Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Peter Laird and Kevin Eastman, various publishers including but not limited to Image and Mirage Comics, Paramount Pictures, 4kids and Nickelodeon. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Only thing I own is Rebecca Maitland.
Author's Note: I am blushing so much, you all. I cannot believe you all are still here, still rooting for Don and Rebecca. God, it means the world. I love you all so much and your reviews, follows, favorites—they ALL keep inspiring me to make sure I get their story finished. They deserve it...and frankly, you all do too.
This chapter is a bit of filler but important filler, if that makes sense. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. I highly suggest listening to the version of "Say Something" by Pentatonix (search on Youtube!) while reading this chapter—it was my main source of inspiration. In fact, I'm thinking of putting together a playlist of songs that have inspired this fic—any takers? Actually, I even have a question—what songs make you think of this story and Donatello and Rebecca? I'm always looking for new music.
Anyway, enough chatting! Onto the story—please review if you are so inclined!
"So, I was thinking I could focus my paper on how Jane Eyre showcases the in-between struggles of a governess during this time..."
It was stupid, really. The fact that there was a poster of that quote in the library.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains."
"There were lots of sources available—I think focusing on class and gender was the right way to go—it's such a pivotal theme throughout the book..."
It was someone's stupid attempt at humor. A lame way to encourage reading, as the follow up quote on the side indicated with the 'Be awesome! Be a book nut!' text . It wasn't even advertising the real book—which was, by the way, a parody of the original because of the whole zombie fad. In fact, it was dumb to even have a poster like this in a university library because if the students here weren't already reading—well, they were just fucked.
God, what a disservice to the original novel.
"...and, well, should I have discussed Christianity more in the paper if I'm focusing more on the governess stuff? Seems like a waste really..."
A sudden flash of purple caught her eye and she stared, half expecting to see a green body attached to it. An ache exploded in her chest—(It can't be. I won't believe it until I see it)—and then her eyes refocused and she realized instead it was the tails of someone's scarf, tied loosely around their head in a makeshift headband.
The ache increased tenfold.
Of course it wasn't him. It was ludicrous to even think he would be out and about right now—it was in the middle of the day and what need would he have to be in the NYU library? He was never coming back, anyway, and she was doing fine—just fine without him—
"Rebecca?" Francesca, the undergrad she'd been tutoring all semester, ducked her head, waving her hand in front of Rebecca's face. "Are you okay?"
Rebecca shook her head and tried to adjust her attention to the situation at hand.
"Sorry," she mumbled apologetically, rubbing her eyes. She plucked up the paper she had in front of her with markings on it and studied it, trying to make sense of the words. "End of semester is getting to me. What did you say again?"
The young girl huffed and launched into her explanation again on the thesis and argument of her paper. Mechanically, Rebecca offered a few suggestions to improve it, insisting that, yes; the religious and Christianity nature of the book deserved another paragraph at least.
She didn't miss him. She didn't miss him at all. She could do this; she could keep living like he never existed.
You're lying to yourself, Rebecca, and you know it.
Later that evening found Rebecca back at her apartment, packing. Christmas was the following week and she would be leaving the next day to spend the holidays with her family in Philadelphia. Normally, she relished this time of year—the cold, the holidays and her mother's famous chocolate chip cookies.
This year—this year she wanted to lay down on her bed and sleep until the dull ache in her heart stopped.
The twinkling lights decorating the fire escapes on the building across the street caught her eye and she paused midfold of a shirt to study them. Her gaze fell to the top of the roof and for a few moments, she stood there, wondering if he ever came there and watched her, just to make sure she was okay.
Honestly, she doubted it.
The half folded shirt was abandoned with a quick shove to the side and she grabbed the ever present pack of Marlboro Lights. She threw open the window to her fire escape and she leaned out, placing the ashtray on the cold metal. Within seconds, a cigarette was lit and smoke wafted into the cold air. A chill shot through her body at the freezing temperature and she was oddly grateful for the distraction.
"You know, smoking is bad for your health."
"I know," she whispered, sucking to inhale as much of the nicotine as she could. She was talking to no one but herself. "You kept reminding me every chance you got." Tears pricked the insides of her eyes but she blinked them away as quickly as they came.
You managed to make it almost two days without crying this time, Rebecca. Don't break your record.
To say the last few weeks had been hell would be an understatement.
She wished it hadn't been so easy. A few search terms from her home computer before leaving for NYU that day had shown the proper trail. She had followed it up at the library a few hours later when she was free, printing page after page of information. The names and details swirled together in her mind and the only thing that stuck out were the bodies—so many bodies. It was a large fanbase, she'd realized, digging through web page after web page of questionable content, much of it looking like it was taken from police reports. She didn't even want to know how some of those photos had appeared on those pages.
