For the first time in weeks, it's just warm enough to snow. It's still freezing, but Donnie can't help but be grateful for the fresh air and the lack of, well, Raph. The first half of December has been particularly unpleasant, with single digit temperatures stranding the brothers in the lair. After ten days of listening to his brother grouse about the cold, Casey's refusal to trek into the sewers for some "bro" time, and Mikey's creative use of leftovers, he's ready to run off some pent up aggression.
He adjusts the strap on his backpack before swinging himself up onto the closest fire escape. It feels wrong, delivering April's presents all alone, days before Christmas, but this is the first time in years that the Hamato Clan won't be celebrating together. In a few days Karai and Shini will board a flight for Japan and they won't return until after the new year. April will spend Christmas Eve with her father, and then fly to London for a meeting with one of her larger corporate clients. Casey will likely crash at his sister's place and eventually make his way to the lair to leg wrestle with Raph. This will also be the first holiday season in over seven years that April and Casey didn't spend together as April and Casey.
Once on the roof, Donnie pauses, filling his lungs with a New York winter's eve. He can still smell the exhaust from below, but tonight he can make out the faint scent of wood smoke from the chimney of a distant brownstone and the honey roasted peanuts from a nearby street cart. April's apartment isn't far and he's ready to clear his mind and stretch his legs. He breaks into a full run and, for a moment, it feels good not to think.
The Era of Jones has been educational. He's learned to let go. April will never fall in love with him. It's a simple fact that took far too long to commit to memory. Accepting it had deprived him of weeks of sleep, precious lab time, and a lot of Mikey's terrible cooking. For the first six months of Casey and April's relationship, Donnie had tunneled for light and found none. He ached until he was numb and he was numb until, one day, he wasn't. Gradually, it became easier to spend time with them, individually and together.
He's grateful, now, for their compassion. After becoming "official" they rarely came to the lair together. April would pop into his lab during long breaks between her classes at NYU, while Casey would make it a point to break away from the others during his visits and ask if Donnie needed help with the Shellraiser. It was pity, he knew, but Splinter reminded him that their actions were fueled by love and, even if it wasn't what he had hoped for, it was no less genuine. He couldn't change what was in his heart but he could channel it into something better if he tried.
So Donnie became a best friend. When April and Casey were good, he was supportive. When they were tearing at the seams, he was patient and diplomatic. He had even been instrumental in the majority of their reunions, helping Casey plan romantic apologies: Not roses. Lilies. And no red wine, it makes her emotional. Here's a list of her favorite sparkling whites- but you might as well pour it down the drain if you plan on wearing that tie. Did you let Raph pick that out? You're an idiot…
When they finally ended things over the summer, Donnie was surprisingly discouraged.
"You should stay here tonight, Casey. You're drunk."
"So are you."
"Right. I won't leave either."
"My sister is probably waiting up for me."
"Tell her you're crashing at your brother's tonight."
"My brother, huh?"
"Don't get sentimental, Jones. It's not a compliment. It means I think you're a pain in the ass. You're just my pain in the ass."
Casey had stayed. Raph found them in the morning, passed out by an empty thirty rack, a blow torch, and a partially dismantled stealth bike. To this day, neither of them can remember what the plan had been. That night had been important, though, Donnie is sure. As much for the things that weren't said, as for the things that were.
And now, Donnie's friendship with April is polished to near perfection. They spend hours together pouring over her consulting work, sharing ideas or entire evenings bingeing on Alien and Predator movies. They laugh and even flirt but he never questions what it all means. April loves him in her way and it's more than he ever believed he could have.
He knows that it's selfish but he worries now, what a new relationship, for either of his friends, might mean for the family.
Even from the fire escape, April's apartment radiates warmth. Soft, white string-lights greet Donnie at the window, the gas fireplace glows in the living room. He hasn't knocked in months, not since Casey moved out, but it occurs to him, once he's inside, that there may still be guests wandering about from her earlier gathering. Hi there, April's co-worker. I'm Donnie. I come in through the window. Is there any cake left?
