"Anything can happen: anything. Or nothing. Who can say?

The world, monstrous, is made that way,

and in the end consumes us all." -Brian Evenson, Fugue State

Ascension

Donatello pressed against the door with splayed fingers. It gave without a sound, without resistance, swinging wide to reveal all to him. He leaned all his weight against the doorjamb and gazed into his lab with a look of a shy lover arriving at the site of an imminent, elicit tryst. With drooping eyes and a sleepy smile, he murmured, "Hello, beautiful."

He straightened and shuffled into the crowded, cluttered room, fingers trailing along the rims of empty glass beakers, the top of his computer, to the chipped coffee mug – half-full of that morning's brew (the coffee he hadn't touched in six months, the thought making his head spin), along the edges of stacks of plans that he'd revisit as soon as he was ready.

He dropped into the seat of his well-worn chair. He fell back and spun in a lop-sided circle, watching the familiar cracks along the ceiling and the one dark spot where an experiment had erupted into an unintended explosion roll around with his movement. The squawk of protesting wheels and creaking back support was the welcome-home song that he sorely needed. And missed.

They'd only been home little over a week. Most of that had been spent sleeping. All of them recovering from the toll space travel, time travel, battling aliens, and nearly seeing their father slaughtered before their eyes, again, had taken.

If Splinter thought they were acting strangely for having been gone only since that morning – when in actuality, for them, they'd been gone for months – he didn't ask. No one, not even Leo, felt up to filling in the blanks, crafting the lengthy explanations, reliving the doubt, fear and worry that dogged them during their trek through space and time. They were exhausted. Spent. They wanted to forget everything they'd just gone through. Pretend it was a bad dream.

Nothing had changed. Except everything.

It wasn't just the Kraang and other dimensions they'd have to worry about, but extraterrestrials, villains from places nearly incomprehensible. Their experiences left a mark both good and bad. Scars. Coming of age. Donatello squinted and thought of Raph and that Salamandrian, Y'Gthgba, nicknamed Mona Lisa for reasons Donatello still didn't quite understand. But then again, it was Raphael. Who knew what went on in that turtle's skull.

They'd been chased and hounded, nearly killed several times, drawn into situations which left them desperate and near-despair. Donatello sighed and rubbed his eyes.

But there'd been shining moments, too. The memory of stars, vivid and blazing, in April's eyes. Watching her watch a comet hurtling through the vast emptiness of space, eyes wide and afire. Making his heart swell and hurt, his confessions of adoration ever at the tip of his tongue, but thankfully, remaining unspoken. The times she'd rescued him, being so brave and selfless. Her growing power and the burgeoning mastery over it. Being tested time and again, and each time, proving her moxie and her worth. Not that she needed to ever prove anything to him. Ever. Still, she'd become even more beautiful to him in her strength, kindness and maturity these past six months.

He wondered when she'd be ready to come down and see them again. He found himself aching for her company, having had her so close for so long had developed within him a sort of addiction to her presence that he craved.

Adjusting to being home was harder than he'd have guessed it would be. But not for the reasons Donatello would have assumed. For instance, one might think that spending six months trapped in close-quarters of a starship might make him and his brothers loathe being near each other. But it was the opposite. Maybe it was the trauma of too many too-close-for-comfort moments out in the vacuum of space, maybe it had just become habitual.

At home, there seemed to be too much space everywhere at first; between them and the outside world, between them and April, between them and the lair, between them and their rooms, between them.

They needed, for the time being, to stay close. To be reminded that they were, really, truly on Earth. Home, together. Safe.

This was particularly true where their father was concerned. No one wanted to leave Splinter alone for any length of time. Everyone made up excuses to remain within touching distance at all times, even sleeping in his room with him – which no one mentioned, everyone casually ignored the subject, but were all grateful Splinter simply accepted without bringing attention to the fact. He understood without understanding why, that they all needed to stay close. For a while.

