Hotline

By Shahrezad1

Summary: As one of RooTTech's many Tech Support drones, Donatello gets all kinds of calls. But when Donny gets phoned by a wrong number on the edge, will he be able to keep her from toeing the line? Intermixed events and various pairings as one turtle's choice affects the entire team.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for fond childhood memories of watching turtle cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Trigger warning for those who have dealt with depression, suicide, anxiety, and abuse. The more serious content will be in Chapter 4, although there will be mentions in later chapters. If you have PTSD regarding these issues, you may not want to read this fanfic. Thank you.

Quick Author Note: Donatello's nickname will be written as "Donny" rather than "Donnie" in this, as determined by the subtitles of the live action films. I wasn't sure which spelling to go with, but that little detail became the deciding factor. :)

~/~/~

Chapter 3: A Voice in the Night

"Under twenty thousand tons of brick and stone,
She carries all the weight of her own world,
But somewhere deep inside,
Beneath the cartilage and bone,
Beats the battered heart of one little girl alone.
She is sweet, like sugar,
But she is bitter like the broken sugar pot.
Dad says that she could be anything she wants to be,
She only sees what she is not.

Disbeliever, underachiever,
Disconcerted with the way things look from here,
Disinclined and disinterested,
Nothing in your world seems clear.
Disbeliever, underachiever,
Don't you shed another tear,
Little Sister, broken heart resistor,
It's not like that over here.

-Brave Saint Saturn, "Resistor"

It was the start of something…curious. Like falling down a hole and not realizing you were in Wonderland until you were suddenly surrounded by talking mock-turtles and rabbits.

Not that that was entirely out of the ordinary for him.

But a girl wanting to discuss things with him for long hours certainly was.

Joy would call him on his shell-cell when she'd had a rough day, usually after he finished his shift with RooTTech and before he headed out on patrol with his brothers. Sometimes their discussions were lighthearted and silly, a happy diversion from the chaotic life he led. Other times they were a burden, his mind forced to reflect that despite 'appearances' Joy had originally come to him dealing with several serious issues. The question of where they came from and what she was dealing with plagued him after those calls, enough that his brothers had remarked once or twice on his distracted state.

Despite this, they hadn't quite made the connection between his hours interacting with 'topsiders' and the persistent frown he wore. The good thing about the situation was that if any of the other three saw him on the phone they didn't question it. Instead assuming that he was dealing with a customer on the headset he wore, rather than the handheld device he propped against his "ear", just out of sight.

The first real conversation they'd had—after the first, that is—had been about her name, itself, and the irony of it. Given that, well, it sounded as though there was little enough joy in her life currently.

"I shouldn't complain, though," she had laughed lightly, "considering that you're most likely a 'Donald' and people have probably made a lot of duck-related jokes. You're probably tired of them by now."

He'd opted not to correct her, instead saying, "there's a reason I go by Don or Donny."

The real reason being that Donatello was really rather too conspicuous of a name, and with both the Foot and the Purple Dragons keeping an eye out for them he would really rather not give them any fodder to work with.

Plus it was always an adventure trying to explain that he, a twenty-something living in the current century, was actually named after a Renaissance artist. Good times.

He learned through their conversations that she was an only child, lived with her father, and that her mother had passed away two years ago due to Leukemia. It sounded as though her mother hadn't been strong before the illness was discovered, making the battle short—and apparently expensive.

That same day Joy confided her hatred of hospitals.

"Really?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Joy was quite for a moment, a trait he'd noticed over time as indicating that she was organizing her thoughts. Although the space in which she took to do so had involved less and less time, as though she wasn't hesitating as much when it came to sharing with him, "they're just so…cold. Antiseptic. Unfeeling. They get you in and then out as fast as they can, so that they can help someone more important than you. Never asking where the injuries came from. They just don't care."

Rolling his chair over to the log he kept for such purposes, Donatello added that tidbit of information to his list of, "Things I Know About Joy." It was a page and half long and held details such as, "used to do pottery till age 11. What happened?", "Likes to sing—admits not talented. Truth or no?", plus gems like, "once got saved from a mugging by flying bat creature. Look into?"

Realizing that he'd gone silent for too long, Donny hummed slightly, "it kind of sounds like these experiences are based on something other than your mother's death. Do you want to talk about it?"

She went quiet before saying, rather simply, "well. I cut."

"Cut what?" he prompted absently.

"Myself. My wrists. I'm a cutter."

"What? Why?" he gasped out, almost tumbling out of his chair and onto the nearest desk.

