Work Text:
This had to be by far the worst idea he had ever followed through on yet.
Donatello Hamato is not a quitter, nor does he fail often, if ever! But maybe, he thinks, just this once he may have gone and fucked things up beyond comprehension.
He’s currently sitting perched against the edge of his wide workstation table, his arms folded up in front of him and legs crossed in the perfect standing rendition of full-body perplexion. He has one hand tucked into the crook of his other arm’s elbow. His other hand is clasped over his mouth as he squints across the lab at his latest creation.
There, fiddling through his things like he’s at a Microcenter bargain-bin sale is a mirror reflection of himself.
Well.
Himself, if he were made head to toe from weapon-grade titanium.
“Are you hoping I’ll spontaneously combust under the weight of your glare, or are we more narcissistic than I was initially led to believe?” His metal clone addresses him, not even bothering to lift his head out of the boxes of spare parts and baubles he’s currently rifling through.
“The former,” Donnie says without hesitation, arms shifting to propel himself away from his workstation and close the gap to hover a few feet behind the metal statue.
It’s odd, seeing himself from an external angle. Like dissociation, but in full high-definition quality. The heebie-jeebies? Whatever the feeling was, he didn’t like it. He watches his metallic double quickly toss various spare parts into his hands; the perfect assembly list of items to fix up an older copy of his armband display. Donnie glances at the clone’s bare titanium arm and raises an eyebrow.
“I knew my mystic abilities were effective, but I didn’t think it would be this exacting,” he mutters, shifting his goggles over his eyes to take what must have been the 50th data sample this evening. Through his visor he can see the metal teeming with his own purple energy, working through the statue’s body like nerve endings and bloodwork.
His clone shrugs a single shoulder, still not willing to spare Donnie a glance as he works. “Well, that was the purpose by which you made me, correct? To see if synergy between your understanding of mechanical execution and your mystic energy would replicate the similar issue you tend to execute in code; accidental sentience. But instead, here I am; an echo of your sense of self.” He stands, satisfied with the parts in his hands before making his way over to Donnie’s workstation. He quickly gets to work upgrading an old prototype wristband, bringing it up-to-scope with Donnie’s current iterative design.
Donnie’s eye twitches when he sees the casual ease by which the statue (automaton? hybrid robot?) handles his equipment like it belongs to him. Which, in a sense, kind of does.
“What’s the purpose behind building yourself a functional armband? Comfort? If so, why not equip the prototype?” Donnie peers over his clone’s shoulder, waving away a wisp of smoke that suddenly floats his way as solder wire melts onto an exposed PCB. He squints at the lack of protective equipment, but stops when he realizes that a Donnie made of metal probably doesn’t have lungs that require protection. Donnie loses that train of thought quickly when he registers the smug expression on his lesser clone’s face.
Titanium-Donnie finishes his upgrade of his own tech gauntlet. He assesses the build before clicking the metal shield in place, securing the internal circuitry and powering on the screen before sliding it onto his left arm. Only then does he bother to shoot a pointed look over his shoulder at Donnie-Original.
“Oh, this? Communication, primarily. Since it seems you’ve forgotten about the mutual guest we promised to host this evening.” He taps his own screen smugly, activating the external camera feed to reveal that there’s someone waiting out by the main entrance; you.
Donnie recoils, eyes wide as reality swiftly catches up with him. His eyes dart to his clock, fingers scrambling across his own screen to confirm the appointment he had so painstakingly penned into his digital calendar before.
Oh no.
He had gotten so caught up in his research that he had forgotten that you and him made plans to work through one of your personal projects together. He sees you idling by the entrance of the lair on his own gauntlet’s camera feed, shuffling a large box of parts from one arm to the other as you clearly mull over whether you should phone a reminder to Donnie about your planned arrival or not.
Before he can react, Titanium-Donnie has already queued a request to S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. to help you into the lair. Donnie scoffs in offense. He’ll have to ensure his latest project no longer has access to his internal protocols. He eyes his screen and his discontent doubles when he sees the lair’s communication mic activate, carrying his clone’s near-identical voice through the comms.
“Apologies for the delay, dearest. I’ve been a bit caught up and didn’t have the opportunity to unlock the entryway for you. It should be open now.”