It had made so much sense at the time—he'd lied to her to keep this part of his life hidden because he didn't trust her, because he was some sick mutant freak who enjoyed playing mind games. And, God, the chip—that stupid fucking chip that had started everything.
Hurt—she'd been so hurt. To know he knew everything about her and she had known literally nothing about his own life.
I trusted you.
Somehow, in the weeks since, she had tried to get back to a normal life. All her assignments were finished and turned in on time. Invitations from friends were accepted—drinks with Sabrina, coffee with Sara, dancing with Deanna. One spectacular night resulted in at least ten different shots, as if becoming rip-roaring drunk would stop the pain. If anything, it had intensified it.
It wasn't fair, really. It wasn't fair at all that he'd only been in her life for a few short months and that now that he was gone, there was a huge, gaping hole in her life. There were no more late night chats, no more debates—
No more Don.
The cigarette was finished quickly and she brought the ashtray inside, setting it on a random shelf. She closed the window to block out the cold and sat on her bed, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to bring warmth back into them. Green eyes surveyed her apartment quietly.
It was spotless.
Books were placed back on the shelf, alphabetical order. No dirty dishes sat in her sink and all the clean ones were put away. Even her bathroom, hidden behind the door, was devoid of any dirt or grime. In the weeks following, she'd scrubbed every inch, every wall clean, trying to rid the place of his memory.
But, even despite the cleaning, there was the couch where the two of them sat laughing—there was the spot on the wall she punched the night of that failed date and he offered the dance she never received. The bathroom where he had watched her vomit and clucked over her like a mother hen. The table where he placed Mikey's home cooked meals, and the place in front of her bed where he had kissed—
Stop.
A vision of a weapon poised above her came to mind, near the table. A dent in the floor lay where it had connected and she winced, remembering the sound. Minutes after he left, a concerned neighbor had come to check on her, having heard the commotion and the shouting.
"It was nothing," she lied, biting back tears, thankful for the dark light shielding her eyes. "TV was on too loud and I slipped—clumsy me."
There were the roses too, swept away the following morning when she was trying to get her head straight and make her heart stop hurting. He had actually brought her flowers.
No one ever had before.
Donatello was etched across every spare centimeter in her home and no amount of scrubbing or bleach was going to block him out.
Despite everything that had happened, though, and her attempts to resume normalcy, there was still something that bugged at her that kept that dull ache going. A small, slimmer of a thought that perhaps she had made a mist—
Abandoning the packing still unfinished on her bed, Rebecca ducked under it quickly, pulling out a plastic file folder. She dug the papers out and laid them out neatly on her bed, looking through each one.
A good researcher always asked questions—if the citations and articles she was looking at were, in any way, inaccurate or biased. If they matched her own conclusions from the text or introduced new, relevant information that could influence her thesis and evidence.
Rebecca knew she was a good researcher—a damn good one.
In this case, the research wasn't matching her thesis. It didn't add up with the picture she had painted of Donatello in her head. He had known her for months at this point—he had invited her into his home, introduced her to his family. She remembered now too—the photos dotting his home of April and a man she assumed was Casey that he had mentioned. They were smiling and laughing—happy. Don had taken care of her when she was sick and been a friend when he didn't have to be. The bodies and words that stared up from her the pages on the Phantoms didn't match the Donatello she knew.
There was the glimpse of something, though, that she saw that night, when his bo staff had come swinging down. A flash of danger and anger and something more sinister which chilled her to the bone.
Donatello had never hidden the fact that he was trained as a ninja—that he was a ninja. She knew he carried a weapon, she knew he purposefully never said much about his family to her. The memory of her conversation with Master Splinter floated back to her.
"You have choices here, Miss Maitland. The lives my sons lead are far beyond comprehension—it is much to expect of someone, to understand and accept this."
At the time, she hadn't understood what that meant but she was beginning to understand, in the best ways she could. The Hamato family had a duty that lay far beyond the realms of Rebecca's own cognizance. Donatello would always be a part of this grim, dark reality that leaped off the computer print outs she held.
A good researcher knew, too, that sometimes the information that wasn't said was more vital than the information given. Was there more to this, more than she was seeing in these black and white words? She remembered—God, she remembered his promise to tell her everything. It's why he had come that night, wasn't it? The roses, the text she had from him she hadn't seen until days later.
Be by later tonight. It's going to be new with us—but I'm glad it's you.
It was the missing source of her argument—the counterpoint to a pivotal debate.
Those weren't the words, the actions of someone bent on destroying her. They were misguided—
A familiar green chip fell out while Rebecca rummaged through pages and her hands stilled suddenly, staring at it.
She knew now—she had made a mistake in not listening to Donatello, in not hearing his side of the story. But, as she pushed the papers clumsily back into the file folder and shoved the rest of her packing off the bed to wait until tomorrow, she held onto that green chip, thinking, until it cut into her hand.
There was a fine line between admitting wrong and forgiving.