"Because it's something that I can control," Joy said shortly, "and it makes me feel something other than just….numbness."

The young woman gave the details matter-of-factly, but they were only stated as such because he'd worked with her long enough that she didn't fear being straightforward.

Honesty: it was something they'd talked about from the get-go, with Donatello frankly pointing out that if they were going to be "pen-pals" of a kind then she might as well be honest with him.

Of course, she'd never actually extracted the same promise from him—a half-truth of sorts that pricked his conscience from time to time—but he tried to avoid lies and stick close to the truth whenever possible. Or at least an approximation of the truth.

"I'm not allowed to mingle with humans," became, "I was home-schooled by my father, as were my brothers, and we didn't have many friends while growing up." And "Mutant Vigilantes" shifted into, "members of the Neighborhood Watch."

"I suppose that makes sense," Donatello remarked without judgment, although a part of him still couldn't understand why, his heart in his throat.

She just seemed so delightful, both sweet and interesting; to what purpose could there be in self-harm? Control—yes, he could conceptualize that as being a valid reason, but that necessitated the existence of a scenario in which she didn't have control. He'd tried puzzling it out for several weeks, their conversations sometimes happening once a day and other times maybe one in seven. Even with all the factors Joy had revealed he still couldn't make sense of the situation.

Especially as, having been made an unwilling "volunteer" of Stockman, Bishop, and Karai, the concept of deliberately hurting oneself made him ill.

"Although that really is too bad," he said out of the blue, seeking to brighten the mood.

The girl was puzzled, "that I cut myself?"

Well, yes. That too.

Donny coughed, "that you hate hospitals. Given that I'm an Emergency Medical Technician."

The turtle made a point to drop the 'licensed' part. Not that his instruction was lacking, self-mediated though it was. Nor that he didn't have enough 'hands-on' experience. No, he was on par with his peers in everything but a formal education.

Her huff of laughter told him that his ploy at distracting her had worked, "you…you are?"

"Yep, and I can honestly tell you that, while very clean, my lab is anything but 'unfeeling.'"

Especially when Mikey got it into his head that 'Snakes on a Plane' should really be read as, 'Rubber Snakes in a Train(Station).' It had been pretty funny at first—when involving Raph and Leo—until he discovered several plastic specimen among the test tubes he kept in the infirmary's refrigerator.

Putting all the then-frozen toys into Michelangelo's bed right before he went to sleep had been satisfying enough that he hadn't retaliated any further; the punishment had fit the crime.

Still, that day his 'clinic' had been anything but unfeeling. After all, Mikey had definitely been feeling it afterward.

"So you're a doctor?" the question was asked with something stilted to it, halfway between unease and disquiet.

"Something like that," he tried to soften the imagery, "I have a very small clinic and an even tinier clientele. Kind of like a…ah, a focus group," one side of his mouth twitched and Donny wondered how his brothers would react to that description. They'd been called many things, but 'focus group' was not one of them, "but I've been told that I have a really good bedside manner," well, mostly. Not while Raph or Casey were involved, certainly.

"But I thought that you worked in…Tech Support?" she prompted, confused.

"I do. It's my day job, while working at the clinic is…" the turtle thought quickly, "well, it's on a volunteer basis. And even if I did get paid," he whirled around in his chair and thought about his family's utter lack, monetarily, "I wouldn't earn very much."

"Oh. And the Neighborhood Watch?"

"Also volunteering. Completely gratis. Consider me a concerned citizen."

"Plus you i-invent stuff, too?"

"When I have the time. Which is rare."

"When do you sleep?" she asked, mystified.

Donatello turned in his chair, using his foot to propel himself as he grinned, "what is this 'sleep' you speak of?"

Joy laughed and something clenched in his stomach. Warmth and exhilaration rushed beneath his reptilian skin and the scientific part of his mind mentally catalogued it under positive endorphins brought about by the conversation. He had a similar reaction when involved in intellectual debate, therefore he compartmentalized the reaction and didn't give it any more of his attention.

~/~/~

"So do you have a girlfriend?" the question was innocent enough, but he nearly sprayed grape soda all along the Gatling gun he was trying to fix because of it (there was really no point in wasting time sitting stationary when he could be doing something as they talked).

"Oh! I'm sorry! Are you okay?" Joy asked worriedly as he coughed and spluttered.

"I'm fine," Donatello croaked as he tried to clear the rest of the carbonated drink, a vocal rasp the aftereffects of his mental stumble. He moved the half-empty can far, far away from him. And thought about setting aside his project for good measure, then decided against it.