Donnie’s eyes threaten to pop out of his skull as he watches his clone speak into his wristband with blasé panache. His gaze snaps back to his camera feed, watching your eyes widen in similar shock. He swears he can catch the way your ears turn a shade darker despite the poor quality of the feed. Donnie snaps back towards his clone, brow set low as he bodily gets in his space to ensure he can’t hit the push-to-talk button again before he speaks.
“And what, might I ask, do you think you’re doing?” Donnie huffs, trying his best to bottle the uneasy feeling pinballing its way through his torso. Titanium-Donnie shrugs, still with that infuriatingly smug expression on his face.
“I haven’t the slightest what you’re referring to, he said with utmost sincerity,” he says, shrugging and doing his best to put on an air of innocence. Donnie sputters.
“You called her dearest.” Donnie’s tone is harsh and biting, but he’s still conscious of keeping his volume low. His heart is thudding beneath his ribcage; he’s dreadfully aware that you’re en route. The conscious realization reminds him that he has a limited window to act. His gaze zips around for a good place where he can hide his latest creation before you breach the entrance to the lab.
Titanium-Donnie just sighs dramatically, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “That’s between me and her, I’m afraid.” Another sly grin breaks across his metal features. “Or it might be more accurate to say, it will be.”
Before Donnie can launch into a biting response, Titanium-Donnie’s expression quickly shifts as he peers over Donnie’s shoulders. He shoves Donnie out of the way unceremoniously, caring little for the way the excessive force nearly topples the softshell turtle.
Donnie pales when he spots the cause of his clone’s sudden shift in attitude. You’ve made it to the lab. You’re standing at the top of the stairwell, your box of supplies tucked under one arm. Donnie’s heart catches in his throat like it always does when he sees you, infuriatingly. At least every other time he's been with you, he can at least trust himself to behave. Now, with his most recent metal mistake bounding your way, he can't even find solace in that.
===
To your credit, you’ve taken a lot of Donnie’s usual antics in stride. Him and his family have really done a number on your general impression of what normal entails, so walking up and into Donnie’s lab space to see not one, but two mutant softshell turtles isn’t by far the zaniest thing you’ve seen to date.
Unfortunately for you, two Donatellos is anything but healthy for your poor heart.
You jump from that train of thought quickly, finding it easy to do in the wake of nearly six months of experience. Your gaze pointedly swaps between both Donnie and Titanium-Donnie, mouth slowly opening as if to express the obvious question on your lips.
Before you can so much as utter a word, Titanium-Donnie has closed the gap between him and you, taking your large box of parts out from under your arms with a bit of dramatic flourish.
“Ah, let me grab that for you, sweets.” He gives you a wide grin and leads you deeper into the lab with a hand kept against the small of your back. Donnie’s eye twitches again when he notices the way you just barely jolt in place, not used to the sudden contact there. It takes a herculean effort to keep a blush from dusting your cheeks. Instead, you pivot your focus onto the Donnie in front of you.
“Should I even ask?” You sigh in exasperation at Donnie-Original as you’re ushered into one of the many desk chairs littered around the area. Donnie sighs, smoothing a thumb and forefinger over his brow in a clear show of stress.
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure introductions are in order,” he says, tone dripping with ire. “This is the result of my most recent foray into the science of mystical engineering, in particular combining physical invention with my innate mystic ability.” He gestures vaguely at the entity behind you.
“For the sake of clarity, we’ll call the inferior metal version of myself Donnie 2.” He waves a dismissive finger towards his metal clone, who he’s very aware is still hovering all too close to where you sit. “Donnie 2, this is--”
“I know who she is,” he interrupts, hands coming to frame either side of the backrest of your chair from behind. He cranes his metal torso forward, leaning to the right so his gaze is level from yours. You inch back when you realize how close he is to you, still clearly mentally adjusting to the newcomer but not nearly as repelled by his presence as Donnie would have liked.
You blink owlishly at Donnie 2, head turning a bit to the side as realization dawns across your features.
“You… put your magic inside that titanium statue of yourself, didn’t you?”
Donnie’s frown deepens. “We can neither confirm nor deny the events that took place prior to your arrival,” he says, feeling his lower eyelid spasm again as Donnie 2 comes around the chair, keeping it in place by setting one heavy foot over one of the wheels below and taking the hand resting in your lap in one of his. There’s a reverent fascination that seems to ebb from his expression, and it’s hard not to feel your stomach flip from having its focus trained so intently on you.
