Work Text:
There are 8 cups of coffee sitting on Donnie's desk, each at varying ages and capacities. The oldest might have been sitting there for a week by now, and the newest is still lukewarm, but as forgotten as the rest.
Donnie sits at the desk with the coffee, head on his keyboard. There’s a string of FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF growing on his screen until he lifts his forehead off of the keyboard. He sat down four hours ago, got up to refill his coffee twice, took five breaks, and he is still looking at a blank document. Mostly blank, except for all the F’s. He exhales through his teeth, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, and then up and down his face.
He’s blank – uninspired but cursed to need to work. It’s a terrible limbo to find oneself in, the crushing weight of the expectation of productivity as it contrasts with the inability to do anything. He balls one hand into a fist and presses it into his temple while the other rests back on his computer mouse. It hovers over the page, helpless with nothing good to click on.
This is supposed to be his daily project. His code-writing skills were getting rusty, so he told himself he’d write something to put into one of the drones he’s building. Supposed to be building, he reminds himself. He hasn’t worked on it in a week. He also hasn’t fixed their in-home security system; it keeps flagging anyone who goes into the kitchen past midnight as an intruder. That’s starting to get annoying when someone wakes up for a glass of water - Everyone else wakes up with them. He also hasn’t fixed his own computer. The RAM upgrade he ordered had arrived three weeks ago, but he still hasn’t stopped to actually put it in.
And Mikey’s tablet is being laggy and he needs Donnie to do a hard reset for him. And Donnie has an entire bench in his lab filled with the things he started but got too frustrated with to finish. All of the things he means to do today, or next week, or the next time he gets a second – they all dance around his brain and haunt him for his negligence.
The fist pressing into his temple lets up, gently tapping his head in a comforting rhythm. So much to do, so much to do, and he does none of it. The tapping gets a little more forceful. His eyes burn holes into his computer screen just the same as the computer screen burns holes into his eyes. Just do something. Anything.
Abruptly, he stands, tired of sitting and staring at a blank screen. He moves to his bench to find something else worthy of his dwindling waking hours. The overfull bench sitting beneath the whiteboard, equally full of planned projects, is daunting. But he picks something up at random, determined to finish something before he drives himself insane.
It’s a security camera he found in the scrap yard. Sure, it’s busted, but all it needs is a little TLC before it can be integrated into his beautiful and janky home security network. He takes the camera to a free worktable and cracks into it. His hands feel clunky as they detach the shell from the lens and power supply. He peers into it, diagnosing the problem like a surgeon. It needs new wiring; he can see burn marks on the old ones. It must’ve been defective, plugged in once and immediately overheated. Could the fuse be faulty? Perhaps. So maybe that means that the whole inside needs to be gutted...
Donnie throws it onto the ground with more force than necessary and hides his face in his arms, sitting face down slouching into the desk. One thing, just one thing. Please, let him finish one thing. He doesn’t have the parts to refinish the inside, and now he just wasted an hour prying the pieces apart-
He sits with his head on the desk covered with his arms, hands tapping a rhythm into his skull for a moment. He breathes, in and out, getting slower with every breath. Eventually he lifts his head, gazing across his lab. It’s messy, the workbenches are overflowing and his floor is MIA in certain parts. The security camera joins the rest of the clutter, and Donnie doesn’t have it in him to care. The only thing he can think is:
“I need some water.”
And he leaves his lab after many hours of torture to get a glass of water. He’s counting his breaths the whole way to the kitchen, crossing the threshold and reaching into the cabinet above the sink for a cup-
“INTRUDER ALERT.”
Oh, God, he was supposed to-
“INTRUDER ALERT.”
It’s his own damn voice on the speakers and in this moment he cannot hate himself more for it. He presses his hands over his ears as he stomps his way to the panel in the side of the wall that deactivates the system. He jabs his finger into the pin-pad with a roughness that he knows better than to use on his own tech. The password to disconnect the security system is written on a post-it taped to the wall next to the panel. It’s painfully not secure, but everyone needs easy access to the password while the system is so buggy. Donnie punches in the password. The blaring stops.
