It starts logically enough. The shelves have to be pulled out completely if they're going to use the van to transport any of the bigger items, and there's no real point in fixing the suspension and replacing the tires without beefing up the transmission to accommodate the dramatic change in weight distribution. Then the seats need to be moved back, the pedals expanded, and given the rough treatment Raph had dealt it between here and Times Square it just makes sense to reinforce the van's exterior with roll bars welded out of the cut-up frame of their couch and the disassembled weight rack. Since Donnie has the engine halfway apart already it's not that much more work to put it back together with a few odds and ends he's scavenged over the years to optimize its fuel efficiency and horse power, and if he throws in a homemade nitro booster or four while he's in there who can really blame him? They're likely to go to waste, otherwise.
By the time he finds himself bolting solar panels and an old DirectTV dish to the roof, Donatello hasn't run out of projects, but he has run out of excuses.
The lair is full of odd bits and pieces that aren't valuable enough to their survival to expend much energy transporting them to their new home. He crams as many of them as he can into the van.
Michelangelo is psyched about the van, tossing out ideas for paint schemes and helping carry parts up to the makeshift garage whenever he has a spare moment.
Leonardo, not so much.
"The hell were you thinking?" he hisses to Raphael, tucked away in a dark corner where he apparently thinks Donatello can't hear. "Like he's not got enough to deal with already."
"You think I don't fuckin' know?" Raph growls. "Christ, why do you think I—"
Cheeks burning, Donatello settles his headphones more firmly over his ear slits, pulls up one of his working playlists, and turns his attention firmly back to carefully disconnecting all of the non-essential pieces his Frankenstein beast of a mainframe. He's got a pretty good idea how the rest of the conversation will play out, and it's not one he's ever particularly cared for.
Five days after the Shredder's invasion, Donnie's list of possibilities and you-never-knows has been mercilessly pared down to three serious contenders spread out across Manhattan. None of them are perfect—nothing they've owned has ever been perfect—but each has its own potential, its own weaknesses.
One way or the other, they'll just have to make do.
"Which way are you leaning, Donnie?" Leo asks him over breakfast—tea and barely-expired MREs spread out over a picnic blanket of butcher paper blueprints.
He hasn't yet spoken to Donnie directly about the van, mouth thin and diction careful whenever it's brought up. It annoys Donnie, as do all the whispered non-conversations that seem to abruptly change subject whenever he steps into view. He chews fretfully on the edge of his tongue, brain and body jazzed on too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and tries to translate his thoughts into something more ordered.
"They're all going to need a lot of work." Donnie's made his own visits to inspect their structural integrity and run thorough checks for gas leaks, dangerous mold levels, and cross-sewage contamination within the fresh water pipes. The blueprints are covered in his notes, rough drafts of security grids and plumbing layouts crammed into every spare inch of the margins. He taps the diagram closest to him with the butt end of his fork. "This one's the most defensible, but it's far enough out that we'll have to put in some serious travel time just to get basic supplies. This one—" He points to a second sheet of paper. "Good neighborhood, so-so utilities. With some digging I think I can patch us into a neighboring commercial grid—should take two weeks, maybe a month—but we'll have to be careful about our power consumption if we want to go undetected. We'll need to supplement with multiple generators to run anything more than the most minimal of systems."
Leonardo frowns into his tea. "Will one or two of your generator bikes be enough, or do you think you'll have to build more?"
"Ten generator bikes wouldn't be enough," Donnie huffs in frustration, tapping his fork more fervently against the scrawled equations showing just how many kilowatts they burn through in a day. "We'll have to prioritize fuel scavenging until I can figure out how to siphon in gas from a supply line without blowing us all up."
"Fantastic," Leo sighs, propping his chin heavily on one hand. Donnie's not the only one relying on inhuman amounts of caffeine to push through the exhaustion of the past few days. "What about the subway one? What's it got wrong with it?"
Donatello can feel his heart thumping heavily against his plastron. Absently, he brings his fork up to his face and starts to tap out the rhythm against the edge of his jaw, the dull, solid strike of cool metal against bone strangely pleasant.
"Well, I can tell you something right about it," he says. "See, I've been thinking about the whole parking issue. Y'know, for the van."
Leonardo hums low in his throat, dimples downturned as he drains the last of his tea. The muscles of his shoulders, limp with weariness half a moment before, pull in tight and close, like he's bracing for a strike.