When he lowers his head and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles, both you and Donnie’s jaws drop in shock. You let out a quiet choked noise, face fully flushing as you feel the biting cold metal press gently against your hand. For some reason, it feels soft. You try not to think too hard about the logistics of it all.
Not that you would have the opportunity to study it in-depth. Suddenly, Donnie’s yanking his metal clone backwards by the shoulder, careening him away from where you sit. He’s already flying off the handle before you have the opportunity to speak.
“Oh, no you don’t. You will keep your grubby mystic-metal hands off of her. ” Donnie hisses, tone harsh and low. He crowds himself in front of you, stretching an arm as an impromptu barrier across your chest. You snort at the display, raising your hands slightly to accommodate the sudden shift in arrangements. Donnie 2 seems similarly unperturbed, waving a dismissive hand between their plastrons as he speaks.
“You really need to exert a little more self control. Your reaction is extremely uncalled for.” Donnie 2 sighs dramatically. “She can make her own decisions. Don’t smother her. Although, I’m sure making grounded decisions is a bit more difficult for you, considering how you are, in fact, the inferior iteration of me.”
You sit at attention, trying to parse everything going on. You find it a little irritating that they're going on about you as if you’re not even here.
“Actually, I--”
You’re cut off again as Donnie’s signature offended ”Gasp!” rattles out of him.
“How dare you possibly insinuate-- I made you, you melted-down pile of transition metals, and I will not hesitate to unmake you the moment I see fit!”
Ever the drama king, Donnie 2 meets him in turn, keeping pace with the verbal altercation. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose while trying to keep your own flaring temper under wraps. If this keeps up, you’ll be here all night, having made absolutely zero progress on the things you had intended to work on and without any of the quality time you were promised from your incredibly stupid genius best friend.
“Okay. O-kay. Can you two--” Your voice is drowned out again by their incessant arguing. It’s uncanny how similar Donnie 2 sounds to Donnie, and the din of their voices bounces off of the cement walls of the lab. You frown, appalled. You clear your throat and try again, this time adding a few more decibels of volume to your voice.
“Hey. Donnie. And other Donnie. Hey!” Your voice rises, but still Donnie and Donnie 2 are practically at each other’s throats. It’s not until you see Donnie’s hands flexing to grab that familiar purple light of his mystic bo staff do you leap to your feet in shock.
The computer chair you were sitting in clatters violently across the floor behind you, startling the three of you as you all recalibrate to the situation at hand. You frown, one hand coming to rest on your hip and the other gesticulating in front of you as you speak.
“Listen, I don’t know what kind of weird magic existential crisis is occurring right now, but metal Donnie over here is clearly sentient, and I don’t know if I can handle the ramifications of you literally attempting to kill him right before my eyes.”
Donnie recoils, looking appalled. “He’s not sentient.” Both you and Donnie 2 fix him with equally withering glares, and he shrinks. “...Not in the way that you believe him to be, I mean. Not in the same way that S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. or the P.S.D.D. is.” He cautiously waves a hand in the air, hyperaware of your vigilant scrutiny as his mystic power fizzles back into view again. This time you can see thin strands of purple banding between Donnie and Donnie 2, a small amount of slack allowing them to droop like wires.
“He’s an extension of my own consciousness and magic. At least, that was the intention. Somewhere along the way an extra variable caused him to… act out. Though it’s not exactly my priority to figure out why at this point in time.”
You stare at the purple magic feeding into Donnie 2, processing his words. You step forward, mildly fascinated with the way his mystic abilities seem to whisper into existence out of thin air like hard light constructs. Before your hand can touch the glowing purple wires, a metal hand catches its fingers between your own and curls.
You manage to avoid jolting at the sudden contact, head snapping up to catch the absolutely lovestruck way Donnie 2 peers down at you. You can already hear Donnie gearing up for another lecture. Before he can get another insult out, you quickly yank your occupied hand up and to attention between you and Donnie.
“So if he’s an extension of you,” you say, your words coming out in a rush against your will. “...You’re the person most suitable to explain this.”
Donnie’s words die in his throat. The following silence is deafening; you swear your heart has never been this loud before.
When all he does is open and close his mouth like a fish, you sigh and turn towards Donnie 2. You’re about to unwind your fingers from him and offer him an apology for having manhandled him at all, when suddenly he raises his index finger on his free hand to his lips. Your head turns minutely, attempting to parse his sudden calmness, when he uses the same hand to subtly gesture back towards his creator.
