I Did Not Give The Last One A Title, And I'm Sticking To The Motif Damn It

Chapter 3

Donatello is having a bad day.

According to your phone, you are in New Jersey. According to the now mostly dead Foot Soldier, you are in New York. He did not know how to efficiently get to New Jersey via sewers, so they— he and the rest of his family— had gone off to Shredder's lair where, according to him, you had been killed. This, understandably, was not welcome news.

He had almost passed out.

They had gotten their asses handed to them by various soldiers and Shredder himself. They had been forced to run away, beaten bloody, praying that he would not tail them, all the while reveling in the reality that you were gone, that because they were— he was— unable to find you, you had likely been squeezed of any info you had before being killed by the likes of Oroku Karai.

When he gets home, his first instinct is to sleep. Every muscle screams for rest; he can not remember ever being this tired. But there were his siblings and father to care for, so he hobbles into his lab, pulling gauze and painkillers and antiseptics— not disinfectants— he swallows thickly, ignoring the memory— from various drawers and patching everyone up the best he can with how hard his hands are shaking.

They have the decency not to make small talk at least. Even Mikey is quiet for once, staring off into nowhere as he fiddles with his hands.

When they all limp off to their rooms, a conversation is promised silently. A discussion needs to be had, he knows, about what to do going forward, but right now, he is too tired to care.

You are gone. He has considered the possibility before, of you, dying, but it felt odd now that it was happening. He is not nearly as sad as he thought he would be. It just feels... weird. Empty. Not a pain so much as an absence of something fundamental mixed with dread.
If Shredder sends the body back, or the head, he wants to have a funeral. He has no idea how he could do that, what that would even entail, but he wants to. You deserve a proper send-off. White roses, and he might be able to make a coffin out of a junked car, or maybe he could steal some wood and build you one properly. Dark wood, if that's the case, a classic look based on the movies he had seen.

He walks into his room. Clothes fall off him as if of their own volition, and he does not bother with the lights, because why would he? He would just be sleeping anyhow. When he lies down, sees you, it does not register as a reality. You look like a corpse anyway; why would that be real? It is just an excessively cruel hallucination, surely. Surely you are not a real thing.

When you open your eyes, he falls out of bed.

Undeterred by his obvious fear, you sit up, making no move to cover yourself as you try to focus on him. "You're... back already?" You feel heavy. "Thought you said... a while."
He stares up at you.

You smile barely as if it hurts to. "You look better," you mumble, laying back down. "You lost my jacket?"

He does not respond, slowly getting off of the floor.

You close your eyes. "That's alright. It wasn't a good jacket anyways. Are you okay?"

You look awful.

"Donnie?"

He steps towards the bed, cupping your face in his hands. "What happened to you?"

You blink. "You're bleeding."

He repeats the question, more urgent this time, vomit rising in his throat.

"Are you hurt?" You reach up, gently touching his arm wrapped in gauze.

"Where were you?"

Your brow furrows. "You've not been gone long. How'd you get yourself so banged up?"