It had been about an hour and forty-five minutes now since they'd been crammed into the little room together, and it wasn't yet unpleasant for him, even as their body heat continued to creep up the temperature in the little space. Not that that was a bother to him. He was cold-blooded and the heat had always been rather pleasant and much more stimulating. Unlike humans—and even their sensei—he and his brothers, being reptiles, found warmer temperatures more alerting and energizing, allowing them to move more fluidly and at a quicker pace; whereas colder temperatures made them slightly sluggish. Training sessions had always been a nightmare during the winter.

It was the opposite for Master Splinter and April and Casey, warm-blooded organisms. They tended to be slower in the heat and more alert in the cold. He knew April, especially, greatly preferred to be near freezing rather than smoldering under a white-hot sun. He had always found that particularity about her amusing…Up until the moment she'd started to complain about it and had shed the outer layer of her clothing, leaving her shoulders bare in a white tank top. She had also discarded her boots and socks, wiggling her toes once they were free of restriction. She hadn't been wearing her normal leggings to begin with and so now was donning a simple ensemble of tank top and shorts.

He couldn't help the drift of his gaze as it continually coasted from the laptop sitting on his thighs to her body which was sitting so close to his own he could feel the slow steady pattern of her breathing. She was leaning back against the door with one hand pressed to the floor by her left hip. The other flipped the pages of the textbook sitting in her lap which was illuminated by the headlight he'd allowed her to borrow. She had again tucked her left leg beneath her right and had her right leg stretched out in front of her. It wasn't a very closed off position to be sitting in. There was…a lot of skin—tender, clear, milky skin that looked like it might bruise if he pressed his thumb against it. But she donned no blemishes whatsoever and he was thoroughly amazed by this.

His throat had gone dry about half an hour ago, and it was hard to swallow anymore. He wished they had some water at least.

She sighed heavily, flipping another page with a furious grace only she could pull off. "I don't want to do this anymore," she groaned.

"I can do it for you," he offered distantly, hardly even aware of the words leaving his tongue.

She chuckled. "Thanks, but you practically are already. If you do anymore I'm not going to learn anything and I'll just fail the class and have to take it all over again."

"Fair point."

Despite this, she pursed her lips out of frustration and slammed the book closed. "I think it's time for a break," she said, setting the book back on the shelf.

She sat back again, her shoulder brushing against his and sending chills through his veins. He kept his face neutral, tried not to let on any difference in his pulse, though he could not for the life of him take his eyes off of her. He watched her eyes slide close and her head tilt as she rolled it slowly around her neck, revealing different parts of her flesh. She reached up and started digging her fingers into her muscles for the fifth time in the hour. Even without her muttered comment of a headache, he could see the pain in her face.

He didn't like seeing her in pain.

He cleared his throat as his fingers suddenly turned cold. "I could—give you a massage if you like."

She opened her eyes, blue irises gazing practically in horror at the far corner of the room. He could feel a heat rising in his cheeks and wished he hadn't said anything.

Her eyes softened. "That's sweet, Donnie…but I don't think—"

"It's a very effective remedy for headaches actually," he cut in, overwhelmed by the need to explain himself. "It's a pretty simple concept; all you have to do is find the source of the discomfort. Usually any pain in the body is due to a pinched nerve in the spinal nervous system which controls the—"

"Alright, Donnie."

His cheeks burned brighter.

"If it'll get you to stop speaking science, I'll allow it."

Her half-joking manner didn't even register. He hadn't anticipated her actually agreeing.

She stood up, stretched for a moment, then shuffled in front of him and lowered herself between his knees, placing her palms on his kneepads to support her weight as she sat. He sat up straight and hastily shelved the laptop, heart practically pounding in his ears as they adjusted themselves until they were comfortable again with her sitting between his extended legs with her back to him and her legs crossed, knees leaning against his own.

He swallowed dryly as she pulled her hair away from her neck and tied it in a messy bun on top of her head after removing the leather strap with the light and her favorite yellow headband. She set them to the side beneath the shelf, allowing herself to be swallowed up by shadows. This didn't really help to calm his pulse, as her skin was so white it was practically glowing.

He took a moment to control his breathing, which shouldn't have been difficult, seeing as he'd spent a lot of time practicing breathing techniques over the years. Of course, there were multiple times that he'd nearly passed out from it, and this was April O'Neil anyway. She caused his body to go through all kinds of stuttering malfunctions just by being a presence, and he hadn't yet figured out how to conceal or control that.

