To the untrained eye, it would seem that Donatello, of all the turtles, was the least attached to his bed. After all, he was the one most likely to be found dozing off at his desk, or even in a bowl of cereal. Sure, Raphael and Michelangelo were more likely to sneak out at night when they should have been sleeping, but it was Donatello who habitually avoided bed altogether in favor of finishing up a project or an experiment.
But this didn't mean that Donatello hated his bed; in fact, it was quite the opposite. When he was in the midst of one of his marathon build sessions, he often longed for his bed like someone in the desert longs for water. It's just that seeking the oasis was futile. The gears in his head turned so quickly and relentlessly that he often couldn't sleep even when he wanted to. His mind simply didn't obey his body's demands to power down. If his mental energy hadn't been fully expended, he would find himself unable to sleep, no matter how tired his body was.
For better or for worse, Don had now achieved a state of complete and utter mental and physical exhaustion, and he was finally headed for the sweet nirvana of his beloved bed. It had been a rough stretch, for sure. Donatello had worked some pretty late nights finishing up a computer program he'd been working on. Then he and his brothers had an unexpected skirmish with the Foot Clan, which led to the near destruction of several of the turtles' vehicles. Predictably, Don spent a few completely sleepless days in a row making the required repairs. During this time, Leonardo began nagging him about how awful he looked, and how he really needed to get his shell to bed. When Don put up a show of resistance, Leo retaliated by hiding all of the coffee. Just when Don was finally worn down enough to consider giving in to Leo, April called in a panic. Casey had been kidnapped by the Purple Dragons.
April and Donatello spent the next half day hacking into traffic light and ATM cameras, before they were able to identify where Casey was being held. Then came hours of planning, strategizing and prep. As soon as night fell again, they loaded themselves into the van. Don knew he slept for at least a few moments on the way to Casey's location. One minute he was reviewing notes about the Dragons' hideout on his phone, then seemingly the next minute, Mikey was looming over him with a magic marker, and his phone was nowhere to be seen. Leonardo kindly retrieved it from the floor, and explained that Mikey had been attempting to draw a handlebar mustache on Don's beak, because "wouldn't it have been funny to face the Dragons like that?" All of this was then followed by the battle itself. Of course, the turtles were victorious - it was just the Purple Dragons after all - but they'd all gotten a little banged up. Raphael had a long gash down his thigh that Don had to clean up and stitch upon their return to the lair.
And then came the icing on the cake. Just as Don was finishing up with Raphael, they all noticed a banging noise followed by a burning odor erupting from the heating vents. Leonardo told Don to ignore it and go to bed, but he wasn't about to do that. They were cold blooded and it was winter in New York. Who knew what could go wrong? It's not like Don could've slept with that mystery hanging over his head, anyways. He went to investigate, and sure enough, the burner was on its last legs. So, Don snuck out to search the city dump for the required parts, then spent the remainder of the night retrofitting various components, welding, and making repairs.
By the time he dragged himself out from behind the furnace, dawn was nearing and Donatello was feeling like death warmed over. His head was pounding, his feet were throbbing, every muscle ached, and every joint seemed to be grinding against itself. He was covered in soot and oil, as well as cuts and bruises from the previous week's battles. His knuckles were rubbed raw, and his back was killing him.
Don hobbled into the lair proper. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a week, but there were a few details to attend to first. He passed Raphael's room, stopping briefly to shoot his brother with the infrared scanner that he'd been using during the furnace repairs. Raph's temperature was normal, which eased Don's concerns about infection, at least temporarily. He quietly slipped out of his brother's room, and into the bathroom, where he washed his hands and popped a few aspirin. Removing his mask and gear, he then pulled his creaky bones into the shower and turned on the water.
Don slowly washed off the filth that covered him, and then just stood beneath the hot water for a while. He savored the way it soothed his tortured muscles, and in time he felt his body slowly beginning to relax. He was in the home stretch now. Just one more stop was needed.
Steam was still rising from his now-clean body when Don entered the kitchen. It had been a while since he'd eaten. How long, he wasn't exactly sure. He opened the fridge and discovered a box of pizza with the words "save for Don" written on the top in magic marker - how thoughtful! Don scarfed a couple of slices cold while heating the remainder in the toaster oven. He paid the cat some attention and brewed a cup of chamomile tea. Once it was warm, Don finished off the pizza, and chased it with the tea and a couple of brownies. He rarely ate so much at a time, and his full stomach just made him all the more sleepy. He suspected that his body was preparing to enter hibernation mode.