"Um, I…I didn't mean to startle you. Or if they question makes you uncomfortable. I—."

"No, Joy, it's fine. Yeah, it's fine," he waved away her concern, even though she couldn't see him, "it was just," he laughed weakly, "unexpected is all."

"Do you not get that question much?"

Well, yeah, but…

"I just work a lot. So, you know, there's not really a lot of time for, well, dating," or opportunities to do so, he added silently.

"Then…then there's no girls that you like?" she prompted hesitantly.

Well, if that wasn't a kettle of worms he didn't know what was.

The turtle opened his beak. Snapped it shut. Ran a three-fingered hand over his face, scrubbing slightly…and likely getting grease all over his skin. Then sighed.

"There was this…this girl."

"Yes?" his 'pen pal' prompted him in a whisper, "what was she like?" Joy's question came almost eagerly and Donny blinked. Why did she really want to know? he wondered. Maybe it had to do with the seemingly female curiosity so often portrayed on his father's Soaps. Not that that had any basis in actual fact. Either way, he searched for an answer.

"Well. She, um," he scratched at the back of his domed head. Feeling as though, Murphy's Law being what it was, April might walk in at any moment. Don whirled around to face the lab door.

He tried a different direction, "I told you that we were homeschooled, correct?"

"Right."

"Well, she…she was kind of the first girl we ever really got to know. Or at least got close to," he added quickly, "our father was pretty protective."

"I…I see?"

The young man took a deep breath and forged onward, although it really was more like a 'stumble' than anything, "she was…is…ah, well, she loves everyone. She's friendly. Smart. Intelligent. Really quite intelligent."

"Donny, you just said the same thing twice," she smiled into the phone.

He blushed hotly, knowing that his cheeks were probably a dark green, "well, it's something that you noticed immediately. Notice. Present tense."

"'Present tense'?" the human asked, confused.

"She's still in our lives," he confided with a slight touch of melancholy and a larger degree of resigned fondness.

Joy paused at that bit of information, "why didn't anything, you know, happen?"

Donatello chuckled, "because she married one of my best friends."

His new companion groaned on the other side of the call and he added his own laughter to her sympathetic noises.

"Look, even if she hadn't married Casey," the turtle continued with a chortle, "I don't think I'm exactly her type."

"Well, why not?" Joy asked almost defensively; as though she was defending him from his own opinion. He blinked, then grinned.

"For one I'm over ten years her junior—I was crushing on her when I was fifteen."

"Oh, ouch. I'm sorry," his sympathetic listener hissed.

"And for another, I'm much shorter than her," plus green, he mentally added, "and not exactly the best looking guy around."

She made a scoffing noise, sounding tinny in the earpiece, "oh, I doubt that."

"Doubt what?"

"That you're ugly."

That got a startled laugh out of him, "oh really? And how do you know that, exactly?"

"The same way that you know that I don't look like a horse," she said smugly.

His bark of laughter cut off the sound of Leo and Raph fighting in the den for a moment and he reminded himself to be a little more careful.

Still, he was smiling as he said, "touché."

She didn't seem to hear him, going on, "your personality is just too sweet for that," the girl continued simply, as though the truth was laid out before her like a deck of cards, "and your voice is like chocolate."

There was a hush on both ends as they registered what had been said.

"Wha…um," he laughed weakly, his neck suddenly feeling hot, "did you just say that my voice…my voice reminds you of chocolate?"

There was a large degree of hesitance one the line, then a deeply indrawn breath, "yes. I did."

Just three word—just a single 'yes' and he was flushed with heat. And Donny couldn't even see the girl that was making him feel that way. She was halfway across the city as it was! The vigilante gaped like a fish instead of the reptile he was as the hand-held phone, not quite knowing to do with the seemingly innocent device.

"Like…like milk chocolate, especially," Joy continued with a harsh gulp.

"Ah…"

"Sweet and…healing. Like the stuff in 'Harry Potter.' That Lupin gives him on the train?"

Lupin. His favorite character from the series. The fact that the character had lost his chance for a happy ending had nearly broken his heart when he first read the lines.

"I imagine you," she continued in his vocal absence, as though talking to herself, "that you're medium build with short, dark hair—so that it stays out of your face. Maybe Latin-American?"

His 'lips' quirked upward on the one side, "actually, my last name is Japanese."

"Japanese?" she echoed in surprise.

He coughed, trying to skirt around actually lying, "we come by way of Japan."

"Then…then if I think that your eyes are brown, then I'm probably not wrong, then?"

"Maybe."

"I imagine them…being like hot cocoa. After the marshmallows have m-melted."