He finally breathed a silent breath and gingerly rested his hands on her shoulders, for a moment simply in awe at the scene. Never did he imagine he'd one day be locked in a tight-spaced closet with the girl that practically made his skin melt. And never ever would he have guessed that she'd allow him to actually touch her this way. There was an intimacy about giving and getting massages that was inescapable—personal—it invited two separate persons into the same space and required a barrier to be brought down. He wouldn't have dreamed to have that privilege with April, even as much as he had constantly wished for it.

After all this time, and especially with the introduction of Casey Jones, this brand of closeness hadn't even been a hope anymore. At one point, maybe, he could've pictured himself sitting in a dark room with April nestled in his arms, leaning comfortably against his plastron, completely content with allowing him to simply hold her. But after a while, probability began to speak its numbers and he had somehow let it snatch that hope away. Why would he believe that he might ever have a chance with her? No one else ever had. Now, however, his hope suddenly seemed to light like a flame in his chest—reawakening. Maybe it wasn't so impossible.

He kept his left hand loosely propped on her shoulder and used his right to tenderly run his fingers along her spine and shoulders, pausing at intervals to assess the tension in her muscles and the curve of her spine. Finding the strained nerves was simple enough, after that it was just a matter of kneading out the kinks.

He used both hands now to press his fingers into her muscles as firmly as he dared, trying to concentrate more on the movement of her flesh beneath the surface rather than the impenetrable way her supple skin rolled under his thumbs. She was so warm, so soft. Her body had a malleable appearance but it was altogether strong under his hands, resolute—real. He had never felt anything so tangible in his life. Her skin was so smooth, slightly moist from the heat, and it accepted his touch just as easily as his electronics did. She was surprisingly easy to work on, and he was able to find a groove quickly.

A long, quiet breath escaped through her nose and he took that as a compliment.

He tried not to smile too big.

He worked in silence for a while—a comfortable silence—occasionally peeking toward her face to make sure he wasn't hurting her in any way. Her eyes had closed again, and they remained that way for a long time as she relaxed herself into his hands, bowing her head and leaning slightly forward to allow him full access to her back as well.

His heart stopped beating so frantically after a while of adjusting to her body and the way it felt in his hands, sitting between his legs. It became almost natural and he suddenly couldn't remember why it had been such a big deal a minute ago—though it was no less desired. It was simply comfortable now—the kind of comfortable that resides between two people that spend the majority of their time around each other, learning one another's strengths and weaknesses and coming to know exactly what to do and say to never strain that comfort. This was something he would now freely volunteer to do for her anytime she might need it. Taking care of her had always been an instinct and now it brought him ease. He liked it, and he really wished she would let him do little things like this for her more often.

"Where'd you learn how to do this?" she asked softly, her voice wrapping around the darkness to hug his ears.

Still working his fingers into her muscles, he said, "Actually, this is the first massage I've ever given, believe it or not."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious." He chuckled. "I learned how I learn everything else—research, and then trial and error."

He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling. She had that kind of smile, one you could feel.

"So one day you just decided, 'Hey I want to know how to give a good massage' and sat in front of your computer for hours researching information on the best massages ever?"

A soft heat reached his cheeks. "Well, it's more than just massaging techniques. You also have to be familiar with the anatomy of the body—how nerves, muscles, and the spine all unite and work together. There's also a lot of information about the right kind of environment for massage, like lighting, music, temperature, scents. And then there are different branches of therapeutic treatments—essential oils, salt scrubs, hot stones, infrared wraps…It goes very into depth."

She made a noise as though amused by his weakness for facts and thoroughness. "What made you seek out all this information to begin with?"

He couldn't answer for a while. His lips had sealed themselves and she had successfully gotten his heart running at a good pace again.

Truthfully, none of it had ever interested him until he'd once heard her mention having a sappy longing for a spa day. It had been in the back of his mind that maybe one day he could give her just that, find some way to get rid of his siblings or otherwise recruit their help in turning the lair into her own personal spa, complete with mannies and peddies and everything. However, somewhere along the line he had awoken from his love-induced blindness and realized how much ridicule he'd get for even mentioning such an idea to his brothers.

It wasn't ideal to have the kind of tenderness Donatello seemed to have with the kind of lifestyle he and his family led. Splinter had tried plenty of times to assure him that this softness was a "good" thing and had even thrown in the I-wish-your-brothers-had-more-of-what-you-have card, but the old rat wasn't fooling anybody. The teasing and laughter were just as demeaning after those one-on-one chats with his father as they were before the pep talk.

