Chapter Text
Dominos, Raph always says. It’s like dominos. Once one turtle goes down with the sickness, the rest are sure to follow.
It starts with Donnie. Or more accurately, with April. Or, if one were to be even more precise, with the dawn of the single-celled organism aeons before anything interesting happened on Earth. At least in Donnie’s opinion.
He’d been valiantly ignoring the haunting omens of oncoming illness all throughout the previous evening, choosing instead to engage in the very scientific practice of wishful thinking. If he doesn’t look at it hard enough, it’ll go away. It’s probably just allergies anyway. Or something.
But alas, when he awakens the next morning from his atypically long slumber, it is to the miserable realization that there is no escaping his fate. His sinuses are on fire, he’s simultaneously too hot and too cold, his hearing is muffled, and his brilliant mind feels stuffed with cotton. He feels… floaty, in a way that has little to do with the direct effects of the illness and more to do with the unusual programming of the electric meat lump in his skull. As soon as one of his senses is obstructed, Donnie finds, his spacial and chronological awareness goes out the window. Which is exactly what is occurring on this fine morning. Lovely.
Still, it’s just a mild cold. Nothing he can’t handle on his own. It isn’t worth mentioning it to the others. It’s uncomfortable enough to feel unwell in the first place, let alone to admit it.
Coffee, he decides, will fix everything. As usual. He drags himself out of bed, pulls on his favorite hoodie, tugs the sleeves up to his elbows immediately with a noise of distaste, and begins his daily pilgrimage to the coffee pot.
Luckily for him, only one of his brothers is in the kitchen at the horrid hour of—dramatic pause to check the time—just past one PM, so he doesn’t have to worry about an overcrowded, noisy kitchen, or dodging scrutinizing looks from three pairs of eyes.
Unfortunately, that one brother happens to be his twin.
Leo’s face splits into a wide grin upon Donnie’s entrance. “Heh-hey, sleeping beauty’s up! Welcome to the world, sunshine!”
“Sardonic laugh,” Donnie deadpans, breezing past his brother. Thank Galileo, there’s still coffee left in the pot. “Truly an original joke.”
“They say repetition is the key to comedy, Dontron.” Leo takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his own coffee, which is, as usual, smothered in milk and sugar.
Donnie squints at the inky black liquid pooled in the pot. Any other day he’d snatch the nearest purple mug and fill it to the top with pure black coffee, much to the disgust of all of his brothers. Today, though, the idea of pouring a bitter diuretic down his already scratchy throat is… less than appealing.
Isn’t honey supposed to help with sore throats? Should one put honey in coffee? Eh, what the shell, He’s made worse chimeras in his time. Donnie sticks his mug in the microwave and starts rooting through the cabinets looking for honey. It’s not hard to find—thank you Mikey—but the glass is sticky with the remnants of previous spills—no thanks to Leo. Donnie shudders and gingerly picks the jar up by the lid. He regrets not donning his battle shell before he left his lab. Its extra hands are made for situations like these.
“Ahem.” Donnie snaps his head up and nearly loses his precarious grip on the jar of honey. Great Daedalus, he must be more out of it than he thought if he’s letting Leo catch him off guard.
The turtle in question is studying Donnie with an invisible eyebrow raised. “Honey? For your coffee? First of all, are you good, and secondly, who are you and what have you done to Donnie?”
Curse Leo’s perceptiveness. Donnie chooses to strategically ignore the question. “I’m conducting a flavor experiment, Leon. Observe.”
Leo watches, his eyebrow creeping ever higher, as Donnie delicately unscrews the sticky lid and attempts to pour a spoonful of honey into his mug of steaming coffee. They both track the glob of golden goop as it sloooooowly descends toward the surface of the black pool below.
“…you know you can just put the whole spoon in, right?”
Ah. That had not occurred to him.
“But of course I did," he lies, "I simply did not want to miss this dazzling display of viscosity.”
Leo pulls a face. “Eeewwww. Never say that word again.”
He’s spared from further conversation when Splinter trudges into the kitchen carrying “Piebald”. Grumbling, he sets the fish bowl down and clambers onto the counter to retrieve her food.
“Piebald has been quiet lately. Perhaps I should switch her food…” he mutters
Both turtles freeze, staring at the misshapen pebble lying in the fish bowl. One of its googly eyes is starting to peel away.
“Eternal silence,” Leo hisses behind Splinter’s back, and the twins scoot out of the kitchen.
——
After their hasty retreat, Donnie slinks back to his lab. He wants nothing more than to lose himself in coding a new patch for S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., who has, inexplicably, begun to confuse the words “chicken” and “kitchen.”
