Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i. 

Donnie supposes he knew, even from a young age, that he was fundamentally different from his brothers. Not even in the sense that they are completely different species of turtles and are not, in fact, related to each other in the slightest—even though Leo keeps insisting that the two of them are twins courtesy of being hatched around the same time, something which Donnie always gives an affectionate eye roll over (we’re not even both sliders, dumb-dumb, he thinks, but whatever makes you happy, I guess)—and not even in the sense of his soft shell. Although that’s certainly an inconvenience, whenever he cares to dwell on it. He can’t roughhouse with his brothers the way a small part of him wants to deep down, a part that’s animalistic and feral and is determined to gnash its teeth and show dominance in any way possible—all because of his stupid dumb-dumb shell and how it’s stupidly softer than the rest of him. Soft and delicate and weak.

(He tries, once. He gets in the middle of a friendly tussle between Raph and Leo, and gets a few good hits in—perfect, he thinks, finally I get what’s so fun about this activity—but then Raph’s spines jab him in the shell just the right way and he shrieks over the sharp sharp sharp bad bad BAD feeling that runs up his spine, and then his father has to pull all of them aside and give them a collective lecture on how they can’t afford to be as rough with him. How his species puts him at a disadvantage over his brothers. How he’s apparently forever destined to be weaker than them.

…Okay, so his father hadn’t actually said as much, but Donnie had felt it hanging in the air all the same, back then. So he builds his battle shell, throws himself into training with the staff so that he can have a way to participate in combat while still hanging back enough that it’s not dangerous for him, and tries to ignore how his mind whispers that he’ll always be second best to his brothers no matter how hard he attempts to make it otherwise.)

No. It isn’t even that. It’s how they…always seem to view the world around them in a way that he doesn’t.  It’s how they make him feel…other, sometimes, whether they necessarily mean to or not. It’s how they seem to be in a bubble sometimes, a bubble that he has no earthly idea on how to break into, how to just…get things and understand them the way that they do. Donnie understands tech, even from a young age. He knows how to wire and rewire things until they work without fail, he knows how to build a perfect working circuit from the time he’s six, he knows how to code and solder and do everything else that’s expected of him as the resident tech expert. He prides himself on his intelligence in that field. But people…people are different, somehow. 

For instance, he doesn’t seem to really…act in a way that most people do. In a way that people don’t find strange, somehow. And he has no earthly idea what to do to fix it.

He first notices it at a young age. When the rest of his brothers fling themselves into piles of sewer mud with gusto, the first time that his father determines that they’re old enough to venture out into the tunnel system by themselves, Donnie hangs back. He’d rather not get mud all over himself just to have fun, and in fact, he really doesn’t understand how such a thing is supposed to be fun in the first place. What could possibly be entertaining about getting oneself caked in filth? He’d much rather sit in a quiet corner and read the books that he brought along just in case, or count the number of rivets on one of the pipes that runs perpendicular to the nearest wall, or—

“Donnnnnnie. Donnie Donnie Donnie Donnie—” Leo’s voice trills from beside him, a minute before a familiar weight descends upon his shoulders, and it’s all Donnie can do to try and muffle the irritated sigh behind his clenched teeth as his annoying dumb-dumb twin has to come in and ruin everything, like always. “Stop reading y’r stupid book and come build mud castles with us.”

Donnie looks sideways at where Raph and Mikey are still lingering, considering. Mikey is making a decidedly adorable rendition of…what’s probably meant to be a snow angel within the muck, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the softshell can’t help but huff out a small laugh at the sight—a minute before he sees Raph rolling in the stuff and absolutely coating himself with mud. It really shouldn’t be surprising, considering that Raphael is a snapping turtle and burying themselves in river muck is their primary source of camouflage while hunting (yes, Donnie had bothered to do his research on the traits typical of their different turtle species, thank you very much), but it’s disgusting nevertheless, and Donnie finds his beak wrinkling in distaste the longer he stares at the sight. He can’t quite put into words just what about it is so repulsive to him—the way he instinctively knows it will itch at the sensitive parts of his skin once it dries, perhaps, or the way a part of his mind is thoroughly convinced that being covered in mud isn’t something to apply so much gusto to—so he settles for speaking up in his usual unimpressed drawl, after a beat of silence.

“I…literally think I’d rather pluck my own eyeballs out and eat them. Thanks, Leo, but I’m good.”

“That’s gross,” Leo squeals out, physically recoiling.

“And rolling around in muck isn’t?”

"Yeah. Because eyeballs are mushy."

“That’s beside the point.”

“Ughhhhh. Stop usin’ your big words or whatever and just come over here for like, five minutes. Or are you tryin’ to be the next Eensteen over here?”

“It’s Einstein, you reprobate,” Donnie bites out, not being able to quantify why he’s suddenly so frustrated over Leo’s stubbornness. “And I said I’m good.”

He turns back to his open book, fully expecting that to be the end of the conversation as his eyes flit over the words upon the page. Donnie and Leo are two peas in the same pod, after all, both filled with the same kind of stubborn determination that makes them dig their heels in and clench their teeth and refuse to yield once they’ve made their mind up about something. And in the same sense, they instinctively seem to know what will make the other tick. Donnie knows for a fact that ignoring Leo for long enough—not giving him the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of his constant taunting and nagging—is as good of a method as any to get him to leave well enough alone, even if he’ll dig his heels in all the more stubbornly over it at first. Leo thrives off of attention and validation and reactions to his antics, after all, and refusing him that much is the quickest way to get his attention to wander to something else.