She wasn't ready to forgive yet.
I don't know if I can.
"Donny?"
It was dark and comfortable, where his exhaustion had settled in. He hadn't felt this comfortable in ages.
A clink, then a hand on the shoulder, shaking.
"Donny? Come on dude—we got practice soon..."
Donatello sat up suddenly, eyes wrenching open. His eyes focused on his youngest brother standing next to him, a cup of steaming coffee on the desk. He stared blearily from him to the coffee and gingerly picked up the beverage, taking a hesitant sip.
Michelangelo rolled his eyes and leaned against the desk. "Two sugars—no cream. I know how you take it."
He nodded, eyes closing for a moment to let the caffeine kick in. He didn't remember going to bed last night—
It was then he saw the black computer monitor and the book laying on its side.
Beside him, Michelangelo sighed, crossing his arms. "You feel asleep at your desk again, didn't you?"
Donatello glanced around realizing, yes, he had in fact fallen asleep at the desk again. There was an email due any now to the Purple Dragon he'd been tailing over the last few weeks and he kept staying up, waiting for it. If the encrypted messages made any sense at all, there was going to be a message about an incoming shipment soon. He could feel it.
"Thanks for the coffee," he finally croaked, resting his head in his hands and closing his eyes again. A headache borne from exhaustion was beginning to wreak havoc. Practice was going to be hell this morning.
There was blissful silence for a few moments until he heard shifting next to him and pages being flipped. His eyes flew open again and he turned swiftly, trying to grab the book Michelangelo was now holding in his hands, curious. Despite the lack of sleep, Donatello's reflexes were faster and he ripped the book from his brother's hands, throwing it quickly into a random drawer at his desk.
"Dude!" Michelangelo exclaimed, eyes narrowing. "What the hell?!"
"Not. Yours," Donatello growled, taking another long sip of coffee. Kick in any time now, caffeine...
"You've been reading a lot lately," the orange clad turtle commented, eyeridge raised. "When you're not obsessively tracking down this Purple Dragon, your head is always stuck in a book. You're worse than Leo."
"Shut it, Mikey," Donatello grumbled, bringing his computer out of sleep mode. "It's none of your business."
"Well, I'm making it my business," he countered, reaching to swivel Donatello's chair around to face him. "Come on—seriously, talk to me. There's gotta be a reason you were reading—what was it?...Erin by Jennifer—,".
"Emma by Jane Austen," his older brother corrected, pushing his chair back to stand up. Donatello meandered over to a corner of his lab, picking up already organized pipettes and tubes and began reordering them.
There was a pause as Michelangelo watched him. After a beat, Michelangelo spoke quietly, oddly serious. "It's about Becky, isn't it?"
A test tube Donatello was holding shattered in his hand abruptly and he cursed softly, sprinting to the sink to wash the blood and glass shards away.
Michelangelo was next to him again and already handing him antiseptic and bandages to seal any cuts to his hand. Once his hand was thoroughly cleaned, Michelangelo tried again, quieter this time.
"It is Becky, isn't it? Damn it, Don—,".
"Don't," warned Donatello, closing his eyes. "Just...don't."
"Don." Serious Michelangelo appeared again, grasping his brother's shoulders. "Dude, you gotta talk about this, man. It's—I can tell it's killing you."
There was a long pause and Donatello sighed heavily, knowing there was no way to worm his way out of this one. "How did you know?"
"I notice things," Michelangelo smiled sadly. "I know you told us that it hadn't gone well but you've been way more obsessive with work lately—and the book sounds old, man. I know—well, I know she probably dug the old book thing."
"She did," Donatello replied softly, offering no other explanation.
"Leo didn't want us to bother you," the younger brother confessed, moving his hands from Donatello's shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. "He—he said you'd tell us when you were ready. So...my question to you is...are you ready now?"
No.
The day after his confrontation with Rebecca, Donatello had woken up and made no mentions about her—at all. The cell phone prototypes that had been untested for months were suddenly up and running and he managed to crack the encryption on the emails back and forth between the Purple Dragons in a matter of hours versus the weeks it was taking him originally. It wasn't until a few days later at dinner when his family was questioning the sudden amount of productivity and lack of mentions about Rebecca that Donatello had coolly mentioned that she had decided to pursue other interests and they were finished. Leonardo had tried to push the issue, which only resulted in Donatello excusing himself from the table abruptly and leaving the rest of them in silence.
Everyone, even Master Splinter, left him alone after that.
He thought that, perhaps, in the weeks since, he might be able to forget her. She had floated into his life so suddenly—maybe it was better she went out that way too. It would have been easy, if it weren't for the sudden itch to read. In between security upgrades and surveillance, he read constantly—anything he could get his hands on. A few days ago, he had received the used copy of Emma he had ordered before their last encounter—his plan had been to surprise her by reading it.