For the fifteenth time, he rubs the palms of his hands over his eyes like it’s going to rub out all of the awfulness of today. He tilts his head back and stares into nothingness while he breathes. He’s worked so hard on calming himself down in situations like these; becoming better at rationalizing and not spiraling into a meltdown. But right now he can’t do anything else but stand, lights of the kitchen peeking through the thin gap between his fingers.
As he stands there he realizes the significance of the alarm going off. It’s past midnight. He peeks through his fingers at the clock on the stove and groans when he sees that its past three in the morning. When did that happen... Three in the morning and he didn’t finish a God damn thing all day. And, for that matter, a good chunk of the next day as well.
The plastic cup he’d tried to grab from the cupboard is on the floor. He grabs a new cup from the drying rack and fills it at the faucet, then throws it into the sink after chugging most the water. The rest splashes onto the counter and floor. A weird anger; an over-tired and frustrated anger, takes over his body as he stomps back to his lab.
He wants nothing more than to ruin the whole room. Run in circles and break things and trash the place. Pick each and every project up and throw them at a wall with his whole being. But he won’t do that, at least not yet, because he needs to finish something or else he might collapse into dust and particles. There isn’t anything immediately visible in the room that he hasn’t tried to start at least once, and nothing that catches his eye. Maybe he needs to make a new project, not try something that's already been sitting stale for a month. Hopefully this one won’t find it’s way into the pile of everything-ness.
He pulls out some scrap metal, who cares what type, and sets it down onto a clear-ish section of a bench along the wall. The soldering iron is already plugged in and hot, left there for God knows how long. Whoops, so much for good lab safety. He grabs handfuls of assorted crap from wherever catches his eye and plops it down too. What to make, what to make...
YES! Mikey’s motorcycle needs some new paneling. He remembers the dimensions and everything; all he needs are flat metal panels with notches welded in to snap into the rest of the bike. He starts working immediately, putting some music on his headphones and welding some re-enforcement to the underside of the panels. Now to carve out some notches, where it can clip into his existing frame... The entire design of the shellcycle is genius, thanks to him, the frame is built for everything else to snap on. Kinda like Lego. That way, it’s entirely customizable, and he doesn’t have to worry about stripping screws when making repairs. He holds up a finished piece, with the backside criss-crossed with metal rods, and the smooth front...
What is supposed to be the smooth front side welded with notches that clip onto the frame. He did them on the wrong side. Both pieces of this metal are the ‘back’. Donnie inhales through his nose and throws a pen at the wall. No. No. NO. Why didn’t he stop and realize sooner, why didn’t he-
He stops himself, taking deep breaths and telling himself that this is an easy fix. He should have time to...
He checks the time on his phone with the hand not holding the solder. It’s been over an hour on this stupid project that he could’ve used on a different stupid project.
He sets down his phone with just a little bit too much force, and it bounces off the table and onto the floor with an audible crack. It takes a second for him to register what happened, and another second for his bluetooth headphones to disconnect.
“No, no, no, no, no...” He immediately sets down his soldering iron and picks up his phone, greeted by a lovely black screen and a spiderweb crack. The power button doesn’t work, and the artificial voice in his headphones let him know that they are still disconnected. Hot tears well up in his eyes. It’s nearly a reflex when he throws the phone across the room to smash against the other wall. The screen pops off the rest of the hardware and both pieces land on the ground.
He takes his headphones off and drops them on the ground as well, not much care if they break too. His vision is nearly spinning, materials on his bench melting into each other. The soldering iron is still hot and Donnie wants nothing more than to burn himself with it. Why? Who knows, not important. There’s too much going on in the room. It’s five in the morning. He’s tapping his fingers on the table and knocking on his skull with the other hand. He needs to finish something and then sleep but he can’t sleep until he FINISHES something-
“Oh- Hey, hey,” someone picks up the hand tapping the table, “Oh, Donnie.” It’s his dad, hands gentle yet still grating against his senses just the same as anything else in the room. Donnie vaguely notices his father turning his hand over to look at his fingers. They’re red and bleeding. When did that happen? He blinks to focus his eyes and sees the soldering iron directly to his left sticky with blood. Oh. Whoops.