When he doesn’t hear anything else from Leo, Donnie allows himself a small but extremely self-satisfied smile, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his beak as he reads. It was a tome containing mathematical and scientific history, something which Leo had bemoaned as being boring the first time that their father had finally given in to their pleas about new reading materials and snuck above the surface to scrounge through book sale bins. His brothers seemed to not understand why Donnie would pick out such a complicated book to read, but somehow the softshell just…understands the equations, even better than he understands anything else at such a young age. Equations don’t judge him for being weaker than the rest of his family. He doesn’t have to be reminded to make eye contact with equations or have to explain why actually making eye contact in the first place sometimes makes him feel like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. Donnie just…gets them. When everything else in his life feels so large and complicated to try and pick apart, mathematics and science are simplistic. Easy to define, and easy to understand. They’re exciting, and it shows in the way his mouth moves along with the words as his eyes fly over them, attempting to commit as much of the information to memory as possible.

The Fibonacci numbers were first described in Indian mathematics—

SPLAT.

Before Donnie can even think to react—before he can even emit so much as a startled squawk—there’s suddenly a very large piece of mud that is sliding down the pages of the book and turning them from stark white to dirty yellowish brown, and all he can do is stare in horror even as the voices of his brothers sound from behind him—

“Leo, what did you do—”

“I was aiming for his stupid head, Raph, not the book—”

“Everybody knows your aim sucks, Leo, why would you do that, he’s gonna be mad—”

“Can you guys stop yelling at each other—”

That’s Mikey’s voice piping up, soft and frightened, and Donnie really should be reassuring him that everything’s fine, it was just a stupid mistake, but all he can do is stare at the mud running down the pages and feel horror and anger and shame rising in him like a tidal wave, and he shouldn’t be feeling this way, it’s so dumb, it’s just a stupid book, it’s not like it’s the end of the world, except it very much is because that book was special to him and Leo had to go and ruin it for him because that’s what he always does, and now it’s ruined forever and he can’t fix it and this was supposed to be a fun day for all of them, why do they always have to ruin his fun and why can’t he just get over it and move on and what’s wrong with him why can’t he fix it fix it FIX IT—

An angry screech rises in Donnie’s throat as he whirls on Leo, as he leaps forward to tackle his brother to the ground before he can even realize what he’s doing. Tears spring into his vision, white-hot and full of rage, and he can’t even bring himself to care about them—or, for that matter, care about how strangled and venomous his voice comes out in that moment. “You RUINED it, Leo! You ruined my book, you STUPID dumb-dumb, you ruin EVERYTHING—”

“Donnie! Donnie, stop—” There’s limbs grabbing at his back then, trying his best to pry him off of Leo, and Leo is writhing beneath him and delivering bites to his arms—not with nearly enough strength to actually hurt him, because even if they’re incensed at each other they’re still brothers—but Donnie writhes out of their touch then, because their touch somehow makes his skin feel even more like it’s suddenly too tight for him, and he lets out an irritated hiss before he can stop himself, full of malice and animalistic instinct as he goes as far as to extend his neck slightly and snap at the offending appendages.

“I said I wanted to be left alone, I don’t want to roll around in the mud, why is that so hard for you to COMPREHEND—”

“It was an accident, you…you big dumb meanie, I meant to aim for your freakishly large head—”

“Stop making fun of me! You ALWAYS do this, Leo, you always have to ruin my fun, you always have to make things uncomfortable for me and it’s NOT funny anymore and now my book is ruined—”

“It’s just a stupid book!” Leo squawks, holding his hands up to defend from the onslaught of completely half-hearted swipes that Donnie is making at him. “Why are you so upset over some dumb book?”

“Because it was special to me! Dad went all the way to the surface to get it for me, and—” And he never really pays attention to ANY of us, least of all ME, so it MEANT something, is what Donnie doesn’t say in that moment. He’s already having a hard enough time expressing his emotions, and it shows in the way his face scrunches up with frustration the longer he paddles at Leo. “And you RUINED it and you didn’t LISTEN to me and now I—” Can’t even explain why I’m upset, isn’t that funny, Leo, you always like to make a joke out of everything, why not make a laughing spectacle out of your own brother while you’re at it—

Leo does something, a sudden swipe of his legs under Donnie’s own, and then he’s free and both of them are being held back from further violence by their brothers, Leo’s glower somehow looking all the more severe with his bright red facial markings. “Oh, really? I’m the one that ruins everything? What about you? With your….your dumb-dumb shell that we always gotta watch out for and the way we gotta treat you like something that’ll break and now you’re being a big stupid idiot over some dumb book instead of trying to hang out with your own brothers like some kind of weirdo—”

“THAT’S ENOUGH.” Raph’s voice cuts into the argument, even as Leo’s words cut right down to the quick and make Donnie suddenly wither in on himself, suddenly feel like a dried flower that had been left out in the sun. He barely even hears Raph’s lecture to both of them past the sudden drumming in his ears, or the way everything seems to narrow to a pinpoint until his brother’s words are all he can hear or focus on. Like some kind of weirdo. Like some kind of weirdo. They keep repeating in his head like a twisted mantra, circling around his brain and forming themselves into a knot to loop around and strangle him, and he feels his hands clench into fists by his sides the longer he stands there, the longer that he tries to make sense of it all.

