The Mutated Firefly

"Don, yous listen t’me. We got measurin’ cups ‘n da like. Cookin’ ‘s about a lil more faith ‘n a lil less science, y’get?"

Don gaped, looking scandalized. “But-” He struggled uselessly with the attempt to verbalize the utter blasphemy of such a thing to his delicate science ears. “But you can’t measure faith!” He finally said in a burst of incredulity. Pop was beyond the point of contention. She was already spelunking through the kitchen’s cabinets and drawers, the expression on her face growing graver by the second, as all she emerged with was a crayon scribbled measuring cup.

“If you mean ‘do we subscribe to the woefully inaccurate measurements of modern cooking’, then no.” Don answered. He paused, considering something. “Though on that note, I don’t think we’ve ever really subscribed to any kind of measurements. Leo kind of eyeballs it and Mikey just…well, he kind of just throws the entirety of the spice rack at whatever it is he’s doing. And Raph doesn’t touch the stove. Ever.”

He picked the rainbow coloured cup out of her hand, scrutinizing it as if it was a foreign object from Mars; which, for all intensive purposes, it was. Don couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever seen a measuring cup in the kitchen, let alone one with…. did someone try to draw a unicorn on it too?

“Maybe… I should jus’ make dinner t’night.”

Don plopped the measuring cup onto the counter with a start. “Wha- no! I mean, that wasn’t why I asked you over. I just thought- I really wanted to-” He shut his mouth, breathing out through his nose in an attempt to calm the sudden frantic workings of his mind. He honestly wasn’t sure what he intended. It just seemed like something normal and ordinary and mundane to do- the kind of thing humans did for other humans when they sort of liked them and wanted to do something special…

Right?

He was nervous around her.

SKETCH OFF

thefireflymutant

"Hey, if my lab scale can accurately measure solvents to the .001 decimal place-"

"Don, we ain't experimentin', yer makin' ramen... er somethin', y'ain't said yet," Pop sighed, but he was already crouched down at the table and was trying to scour through each grain of salt to make sure they were just perfect. Her hands rested on her hips as her head slowly fell to the side, "Dooooonn."

Nope, no luck.

"Do you know how inaccurate modern culinary measurements are? Grams are so much more reliable than teaspoons," he was still plucking when she finally made her way over and took the salt dispenser away from him, lifting it up and out, as far out of his reach as she possibly could as her foot took to his plastron and kept him poised out of reach from it.

"Don, yous listen t'me. We got measurin' cups 'n da like. Cookin' 's about a lil more faith 'n a lil less science, y'get?" she lifted her hand and using the other got a measuring spoon out of the drawer, or rather, she was looking for one. Her brow furrowed the deeper she dug, and finally started digging around in the other drawers.

Like there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep Mikey from harm if it came down to him or his brother. Like he wouldn’t move mountains if it meant keeping Mikey sheltered and safe from all harm. And though Mikey brought out a streak of protectiveness in him that went deeper than blood and bone, Don wouldn’t do all that for Mikey simply because he was the youngest,

No, he would do all that because Mikey was his brother. And older or not, he’d do the same damn thing for Leo and Raph too.

“But the fact that he’s keeping me out of this because of some twisted sense of duty isn’t going to matter if he winds up getting hurt because of this. It’s not going to reassure me if he winds up dead because of it.” He stared at his hands, things that he could never find the words for spilling out so freely to the last person who needed to hear them. It was Raph who needed to know. Raph who needed to hear. And yet something always got in the way, be it ego or pride, or something of the two. He flexed his fingers, letting them fall limp on his legs.

“I don’t want to be shoved to the side because it’s dangerous.” He murmured softly. “I want to be there to make sure whatever’s so dangerous about it doesn’t end him.”

He went quiet, picking at his fingers, aware of Pop’s reassuring heat. All he’d done was rant and rave, accomplishing nothing save to make this girl he knew only on a tree trunk throw her arms around him in attempt to comfort. And yet he already felt some bit of the burden that had been dropped on him, lifting, if only slightly.

He sighed, sparing a glance at Pop. She was so eager to help… Though it was against everything he knew to every ask anyone outside his family for help, he was surprised at how quickly he was willing to consider it.