His strict and more aloof nature melted to an earlier temperament of gentle reassurances and quiet mediation. They were subdued by his presence. Soothed by the gentleness in his treatment of them. He'd return to his more restrictive ways later, they all knew, but for now, they took advantage of his tenderness. Wallowed in it.

Healing came with time. Only one step at a time. And though there was still some serious mending to be had, psychological wounds were notoriously stubborn to recover from, Donatello was ready to slip back into the privacy of his lab. At least, for a bit.

Then he'd check to see if Splinter was okay – er, needed anything for him to fix, or just . . . anything.

The giddiness of returning to his precious lab swept through him only to leave a hollow exhaustion in its wake. He eased forward and laid his arms on his desk, resting his head down. Ink, oil, and a faint chemical odor wafted from the surface of the desk. Home.

I'm home.

And suddenly, there came an uncomfortable lump lodged in the center of his throat and his eyes, though shut, grew wet and burned and air was something he had to gulp after. His shoulders shook with the effort to keep this flood of emotion from expanding into something less private than he'd like. Gasping, he sat up. Shaking. He reared back, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and drew deep breaths of air into his squeezing lungs.

A clatter snapped him to attention. He twisted in his chair, still sniffling, still getting his breath under control, looking for the source of the noise.

A test tube rolled to the edge of the work table and just as it tipped over, Donatello lunged and caught it deftly in one hand. His watery eyes rose up. There behind a row of tubes, was the little purple alien turtle Raph had absconded with from that fiery planet.

Donatello wiped his nose, sniffling and set the glass tube down carefully with a scowl. Taking the creature was wrong at worst, a mistake at best. When he considered the objects he'd 'collected' on some of their journeys across the stars, any recriminations Don harbored over Raph's rash adoption of this creature evaporated. He turned back to Chompy.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, voice a bit warbly from crying. He held out his hand for the critter to climb into.

Shy at first, the little guy inched his way out and onto Donatello's palm.

"You know," Donatello said, "I should probably check you over. There's no telling what kinds of parasites you might have brought back with you."

And at that exact moment, a mite, smaller than an asterisk on a keyboard, decided that living upon the little turtle had become a tiresome thing, dull and uneventful, and opted for a new home upon the broad green expanse of this new host.

Donatello did not see the dark red mite exit Chompy's rear leg, but he felt the burning pinch of a bite between his fingers which he mistook for a prick from the sharp edge of Chompy's toenail.

"Yikes!" He shifted the alien back to the table and shook out his hand.

Raphael erupted into the room. "Donnie, have you -" he stopped short and gasped. "There you are!" Raph scooped the purple pet into both hands and cradled him as lovingly as any father with a newborn. "You can't go scaring me like that," Raph said, completely ignoring Donatello. "You gotta see the nice room I've set up for you! I think you're gonna love it."

"Raph," Donatello tried to interrupt as he turned away, "I really should check him over. For parasites."

At that, Raphael shot him a cold look of indignation over one shoulder. "Are you sayin' my Chompy's not clean or somethin'?"

"Well, no, but I mean, I should run some tests."

Raph rolled his eyes and made a scoffing sound. "No way. You ain't doing no crazy experiments on Chompy, ya got that?"

"Be reasonable for half a second, can you? There's a chance that something in-in, I dunno, in our water or atmosphere that won't agree with him. Maybe sicken him."

"Chompy's fine," Raph called gruffly over his shoulder. "You keep your hands offa him."

Donatello shook his head. He sat scratching absentmindedly at the strangely tender spot between his fingers. He sniffed one last time, feeling the return of a heavy exhaustion, one that somehow seemed worse than when he'd stepped into the room.

"Just need a little sleep," he said around a yawn as he turned and slipped off his chair onto the floor in an unconscious heap.

A/N: I know I need to get back to Sins of the Fathers, but I had to get this one going. I'm in need of some AprilxDonnie - the romance and longing, sure, but also the intensive DRAMA that I love putting my lovers through. And this will be no different. Not a long story, not planning on it, but hopefully, one long enough to sink your teeth into and savor!

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