He…he isn’t a weirdo. Isn’t he? He’s just…upset over one of his possessions being ruined. Anyone would be. It was a priceless item, something that couldn’t just easily be replaced, something that his father had gone to actual physical effort to get for him. It’s the same as Leo getting upset that one of the arms had broken off of his Jupiter Jim figurine after a particularly rough play session with it, or Raph getting upset because his old baby swing no longer held his weight, or Mikey crying into their father’s shoulder for ten minutes straight because he’d accidentally torn the corner of one of his paintings.

But it isn’t. It isn’t remotely the same. Leo and Raph and Mikey had never resorted to physical violence after something of theirs had broken. Donnie is almost doubly sure that the three of them had never felt like the breakage of the item was breaking a part of them, too, like it was something physical that had crawled inside of his skin and made a home there and now he had to get it out by any means possible. And he…he shouldn’t even be this upset over it, is the worst part. It was clear that it was just an accident, and he should be spending time with his brothers instead of being holed up in a corner somewhere, and Leo has always been abrasive and loud and demanding of attention, so why…why can’t Donnie just let it roll off of his shoulders? Why does it feel like the entire world is falling apart around him just because of his stupid book?

He doesn’t remember if he manages to stammer out an extremely half-hearted apology to Leo, or to any of them. Donnie doesn’t even remember the trip home, because his brain feels full of TV static and somehow it’s all he can do to put one foot after the other and follow after his brothers. He doesn’t even really remember worming his way into bed that night, trying his best to face away from Leo’s side of the room because he still wasn’t sure that he was entirely ready to look his twin straight in the eye for a legitimate apology yet.

What he does remember is staring up at the ceiling for the better part of two hours. Thinking. Rationalizing. Making realizations, with a kind of sinking feeling that goes right into some deep, dark part of his psyche.

Thinking that he’d just managed to find another way that he’s different from his brothers, all of a sudden. Another way that he’s weaker than them. Another way for them to secretly despise him, another way for him to fall behind, another way for him to not have any use.

Donnie can’t have that. If he’s of no use to the team, no use to his family, then—then what good is he?

He has to keep his emotions more carefully under control, from this moment on. He can’t afford another lapse like this. He can’t afford to have his family looking at him like he’s some…other, something different from them in a way that terrifies him. Donnie remembers seeing the fear and confusion that had leapt onto Mikey’s facial expression at one point during his tirade, and it makes him feel so sick to his stomach that he vows he will never see that expression cross his little brother’s face ever again. At least not because of him.

So he forces it down, after that night. Tries his best to regulate his feelings of frustration when things are moved around in his space without permission, or when Leo invades his personal bubble to share some piece of information that just can’t wait another minute, or when a piece of his technology breaks down for the umpteenth time in spite of him adding failsafe on top of failsafe to it. Tries his best to ignore how even the minor inconveniences make him want to just crawl out of his own skin sometimes, make him want to scream until his throat goes raw and punch at the nearest surface and hiss and claw until the bad feeling finally goes away. He can’t give in to those urges. He can’t let that amount of emotion show on the surface. It’s not proper. It’s not allowed. Donnie has to keep his reaction down to a sarcastic barb or two, an angry furrowing of his eyebrows, because otherwise…otherwise, he’ll hear Leo’s words ringing through his head all over again, even years after the fact.

And he tries. He tries. Donnie gets very well-versed at keeping his emotions in check, even under the most stressful of situations.

But then…then there are the other problems.

Chapter Text

ii. 

Donnie doesn’t mean to do it. He will swear up and down, yelling until his throat is bloody and raw, that he doesn’t mean to come across as sarcastic or uncaring or downright mean in his responses to people. It’s not that he’s a fundamentally rude person, by any stretch of the imagination—even though certain people seem extremely well-versed at knowing how to push his buttons, at knowing how to grind his patience down to its very last frayed thread. He was raised to be polite, after all (when his father even bothered to put actual effort into raising them at all, which, yes, Donnie knew was a ridiculously petty and childish thought—especially considering that Splinter was clearly trying his best to raise not one but four young boys who were determined to always run circles around him—but even still), following the proper protocol of social interactions without question.

He’ll mind his Ps and Qs, say please and thank you, and try to ignore how someone is standing just a bit too close to him during one encounter or another, or how their voice grates on his ears in exactly the right way, or any number of other equally infuriating tiny details. It’s not that he wants to come across as unapproachable, or rude, or…any other adjective that you could describe to someone who doesn’t know all the ins and outs of social interaction with another sentient being.