She took in a long, slow breath and let it exhale in a warm whoosh of air, letting her arms stay around the turtle as he continued to absently pull and pick at his fingers. He was angry, upset, and rightfully so. Worrying about his family was going to be the death of him, though, so she let him spill it out as much as possible, let him use her as his soundboard, as his anchor, as his diary or his tissue or whatever he needed. He didn't get it at home, and to carry so much wasn't healthy for anyone, even him. She pressed her cheek against his after a while, his request not falling on deaf ears she smiled and nodded slightly, making their skin brush just slightly together.

"I'll make sure y'get any info I can. If I hear of any weird toitle like stuff, I'll be sendin' it yer way," she didn't move otherwise from their position, not that she really wanted to, either. He was warm, but at the same time, she could feel that chill deep inside of him that resonated whenever he had these moments; these situations where he felt he was completely helpless and just living through life in a rut and a twisted, ironic routine. She knew how hard it was for him to even admit that he felt anything at all to her; that he had to trust her in the first place. For all he knew, she was just a human.

She could turn on him at any second, and it felt like, sometimes, he was always tensing up and bracing himself for it. That he found it more believable that she would stab him in the bac- er - shell, than that she actually would care and understand him, or more so have any feelings for him. It hurt her to some degree, but she accepted whatever he had to give her and she was grateful for it.

Her eyes closed as her arms pulled him closer still, this time not trying to push herself on him, trying to force him into an awkward position like she normally did to tease and taunt at his shyness, no. This was protective, comforting, and... It could almost be akin to something motherly, in a way. She wanted to help him so badly, to take this pain and this worry away from him. She wanted him to live his life, as limited as that would be, instead of always worrying if his brothers were going to be alive the next morning.

He didn’t want to see her.

Donatello stood rigid, face to face with a ghost. Years had gone by and he’d prepared himself for the day when he would face his brothers again, cutting all weaknesses of the heart. It had been surprisingly easy. The fire that had seared him black and raw and turned him into this, was the same one he used to burn the bridges of brotherhood straight into the ground. He thought he was done. Free. He thought he’d planned and prepared for every circumstance.

But she didn’t factor into any of his equations. She never did.

It always came down to blood. The blood. His blood, a viscous betrayal that threw it in league with the Devil himself, for every time the Devil spoke, it ran out in sanguine rivers.

“ThEy LeFt YoU,” The devil said, words cleaving red. “AlL oF tHeM, EvErY lAsT oNe.”

Sliced empty, laid bare,

“YoUr BrOtHeRs, YoUr FaThEr, YoUr FrIeNdS. EvEn YoUr LoVe,” Nothing left for him but to absorb it all, static cackles filling his cotton ears. “DoN’t LoOk So SuRpRiSeD. ThErE iS lItTlE I dOn’T kNoW. AlL oF tHeM gOnE. NoNe LeFt. HoW eXpEnDaBlE YoU wErE.”

The voice may have been the Devil, but who was he to deny it? Who was she to tell him otherwise?

She was around him, cutting off escape as he stood there lost in woe, realizing too late that she was close, too close, his limbs locked in her coils. Animal instinct tore to the surface, pupils dilating, beak snarling- Away, away, away, It screamed, escape, escape, escape- as she drew tighter, loomed closer, arms catching his bucking, panicked form within something he had not experienced in nigh on four years.

A hug. A simple, desperate, heart felt hug. Donatello went utterly still. There was tension in his every muscle, his entire body rigid like a stone pillar- But he’d stopped fighting. He’d stopped running. He was frozen, save for the frantic heaving of his lungs.

Her arms kept around him, though their grip was slowly growing weaker with each second. She could only be so strong for so long before even she caved. A faint sound of pain escaped, not a whimper, not a yelp or grunt even so much as just, a wounded, choked moan as a hand finally came down to grip into her wound, trying to hold it closed as the pain started making her see stars. Her eyes felt hazy, her entire body felt heavy, and she couldn’t bring herself to fight it anymore. Her coils dropped around him, sinking to the floor as she pulled away and gripped at the table behind him.

A first aid kit. There had to be something.

There had to be something..

She was losing it. As hard as she looked without jostling his things, she couldn’t see anything that resembled a medical kit and she knew she was done for. She let out another sound as her body curled somewhat, and her head turned back to Donnie. He probably had nothing here because he never planned on surviving, or caring if he lived or died for that matter; there was little chance that there’d be anything to help, and now she would have to pay for it, and her crimes. Her abandoning him as much as he had abandoned her.

He didn’t let go. He’d done so once. He wasn’t sure if he would ever forgive himself for that.