He's still trying to decide if he should climb back outside and send a text when April calls to him from the kitchen. "It's all clear!"
"How was your in-home office party?" he asks. By the state of the living room, it's clear that her colleagues aren't exactly party animals. Aside from a couple of stray wine glasses scattered on the mantle and coffee table, there is very little evidence to suggest she has had guests at all.
"A little boring," she admits, swinging around the corner. She's still wearing a black cocktail dress and her heels, designated for indoor-only events.
Goddamn.
He knows he could probably say it aloud. She would laugh and it would be okay. It's taken nearly seven years, but he's content with their friendship. It's silly and warm and it's theirs. But tonight, he's not sure he could convince her he's just teasing.
She scoops up the nearest glasses by the stems and does a full turn, seeking out any extras. "But it's the tradition in our department. The newbie hosts the holiday party. Apparently I beat out last year's host, though. He'd just moved to the city and signed a year lease without realizing that his building was basically a nudist colony for the elderly."
"Sounds festive."
"Right? I'm a little worried I might have disappointed a few folks."
"The night is still young, April." He's rewarded with a snort of laughter.
He follows her into the kitchen. Half-full hors d'oeuvres trays line the counter tops and his heart swells a little. April always cooks too much. It turns out befriending mutant ninjas means never being burdened with leftovers.
She stretches, arching her back with a yawn. "Help me pack this stuff?" she asks, gesturing to the tower of tupperware on the counter. The Hamato Clan containers. Forever traveling back and forth between April's apartment and the lair, filled with baked treats or leftover pizza.
"Sure." He's not even sure where to start. So much food. He realizes for the first time that he hasn't eaten yet today and he wonders if-
"Your peanut butter fudge is in the freezer. I packed you your own personal stash."
God. Damn.
"Thanks," he says instead. "Hey, go ahead and get changed. I can take care of all this."
She hesitates. "Actually, I have plans."
"Oh?" On a normal night, April O'Neil would not turn down the opportunity to change into her faded NYU sweats. Even her human friends are used to it. He honestly cannot remember the last time she made plans that involved an actual dress.
"Yeah."
"You're going out?"
April pauses again. She opens the refrigerator and stands in front of it for a moment. He's not sure if she's looking for something or trying to cool herself. "I have a date," she says, mostly to a jar of dill pickles.
"Oh." His stomach does something odd and he doesn't want peanut butter fudge anymore. He searches for something to do with his hands.
"Too soon, y'think?" She swivels to face him.
Donnie doesn't need to be an empath. She's not really asking you. She just needs to hear you say it.
"I… no. Of course not." He pops open a plastic tub and begins stuffing it full of some kind of mini tart. He swears he can hear the fwap of his internal index cards, but there's nothing filed under, What to Say When You Thought You Were Over Her But What The Hell Is THIS Now…
Donnie looks up. She's leaning against the now closed refrigerator door, her eyes locked down on her shoes. Okay. He's not over her. But for some time he had honestly believed he was.
He takes a deep breath, but manages to release it without sighing. "April, I don't think Casey wants you to be unhappy. I know he doesn't. You don't owe anyone anything. And, if going on a date will put a smile on your face, then I think you should do it."
She looks up and, for a second, she does smile. A little apprehensive, but warm. He basks in it briefly, before turning his attention back to the food.
"So, I should help you pack this up and get out of here, huh? What time are you leaving?"
April shrugs and joins him at the counter. "No worries. We have time. I want you to open your present while you're here. And did I see something in that bag for me?"
"Depends. Have you been good this year, Miss O'Neil?"
"A pillar of the community, sir."
"A likely story."
"Do you like it?" she asks.
He has no idea how to answer. He's not sure if he's supposed to like it. "It is," he responds carefully, "the nicest ugly sweater anyone has ever knit for me." Sitting on the living room sofa, he's able to spread the bulky item across his lap for better inspection. It is certainly the only sweater he owns featuring blocky, turtle silhouettes parading through a trail of bright green mutagen.