It’s just…words are hard, sometimes, in a way that Donnie can’t quite entirely comprehend and would likely tear his non-existent hair out trying to explain. Social cues are…even harder still. Sometimes his brothers will make a joke, some quip amongst themselves—often at the expense of each other—and Donnie will stand there completely clueless, a slow and owlish blink being his only reaction until he finally remembers to attempt to force out a laugh in response to it. Or he’ll take it far too literally, and either Raph or Leo or sometimes all three of them will give him an odd sideways look as they mutter something about it being a joke or a metaphor under their breaths—as if they honestly think it softens the blow, somehow. As if it doesn’t make him stand there and form his hands into fists at his side and mentally berate himself over not being able to understand a simple goddamn joke again.

Or, as often happens with Leo in particular—because of course it does, if anything the two of them are a bit too good at knowing how to push each other’s buttons courtesy of being the same age—Donnie will mean for his words to come out lightly teasing, and have them be interpreted an entirely different way. Perhaps it’s the way his voice always seems to come out in a short, clipped monotone no matter how valiantly he tries to add some variety and pizzazz to it, or (which is far more likely, in his mind) Leo just doesn’t know how to take a joke for whatever reason, but…every single time that it happens, Donnie will force himself to step back and evaluate, and always come to the conclusion that the sentence in question hadn’t quite sounded so outright hostile in his head.

It was always, always clear to him, at least in his subconsciousness, that he hadn’t meant for it to be interpreted that way. His statements are always…always meant to be jokes. Ribs. Sure, the four of them pick at each other a lot, but…they’re brothers. It’s what makes sense. It’s what brothers do. He’s just following the proper social protocol for even being a brother to someone in the first place.

He's doing everything right. So why does it still…feel so wrong? Why do they seem determined to react badly to some of his statements? Why can’t he see that they’re going to be offended or hurt over a statement he makes until it’s already out of his mouth?

The worst is when it’s Leo. Raph and Mikey can at least shrug it off if he happens to accidentally be a bit more callous to them than what’s called for, but if there’s one personality trait of Leo’s that Donnie absolutely despises, it’s his complete inability to let anything go, least of all a perceived slight against him. He’ll dig his heels in and stubbornly refuse to yield until both of them are practically baying at each other’s throats, leaving Raph to be the one that bangs their heads together, tells them to handle their shit, and makes them spit out apologies to each other that are extremely half-hearted more often than not (although they always, always, somehow find a way to make it up to each other later—if not with words than with actions—because they’re still brothers, basic biology be damned, and they’ll still look out for each other no matter what). And while it’s admirable in other circumstances, when it’s applied to his own behavior…Donnie can’t deny that it stings, just the tiniest bit.

From what he remembers, Leo had been trying to do another trick on the skateboard ramp—what the intent of it had been, Donnie can’t exactly recall, as skateboarding has never exactly been his strong suit and he much prefers to leave it to his far more athletic brothers—but in the end Leo had, evidently, missed the mark and come crashing to the floor of the ramp directly on his head. Amid panicked squawks from both Raph and Mikey as they race to his side, Donnie trails along behind them, bringing the new med scanner that he had built with him almost as an afterthought. He’d kept insisting that they needed such a thing to check over what their actual injuries were any time they got banged up in the slightest, because his brothers—especially Leo—are almost terrifyingly accident-prone sometimes, and Donnie had figured it was only a matter of time before one of them got their skull cracked open while trying to do something especially foolhardy.

So he’d spent what feels like weeks (for all he knows, it probably had been) tinkering with a device in his lab that could instantly scan any of them and bring up an exact list of their injuries and their severity, as well as recommendations on how to go about fixing the problem. Sure, it had meant that he had been isolated from his family even further while he worked, but…that was going to be excusable, in a moment. His device will work, and it will confirm that Leo is absolutely fine, and then his twin won’t feel the need to milk a completely non-existent injury for all it’s worth. Like he always does.

And it’s going well, for a time. Shushing Mikey and Raph from their mother-henning as gently as he possibly can—he needs silence to be able to concentrate, after all—Donnie quickly does a precursory scan, eyes flitting over the results before he emits a heavy sigh and pushes himself away from Leo slightly. “Other than some mild contusions—”

“In English, Einstein,” Leo quips, and it suddenly takes all of Donnie’s self-restraint to not smack his head back into the surface of the skate ramp. Instead, he settles for gritting his beak slightly, words coming out a bit terser than he would like.

“Fine, bruises. Other than those, you don’t appear to be seriously injured. So you’ll live. Thank heavens. I think you’d be even more insufferable as a ghost.”

Leo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t seem to care about Donnie’s rather terse tone, even though he furrows his brow slightly in thought as the softshell talks. He simply slings an arm around Donnie’s shoulder then, ignoring how Donnie winces at the sudden contact. “I lived ‘cause I got my faaaaavorite twin lookin’ out for me, don’t I? Come on, you can admit that you’re glad I’m okay, can’t ya? Nothing hurt or lost apart from a few precious brain cells.”

Donnie doesn’t notice the way Leo’s easygoing smile seems the tiniest bit forced, in that moment, or the way the slider almost looks like he wants to say more about the matter before catching a warning glare from Raph. All Donnie thinks about is that he’s glad Leo is back to being his insufferable self after the initial scare—in his own brand of exasperated fondness that only his brothers could bring out of him—and he goes for what he thinks is a friendly quip, huffing out a short exhalation of breath between his teeth as the closest thing to a laugh that Leo’s going to get out of him. “Can’t lose what you never had in the first place, Leo.”