“I’m sorry…” Don’s eyes were screwed closed, beak pressed into her crown. He stroked her hair, a steady, soothing rhythm. “I’m so sorry…”

He should have been there. Should have been there to help. Should have been there to support.

He should have just been there. For her. If for nothing else, than for her.

Slowly, like it pained him, Don pulled back. He gripped her shoulders, looking her in the eyes with naked fear, still afraid of so much- but it wasn’t going to stop him this time. He was determined. It couldn’t get in the way. He wouldn’t let it. She needed him too much for that and seeing Pop like this, assailed by unexplained contaminants, changing in unpredictable ways…

It made him realize that he needed her more.

She missed their chats while sitting in the tree. Watching joggers and folk walk by and trying to guess what they were, what they were saying, just their stupid games.

She missed skating with him while he was on his board, jumping and parkouring through New York City like the entire town was their damn ramp.

She missed bringing him little trinkets and things she'd find while in the dump or while out and about and how excited he would get, or would pretend to get at getting anything.

She missed him.

She clenched her eyes shut as he started pulling away, half expecting him to just walk off from guilt or anger again, but no, instead he held onto her shoulders and tried so very hard to look her in the eye again. She chanced one eye open, then the other, and saw something she was quite used to seeing on his face.

Fear. Vulnerability. Uncertainty.

Though this fear, it was an actual scared fear more than the obnoxiously adorable shyness he had back then. Now it seemed that shyness was gone and a far more serious emotion had long since taken its place. His hands held her firm as though any second she would disappear if he so much as breathed on her, and she couldn't even hear his words at first.

It's going to be okay.

She snorted softly under her breath, chancing a glance at their surroundings she pulled her hood back and let him get a better look, he was closer now, so he could see those scaly patches, that she was literally changing every second of every day, little by little. She was losing her humanity, though all she had left really was what she remembered, and her very soul itself, her core personality at this point. She inhaled, then exhaled, a slow plume of smoke rising, "... I ain't  scared of wut 'm turnin' into. Ain't much different den you," She lifted her arms and pulled her sleeves back, revealing angry marks on her arms, scars from either battles or burns or what have you, but they had nasty, ugly scales that were darker, more brittle than her skin, jagged like beaded lizard flesh, even.

The amount of venom Pop managed to squeeze into those eleven words was enough to make Don hesitate. He fixed her with that same puzzled look he’d leveled at her before, only now he truly seemed to be trying to gaze right through her. He wondered what on earth had happened during her short life to have filled her with that kind of bitterness.

“They’re people,” He said, by way of quiet explanation. “Capable of the worst things you can imagine. And the best. Complex. Like a lot of things.”

Namely the girl sitting before him with a self assured exterior that seemed to falter, for the breath of a heartbeat, on the subject of the inscrutable nature of her eyes. The more he stared the more he sure he was that it was not the moonlight, that there was something odd here that he hadn’t noticed before-

But ‘cool, collected scientist’ had nothing on ‘awkward teenage boy’. It took but a single smile and a few cheeky words for Don’s focus to crumble like a piece of cheap glass.

“What!?” He jerked back so fast, he nearly knocked himself out of the tree. If not for years of training, he would have. “No!” Don said, a little too quickly. He blanched, realizing the folly of that single word.

“I-I mean, not that you’re NOT pretty, I just don’t think you are- No! No, what I mean is, that I do think you’re pretty, but that’s not why I was- I wasn’t going to SAY it,”

”Kill me now…”

Ooooh, he could feel himself digging himself into a hole. 6 feet deep and still chugging. He found the good sense to shut his mouth, sneaking a mortified glance at Pop. She had her glasses off. Whatever he thought he’d seen, he could see no traces of it now. He found himself staring again, this time in bewilderment. But…No, he hadn’t imagined that… He was sure-

"Though if yer gonna say m’eyes sparkle like da stars, I ain’t gonna stop ya."

Glad for the darkness, Don didn’t want to think about how stupid he must have looked as the coquettish wink sent him blundering all over again.

“I-I wasn’t! I’m telling you, it wasn’t because they’re pretty- Not that I’m saying they’re NOT pretty, I-”

Still diiigging that hole…

Don gave a tormented whine, face palming his own futility. “Stop making me DO that!”