Donnie alters the pattern of the fork. Straight eighth notes, now, measured and true.
"For the move we should be fine sticking with alleyways, somewhere discrete with manhole access and within easy transport distance of the new lair, but long term we'd need something that we can reliably secure. Like an actual actual garage. I mean... Raph had a good idea taking it underground, but the storm drains aren't gonna cut it once we start getting some serious rain rolling through, and we need to be street level if we wanna actually use it. I found a couple of auto shops in foreclosure that could work, and with all the buyouts and mergers I think I could forge a backdated transfer of sale to a dummy party without raising any flags. And there's one about a three blocks over that's practically on top of the old line. Assuming it's not caved in all the way, I could—"
"Donatello," Leo interrupts. "About the van..."
No, no. "I could, Leo. You know I could."
"I do know," he says slowly. "And it's not that I don't see the potential utility of a dedicated vehicle, I'm just not sure that..." His eyes keep drifting down to the silver blur of Donnie's fork. Donnie ducks his chin reflexively, smacking himself in the cheekbone instead. It hurts, but only dully. "Are you listening, Don?"
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah."
"I know how you can get with projects—" Leo continues. "—and you've been spending a lot of time on this one. Taking a moment or two to work off some steam is okay, but right now, we have to keep most of our energy focused on our primary needs: food, shelter, safety. Our family."
To his face, Leonardo is always careful to frame his concerns solely in terms of pure, infuriating practicality. His fingers curl white around the fork, forcing it still.
"I am focused, Leo. It's not... I'm not playing with it. It's not a toy."
Leo sighs and looks back down at the mess of plans, rolling his empty cup back and forth between his hands.
"I believe you," he says, in a way that makes Donatello itch with the certainty that he doesn't.
Raphael understands the most, he thinks, this need to constantly be doing, the clarity and calm only found when the body and most of the brain is caught up in a task. Wiring in extra speakers for surround sound, reprogramming the van's satellite to intercept all digital law enforcement broadcasts as well as every ESPN affiliate, laying shag carpet over layers of homemade plate armor while Mikey goes to town on the outside with the box of hoarded Rust-oleum discards in green and yellow, all of that's just a tool, something to keep his hands and brain busy until the clanging of the world settles back into a mostly-tolerable white hum.
Doesn't mean Raph won't do his brotherly duty and tease him about it when he brings up dinner, though.
"Looking nice, Donnie," he says, his bulk nearly filling the open side door as he peers around the green-lit interior. "Very Austin Powers Saves Christmas."
"The lights were Mikey's idea." Donnie squints down at the tangle of wires feeding into the rocket launcher control panel, tracing their routes with his fingers in far-sighted habit. His gut is telling him that there's a cross somewhere there definitely shouldn't be, but so far he hasn't been able to find it. "He said they added 'ambiance.'"
"Big shocker there," Raph grumbles, eyeing the miniature disco ball. "The carpet's all you, though, right?
There's no use denying it. "Sound barrier and secondary shrapnel catcher all in one handy shagalicious package." Plus it feels nice, long and silky like the alley cats that sometimes press their hard, pointed heads into his palms, looking for a scratch.
Raph nods. "I like it." It's probably the truth. Raph does enough of their sewing that he's turned into a bit of a textile snob, but he's the one who dragged home the worn velvet throw that used to live on the back of the couch. "'S gonna be a real pain to clean, though."
Donnie shrugs. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made," he says, frowning as he finishes his third careful inspection of the juncture box and finds nothing amiss. Despite the nagging worry telling him that he's making a mistake, he closes the panel access and reaches for his screwdriver, but his sweeping hand turns up nothing. "Hey, Raph, have you seen my—?"
Raph holds up the heavily-abused Phillips-head, twirling it between his fingers like one of his sai.
"Thanks," Donnie says, but when he reaches for it Raph pulls back.
"Trade ya," he says, holding out a large bowl of something pale and goopy that smells just faintly enough of fish and creamed mushroom to be appetizing.
Donatello scowls at in on principal. "It's not a trade if you're holding all the goods to begin with it."
"Goods for services, then," Raphael grouses. "Either way, I ain't leavin' 'til you eat. Don't think I didn't see you skippin' out on lunch when Mike an' Leo took Sensei out for the grand tour."