The coffee helps about as much as it hurts. Donnie can accept homeostasis. What he can’t accept is the unbalanced manner in which the discomfort in his sinuses is progressing. The left side of his nose is completely blocked, which, frustratingly, necessitates he both breathe through his mouth and drag a tissue box onto his desk. Not only that, but his left ear is ringing noticeably more than his right.
He blames that irritating asymmetry for why he misses the knocking at his door until it turns to shouting. He sighs and swivels his chair to face the entrance to his lab, pressing the button to open it with the appropriate amount of sass.
“-OOONNIEEEEEE—Oh! Hi!” Donnie’s youngest brother waves at him from the door.
Donnie rests his elbow on his desk. “Miguel. What a pleasant interruption,” he says flatly. “I’m sorry if that sounded like sarcasm. It wasn’t.”
“Aww, thanks!” Mikey bounces into the lab, careful not to touch any of the scary-looking equipment by the door. “I just wanted to come get you in case you forgot- we’re all gonna go dump diving today, remember? Still wanna come?”
Donnie hums in consideration. On the one hand, dumps are gross. On the other, he had been on the hunt for some new scrap metal, and the dump they frequented always had plenty. On the other other hand, the wooziness was starting to spread from his brain to the rest of his body, weighing his limbs down and making everything more of an effort than it should be. On the other other other hand…
Mikey’s unfazed by the lapse in conversation, eyes roaming around the lab. They eventually land on the box on Donnie’s desk. “Hey, are those tissues?”
“No!” Donnie blurts out, and smacks the box of tissues off the desk with his arm. It tumbles to the floor.
Mikey blinks at him. Donnie blinks back with a nervous smile.
“…I was gonna ask if I could use one. I got shmutz on my shell.”
“…oh! Aha, I see. Well then, yes of course, dear brother, you may partake in my, er, facial tissues.” A metal arm shoots out of Donnie’s shell to retrieve the tissue box and hand it to Mikey.
He’s still giving Donnie a weird look. “Thanks. You know you don’t hafta come if you don’t wanna, Dee.”
“No no, I’ve decided.” A panel on the wall hisses open, revealing Donnie’s specially contained Dump Gear. He rises from his chair, squeezing his eyes shut against the headrush that follows.
Mikey doesn’t look convinced, but bless him, he doesn’t pry. “Alrighty. Meet you at the turtle tank!” he calls, already running out the door.
Donnie sniffles against the building congestion and sighs. It’s a short trip. No big deal. It’s not like he’s too sick to leave the lair or anything.
A prickle deep in his sinuses makes his eyes water. Annoyed, he brushes away the moisture, sniffles again, and grabs his gear.
He’s got this. No problem.
———
Leaving the lair, Donnie has determined, was a certifiably bad idea.
He barely has the presence of mind necessary to sort out the stream of information his goggles are showing him as he scans the pile in front of him. All he needs is something with a reasonable amount of copper in it. A simple mission, yet he’s struggling to focus on even that task.
If his skull felt stuffed with cotton before, now it feels packed with concrete. Walking through the dump has drained most of his remaining energy. Even with his battle shell assisting, he’s lagging behind his brothers.
Moving makes an uncomfortable sensitivity prickle along his skin, at once aching and sparking and numb. He feels as though he’s thinking through molasses. In a word, he feels sick.
He’s not sure how much time has passed since they arrived. Mikey and Raph are chatting in the distance as they rummage around a box of discarded office supplies. Leo is scrutinizing a figurine he found- or at least, he was. Donnie stares blankly at the space his brother once occupied, trying to recall when Leo had moved.
“Whatcha looking at, hermano?”
Donnie startles at Leo’s sudden reappearance behind him, and startles again when a hand claps down on his shoulder. Leo draws back, getting the message. “Woah, you okay?”
“Fine,” Donnie spits out. “I was scanning.” He pulls his goggles off his eyes, disoriented, and shivers despite himself.
Leo’s squinting at him. “Riiiiight. Sure. I’ll let you get back to it.” He points finger guns at Donnie and slides away.
He should be suspicious of Leo. He should watch what he’s going to do. But for some reason, his eyes won’t focus, and he can’t tear them away from the pair of goggles in his hands. His mind is blank.
When he finally does manage to look up, it’s to the sight of Raph approaching him, with Leo and Mikey tagging along behind. Ah, shell. Donnie does his best to pull himself together.