And okay, it turns out that was completely the wrong thing to say, because now Leo is looking more than a bit pissed at him as the arm around his shoulders suddenly retracts, as his brother stands and looks at him completely incredulously. “You’re. You’re kidding me, right?”

Donnie tries to ignore how his heart has sunk into somewhere deep and black within him in that moment as he furrows his brows in confusion, hating how small his voice comes out when he finally finds it again. “What on earth would I possibly be kidding about, ‘Nardo?”

“Dude. I literally could have cracked my head open—”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Leo, for Pete’s sake, you’re fine—”

“And you’re sitting here, what, making jokes about it? I know that’s usually my thing, whatever, pot calling frying pan black—” Leo makes some sweeping gesture around the room then, a wild slash of his hand as if to add import to his statement, and Donnie’s correction about the metaphor withers and dies in his throat almost as soon as it starts trying to emerge. “—but you…who cares what your stupid scan says, it still hurt and you’re acting like you don’t even care—”

“Of course I care about whether or not you’re hurt, Leo,” Donnie snaps, some strange mixture of anger and hurt sparking through his veins as his posture immediately becomes tighter, more closed off, attempting to shield himself from…from what? The factually correct words that Leo was saying in that moment? “Don’t put words in my mouth, like you seem determined to always do—”

“Then prove it. Stop being some jerkwad who makes jokes any time any of us are concerned or hurt about something—”

“I don’t make jokes about it, Leo, how dare you insinuate that I’m glad over any of this—”

“Or maybe you could feel any emotion at all instead of standing there like some robot any time—”

“Screw you, ‘Nardo,” he bites out, apparently venomously enough to make Leo stop dead in his tracks and cast a befuddled glare in his direction. Donnie knows his voice is beginning to rise and his teeth are beginning to grit together and anger is starting to replace the areas of his brain where logic normally dwells, but he can’t bring himself to care in that moment, because Leo has always known how to cut right down to the quick with his harsh words and Donnie will be damned if he lets the slight against him slide this time around. “You want to imply, what, that I don’t care about any of you? Let’s examine that train of thought, shall we?” He strides forward, jabbing his finger into Leo’s plastron with more and more intensity as his words become louder, shriller, more full of anger and hurt. “Who was the one who brought the device over to check that you were actually fine after that fall? Who was the one who used to sit up with you during thunderstorms in the city and reassure you that all the noise was is air molecules exploding? Who’s the one who builds everything for us and doesn’t get a scrap of appreciation for it, huh? Would a robot do that?”

The glare has firmly slid off of Leo’s face now, replaced by bewilderment and what appears to be a small amount of fear.  “Donnie. You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Just because I don’t feel things like the rest of you doesn’t mean that I’m a robot, Leo. Why do you always have to do this, you…don’t you think I know that I’m different than the rest of you? That I have to work twice as hard to…to understand what you three seem to constantly just immediately understand? I know you, Leo, I know that you like to milk things for all they’re worth and overexaggerate the severity of something and…well, forgive me for not falling head-over-heels to mother-hen you when it’s abundantly clear that you are fine, you will live, glory freaking Hallelujah—”

“Donnie—” And oh, how the interruption makes him positively see red in that moment, because he is not even remotely finished with his tirade, and it shows in the way he suddenly stamps his tech-bo upon the floor with a loud CRACK as if to add import to his statement.

“I am not finished. It was meant to be a joke, Leo. Just a stupid dumb-dumb joke, like you always love to make at my expense, but evidently everything I say these days is wrong and I’m a terrible brother—”

“Stop it!” A hand grabs onto his arm then, and Donnie instinctively whirls for a moment, bringing his bo up for a strike—only to be met with the vulnerable, tear-streaked face of Mikey. The staff falls limply from his hands in shock, clattering to the ground with a series of metallic clangs as the box turtle huddles into him and sniffles slightly. “Stop being so mean to each other! W-we’re supposed to be having fun!”

Fun. The word hits Donnie with all the intensity of a punch right to the solar plexus, and it’s all he can do to stand up straight and meet Mikey’s eyes in that moment—meet any of their eyes. Just a normal, fun, brotherly bonding activity, and he’d ruined it. He’d ruined it by not keeping his mouth shut, by not just thinking about what kind of effect his “joke” might have on Leo in that moment, and by letting his stupid anger get the better of him, and now—now, he’d almost hurt Mikey. Mikey, who always looks at him like he could hang the sun in the goddamn sky. Mikey, who’s the one person that he doesn’t mind barging into his lab at odd intervals, chirping out questions as to what he was working on or if he wanted to join the Jupiter Jim marathon they were having or even just bringing him food when he’d gotten so hyper-focused on a project that he’d completely forgotten to eat anything. Mikey, who’s now looking over at Donnie as if the softshell had just punted a puppy in front of him.

Disappointing Mikey has always been the worst possible feeling. At that moment, it turns whatever words Donnie wants to spit out to ash in his throat, thick and cloying, and a wave of shame washes over him so thoroughly in that moment that his brain apparently decides to go bye-bye and puts his body completely on autopilot. He flees the room almost as quickly as his legs can carry him, completely tuning out any words of protest that follow him as he bustles into his lab and deploys the security features and slams the door shut behind him, determined to not let it open unless the lair is in imminent danger of burning to the ground. He’ll apologize later, make a plan for how to make it up to Mikey and Leo (unless Raph decides to bust the door down at some point during the interim, which is a definite possibility). Right now…right now, he can’t bring himself to face any of them. To look at the anger and fear and disappointment that’s going to be shining in all of their gazes.