Right now, however, he definitely didn't regret his thoroughness.

"Nothing specifically," he answered in a small voice.

"Hm…You know what I've always wondered?"

"What?"

"How you always work with such precision on really delicate things."

He allowed himself a proud little grin. "It takes a lot of practice and ten times more patience."

"Well, you're very good at what you do that's for sure…Actually, come to think of it, Donnie, is there anything you're not good at?"

He laughed. The question caught him off guard. He had never thought of himself as universally gifted at everything. He was a fast learner and loved retaining information, but there were plenty of things he simply lacked the talent for.

"Oh I can think of a number of things," he said.

"Like what?"

He breathed in through his nose. "Well, I'm pretty sure I can't sing. Um…I'm not a very gifted painter. I can't cook—"

"Wait a minute," she cut in. "First off, I've never heard you sing in my life. Have you ever tried?"

"Well…No."

She scoffed. "You can't check that off the list without giving it a shot, Donnie. How often do you paint?"

"Enough to know I'm no good at it."

"I feel like you're lying to me about that one. Is the paint-job on the Shellraiser not your handy work?"

He hesitated. "Not entirely."

She shook her head and moved on. "I'll let that one slide, but I know for a fact you aren't giving your cooking skills enough credit."

"Mikey's the chef. I could never measure up to him and his ermm…creativity."

"What about that night you made spaghetti when Mikey was sick? Those were some pretty shell good meatballs."

He didn't even try to suppress his laughter. She was entirely too cute. "That's not exactly the right context for that word, April."

"Oh whatever, you know what I mean. You totally rocked those meatballs."

"Yeah, but I followed a recipe. I'm good at accurately executing orders; that doesn't make me a good cook."

"It can. Face it, D, there's probably nothing on earth you couldn't do if you really put your mind to it. I've seen you do it."

He found the corners of his mouth wilting as he stared off into a particularly dark corner of the closet, still absently kneading her shoulders with strong hands. He let his gaze fall to her exposed neck and got lost for a moment in the peachy-white color of her skin.

"I'm not a good fighter," he mumbled.

At this she burst into laughter. "Donnie, are you kidding me?"

"Compared to my brothers I'm not," he clarified. "I'm no good at standing up to Raph."

"No one's good at standing up to Raph."

"Leo and Mikey are."

She didn't respond.

"It's hard for me to fully grasp abstract concepts, like fighting without thinking, or…love." This word he mumbled and barely gave her a moment to really process it. "And I'm not cool like my brothers or…" He shuddered. "Casey. I'm no good at one-liners. I'm not funny. I'm not tough and rugged or gritty in any way. I'm just…a nerd."

Her shoulders sagged under his palms and she kept her eyes straight ahead, staring at the blackened wall. "Donnie, you don't need all that stuff to be cool. You're a ninja, for crying out loud! It doesn't matter how good a fighter you are 'compared to your brothers'; you still have that title. I bet you no one in the universe could wield a bo staff as well as you can—with the exception of Master Splinter of course. And that's just a stick, Don. You've built robots and computers and whole, fully-functioning vehicles, completely from scrap pieces and other people's trash. You've decoded alien technology, you're the only person to ever figure out the formula for the retro-mutagen that turned my father back into a human, and you're a turtle. It really doesn't get any cooler than that, Donnie—maybe except that you can totally pull off the color purple."

Donnie chuckled softly; however, it didn't last long.

"Am I cooler than Casey?" he mumbled, not entirely on purpose.

Her entire body stilled, and she turned to face him with incredibly striking eyes.

"I didn't mean to say that," he mumbled again, dropping his gaze to his hands which were no longer touching her.

"But you did. Donnie..."

He pressed his lips together in silence and nervously shifted his eyes.

"Why is that so important to you?" she asked in a tone that didn't entirely hide the fact that she knew the answer already.

He didn't look at her. He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Yes you do, Donatello."

Hearing his full name in her voice made him shiver. It was such a rare thing, and so personal. Rarely anyone bothered with the full length of his name except for his sensei.

"I…" He exhaled heavily and glanced up into her eyes. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you never have, Donnie," she said. "Not directly. How can you ever expect to get what you want without asking for it first?"

"Because I don't expect it," he said, his voice high on hints of astonished frustration. He shook his head. "I don't know if you've noticed, April, I'm a giant turtle."

"That never stopped you before," she countered.

"Yeah, not before Casey came along. I mean, I was aware I didn't really have a chance before, but now—it would just be stupid of me to think I might at all."

