble.
It’s not grief. It doesn’t feel like grief. Definitely more like rooted regret that tangles up with every horribly emotional part of himself he doesn’t have the hardware to understand. He builds a logical casing around it, calls it a want for condemnation of anybody but himself, but honestly, he thinks he’s all he has to blame.
His greatest creation sits behind his eyelids, spilled over the lair floor. Shelldon’s head will sit in the do not touch box in his lab, forevermore.
He traces the subtle seams on Shelldon, the plush, and poses his thumbs over the eyes, mimicking various expressions.
It’s fucking sad.
He’s not sure how long he lays there, staring into its stupid red eyes, but eventually praise sings from the kitchen and the smell of baked goods waft into the tv room.
Raph carries the scent on his skin when he hops down the step and finds his way backs to Donnie’s side.
“I’m sorry,” Raph says, “if the toy was a bad idea.” He’s so guilty it hurts.
“I like it.” Donnie flips it around to face Raph. “A lot.” It’s not a lie.
“That’s good.” Raph smiles, browline pressed down and impossibly affectionate.
Donnie can’t help but smile back, but mournful lines draw deep under his eyes.
“You want Raph to leave you to sleep or somethin’?”
A hand flies to grab Raph’s arm. “No.”
Raph gently takes his hand, not grabbing, but just letting it rest in his palm. “You wanna come pick out cookies with the others, then?”
A distraction like that sounds like a lifeline.
Donnie nods and pushes off from the couch to get up. It proves to be too much too fast, and by the first step he’s keeling to the side, legs tripping to catch him. His arms do much the same, but his knees hit the cushion regardless, and he grips the soft surface with paling knuckles.
Black blotches eat at the corners of his vision, and the start gives him bad enough shakes to have him slipping the rest of the way.
Raph is grabbing his upper arms in seconds, pulling him up and back onto the couch. His hands linger, eye skipping around, flitting over every square inch of his little brother.
The Shelldon plush is on the floor.
The snapper pulls back, reluctantly, and picks it up, endlessly patient, handing it back to Donnie, who scrambles to brush it off.
“I’m gonna bring the stuff here.” He presses the pad of his thumb to Donnie’s jaw, a silent ask for his attention.
They don’t make eye contact, but the softshell stills.
“And you don’ gotta eat it. Take one bite, no bites, eat it all, I don’ care, ok?”
The snapper pats his leg with a, “Stay here,” and slips back off to the kitchen.
Donatello’s not sure even his cane would have been able to keep him upright this time. He doesn’t think he could get very far at all no matter how hard he tried.
Raph returns quickly, brothers in tow. There’s a plate in his hands with a semi round cut of soft, spongy cake, and behind him Leo jogs along with the stack of cookies, and Mikey, unsurprisingly, with the strudels. Splinter, to Donnie’s shock, trails after, balancing the overly large tray cinnamon rolls.
The plate of warm cake is passed onto Donnie’s lap, and he sneaks his fingers around the ceramic underside, letting it warm the dry, flaky pads.
Leo stakes claim right beside him, and Mikey cuddles up to Raph on the floor, positively sucking up now that he’s gotten his strudels. Despite how he pleads, it’s never successfully convinced Raph to make more post-holiday.
“Raph got us the winter expansion for Jupiter Cart!” Leo tosses Mikey and Raph two controllers and waves one at Donnie until he reluctantly shakes his head.
Leo stuffs a cookie into his mouth and starts up a round.
Donnie picks at his cake with his fork, pleased with how light and airy it is, sitting easy in his stomach. It smothers some of the misery there too, clouding it over like cotton.
“I want to be the uhhh-“ Mikey waves hand at the tv, “Whatever that thing is.”
“The lizard?” Leo snorts.
“That is not a lizard.” Mikey leans forward.
“It’s got like the head and no ears and shit.”
“Language.” Raph chimes.
“None of them are real animals.” Donnie points out.
“The red panda is.” Leo argues.
Donnie rolls his eyes, pausing to swallow down another bite of his cake. “She’s from earth.”
“And?”
“All the new characters are from Neptune’s brother planet.”
“Neptune doesn’t even have a brother.” Raph mutters, picking something that clearly takes inspiration from a yeti.
“Do you think yeti are white bigfoot?” Donnie sets his plate down and slumps against Leo’s side, pulling his knees up.
Leo sacrifices his driving skills for a moment and uses an arm to tug Donnie’s blanket up from the floor and over his brother’s shoulders. “I always thought they were like- albino.”
“I don’t know how either of you thought this ever . Clearly they’re different species.” Mikey scoffs.
“They’re usually depicted with darker skin and eyes so albino wouldn’t make sense.” Donnie points out.
“Bullllll!” Leo huffs. “Clearly their skin is just dirty.
Donnie slackens, snickering.
In seconds, Leo’s controller is held up out of the way. “Win for me papa!” He yells to a very confused Splinter who’s somehow found himself with the extra controller that Donnie gave up. And with that Leo scoops up under Donnie’s arms and tugs him over so they’re both flopped down on the couch.
Donnie moves to drop his chin against the dip of Leo’s shoulder, keeping slight distance with the parts of his body most likely to ail him. He’s still weirded out by pressure on his port.
The slider is careful not to contain or grab him, and simply drapes his arms over his twin’s shoulders, and situating the remote on his shell, shit eating smile stretched across his face.
“What happen?” Raph laughs.
“You fed Don and now he’s going into hibernation on us!”
“And what are you doin’?”
“Obviously I was the chosen nap spot.”
“Uh huh.” Raph chuffs with no further questions to ask.
Donnie blinks long and slow, eyes heavy. “Thought I’d at least make it to noon.” He complains halfheartedly, entirely too warm and snug to muster up any real discontent.
The shit feelings from earlier find themselves buried further and further under the cotton that fills his head, a soft, overwhelming exhaustion that lets contentment filter through like light.
Leo slowly shifts them, arms readjusting over his twin’s shoulders to better hold the controller. “Hey, D?” He whispers.
The Shelldon plush is still safely contained, snuggled against Donnie’s plastron under the blanket, more or less stuffed between them now. He’s honestly grateful Leo didn’t displace him when he moved.
“Hm?”
“You wanna try for spring?” Make it through the winter?
Donnie laughs, a low, drowsy sound that barely makes it past his beak. “Yea.”
He means it.
Christmas fits snug in the early morning hours, and Donnie falls asleep to the tap tap tap of Leo’s fingers on his blanket and the soft curses that follow the Christmas jingle cues of Jupiter Cart.
He’ll come to, occasionally, kept securely close to one brother or another, with the smell of hot coco and the warmth of a mug nudged into his hands, or the muted cheers of another round won and Christmas music singing in the back of the lair, some abandoned speaker they never remembered to turn off.
And tomorrow he’ll wake up to the remnants of it, lights flickering out with dying bulbs, and the speaker muted, battery worn. And it will only smell like cinnamon in passing moments, like Deja vu, the preservation of a perfect memory.
Spring will come, and Donatello will wake to see it.