Why does he always have to ruin everything by opening his stupid mouth? Why can’t he just think about how the words are going to be perceived before he says them, why can’t he just be a better brother and a better person, why why why—

Maybe he just shouldn’t talk at all.

At least then, he’d be doing something right for a change.

Chapter Text

But if Donnie hates when he opens his mouth and all his words are wrong —ugly, hostile things that grow thorns at their edges—he hates when he can’t talk even more. 

The most terrifying thing is, he can’t really… remember what had triggered it, the first instance of going non-verbal that he can clearly remember. Maybe it was the stress of being out in the city, with its bright lights and cacophony of noises and everything else that seemed determined to overload all of his senses in the worst possible way. It isn’t usually enough to bother him, but sometimes…sometimes, Donnie desperately wishes that they lived somewhere quieter. Somewhere a bit less chaotic, certainly. The lair is deep enough within the sewer system that none of the usual sounds of the city—cars honking, people bustling by, adverts blaring from a thousand different sources—reach them, but when they bother to go to the surface on any number of errands that need to be attended to, well. There, the sound of water can’t muffle the noises, and layers of stone and brick can’t shield him from the overload of bright lights. There, he can’t hide from the onslaught upon his senses, can’t shut himself into his lab and curl his body into a fetal position and rock back and forth silently until the world feels a bit less like it’s shifted over on its axis. 

So maybe he had been a bit overwhelmed when it had been determined that it was his turn—along with Raph—to go out on a food run for the entire lair. It was a task that should have been so simple, a task that he could break down to its bare essentials if pressed hard enough. Go out, get the needed items without detection from the human population of the city, sneak back into the manhole cover, get home in one piece. It was so simplistic that a child could have comprehended it. And sure, it was loud in the city—sure, people were standing too close and talking too loud in a way that made his spine prickle and his nerves race and his heart feel as though it was going to thud out of his chest—but they literally lived in one of the most populated cities in the world.  That was all par for the course. Donnie doesn’t mind it on a good day, just like he doesn’t mind occasionally being herded by an overly excited Mikey to the sewer grate that has the best view of Times Square, all bright lights and noise and energy. It helps him to see what normal life could be like if he wasn’t…what he is, in a way that he doesn’t care to dwell on for very long. Besides that, it makes Mikey happy. He can handle the sensory overload that comes his way for the sake of his brothers, if no one else. 

But that day…that day, it’s all too much. And the worst part is, he doesn’t understand why. 

He’s already just barely been holding himself back from a panic attack due to the sensory nightmare he’s been subjected to all goddamn day, but when Raph finally pauses enough in carrying the groceries back to notice how Donnie is about ready to shake out of his own shell—when his jangled nerves and overly harsh breathing are met with a quiet “you good, buddy?” and he opens his mouth to answer—suddenly he can’t talk. 

Oh god, oh god, he can’t fucking talk. 

He tries. He tries so hard. He’s practically shaking so hard that his entire frame is vibrating at that point, breath rattling in his throat, but Donnie somehow manages to convince himself that he can at least get one syllable out in the midst of what is quite clearly one of the worst panic attacks he’s had in his entire life. He fights and claws and begs his stupid tongue to just let him form words, but all of a sudden it’s as though a bubble has formed in his throat, thick and cloying and choking him, and Donnie slides into a fetal position before he can fully comprehend what he’s doing, a frustrated hiss rising in his gut as the only vocalization that his traitorous vocal cords feel like making. He feels the hot burn of tears rising in his eyes, thick and shameful, but he can’t bring himself to care because he’s supposed to be the science guy, he’s supposed to have all the answers, he’s supposed to be able to hold himself together better than this and what good is that if he can’t even speak, if he can’t even form a singular syllable, if he’s been reduced to his most basic and animalistic instincts—

Please please please just let me talk just let me talk I won’t be a useless burden to my family not again not again please please please—

“—onnie? Donnie!” The words come to him like they’re underwater, all distorted and wavering, but Donnie tries to latch onto them all the same, tries to use them as an anchor point to keep himself from entirely dropping off the precipice he seems to be looming on. There’s a distant thud that must be Raph dropping the groceries, and then the larger form of his brother looms up within his vision, and even though it’s blurry as all hell and Donnie’s not sure if his eyes are entirely focused on Raph when the two of them lock gazes, he tries his best to take it as the comforting sign that it is. “Hey, hey, bud, talk to me. Can you still hear me?” 

Yes, of course I can still hear you, I’m not entirely an invalid. That’s what he desperately wants to say, but his heart is still beating a mile a minute within his chest and when he tries to get the syllables out he chokes on them instead, because they feel positively leaden in his throat, and that only makes his breathing quicken even more—

Donnie flinches backward so hard that his battle shell nearly collides with the wall as he feels a sudden pair of hands wrap around his own, gently but firmly forcing them away from—his neck? Had he started to claw at his own neck without realizing it? “Sorry, sorry. Know you don’t like us touchin’ you without any warning. ‘M not gonna do that again, alright? I just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself. You were…you were leavin’ welts, Donnie.” A beat, and then Raph’s voice comes again, soft and gentle in a way that doesn’t allow itself to stray into being patronizing—the way that only his big brother can manage. “Know I’m not as good at this stuff as Mikey is, but can ya try breathin’ with me? Nice an’ slow. In an’ out, just like this, see?” 