When they reach him, Raph points an accusatory finger in his face. “Alright, Donnie. These two tell me you’ve been acting weird all day. What’s up with you?”
“I, um, uh,” Donnie can’t think of an excuse. Come to think of it, he can’t even think of a reason he needs to come up with an excuse. He meets Raph’s eyes for a split second and spots the deepening worry line between his eyebrows. Right. That’s why.
But before Donnie can properly boot up his brilliant mind, Mikey snaps his fingers. “I bet he caught what April had! He had tissues on his desk earlier.”
“Ohhh, and that’s why he put honey in his coffee. Got a sore throat, bro?”
“Snitches,” Donnie mutters, shrinking under Raph’s worried glare. The jig, as they say, is up. He sniffles.
With a scowl they all know is more concern than frustration, Raph presses his palm to Donnie’s forehead. “Yep. Warm. Why didn’t you say nothin’?”
Donnie shrugs. “It’s just a mild rhinovirus. No big deal.”
“Yeah, but the first day of a cold always takes you out, Dee,” Mikey says.
“Mikey’s right,” Raph says. “We coulda at least not dragged you out to a dump.”
“I wanted to come,” Donnie protests.
“And now we want to go home,” says Leo, sauntering out in front of them. He fake yawns. “See, we’re tired, too. All in favor of operation movie night say aye.”
“Aye!” Raph and Mikey respond immediately. They look to Donnie.
He knows they’ll keep prodding until he gives in. Besides, sitting down sounds fantastic right now.
“Defeated sigh. If you insist...”
Mikey whoops and begins hopping down the pile of junk towards the turtle tank. Leo follows, shouting, “Dibs on picking after Donnie!”
His oldest brother lingers. “I know you said so, but are ya sure you’re okay, D?”
Donnie waves a floppy hand. “I’ve noticed some alarming similarities between my head and the goopy sand monster from Jupiter Jim and The Storm on Mars Three, The Sequel,” Donnie pauses to activate the hover mode on his battle shell, enjoying the relief it brings, “but otherwise, yes.”
Raph lets out a breath. “Good. But if you need anything, or feel worse—at all—you tell us.”
Donnie crosses his arms. “Yes, Mother. I shall.”
Raph narrows his eyes, holding up his hand. “Pinky promise.”
“We don’t even have— Sigh, yes, alright, I pinky promise. Cross my heart and hope to die and all that jazz.”
Raph nods, satisfied. “Let’s go home. Raph’s turn to drive.”
———
Being fussed over isn’t as bad as Donnie feared. Or- logically hypothesized. Yes.
Raph had plopped him down on the couch as soon as they’d returned. Mikey scuttled off to the kitchen to make hot chocolate and popcorn, while Leo broke into his twin’s bedroom to retrieve his favorite blanket. He returns in record time. Donnie makes a mental note to recalibrate his booby traps.
“This is unnecessary,” Donnie huffs as Leo theatrically tucks a pillow behind his de-battle-shelled back. Despite himself, he leans into it, sniffling.
“Ashushush, dear Donatello.” Leo shoves a box of tissues in his hands. “You’re the man of the hour for once. Just let it happen.”
Raph enters with a giant pile of blankets. He dumps them on the floor in front of Donnie. “Don’t hog them all this time, Leo.”
“Whaaat? I would never,” Leo says, already wrapping himself in the thickest comforter in the pile.
“Snacks are ready!” Mikey calls, wobbling in with a bowlful of popcorn and four color-coded mugs of hot chocolate precariously balanced on his limbs. Raph snatches the mugs away before they can spill and passes them out to their respective recipients.
Donnie blows forcefully on his cocoa before taking a sip. It’s perfect, as it always is when Mikey makes it. The warmth and faint taste of mint settles pleasantly into his bones, loosening the dull pressure of congestion in his sinuses.
“Alright, Dontron, pick a movie,” Leo says, having absorbed his hot cocoa into his blanket cocoon. Raph is grumbling quietly as he wraps a too-small throw blanket around his shoulders. Mikey throws himself on the couch next to Donnie, stuffing a fistful of popcorn in his mouth.
“Hmmm…” He could take advantage of the situation. He has a plethora of documentaries about computer science saved to his hard drive.
“…Lou Jitsu: Invasion of the Seven Seagulls,” he says instead. A collective childhood favorite.
“Alright!” Mikey cheers. Raph slides the DVD out of its crusty case and into the TV.
As the intro bursts onto the screen, Donnie squirms deeper into the nest of blankets and pillows his brothers built up around him. He relishes in the steam rising from his hot cocoa.
Yeah, this isn’t so bad.