"I know, Raph has probably done better. But the lab is so cold this time of year. I thought it might help."
"It will." He does his best to recreate April's near-perfect department store fold job and gently place the garment back in its box. "I'll wear it all the time. Promise."
"You'd better. I swear, I started knitting it last February. Can you believe there are no patterns out there that make allowances for giant turtle shells?"
"Go figure." He picks up her still-wrapped gift from the coffee table and hands it to her. It's a book. It's always a book. Exchanging books has been their long-standing tradition. Not only because they both love to read, but because books are safe. There has never been any chance that a simple paperback might be misconstrued as something romantic. And as long as it came with a dust jacket, Donnie could give April the world and Casey would have never flinched.
Even now, he can't think of a better gift. Books are fuel for stimulating conversation and he gets a little giddy, anticipating the way April's eyes light up when she reads something she finds truly fascinating. He does wonder if it's wrong to be completely turned on by their intellectual exchange but when she speaks with passion on any subject he really can't be bothered to give a damn.
"Oh my God…" April has peeled back enough of the wrapping to see the title: Unweaving the Rainbow.
"Interesting choice of words," Donnie teases. She swats at him, landing a not-so-gentle slap on his forearm.
"I mean- hold on a second." April casts the book onto the coffee table and leans toward her side table, popping open the drawer. The movement is lacking in grace, and when she returns to an upright position she's suddenly sitting much closer than before. Close enough to drop her chin onto his shoulder as she slips a heavy paper bag into his hands. "Open it up," she urges. "I forgot to wrap it, so I was going to wait, but now you have to."
Donnie pulls out a brand new hardcover book. Richard Dawkins: The Greatest Show on Earth. "Oh wow." He may cry. "Wow, April. Thank you. This is the only one I didn't have."
"I know. But look inside," she instructs him, in a near whisper.
"It's… it's signed."
"Mmhmm. We both happened to be in Switzerland at the same time. I've been holding onto it for a while now, waiting for the holidays."
He turns and finds himself nose to nose with her. She's taken her hair down. When did she do that? A few strands tickle his shoulder and he can feel the heat of her skin against his arm. A couple of glasses of wine rarely affect him, but suddenly she looks… softer. Backlit by string-lights and candles. He needs to move. Now. "I can't wait to read it. Actually, I should probably get going, right? You must be expecting your… someone really soon."
Donnie fumbles with his presents, stacking the book on the gift box, hoping he'll be able to make a quick exit without a lot of discussion. He's not ready to talk about who this person is, let alone hear all about their positive qualities. He just wants to go home, bury his head in a project, and appreciate his hilariously-hideous new sweater.
"Hey." April grips his wrist, tight. He freezes, but can't seem to look her in the eye. "Will you please stop trying to kick yourself out? If I wanted you to go, I'd ask."
"I know, it's just, I thought you might want me to clear out so you can…" He hears his voice trail off. So she can what? Get ready? Put her shoes back on? Wait. Where are her shoes? And why is that important? Shut up.
April huffs a little, pushing herself away from him. Instinctively, he wants to backpedal. To say anything to have her close again. But he doesn't.
"You are so damned difficult, you know that?"
"I— sorry?"
"You should be." Steely blue are trained on him, but he can't be sure if he should be taking her seriously.
He opens his mouth and closes it again. Opens. Closes. He's acutely aware that he must look like a fish and he wonders if it's scientifically possible for a wormhole to spontaneously open up in April's apartment and suck him in.
April stands, snatching his wine glass from the coffee table and stomps, as best she can in bare feet, to the kitchen. He knows he's supposed to do something. If he stays put, he's pretty sure he'll come off looking like an asshole. On the other hand, there's a fair chance Ninja April is waiting around the corner to punch him in the face. Either way, he's pretty sure he's somehow managed to ruin her night.
He decides to chance it. Donnie finds her sitting on the kitchen counter, knocking back a bottle of water.
"April. I'm really sorry."
She crunches the plastic bottle a little and, he swears, there's a hint of a smile. "For what?"