Something in his stomach tightened at that. Her guess at his appearance was flawed due to her assumption that he was the same species as her. But the eyes were right on the money. April described them as 'coffee with heavy creamer', and the realization cut off his breath.

"Well, you're partially correct," he said softly, "but not completely."

"That's okay," Joy remarked with a smile to her voice, "the fact that I'm even sorta right makes me happy."

There was a pause, then, "what about me? You must have at least wondered what I look like, too."

Yes. Innumerable times.

His throat was dry, "well, um, yes. I just…whatever I thought of didn't, you know, do you justice. Or seem to fit."

"Well, is there anything that keeps coming to mind?"

Oh, boy. Donny sighed, setting down the screw driver that he hadn't used since their conversation started—there really was no point now, "well, it's not much…"

"But?"

He looked at his wall of screens, gaze unfocussed and turned inward. Without noticing it his shoulders dropped and breathing ran deeper, "…soft eyes. I can't settle on a color, but I imagine you with soft, kind eyes."

"Oh," her exhalation was surprised.

The techie winced, "look, ah, I'm sorry if I—."

"No, it's okay. Thank you, Donny," she said thoughtfully.

Desperate to change the subject, he took a breath and asked without thinking, "and what about you, Joy? Do you date?" The minute it came out he was cursing himself. Her breath had drawn in sharply and the conversation cooled significantly.

Stupid. Stupid.

Still she tried to respond, "I'm. No. No, I don't like being touched."

Touched? What did that have to do with—?

"But maybe I'll date in the future."

"That's…that's good."

"Yes, it is."

~/~/~

"Are you doing okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"I will be. I just," she pulled in a deep breath, "I just need a d-distraction. Tell me about what you're working on."

He looked down at the rocket pack he had on hand and hesitated. Moving on to a more…viable project, the next pile over, "um. I'm installing a new scanner in the infirmary. My brother Michel—ah, Mikey, broke the last one."

~/~/~

"Can you suggest any books?"

"Well, there's Ringworld by Larry Niven and I, Robo—."

"Do you have any about someone…dealing with p-problems?"

He frowned, worry tugging at him, "what kind of problems?"

"Nothing specific. Just, um," she tapped the side of her phone, making him wince. Huffed, "just something that makes you b-believe in the human race, you know? Something that gives you hope?"

Reminded of a specific line of dialogue, his mouth was opening before he realized it, "Anne Frank. The Diary of a Young Girl. Or To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee. Um, I'm not sure if they're what you would call 'hopeful,' though—."

"That's fine. I trust you."

~/~/~

The buzz of his shell-cell startled him halfway through a call one day, sending his heart rate running like a racehorse. It was out of the blue, and what's more, in the middle of the day when Joy knew that he was working. And his brothers were all at home currently, puttering around doing shell-knew what. Which meant that it had to be an emergency.

"Look, Mr. Fredricksen, I hate to tell you this, but it looks like you've been hacked. Yes, hacked. If you'd like I can email you a list of approved virus protection software?" Donny tried to rush the conversation to its close. Angry grumbling came from the ornery octogenarian on the other end, "yes, I am aware that part of the reason you called was because you couldn't open your email. But do you have a library card? I am not asking frivolous questions, I promise you. Why? Because you can use the computers there to ope—hello? Hello?"

A dial tone was his only answer and while the mutant felt mildly guilty for abandoning the pessimistic curmudgeon, he didn't feel that guilty.

Logging off the RooTTech application—he wasn't about to steal hours while talking to Joy, no matter how hard up his family was—Donatello dodged a look over his shoulder to make sure that the lab door was shut and then ducked low in his seat, voice even.

"This is Don. What's wrong?" he said after pressing the call button. Sobs were his only answer.

And continued to be so for the next fifteen minutes as Joy tried to explain what had happened.

"Why? Why me? Why c-can't I just be l-left alone?"

"I…I h-hate her. She's g-gone and now…"

"...he…oh, no."

Running his free hand tightly over his dome and dragging the end of his bandana down into a knotted fist, Donatello breathed hard through his mouth. He had to force himself not to crush the shell-cell in his grip. Even so he knew, based on the subtle creaking beside his 'ear', that the casing was likely going to be warped after all was said and done.

"Joy, I…I can't understand what you're saying," the vigilante whispered mournfully, anxiety rising at the fact that he couldn't do anything; on the other side of the phone line, his hands were tied, "I want to help but…but I can't if you don't clarify. Oh, Joy," he murmured as the crying became harder and harsher, slowly slipping into hushed words of reassurance as she continued falling apart.