"A lot of people don't like Emma," she commented, shoveling Mikey's spaghetti into her mouth while he watched her, amused. "But it's worth a read—a great example of how important it is to have unlikeable characters, especially when they end up being good people."
There was 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Frankenstein too—one of her past recommendations, quickly mentioned in some random conversation.
It was a sick cycle—the words from the pages could distract him for a short period of time but they were all from her; a part of her.
At night, he couldn't shake the look in her eyes, after his bo staff had come swinging down, like she had never seen him before. The word had been reflected in her eyes, watching him in horror.
Monster.
"Donny?" Mikey tried again, bringing Donatello out of his reverie.
"I screwed up," he whispered, eyes watching the floor. "I really fucked up, Mikey."
"Come on—it can't be that bad—,".
"She found the chip."
Michelangelo stopped midsentence and stared, slightly aghast. "You mean your tracking chips?"
"Yes. My fucking tracking chips," Donatello growled angrily, throwing open a drawer to take out a small brush and dust pan, cleaning up broken glass. "I went that night—I was going to explain it all, why the chip, the file—everything. But she found it—somehow—and she figured it all out—that we're the Phantoms that keep showing up in the news..."
Mikey paused, watching his brother for a moment. "But—but that's a good thing, right? Cause she figured it out, so you wouldn't have to explain as much—,".
He threw the shards of glass collected on the dust pan into the trash can, clattering around loudly. "No, Mikey—it wasn't. She—God, she saw the photos of bodies. People we killed, lives we took." Donatello stopped, taking a deep breath. "She asked me outright if I had killed. I—I couldn't lie to her again...not about something like that."
His brother let out a low whistle. "I'm guessing she probably didn't take that very well..."
"No—no she didn't. We started arguing...and then she brought up April and—well, I got angry..." Donatello's voice faded, ashamed, looking anywhere but at Michelangelo. "I swung my bo down in front of her, Mikey. And she looked so scared, like she didn't even know me—!"
"Can you blame her?" Mikey snapped, sounding somewhat angry, giving Donatello a glare.
"No," he spoke, voice hollow. "God, no. I could never."
A long silence followed, the only sounds being the quiet whir of computers and technology around them.
"She brought up April," Donatello spoke finally, sighing. "It—it set me off and that's no excuse but—she made it sound like we used her. Like it was all some sick joke. And April—."
"Was nothing like that," Mikey finished quietly, watching him with bright eyes. "April is special, sacred, and you felt betrayed, because she didn't understand just how important she was to us. And, by extension, how special Becky is too—cause you don't just go around spewing our existence to anyone."
Donatello stared at his brother, mouth hanging open. It was hard to believe this was Mikey—little Mikey that still read comics and laughed at fart jokes—talking to him like this. He'd grown up and Donatello wasn't precisely sure when it had happened.
"...Yes," he breathed, finally meeting Michelangelo's eyes.
Mikey offered him a timid grin. "See? I told you I notice things."
He managed a small smile, rolling his eyes. "Of course you do, Mikey...of course you do."
"Seriously, though, dude," Mikey began again, the grin fading slightly, "I think—I think Becky was scared. We're different—I mean, how do you ask someone to remake their entire lives for us? You can like—even love someone with all you got but, sometimes...love isn't enough." He said the word hesitantly, waiting to see Donatello's reaction before continuing. "Love won't keep the gangs from getting her or prevent you from getting hurt or worse..." He stopped, thinking.
"Love doesn't stop duty."
Brown eyes met blue and Donatello nodded, his head suddenly heavy. "It was my fault—for all of this. If I hadn't used the tracking chip, if I hadn't—."
Michelangelo sighed and interjected, eyes narrowing at his older brother. "Quit it with the 'what ifs' Donny—you can't change the past. Yeah, you definitely fucked up—using your bo in anger and not being upfront about that tracking chip are definitely at the top of that list..." He coughed, continuing. "In the end, would have you done anything different, other than those things? And I mean it—would you?"
He stood for several long minutes, thinking. Life now would be a lot easier if he hadn't met Rebecca. She would still be the dirty blonde who studied late in the library when he placed borrowed books back onto the shelves. He wouldn't know her laugh or her smile or even the way she clutched a cigarette, even though he hated the habit. He wouldn't know her love of books or how her stubbornness rivaled Raph's.
Would his life feel as empty as it did now with her gone if she hadn't been in it?
Donatello opened his mouth when an alert from his computer sounded, distracting him. He sprinted across the room, typing rapidly on the keyboard. An encryption program started immediately and an email appeared on the screen within seconds.
Next shipment: mid January—date to follow. Be ready.
"Gotcha," he muttered, pulling up a program to trace the origins of the email.
It wasn't until later at practice did Donatello realize he never answered Michelangelo.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to know his answer.
An ache still sat in his chest, unmoving.