Splinter is gently coaxing him up from his chair, which he obliges to because ouch his hand hurts. They walk to the bathroom together so that his dad can wash out the burns on his fingers. Ouch is a good word, because the cold water makes him wince.
Splinter is talking to him, in a voice low and soft, probably telling him that he’ll be ok. He’s using his distinct ‘kid-having-a-meltdown’ voice, which Donnie supposes he is having. Splinter bandages up his hand after applying some ointment, and then sits Donnie down on the stool in the bathroom. Donnie thinks he’s telling him to breathe, which he makes an attempt to slow down. But the world is still spinning and Donnie’s head is still pounding with frustration. Every single emotion is dialed up to 100% and he feels like he’s going to die. His vision is still blurred and nothing is getting better and...
And now there’s a warm washcloth over his face, gently wiping away his tears and sweat. It’s nice while it lasts, before there’s a toothbrush poking at his lips. He doesn’t need someone else to brush his teeth, thank you, so he reaches his good hand for the toothbrush and does it himself. It makes his mouth feel better, removes the stale taste of coffee, but does nothing for the pounding behind his eyes.
His dad is kneeling in front of him and speaking very clearly in a low tone, but Donnie can’t hear it over the pounding in his ears. He takes both of his hands and rubs them into his eyes, pressing hard while shudders rack through his body. Splinter stands up, and gently guides him down the hallway. They enter Splinters room, cooler than the rest of their home and warm smelling of incense. He sits Donnie on the bed and climbs in next to him. Splinter lets Donnie decide when to lay down on his own, and tucks the comforter in around his shoulders. Donnie stares at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes and shifting around in bed to find his Dad.
He lets himself be held, and holds his dad back. Splinter is still talking (did he stop since the bathroom?) and Donnie listens to the low vibrations from his chest. He falls asleep after who knows how much time, sometime later into the morning.
He wakes up less than four hours later. His dads old alarm clock tells him it’s about five minutes to noon. He stretches and yawns, then feels a warm hand rub circles into the top of his shell. Donnie blinks some more and looks up to his dad. He’s watching TV with some headphones on, letting Donnie sleep with his head on his stomach.
“Good morning,” He pauses his movie and looks down to Donnie. “How do you feel?”
Donnie thinks about it for a minute, before giving a ‘meh’ movement with his bandaged hand. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, stretching some more until the joints in his upper back pop.
“Hm. Let’s get some tea.” They walk to the kitchen together, which has been cleaned since last night. Splinter fills the kettle to boil while Donnie picks what he wants. He reached for an ‘instant french vanilla coffee’ packet, but his dad stopped him.
“No caffeine today,” he said, “You need to relax.”
Donnie grumbled a bit, but picked up a tin of hot cocoa mix instead. They both made their drinks in relative silence before bringing them back into Splinters room. Splinter gave his son the remote and told him to ‘pick something light’, and left the room for a minute. He came back with Donnie’s weighted blanket and a store-bought bag of popcorn. He must’ve had a pretty good hiding place for it. His family are feral animals when it comes to the ‘broader chip category’ of snacks.
Donnie settles on re-watching some old Moomins episodes. He leans back into his dad and lets the weighted blanket calm his world. The hot cocoa is warm in his hands and throat, the lights in the room are dimmed and the TV volume is low enough that it’s not grating, but he can still hear the dialogue.
“I need to finish something.”
“Finish what?”
“Something. Anything.”
His father hums, sipping his cup of tea. He takes a deep breath, rubbing Donnie’s arm to signal that he wants his son to do the same. “Can it wait for tomorrow?”
“I guess.”
“Then do it tomorrow. You need a calm day today. How is your hand?”
“It’s ok.” Donnie looks over the bandages on his fingers. They’re starch white and taped together half to death.
“You gave me a little scare.” His dad sounds genuine but light. “You burned yourself pretty bad, and I woke up when I heard you start to throw things. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No...” Donnie remembers his broken phone and winces. That’ll be a pain to replace. “I- I threw my phone.”
“Hm. That’s ok. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, and find a new phone too.”
Donnie lets himself forget about everything, it can wait. He drinks the last of his hot cocoa and gives the mug to his dad to put on the bedside table. Snufkin plays a song on his harmonica and his blanket is very warm when he falls asleep again.