Donnie rolls his eyes, but the vaguely liquid feeling in his joints tells him that it's long past the time when he should have stopped to refuel.
He accepts the bowl and proffered spoon, tucking them into his lap and settling into a more comfortable position. The bowl is pleasantly warm; he's about to ask for something to drink when the van dips unexpectedly, string lights swaying as Raph climbs inside. It's not until Raph eases down next to him that Donnie notices the second bowl tucked into the crook of his brother's arm and the rusted remnants of a six pack dangling from one finger.
Donatello raises a brow ridge at the beer but accepts the faded gold can passed his way without protest. He tries not to think too hard about tetanus and expiration dates. "Any other contraband you need help smuggling over?"
"Nah, this is the last of it. Been saving it for a special occasion." Raphael shifts the second bowl into his lap and cracks his own beer open one-handed. "Cheers."
They clink cans.
Dinner is hot burner tuna noodle casserole, heavy on the canned peas. It's not great, but it's not terrible, either, and the texture is just sticky enough to feel good against the roof of his mouth as he chews. They eat in silence, shells propped against the van's walls and knees almost close enough to touch. The beer is lukewarm and slightly sour. Between their size and their accelerated metabolisms the alcohol is barely enough to warm the back of his throat, but Donnie doesn't mind. There's something about sitting in the van's close, muffled glow, taking long sips of it between bites of bland but filling noodles, that's nice, that makes him think of why people call it liquid bread.
"Mikey and Splinter are leaning towards that place with the subway tunnel," Raphael says at length.
Donatello closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of his brother's chewing, soft wet flexes of muscle and bone punctuated by the scratch of the metal spoon against ceramic. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Liquid slosh against thin aluminum as he takes a long sip. "Leo still likes that one under 3rd, but I think Mikey and Sensei have about talked him out of it. They're planning some topside scouting now"
Donnie opens his eyes and reaches for his own can. "He just wants to be in the delivery radius of that soup place he likes."
Raph frowns, brows furrowed. "That one with the fucking tiny crackers?"
Donnie snorts around his mouthful of beer, surprising himself. Raphael grins at him like he just won a prize.
"Don't get me wrong, it's good minestrone. But they're like—" He holds up one hand, thumb and first finger held half a centimeter apart. "—fucking Chiclets."
Raph finishes first, crumpling his can in one fist and tossing it out the open back of the van where it clatters satisfactorily against the concrete before being swallowed by the dark of the tunnel. Donatello takes his time scraping the last bits of tuna from the bottom of his bowl, then runs his cleanest finger around the inside of the rim. The sauce isn't exactly savory-worthy, but calories are calories. Raphael wordlessly passes him his own bowl, and he licks it clean, too.
"Think it'll be ready for the move?" Raph asks. He's got his head turned towards the mountings for the plasma tv, but something about the set of his jaw makes Donnie think that he's not looking at the van at all.
Donatello tilts his head back, draining the last of his beer in two smooth, slick swallows. When he tosses his can after Raphael's, it skips like a stone across water.
"—oppit, ssss'ahpit! Nnnh, shhhhhah—"
"Donnie?"
"—it! Shit, f'cknngh..."
"Hey, hey, shhhh. S'alright, you're okay."
"Nnnnnknkt..."
"You're okay, 's not real. You're okay..."
That's Michelangelo's voice, off to his left, his fingers brushing across his shoulder. For a muddled, half-unreal moment Donatello thinks they're small again, huddled together in some dank corner while Dad stands guard, tail occasionally sweeping across their sleeping forms in the same gesture he'd used to soothe them through fretful infancy. Groaning, he tries to push Mikey's pinching fingers away, but his hand finds nothing but empty air, and he gropes blindly until his elbow bangs against something hard and curved.
Donnie jerks out of REM sleep with a gasp, ulnar nerve howling. Instinctively his body tries to retract the jangling, unresponsive limb, but it flops feebly against his plastron. He's on his back. He's on his back, he can't turn over, all the soft parts of him are exposed and he can't turn over, they'll—
"Shh..." Calloused fingers wrap around his own nerveless ones. "Shh, I've got you."
Donnie fumbles with his good hand, finds a thick forearm covered in pebbled, scar-studded skin, and with that touchstone the world settles more firmly back into place.