She was always one to give and give while others always took from her. However, now wasn't exactly the time to be ho-humming about her past, he started his little trip down Stutterlane and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud at him. Each time he tried to think of a way of not sounding like he was insulting her, he just insulted her more! Or admitted to having some sort of attraction to her or just being an all around little nerdling that he was.

She lifted her hand and let her head tilt to rest against her cheek, tapping her fingers against her temple as her brows rose and a smile started spreading across her face, "Don."

She reached over once he started whining, cupping either side of his face to trap him and actually rub her nose against the end of his beak, "I ain't makin' yous do nuttin'. Dat's alll you," she let a soft laugh escape, leaning back somewhat and letting herself settle against the branches once more, "'s adorable, too."

Don drew his hand back. His eyes were fixed on Pop’s face, frozen there.

It was wrong. Her face was simply wrong, familiar but foreign all at once. He watched it contort, shifting with snake like venom.

"Cocky lil shit, thinkin’ yous can jus’ disrobe me like dat," 

And though he didn’t mean to, though it was the fault of instinct, though he regretted it the minute his body reacted before his mind could make it stay, Don flinched back.

Dear God…. dear God, April had been right. More right than she knew. His mind was reeling. How did this happen? How on earth did Pop come into contact with mutagen?

The how….the why. For once it didn’t matter. Don simply stared, and all at once every barefisted defense he had, every reinforced wall, melted around him in waves. He stepped towards her, and whether she wanted it or not, he suddenly had her trapped, his arms wrapped tight around her in a fierce, shaking hug.

What made her stay those extra few seconds, she wasn't sure, but it gave Donnie enough time to suddenly hug onto her tightly and mumble against her crown. Her eyes squeezed shut and she felt her hands shaking as they came to his coat, or whatever he was wearing as some sort of pitiful disguise, gripping the material for several seconds and then just falling limp against him, "Don't, please... Jus' don't..."

She shook her head against him and even tried pulling away from him; fear to pity in less than ten seconds, that was a new low for her. She kept her eyes closed and a fist came up to give a single pound against his plastron, "Y'ain't s'possed t'be pityin' me, d-don'chu do it," she couldn't keep her voice from cracking again, knowing it was a sign of weakness. She had to be strong, after all; what if he just left again? He could just walk away the second he got scared again and she refused to bear that.

She couldn't.

You know, maybe if he wasn’t in pain right now, he’d actually enjoy testing her…

His thoughts (Blood loss, tooootally blood loss) were interrupted as Pop reappeared at his side, setting two items beside him. The first, he recognized. It was a cheap bottle of whiskey he kept in his on-field first aid kit, introduced as an important add on after that one time Raph broke his arm during a fight with the Foot, and the longest twenty minutes it took to reset it. He met Pop’s questioning look with a shrug.

“For emergencies…” He said.

The pills, however, were new. He had to blink a few times to make out the name, at which point it was his turn to give Pop the questioning look. It was clear that she expected him to pick one. He glanced between the two, unencouraged by Pop’s prompting.

“I can…I can manage.” Pop was right. There was no telling what the pills would do. He knew a few that he’d used in the past that were safe, but there was no telling when you mixed an opioid with mutant turtle anatomy. And as for the whiskey- Just the smell of that stuff was enough to burn the back of his throat, he didn’t want to think of what drinking it would do.

She looked to him then, "Take it," she even lifted the glass up at him, about nearly shoving it in his beak as she waited. She wasn't going to start the worst part until she knew he was at least a little buzzed. That and he would be less likely to tense up so she could stitch it properly without his body tearing the stitches during normal daily activities. She took to the cleansing materials and made a face at the smell of the chemicals; well, if he hadn't tried using a motor oil rag, she wouldn't have to do this so much. However..

She took a deep breath for him, and took to cleaning it, though as she did, she immediately began exhaling against the wound as the cleansing fluids took their tole against his wounds, trying to dry it and keep the stinging to a bare minimum in the process. It was something that her mother had done for her as a child when she'd scraped her knee or something else along those lines and, well, it jsut came to her to do something like that for him, too. He was already in enough pain after all, right?

Her breath was warm, heated by her inner core as she went to get the other materials, carefully examining each side of the wound and looking up to him shortly after, "Imma have t'sew dis up. Can't have a huge open wound like dis, but I can suture it afta I sew it. Thread ain't gonna melt on ya since y'got good stuff at least fer dat," she waited to make sure he'd at least got the shot down before putting her sewing skills to work. Without missing a beat, she started the stitching process. It took maybe three minutes at most as she moved quickly, stitching as was necessary instead of overdoing it and making needless pain as she kept the wound pressed together. As taut as it was drawn, was the biggest issue, thankful that most of the meat hadn't split to the point of leaving a huge, gaping wound.