Only when she had calmed significantly did he try again.

"Joy…what happened?"

"It doesn't matter," came the hoarse whisper, low and despondent, "none of it matters—I don't matter."

"You do matter," he argued in her name.

"No I don't."

He hesitated, wetting his lips before admitting quietly, "you matter to me."

She seemed not to hear him, only harsh gasping coming through the call. The young man held his breath as he waited.

Finally a sigh came, "D-Donny?"

"Yes?" he prompted, anxious with worry.

"Can I c-call you tomorrow?"

"Of course you can, Joy," he breathed.

There was silence and then…

"…thank you."

The call disconnected.

Their next conversation began with an apology, but Joy never did explain what had happened.

~/~/~

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"W-what's to talk about?"

"Well, you obviously seem upset."

"Maybe it's 'cause I can't make any friends."

The dry, ironic tone of her voice made him frown, "that can't be right—everyone has friends. Even I, the antisocial, homeschooled workaholic, have at least a few friends."

"Well, you must be better at finding them than I am, then," Joy said sarcastically. It was so completely out of character that his eye ridges jumped in surprise.

What was wrong with her today?

"Joy…did something happen at school?" he'd slowly figured out that she was in school right now, although he hadn't asked which level. Part of him wondered just how young she was, but he tried to avoid that thought. Once Donny labeled her, even with something so simple as an age, the turtle had a feeling that he might treat her differently. Lecture her or parent her or something.

Or back off. That was a distinct possibility, given that he was slightly worried about how…attached they were starting to become. Were becoming. It was complicated. And a bit worrying.

We are just 'phone friends', nothing more, Donatello sternly reminded himself. Although the 'friendly' aspect of that title seemed to be missing that night for some reason.

The girl's sudden and heavy sigh answered his previous question, interrupting his thought processes.

Donatello matched her heavy breathing with some of his own, "okay, what happened?"

"Ed Peterson poured orange juice into my backpack," she explained flatly, the most irritated he'd ever heard her, "I mean, normally I wouldn't care—I'm used to it by now—."

"Used to it?!"

"—but my book of Emily Dickinson poems was in there and now it's just…destroyed. Everything's sticky, too. And now I have to rewrite three of my papers, because the pen bled through," she huffed through her nose, exhaustion showing through, "all my notes are ruined, too."

The terrapin's grimace grew steadily more and more pained and at the end of it he whistled, "wow, that's pretty terrible, Joy."

In fact, it reminded him of the one time Mikey decided that his stack of floppy disks—back when he actually used floppy disks—were perfect for using as mini-plates in the microwave. That had been a dark day in the Lair and one of the few times Donatello had actually become vocal in his anger.

"I know. And I…I'd just caught up on my work after having been…um, sick," she mumbled, before rushing to continue, "but now I have to do all those assignments all over again."

He frowned, "Joy. When exactly were you sick?" They'd been talking steadily for almost the past two weeks, ever since she—

Her quick breath and rushed hesitance were blatantly obvious, "um, it was just last week. I wasn't anything, I was just…I couldn't get out of bed. That's all. For a couple of days."

Ice crystalized in his lungs, "Joy. Were you 'sick' the night when you…when you were upset?"

His voice was stilted with anxiety, hand gripping the joystick control in front of him tight enough that he was surprised it hadn't snapped off yet.

"Look. It doesn't matter. I…It was just an accident."

He was quiet and deliberate at that, "so were you sick or was it an accident?"

Dead air came from the other end of the call, then—

"You're not my Father, Don. So don't try to butt into my business."

Then she hung up on him.

He had no way to call her back.

~/~/~

AN: This was an interesting chapter to write, mostly as it's basically made up of disjointed mood swings. It's as though I've been writing the film "The Lake House" in fanfiction format. If, that is, "The Lake House" was supposed to spiral out of control. ^_^; *embarrassed smile*

I promise that there's going to be action in the next chapter, though. :) And the entrance of at least one or two other characters.

As things stand, I'm sure that a few individuals are putting the pieces together. And I know that I put the "trigger warning" up there for Chapter 3, but really…it's going to be for Chapter 4. The conversations in this just went a little long. *shrugs*

Ringworld (Larry Niven), I, Robot (Isaac Asimov), The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank), and To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee) are all books that I read from the age of twelve to fourteen or fifteen, I believe. They all are excellent, made an indelible impression on me, and I would suggest each and every one of them. :)

The quote that made Donny think of The Diary of a Young Girl is this one:

"In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again."