Work Text:
Jupiter Jim’s Galactic Gladiators: Remastered and Re-Exploded Director’s Cut blares from the speakers—a bombastic mix of laser blasts, dramatic synth swells, and one-liners that, by now, you’ve all practically memorized.
No one, however, is truly watching.
Leo insisted on movie night, but it quickly devolved into everyone doing their own thing in the same vicinity. Sprawled on the beanbag chair closest to the screen, he scrolls through his phone. Raph, at one point, had been trying to follow the plot. But he’d dozed off halfway through. Mikey sits at the foot of the couch, preoccupied with drawing in a sketchbook.
Donnie is beside you, and he’s not watching either. Computer in his lap, he’s typing away, his brow furrowed in concentration. His foot restlessly twitches as he works on complex schematics only he understands. He’d tried, initially, to engage with the film, offering a running commentary on the scientific inaccuracies of Jupiter Jim’s photon torpedoes. But he seemed to have gotten bored with it.
You watch him for a moment, a familiar warmth spreading through your chest. The way his tongue sometimes peeks out from the corner of his mouth when he’s really concentrating, the frown lines that appear between his brows—it’s all endearing. Ridiculously so.
For a couple of beats, he looks away from the computer. His gaze is distant, fixed somewhere beyond the wall, and you can practically see the lines of code and intricate blueprints behind his eyes. Then suddenly, he sighs and closes his laptop before he stands and heads for his lab.
You watch him go, but don’t follow. Not yet. The movie drones on, Jupiter Jim now delivering a rousing speech about the importance of friendship. But the room feels emptier without Donnie. You give it another ten minutes, pretending to be invested in whether the space hero will escape the clutches of Klag Beastnar (spoiler: he always does.)
But the pull towards the lab is strong.
You slip off the couch unnoticed amidst a volley of laser fire, murmuring a soft “be right back” that gets lost in a loud explosion and head off to Donnie’s lab. The door hisses open at your approach, and you step inside, the quiet a welcome change.
He’s there, of course, already deeply engrossed in a project. His goggles are down, magnifying his eyes as he meticulously solders a delicate connection on a circuit board. He hasn’t noticed you yet. So you simply lean against a sturdy workbench, content to just watch him.
The way his brow furrows, the pout of his lips when a wire refuses to cooperate, the almost reverent care with which he handles his instruments. There’s a quiet grace to his movements when he’s in the zone, a focused intensity that’s a compelling contrast to his sometimes-spiky social persona. It’s the visible manifestation of his brilliant mind at work, and you find it endlessly captivating.
He finishes the connection, inspects it with a critical tilt of his head, then looks up at one of his many monitors, his eyes quickly scanning lines of code, cross-referencing something. His profile is sharp against the glow of the screen. It makes an idea spark in your mind.
You remember something he mentioned off-handedly weeks ago. It was a casual, almost throwaway comment he’d made about picking up lip-reading. It was just a blip in his usual info-dump, but it stuck with you. And when you asked about it, he remarked it was a “surprisingly useful skill” and waved it off as just another tool in his extensive arsenal.
You had filed the little tidbit away into your mental Donnie-pedia for future reference.
He’s so wrapped up in his coding, muttering something under his breath about optimizing algorithms. You want to reach him, right now, in his bubble of concentration, but without shattering it. Words feel too loud, too intrusive for the delicate balance of his focus.
So you wait. Observing the subtle shifts in his posture, the tensing of his shoulders as he hits a technical snag, the almost imperceptible sigh of satisfaction when he solves it.
Finally, he pauses and leans back in his chair, stretching his neck with a faint crack as he pushes up his goggles. Momentarily, his eyes leave the monitor for a brief second as they drift towards you, taking a micro-break.
This is your chance.
You don’t speak. Don’t whisper. You simply look right at him, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. Then, deliberately, you form the words, making sure your enunciation is clear even without sound:
“You’re amazing.”
Feeling bolder, your lips shaping each syllable with care, you add:
“I love you.”
The silent words hang in the space between you.
For a full second, maybe two, there’s no reaction. His expression doesn’t change, though his eyes remain on your face. You think, for a fleeting, slightly deflating moment, that he missed it, too lost in his own world. You almost turn to busy yourself with something, a little shy now.
Then, the change comes. His eyes, which had been unfocused, snap into sharp clarity, fixed intently first on your lips, then darting back up to meet your gaze directly. The furrow between his brows smooths out, replaced by a widening of his eyes that’s less surprise and more recognition. He swallows, a faint movement in his throat. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards.
“You know,” he says, his voice a low rumble, a teasing lilt coloring his tone, “I can read lips, right?”
A hot blush creeps up your neck. You offer a slightly sheepish, entirely happy grin. “Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Kinda was banking on it.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, a genuine, heart-melting curve of his lips that crinkles the corners of his eyes—the kind of smile that makes your heart flutter and makes you feel like the only person in the universe. He abandons his project, swiveling in his chair to face you fully. He taps a finger to his own lips thoughtfully. Then, with exaggerated care, mouths back:
“I love you, too.”
You push yourself off the workbench, drawn towards him as if by an invisible current. He doesn’t break eye contact as you approach, his gaze warm and full of an affection that mirrors your own. “So,” you begin, “all those times I was silently mocking stupid lines in movies, you knew?”
He chuckles lowly. “Every single syllable. And might I say, it was far more entertaining than the actual dialogue.” He pauses, his expression softening further. “Though not as compelling as your more recent pronouncements.”
He reaches out, his fingers lightly tracing the back of your hand where it rests on the arm of his chair. The touch, though light, sends a pleasant shiver up your arm. You instinctively turn your hand, lacing your fingers with his.
“For the record,” he says, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming sincere, his thumb gently stroking your knuckles, “your enunciation was perfect.”
“And for the record,” you echo, leaning closer, your heart swelling with a dizzying happiness, “so was yours.”
He leans forward, too. “Good,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes. “Because I meant every silent syllable too.”
And then, he kisses you.
You sigh into it, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek. The world outside the lab ceases to exist. There’s only the steady beat of your hearts, the warmth of his lips.
And the overwhelming, joyous certainty that this—right here—is exactly where you’re meant to be.