“Motor belt,” Don hissed, pressing the towel tight against the gash. It was hardly the most hygienic thing he had on hand, dirty with motor oil and grease, as was every inch of him, and only now was Donatello considering the implications. Shit, that was smart.

“Snapped….It was due…to be replaced but I thought it had a couple more months in it… at the least,” He threw aside the rag, immediately regretting it. His leg was doing its best impression of a slow fountain and his hands were hardly the best way to contain it. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to get up so he could hobble over to where he kept the first aid kit, but Pop was having none of that.

“I got it,” He did not have it in the slightest, but stubbornness was a disease born of stupid decisions at the worst of times, and the pained fog settling in his head was doing him few favours. He once again tried to get up, only to find himself promptly manhandled back down, Pop’s eyes narrowed.

"Don, if yous don’ settle down, Imma give yous hickeys all over yer neck ‘n shoulders ‘n tell yer bruddas exactly wut dey are, now sit!”

She spotted where he was motioning toward and made her way to the small cabinet. Inside she found everything they needed, as well as a ... Was that a bottle of whiskey? It was barely touched, so she assumed it was medicinal, but judging from the brand she could understand why it hadn't been touched. She shook her head as she took it, the shot glass, and the kit with towel in hand, "All right. Yer gonna have t'take dis, den," she waggled the bottle at him, "Or ya could take da painkillers I got, but I ain't sure if dey're turtle friendly," she fumbled about inside of her jacket and pulled out an actual prescription (For her even) of Loritab. What it was for, she hadn't really spoken about but one pill was enough to knock your ass out.

It was a sharp jab, like a punch. He winced, ducking his eyes. How could he dare even look at her?

But he had to.

He had to because that answer told him everything about how fine Pop truly was. He knew stubborn denial when he saw it. He knew because he was guilty of it, with his brothers, with his father- with her. In the beginning, always with her. And yet unlike the others, she saw through him, pushed her way to the truth. There was nothing he could hide from Pop. He learned that quick enough. But after spending so many nights in her company, there was little Pop could hide from him either.

Masks were never her thing.

“That’s not what I meant.” Don said. He looked at her, pleading. Her hand felt coarse in his, like sandpaper. “I just want to know if you’re okay. If you’re in trouble… if something’s happened or…” He cut off, swallowing a breath like it was water. “Listen, I’m…I’m sorry. I just…”

Panicked, Freaked out, couldn’t use logic and reason to decipher the serendipity that brought to him someone so vital and wonderful, when he was nothing but a freak, an outcast, someone who existed as a cognitive, rational being because of some accident of science. He didn’t know how to voice dark thoughts like those. Thoughts that only ever snuck up on him when he saw something that he couldn’t have because of what he was.

“I’ve never done this before, okay? And I know that’s not an excuse but you have to understand. Trouble finds us. It always has. It always will. And…and I know you can handle yourself, this isn’t some misguided attempt at chivalry,-” He rambled, the words falling clunky from his lips. How do you explain Fear incarnate?

“I can’t stand the thought of losing you, okay?”

He looked at her, catching her eyes as they glimmered beneath the shadows of her hood. Even after everything, he missed those eyes. He missed them so-

"Cocky lil shit, thinkin' yous can jus' disrobe me like dat," she hissed, trying to keep herself hidden from view but her arm just wasn't enough. Her face was littered with scales, freckled and dotted across her cheeks and nose, the nose itself slimmer, flatter even against her face. The nostrils were barely noticeable form the slits, and her lips were slightly scaled, no longer wearing that rainbow look but a black color to make it as little of a distraction as possible. Most thought she was just being an emo little goth kid or something, but no.

She was hiding.

He'd see the underplating forming just under her chin, a small peak flaring out slowly the further down it went across her form deeper into the hoodie that still hid most of her body from view at least. Her legs were weaker than they used to be, no longer holding that strong muscle they used to from the calf down into the skates, though her hips and thighs seemed to have that same thick, muscular meat on them. She was misshapen in a way, wearing darker clothes made it less noticeable, but to someone like Donatello, he'd notice. He'd memorized everything about her, after all, there was no way he wouldn't notice.