He's in bed, shell cradled by fiberglass and a comforter that smells like Ocean Mist Febreeze. There's a pillow jammed awkwardly between his side and the edge of the bed, limiting his movement, and his too-long legs are cold where they stretch out across the floor. He must have kicked away his covers at some point—his muscles clench and tremble under the nothing weight of the damp lair air—but at least there's a band of familiar, muscular warmth stretched out across his chest, pinning him down. Anchoring him.
His eyes dart around their sleeping alcove, still searching for the unknown threat his body insists is there, right there, but without his glasses the lair is little more than vague abstractions of shadow, dark against dark. "M'k'y?" His mouth feels oddly tacky, each panting half-lungful of air rasping cold across the back of his throat, and he has to swallow twice before his tongue feels wet enough for speech . "Wha's...?"
"Nothin'," Mikey soothes. "Just a dream, dude."
"Jus' a...?" It feels like something he should remember, looming just over his shoulder, but his mind offers nothing but smeared snapshots of a long tunnel that twists off into nothingness.
"A real fuckin' bad one by the sound of it. But yeah. Dream." He's... Petting him is the only way Donnie can think to describe it. Sweeping his hand back and forth across the nerveless keratin of his plastron with firm pressure.
The spring under Mikey's bed creaks in protest as he adjusts his position, propping himself up on one elbow to get better leverage to dig and press into the gaps between Donnie's scutes. It can't be comfortable on his side like that, even if Mikey is the only one short enough to still tuck his legs fully into his bed. A surge of guilt washes over him.
"Do you wanna talk about it? Your qi is like, seriously whacked the fuck out."
Donatello shakes his head. It feels hollow, yet strangely heavy. Overfull. Sucked dry. He can't seem to catch his breath.
They took it, they TOOK it, all those small skittering fingers. Clear hard sealed airless he is floating—
"Woah there, slow down. Deep breaths , bro. S'okay. In..."
—there is nothing to pull him down.
"And out. In..."
They're going to peel him out of his shell—
"And out. In..."
— out of his SKULL and they'll find...
"You're doing great, Donnie. You're doing so great, just a few more."
They'll find...
"Aaaand out."
It's like Michelangelo has a hold of him by his sternum, fingers tangled between the thick cartilage of his anterior pseudo-ribs, pulling and pushing until Donatello's lungs moves the way he wants them to, slow and deep and steady.
Donatello lets him, rattling attention focused outward on his surroundings. Some things are where they should be. Michelangelo. Raphael. His computer pack hanging in its charging station, the red glow of its power indicator light pulsing faintly as it waits for him in hibernate mode. Others have shifted. Leonardo's bed is empty—he's on watch duty tonight—but he can hear him moving out in the dojo, swords slicing through the air in the slow, precise rhythm of a kata.
Somewhere in the lair, buried under thick layers of graffiti and water-stained posters and tangles of spider-webbed cable, is the spot where they all slept together, that first night. Donatello's forgotten exactly where.
Slowly, slowly, he starts to relax under Mikey's rough massage. Raph—who usually snores like the C train taking a sharp turn—is suspiciously quiet.
"Better?" Mikey asks, once he's gotten his heart rate back below 100.
Donnie considers the question carefully, probing at each of his systems in turn. His mouth still tastes sour and there are echoing corners inside his skull that buzz distractingly with anxious thoughts, but the prickling numbness in his left hand has finally receded enough for him to feel the slightly raised puffiness of his own name tattooed in curving script across his brother's arm. "Better," he concludes.
"Hmm. Want me to get out the basking lamp? I think I know where Raph stashed it."
"I'm okay," Donnie says, and for the moment, it's the truth.
"Cool," Mikey yawns. "Lemme know if you change your mind."
"I will," Donnie whispers, the lie soft and easy. He'll get up again once Mikey is out again, all four limbs safely tucked back into his own bed. Leo won't like seeing him awake, but maybe he can guilt him into going back through all of the blueprints just one more time. Or even better, help him climb up into the highest rafters so Donnie can trace back over the long loops of wire draped like delicate spider-webs all along the perimeter, one last attempt at scavenging what they can before they start their move tomorrow.
Without noticing or intending to, Donatello drifts back into sleep.
Wet stone curving under his palms. Tunnels stretching out into the endless black, their paths unknown. Sounds overhead, grinding like teeth, gunfire and the stench everywhere of humans. Deeper, deeper, they have to—
The hand holding his squeezes tight, doesn't let go even after he's quieted his whimpering.