Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT. If I did…SAINW would have been in more than one episode XD
A/N: This is my first attempt at a 2k3-verse fic. Just an idea I had come to me. Takes place sometime before Donnie got put there by Ultimate Draco. Maybe a year or so? No specific time, but it has been a loooong time since this universe's Don has left. Pretty much I had the thought…why was Mikey right there at the entrance to the lair when Don first arrived?
He never ventured too far from there. The memories kept him tethered, gripping at him with intangible, unforgiving hands. They were like a cancer to his soul, spreading branching roots into every facet of his being. They hunted him, persecuted him; taunted him with their accusing jeers. As much as he wanted to escape, to forget, to run away like Leo and Raph had…he found he didn't have the strength.
Most of the time, he would perch on the roof of the decimated warehouse on the corner of the old Eastman and Laird, watching the billowing smoke stacks emanating from the factories as they reached to the sky in a prayer for salvation that never came. However, there were times when the memories gripped at his heart like an unbreakable vice, squeezing harder until he swore the accosted organ would break; then he would risk being sighted by the Karai bots, brave being shot down by the Shredder's army, just to sift through his old home, drowning himself in the memories like a burning acid.
The memories…were like a movie in his mind, playing scenes of a life so foreign to him that it felt it never possibly could have been his own. He had long ago build up walls against their onslaught, blocking the pain behind thick walls of emotionless stoicism, but at what cost? As the spark of hope had dwindled, slowly becoming but a faint ember, he knew the cost had been everything. He couldn't cry, he couldn't smile, he couldn't be who he remembered; he had traded everything of who he used to be –just to feel nothing.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't block out the recollections, as if he wouldn't let him, as if wherever he was had the power to do such things. Donnie…
Was he weak for fanning that last flicker of hope, the last emotion he seemed to be able to feel? Leo told him to move on, but never spoke of the possibility of Don being dead. But he saw it in his eyes, behind the glasses, the hopelessness, the pity for his youngest brother. Raph was vocal about it, raising his arms in frustration and telling him he was pathetic for lingering, that there was no hope in this world, and even if Don was out there, why would he want to return?
Because he was Donnie, the genius, ever patient, loving, gentle brother. He was the glue…before everything came apart.
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It just wasn't fair! Raph was the meanest, most horriblest brother ever! He was a big, fat bully who smelled like a huge pile of rotten eggs and dirty socks.
Six year old Mikey kneeled before his broken Silver Sentry figure as his eyes brimmed with unshed tears. He sniffed, trying to hold them back. He knew if he cried, Raph would just call him a crybaby. All he did was laugh at Raph for tripping during practice! Why did that give Raph the right to break his favorite toy?! Raph was in his room now for a timeout, but that still didn't fix the toy.
Feeling lost and very sad, Mike continued to stare at the toy, wishing he could will it back together. The tears built up higher, until he could deny them no longer. His vision blurred as the hot tears ran down his cheeks. He gasped and sniffled as he picked up the broken toy, holding the pieces in his hands gingerly as if they physically pained him.
"Mikey?" came a concerned voice from behind him.
"H-hi, Donnie," Mikey stammered through the tears.
Don came over to his brother and stood at his side, a comforting hand on his shoulder. He bent slightly at the waist, studying the mangled mess that was once Mikey's prized toy.
"Wow," Don breathed, "Raph really did a number on him, huh?"
"Y-yah! He's so nasty! I wish he would just go away and never break my toys again!" Mike spat bitterly.
"What he did was not nice, Mikey, but you don't mean that. We have to stick together…wouldn't it stink if one of us was gone?" Donatello commented gently.
"I…guess so…" Mike said reluctantly.
"Now come on, Mikey," Don straightened himself out, motioning for Mike to follow him. "Bring your toy here."
The two of them tottered over to the kitchen table. Donatello dug through one of the drawers next to the fridge and pulled out a white bottle of glue. He reverently laid out Mike's toy, his expression the embodiment of young ninja focus as he placed all of the pieces of the action figure in their correct places. The tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration, he dabbed drops of glue onto the toy and stuck the parts back together.
"See, Mikey?" Donnie grinned triumphantly. "Glue can fix anything!"
Mikey's face shown like a beam of sunshine as he gave Don a choking, grateful hug which knocked all the air out of the purple masked turtle.
"Thank you, Donnie! You're the best!"
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Michelangelo stood in the rubble of his old home, the ghosts of the past whispering in his ears like a frigid winter wind. He shivered against the cold, condemning thoughts they brought with them, ones that surfaced from time to time. Why had he left? Where was he? Was he alone somewhere, missing Mike as much as he missed him? The answers never came, but Michelangelo never ceased asking them…and not knowing was almost more painful than when they had first discovered Don was gone.
He found himself subconsciously heading to what used to be Donnie's bedroom, his steps heavy and purposeful. This room was like a sacred shrine to him, and the only part of the old lair he had straightened out years ago when Shredder's minions had given up on skulking around the ruins. The bedroom was coated in years' worth of dust, but the floor was clear and the bed neatly made. He knew every nook and cranny of the layout, and had placed everything in just the exact location that Donatello had once kept it.
He came to a stop in the middle of the room, breathing in deeply, imagining he could still smell his brother's chemicals and the burn from shorted wires after almost thirty years. He gazed down at his feet, scanning the trails of footprints in the layers of dust.
Wait a minute…
He knew he hadn't been to Don's room in a while, and these appeared fresh. He kneeled down, a disturbed expression on his face. Not the stocky outline of Raph's feet, and they were too substantial to be the noble way that Leo carried himself. Could it be…?
His mind blanked as he followed to prints to Don's old desk in the corner. The wood was dry and cracked, with the brothers' names playfully etched on the surface. Donatello had done that when Splinter had first found the desk for him when they were still small. Something about this was off. He caught a flash of white which drew his vision in its direction. His brows furrowed in confusion as he reached forward in the dimness of the room with his one hand and wrapped his fingers around something. Pulling it back to himself, he had to force himself to look at whatever it was…he was almost afraid to.
"Glue?" his unsure voice broke the silence.
He studied the bottle from every angle, scrutinizing it with the battle hardened eyes of an eagle. This had never been here before, he was sure of it. There was no label on it, as if it had been removed. All he saw on it was a simple message hastily scrawled in black marker. Glue can fix anything. He racked his brain, searching every hidden corner to remember who this handwriting belonged to. It vaguely appeared to beDonnie's, but after so long he was not sure.
His breath shuttered, his chest heaving painfully. He felt a shatter in the armor around his heart, slowly spider webbing across the surface. He needed to get out of here, to bring this to Leo, or Raph, or April…
He scrambled back to the roof of the warehouse, swathing himself in the shadows, wishing they could be a protective blanket instead of an empty, unwelcoming void. He needed to get back to his place, to sleep and process everything. Then he would look at it fresh in the morning, when the shock wore off. But before he left, he took one last look at the tube. He breathed out sharply, the vapor puffing from his mouth in the mid-fall chill.
"If glue can fix anything, Donnie…then where are you?" he whispered, his voice cracking like fragile china.
His eyes stung, burning as a lone tear trickled a mournful path down his cheek. He tucked the bottle into his belt and turned, disappearing into the night.