It's slow going at first. Donnie’s breath seems determined to hitch in his throat, no matter what he tries to quell the panic response. He has to resort to the old method that he and Mikey had come up with to regulate his emotional responses—slowly touching one finger to another and then repeating the pattern, over and over again, just so that he has something to concentrate on other than the tidal wave of panic that’s threatening to swallow him whole. Donnie tries his best to focus on the rest of what his body is doing as well, in that moment—relaxing his tense muscles, unclenching his jaw, slowly easing himself away from the hard surface of the nearest wall. It’s monotonous and unorthodox, but it lets his brain focus on the task at hand just enough to regulate his breathing into a pace that’s slightly less frantic. He takes a breath, tries to will a syllable to the front of his lips—and still nothing. Another hiss leaves his teeth as he leans back, brows furrowed in irritation. 

Figures. Figures that everything would be back to normal except the most crucial part of him.

Raph seems to realize his difficulty a beat before he does, expression softening even further as he leans forward. “Just a hunch, Don, but…is talkin’ hard for you, right now?” 

Oh, thank Galileo, he’s being met with understanding, instead of the automatic assumption that he’s refusing to speak out of some fit of temper. Donnie nods shakily, breathing still stuttering in his throat by the smallest of degrees until he manages to force the wave of anxiety down. 

“Heh. Kinda figured. You, uh…used t’ get like this sometimes when we were kids. Dad explained it, once. Said it happens when you get too overwhelmed with something.” 

He…had? Donnie can’t exactly clearly remember any events from his childhood until he was about eight or so, something which should probably distress him more than it does. He remembers being told that he started talking far later than a child his age ordinarily would, and if he strains his brain hard enough to recall the details, he can remember not necessarily being unable to talk back then–just not quite seeing the need to. And if he goes back even further, he can vaguely recall the same all-encompassing feeling of terror that he’d felt the moment he had first discovered that the power of speech had been robbed from him. Beyond that, everything appears to be a terrifyingly blank void. 

He’ll…take Raph’s word for it in this particular instance, then. Donnie forces himself to nod in agreement, still staring somewhat blankly at his older brother as he continues. “We kinda came up with some…hand signals? Sign language? Somethin’ like that. When we were kids. For when you were like this, I mean. Do you remember that?” 

There’s a beat in which Donnie considers, furrowing his brow in thought. He then shakes his head no rather resolutely. 

“Alright, that’s fine. I’ll teach it to you later, maybe, if ya want. Guess I’ll just do yes or no questions for now.” Raph seems to take a moment, flitting his gaze upward to watch the drip-drop of water from above them before settling it back on Donnie. “Feelin’ any better?” 

Well, that’s a loaded question. He’s at least feeling slightly less like the world has suddenly tilted over on him. He feels like he’s back on solid ground again, not stuck inside a washing machine on the spin cycle with no earthly idea of which way was up or down. But the random spikes of anxiety are still rushing through him whenever he lets his guard down, and his head feels disconcertingly like it’s full of cotton, and there’s a dull throbbing behind his temples that he should probably be directing a bit more concern towards. And then there’s the fact that he more or less forced Raph to throw the grocery bags onto the ground in panic at the start of all of this. Donnie is going to pray to whatever deity feels like listening to him in that moment that there was nothing breakable in any of those bags–the thorough chewing-out that he got from Mikey the last time he wasn’t quite careful enough with the carton of eggs he was tasked with bringing home still sticks in his head like a thorn, whenever he cares to dwell on it. 

And then there’s the fact that he can’t actually articulate any of that, because the words that he wants to say are still stubbornly lodged in his throat. Donnie settles for lifting one hand and making a wobbling motion back and forth with it, the closest approximation that he can get to “could be better, could be worse”. 

“Yeah. I get it.” Raph exhales a quiet breath, seemingly turning his gaze toward the downed groceries. At Donnie’s remorseful look upon seeing that their loaf of bread now has quite the sizable dent in it, he claps one hand around Donnie’s shoulder as gently as possible, either ignoring or choosing to ignore the startled squeak that the motion elicits. “Hey. Don’t worry about the groceries, alright? We can get more later if Dad or Mikey complains. I care about you, not the food. ‘S not your fault for gettin’ overwhelmed. I, uh…probably should’ve checked in with you sooner, ‘bout all the noise and everything. I know sometimes the city gets a little…y’know. Much. For you.”

Even though the words are soft and understanding, Donnie still feels a pang of guilt run through him as he listens to them. Great. He’s mucked up yet another family outing because he can’t just get his shit together and act like a functioning member of society, again, and now Raph thinks that it was somehow some shortcoming of his that had caused all of this. As much as it’s in his older brother’s nature to try and be Atlas, shouldering all of their burdens for them, Donnie can’t have Raph blaming himself for inadequacies that were all his own. It somehow makes the situation sting even more, for reasons that he can’t quite fathom. 