You look back towards Donnie. His right hand is flexing from where it’s tucked into his opposite elbow, his left hand smoothing over his jaw. You know the expression well; it always tends to crop up when he’s stumped. His brows scrunch up in a telltale sign of distress and confusion, and despite your earlier frustration you can’t help but find this side of him a little bit endearing as well.
“I… may have something to confess.” Donnie finally releases his jaw as he speaks, turning fully to face you with a sheepish expression. “But first, apologies are in order. Firstly, I apologize for forgetting about our prior arrangement. The highs of research carried me further into the day than I had immediately realized, and I should have prepared more appropriately.” He steps forward, beginning to close the gap between you two as he continues.
“Secondly, I deeply apologize for declaring decisions in your name. I… felt carried away in the moment. I promise you I have full regard for your autonomy. I just…” He makes an awkward noise in his throat, like he’s struggling to find the words. He glances to your preoccupied hand and his eyebrow twitches. He suddenly yanks his arm with all the purple mystic wires on it away from you, but Donnie 2 holds firm.
“Finish your thought Donatello,” he quips, standing his ground. You can feel the way his metal plastron slides into behind you, his other arm coming up and around to place a solid hand over your opposite shoulder. Donnie hisses, shoulders hunched as he rushes to find his words. His face is a dark shade of green, and it’s hard not to marvel at the way his blush carries down over the taut skin of his neck.
“Unfortunately, as I mentioned before, my mystic abilities have apparently projected my subconsciousness into my latest project. Meaning, meaning--” his tone suddenly ascends, glare shooting daggers somewhere behind you. You move to peer behind you, but quickly Donnie’s moving to take up more of your field of vision and extends an arm to push something backwards from over your shoulder. The action brings him closer, neck craned down so he can better hold your gaze despite his awkward positioning.
“...My titanium clone is a reflection of myself, and therefore every brazen act is a fault of my own. Because I have feelings for you.”
Your head and heart are still catching up with the fact that you’re caged in between two of Donnie’s plastron when his words finally click in your brain. Your face heats and your eyes widen. Behind you, you barely register the sound of someone chuckling.
Suddenly, there’s the sound of purple wires snapping and both you and Donnie yelp as something heavy hits the metal floor of the lab. Purple magic fizzles out along Donnie’s outstretched arm, and behind your left foot sits Donnie’s old titanium bust of himself, now inanimate.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest at the absurdity of it all. Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but register the way Donnie minutely withers at the sound. You turn to give him your full attention. Now with both of your hands unoccupied, you’re able to carefully lace both of your hands together with his between you. It’s impossible to miss the way his eyes widen as he stares down at them, his breath hitching as your fingers clasp together.
“I see,” you say, turning your head at a 45 degree angle as if thinking. “You know, despite the stupid amount of pining I did, I never pegged you as the type to go in for pet names.”
He groans in embarrassment, letting his head hang to better hide his expression. “Of course. Kick a mutant when he’s already down.”
You smile, lifting your joined hands up and to your mouth idly as you watch in real time the moment your words fully process in Donnie’s brain. His head rears up, his goggles barely staying atop the flat surface of his head as his wide eyes focus on your expression. You stifle a laugh from behind your hands, pressing the back of his palm against your lips.
“You--” the markings on his shoulders seem to pop with purple light around the perimeter, little overlapping rectangles flickering with a giddy light as he flounders once again for his words.
“I mean, I don’t have a problem with them,” you say, lowering your hands again and letting your gaze drift. It’s hard to maintain eye contact; Donnie’s never been big on it to begin with, but now all of a sudden it’s like he can’t get enough of it. You refuse to acknowledge the way your blush crawls across the shells of your ears under his gaze.
“It’s mutual then?” Donnie’s voice is hushed and the lowness of it sends a pleasant feeling down your spine. Instead of answering, you just nod, eyes fixed on a distant point somewhere to the left of you as you try and fail to corral your rapidly beating heart.
You feel the way Donnie unravels his left hand from your right, forefinger and thumb coming up to grasp at either side of your chin gently as he guides your gaze back towards him. When you finally work up the nerve to look at him, his eyes are piercing. Your mouth feels dry, and instinctively your tongue moves to wet your lips. His gaze darts down momentarily.
“Permission to kiss you?” He leans forward, tilting at an inscrutable axis. Your free hand comes up to feel across his arm, thumb pressing against the markings on his shoulder. When you speak again, your voice feels small.
“Permission granted.”