Best of all, the aspirin was kicking in, and Don's longstanding headache was beginning to subside. He carefully rose from the table and cleaned up after himself, then made a couple of quick stops to brush his teeth and return the infrared scanner to the lab. This was it, the big moment, he was going to bed. Not even Shredder himself could stand in the way. Like an old man, Don stiffly and slowly began shuffling towards his room. The hallway seemed endless.
Suddenly, his ninja senses picked up on something. It was a sniffling noise that seemed to be emanating from Mikey's room. Don reluctantly turned back and opened Mikey's door. Sure enough, Michelangelo was sitting up in bed, wringing his blanket between his hands and breathing heavily. Don stepped into the room and whispered, "What's wrong, Mikey?" Mikey didn't seem surprised to see his brother. He looked at Donatello with eyes as big as saucers.
Words began tumbling out of Michelangelo's mouth at a pace befitting an auctioneer. "It's just, what do you think it all means, Don? We could've just been turtles, you know? Children's pets, trapped in glass cages all our lives, but instead we've traveled the galaxy, traveled between dimensions, even. We've been instrumental in shaping the future of this planet and others, but we could've just been turtles. And why? Some alien ooze ends up in a dark alley and we just happen to be there? Why us, Don? It can't just be a coincidence, right? It has to be part of some plan. It has to mean something. But does that mean there's a God? If so, why is there so much bad stuff in the world? Are we being tested, and if so, are we passing or failing? We sometimes hurt people, but we only do it for the greater good. Do you think we are going to hell, Don? Do we even have souls? We must, because we can exist on a spiritual plane, right? I mean, we've seen it, right? So, if we have souls there must be a God. But when did we get our souls? Did we have them when we were just regular turtles, or did we earn them like some eastern religions say happens? I'm just really freaking out right now, Don, and I need someone to help me work through this." Mikey clamped his mouth shut and looked at Don pleadingly.
Don was horrified. Why now? Why! He'd been so close! Since when did Michelangelo even think about these things? Nevertheless, Donatello couldn't just leave his brother like this. He just didn't have it in him. He'd move mountains if a brother asked him to, regardless of how long he'd gone without sleep.
Poor Michelangelo was practically hyperventilating. Don staggered forward. He knew that he had to stay on his feet or he'd nod off, so he stood in front of Mikey wearing a sympathetic look. He swayed noticeably in his exhaustion as he placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't freak out Mikey, it's okay." Don spoke as gently as possible despite his raspy voice.
Mikey took in Don's kind and patient expression and looked deeply into his baggy and bloodshot eyes. Mikey's lower lip wavered...and he burst into a hysterical fit of laughter.
"Oh man, I can't believe you bought that! You are so ridiculously gullible when you're in this state. What's the meaning of life? Blah, blah, blah. Seriously, though, I heard you in the shower earlier and now I have to use the little turtle's room. Get your sorry shell into bed, Don."
Mikey saw Don attempting to glare at him, and clapped an arm around his shoulder as a peace offering. "Come on, I'll tuck you in for the night."
Don allowed Mikey to lead him to his bedroom. Truth be told, he was rather happy to have someone to lean on. Michelangelo was even kind enough to turn down the covers. "Thanks, Mikey," Donatello yawned. "Have a good night."
"Sweet dreams, Don. I'll make sure no one wakes you tomorrow."
Once Mikey had left the room and closed the door behind him, Don executed a controlled collapse onto the bed. Pulling the blanket over his shoulders seemed like a monumental task, but he managed. He could feel sleep closing in on him almost immediately, but he forced himself to stay awake for a few extra moments, just to savor the lack of weight on his sore feet, and the way the mattress cradled his aching body. He hugged his pillow and closed his tired eyes. The familiar sounds of the sewers he'd grown up in were like a lullaby. Gentle drips from the pipes and the muffled sounds of overhead traffic mixed together with Raphael's snores and the quiet whir of computer fans. It was the most peaceful sound in the world to Don. Despite the dangerous life he led, he felt so safe and content in his warm little cocoon, surrounded by his beloved family, and constantly guarded by his expertly engineered perimeter alarm system. Who said Donatello hated his bed? It was the best place in the world.