So it is that he taps the floor beside him after a moment to get Raph’s attention, trying to scrawl out words in the mud and dust beneath him even as a part of his brain recoils at the sensory nightmare that the cool texture is. He’ll thoroughly scrub himself down later, or at least sit under bath water that’s just on the edge of being scalding until either his brain manages to convince him that he’s sanitized enough or someone drags him out and accuses him of wasting water. 

(Donnie’s not sure what they expect from him, on account of softshells being a semi-aquatic species and the fact that his instinct-driven brain likes to come to the forefront whenever he so much as touches water, but hey.)

NOT YOUR FAULT, he writes out, then swipes a hand through to erase it before starting again. SHOULD HAVE LET YOU KNOW SOONER. GOT DISTRACTED. Shame pricks at his system over that, like an overly large thorn digging into his side. If he just hadn’t allowed his brain to get overwhelmed in the first place, if he’d just spoken up at the first sign of discomfort instead of shoving it down and treating it like some kind of hindrance, they wouldn’t even be in this situation right now. But no. Good old Donnie just had to be stubborn, as always, and now his thoughts hiss at him as he sits there with his knees pulled up to his chest, resolutely avoiding Raph’s gaze. Hah. Because you didn’t speak up, now you can’t even speak at all. Then again, maybe that’s BETTER for you. Can’t screw up and make people mad at you if you can’t speak at ALL. Maybe you should just stay this way PERMANENTLY. Then you wouldn’t be such a fucking NUISANCE to everyone– 

Suddenly, Donnie is grateful for the fact that he can’t scream “shut up” at his own thoughts until his throat turns bloody and raw. He’s not sure he would be able to resist the temptation had he actually been able to speak at that moment, and he doesn’t need Raph to look at him like any more of a nutcase. He settles for a low, irritated hiss under his breath instead, knowing that his older brother will likely interpret it as a sign that he’s tired and wants to head home as soon as possible rather than an outburst against his own traitorous mind. 

Thank heavens, Raph responds exactly as Donnie is expecting. “Wanna just head home? We can just chill for the rest of the night, if you want.” 

Nod.

“Okay. You, uh…feel up to walkin’, or do you need me to carry you?” 

In response–half out of wanting to prove that he’s actually as alright as he wants to believe he is, and half out of not wanting to be seen as any more of an invalid–Donnie hauls himself upright, swaying dangerously but by some miracle managing to keep his balance. He cocks one drawn-on eyebrow towards Raph, then, letting his gaze convey what his words can’t. Congratulations, Raphela, it turns out your dearest younger brother is not COMPLETELY helpless. Please hold your applause. 

Raph snorts out a laugh under his breath, stopping himself just short of giving the softshell an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Alright, alright. Point taken. Help me get the bags, and we’ll go back.” 

He huffs out a breath between his teeth then–an affectionate sound, dear eldest sibling, he assures you it is entirely affectionate–and gingerly moves to scoop up the bag nearest to him, letting out a small sigh of relief as he looks it over and sees that there are no breakable items in this particular one. Donnie ends up hoisting three more onto his arms before they set off again, half out of a desire to prove that he can still be at least semi-useful and half to show off. 

(It takes him the better part of two hours to finally start forming syllables again, as it turns out. He goes to his usual method of trying to block out his emotions once they’re home–shutting himself in the lab, working on tinkering with the new security system he has in mind–and when Mikey comes in with a small cup of water for him, what he means to say is thank you for the cup, Mikey, your devotion to making sure I stay properly hydrated is greatly appreciated. Instead, when he opens his mouth, the bubble that’s been stubbornly lodged in his throat for the past two hours finally dissipates enough to let him get out a rather strangled “cup” under his breath. Mikey looks overjoyed over it, clapping his hands together in excitement, and Donnie has to fight down the surge of shame and embarrassment that rises up within him long enough to attempt to celebrate with him. 

The shame lingers as they attempt to teach him the modified sign language, should he have a repeat of this problem in the future. His traitorous hands don’t seem to want to stop shaking long enough to mirror the signs they show him with any degree of accuracy, and a part of his brain rebels at even needing this kind of coping mechanism in his life. He doesn’t need to wave his hands around to try and get his point across. He’s perfectly capable of using his voice under normal circumstances. What kind of idiot must he be, to stop being able to speak just because he’d gotten a little too stressed all of a sudden? He doesn’t need this…this coddling, or whatever it is that they’re trying to do. He can surely manage to talk on his own. He won’t be a burden. He won’t be broken.

Donnie finally shoos them away, hissing and clicking viciously out of frustration and anger, and resolves to never let his words be stolen from him again. Even when he’s stressed. Even when words feel too hard. Surely he can just…force himself to talk through the bubble that forms within his throat every single time an instance like this occurs. 

He quickly finds out that forcing himself doesn’t work, though. He’s forced to either fall back on the sign language, or lapse into sullen silence each time, and all the while the pain and humiliation spikes higher and higher and higher. 

Why can’t you just be normal. Why can’t you just talk. Why can’t you just be normal.

I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying. Leave me alone. Please. 

But unlike his own voice, the one in his head never stops whispering.)