"Because you're a turtle?"

He swallowed past the knot in his throat and allowed his eyes to fall away from her again. They had never talked about this before. In fact, he couldn't recall ever having such an intimate conversation with her—a debate about why he wasn't good enough.

"Because I'm a turtle," he repeated quietly. "And...a geek, and a loser, and—"

She cupped a hand under his chin and quickly kissed his cheek, cutting off his words. "And there is no one in this universe, or any other, like you, Donnie."

She lightly brushed her thumb across his skin then let her hand fall from his face. And they just stared at each other through the darkness, barely able to make out the warm color in each other's eyes. It wasn't entirely necessary though. He knew those blues eyes. He'd been stealing glances and blatantly staring into them for months. He knew what vulnerabilities they held, what strengths, what intensities. Once, he thought he'd known how to read them, but now he wasn't so sure.

He had tried to convince himself once that he was used to her little pecks on the cheek that she often graced him with—the little moments of affection. But the only way he could be used to them was if they held a meaning smaller than themselves—if they were simply friendly gestures of gratitude. And for a moment, while he had enjoyed his little patches of gloating before a jealous Casey Jones, he had been able to convince himself, quite painfully, that those little kisses never meant what he hoped. And he had adjusted himself to this, learned how to cope with the idea that he would always be there for her, but only ever in the form she needed him to be—friend, confidant, brother…But anything more than that had never seemed possible. Except maybe until just now, when the tenderness of that little peck changed somehow and became something a little different.

And it was a something different that he reacted to instinctively. He simply returned that kiss on the cheek…which was something he had never had the gall to do before. But it wasn't entirely through awareness, and once he realized what he'd just done, he panicked at the way she looked at him—with full, widely surprised eyes.

Heart pumping in his throat, a sheet of embarrassed heat breaking out on his cheeks, he tried to turn away, look away, before he could humiliate himself further. But she stopped him, catching the tails of his mask between her fingers, and gently guided his face back around to meet hers. After that there was no possible way it couldn't have happened. She pressed her lips against his and it sent his heart into a flurry.

It was weird at first. He wasn't exactly practiced at the whole performance of kissing. He had researched it of course, with the frail hope that this moment would one day come. But no one really had excessive advice on kissing for the mutant turtle. The act of kissing itself wasn't even part of the reptilian instinct, though it was part of his. It did take a little effort. His mouth was much wider than hers and his "lips" weren't exactly the kind of lips to speak of, but he was Hamato Donatello—the fastest learner in the whole wide universe, as absorbent as a sponge. It didn't take him long to figure out the right technique, and then, strangely, it was completely natural, and it felt good, and it sent ripples of shivers throughout his shell.

He cradled her face in his palms—his hands big enough to cushion her entire head in fact, but they were no less gentle than human hands. In fact, April might argue that they were even gentler. He held her close, brushing a thumb across her cheek and then sliding his hand down to wrap an arm around her waist, playing with the soft cotton of her shirt.

Her lips were so soft against his own and she tasted like the same kind of honey he used to sweeten his tea. He wondered, only for a brief moment, if that was natural or something about her that had adapted to a life with mutant turtles and their Japanese rat master. But he was too entranced by the way her lips caressed his own to think about it too much.

Everything about her was small, but her hands were the smallest, yet they seemed such the perfect size for holding his face. And then her elegant fingers traveled down his neck and stroked the skin between collarbone and plastron, and rounded out over his shoulders, sending a cascade of goose bumps down his arms.

He broke away for a moment, only a moment, just long enough to meet her blue eyes with his brown and breathlessly exhale the words, "I love you."

She smiled—a smile he felt even more than any of her other smiles—and she nodded, brushing her fingers against his cheek and never taking her eyes from his. "I love you too, Donatello."

That was all he had ever wanted from her.


They pressed themselves against the door, leaning into each other and silently pushing one another out of the way to be the one with the full privilege of pressing his ear flat against the sheet of steel. Leo and Raph joined forces to shove a jumping Michelangelo out of the way, inclined with their shoulders to the door, facing one another and silently communicating what they were hearing.

"No fair! I wanna hear," Mikey exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "What're they doing?"

Splinter stood a little farther away with his hands behind his back though he too had one long ear directed toward the door, head tilted thoughtfully, completely silent until his ear twitched with the whisper of affectionate words being spoken. He was careful not to smile too broadly.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, grabbing his sons' attention, "they are not ready to come out yet."