I haven't the damnedest clue.
"I didn't mean to upset you," he chooses his words carefully. "I just wanted you to have your space, I guess."
She swiftly slips off the countertop and suddenly she's standing in front of him, her two hands cradling one of his.
"Has it occurred to you," she says, squeezing his fingers just slightly, "that I don't need any space?"
"No, I mean, yes, but… what I mean is, I thought—"
She grips his fingers a little tighter and makes a noise, something like disgust. "See, now that's our problem, isn't it? We think too much."
This isn't the first time someone has accused him of overthinking. In fact, Raph does it daily. But this is a first for April.
"You know what I want?" she sighs again, tired.
He shakes his head.
"I want to have a nice night. A date. I want to share a bottle of wine with someone who makes me…" Donnie can see her hunting for the next word. He's not sure he wants to hear it.
She never finds it. She moves so quickly, Donnie isn't sure what she's done, even after her lips meet his for the second time and stay there. He can feel her hands move to the back of his head and taste the white wine on her tongue, but he still struggles to register this as a kiss. That can't be right. Clearly he's misinterpreting the way April is pressing into him, the way she closes her eyes, and how slowly her lips are moving against his. He's certain every synapse is misfiring because, whatever this is, it isn't what it feels like.
Still. Just to be sure. He moves his mouth, returning the not-kiss. He doesn't remember doing it, but he's already placed his hands on her waist, so he uses them to draw her closer.
Donnie waits for a reaction. For her to pull away. To hit him. To—moan?
Did she just moan? No. Yes? Further investigation required.
He runs another test, sliding a hand up her back, to the nape of her neck. Gently, he makes a fist, lightly tugging her hair.
Another moan.
More like a whimper this time, but it's accompanied by more tongue and teeth and a tighter grip around his shoulders. This not-kiss is officially his favorite thing.
It goes on forever, and it's over far too soon. She's led him back to the sofa and they're half-sitting, half-lying, legs entangled. He rests his chin on the top of her head. She's settled her cheek against his plastron and he knows she can hear the way she makes his heart race. For the first time in years, he doesn't worry that she will simply feel it from across the room. He doesn't tell himself he's not allowed to just love her.
He is allowed. Isn't he?
He feels a light pinch on the back of his arm. "Ow."
"No thinking," she says. She doesn't even open her eyes.
He considers denying it, but there isn't much point. April once told him that she could feel him thinking from across the lair.
"I— sorry. I was just..."
April reaches for his hand, lazily searching for a comfortable way to weave her digits into his. "Like I said, we both think too much." April tilts her chin up until their eyes meet. "Donnie, I told Casey how I was feeling weeks ago. All I've been doing since then is thinking. I promise, there's nothing left to think about. So, for tonight, can we not?"
He can feel the familiar ache, settling into his chest. Not tonight. He breaths in, slow and steady, giving himself permission to just enjoy her warmth.
"He's okay, D. We're all okay," she whispers, warmly, stretching up to place another kiss on the corner of his mouth. "It's okay."
She pulls his hand to her lips, and brushes a kiss along his knuckles.
It's all he needs. It's okay. We're okay.
There are so many more kisses. They're short and soft and Donnie savors each and every one.
Gradually, she begins to drift off. He carefully gathers her up and carries her to her room. He's had plenty of opportunities to carry April to bed over the years: late-night study sessions, sprained ankles, Netflix comas. But he's never peeled back the sheets, tucking her in before placing a kiss on her forehead. He's never heard the sound her lips make when she presses them against his temple or felt her reaching out, just to feel his skin against hers. He's never wanted, so badly, to stay.
She hums, content. "N'years," she murmurs, eyes still closed.
"Hm?" He's already in the doorway, but he's glad to turn back, if only to admire the way her hair spills over her pillow.
"I'll be home. New Years Eve."
"I see. Plans?"
She opens her eyes, enough to catch his gaze from across the room, and offers him a sleepy smile. "I have a date."
"Me too."
Her smile doesn't fade as she closes her eyes and dozes off.