Author's Notes: Sorry for the lateness of the update. Health problems in my own family have meant that things like fandom and fanfic have pretty much had to take a back seat to Real Life. Hope this chapter was worth the wait for you.
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April gritted her teeth. Staying behind while everyone else was out being active in the solution – including Casey! – was grating on her badly. Every cell in her body ached to get out there and be part of the process, yet her mind knew full well that she could best help Don by staying here and running the relay between Professor Honeycutt and Splinter. Her nimble human fingers could perform tasks that the other two could not – such as drawing blood to test, and helping to analyse the results.
She'd certainly known intellectually that aspirin thinned the blood and should be treated with care in that regard. But it had still shocked her badly when she had first pierced Donatello's vein with the needle and taken a sample, only to realise that the flow did not want to stop or clot. Sheer willpower was the only thing that had allowed her to deal with it without panic. Master Splinter definitely did not need that on top of everything else.
There was also the small matter of supplying Splinter with food and drink. The rat – who for the first time she actually thought of as 'old' – was refusing refreshment, refusing anything that involved leaving his son's side. April finally managed to coax him into eating a sandwich and a cup of green tea with the argument that he'd be no good to Donnie, or to any of his sons, if he essentially did the same thing as Don had and neglected himself for the sake of others. Sighing, the 'discussion' leaving her feeling exhausted and wrung-out, she made herself a sandwich and poured herself some of the cold, leftover coffee from the machine – Donatello's coffee. A practical necessity that made her shudder with the morbidity of it.
Am I going to lose my best friend?
The thought terrified her on many levels. She couldn't imagine life now without any of the Turtles, but especially Donnie – Donnie, who not only listened to her when she spoke with words greater than three syllables, but could actively participate in scientific discussion and debate. She was well aware that his ability and potential far outstripped hers, but he didn't seem to mind that, simply grateful as she had been to find a like-minded friend. Donnie, who often seemed to know instinctively when to push on a subject and when to back off. Donnie, who had done nothing but support and encourage her in every aspect of her life, to believe more in herself, to muster up the courage to ask Splinter to train her in fighting. Donnie, who had silently admired her from afar for so long.
It was no secret to April that Donnie had a crush on her, and had had for some time now. The problem was, she simply couldn't. At first, as much as she had liked the Turtles, they were – well, turtles. Thinking of any of them in a non-platonic capacity had simply been impossible. And now, all this time later, it was still impossible, but for very different reasons.
She had grown so close to them all, and Donatello in particular, that her heart had adopted them as younger brothers. The very idea of pursuing him romantically made her feel like a filthy, perverted old woman. Old. And there was another thing – the age gap. No matter how sweet Donnie was, how thoughtful, how similar in interests to her, there was simply no denying that he was a teenager, and she had passed that stage long ago.
And now he might not ever get the chance to get past adolescence. And not from the danger of being a mutated turtle, but by this – something so, so… STUPID!
"Are you all right, Ms O'Neill?" A polite voice with a British accent broke into her thoughts, jolting her back to reality.
"What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, Professor – I was just… thinking."
Professor Honeycutt nodded deferentially. "As have we all, I believe." He laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "Donatello's condition remains steady for the moment. Provided the medications arrive in a timely manner, there is a large chance of recovery."
"And what about the damage? Leatherhead said brain damage!" April hated herself for being so shallow – would Donatello's life be worth any less if he no longer understood the difference between a parabola and a hyperbola? If he could no longer remember the numerical value of Avogadro's constant? If he could no longer comprehend the symbols on a keyboard? Yet so much of the Donnie that lived in her mind was wrapped up inextricably with knowledge, and to remove one from the other seemed sacrilegious.
"I am so sorry, my dear, but I cannot answer that question. Only time shall tell exactly what changes, if any, have been wrought in that regard."
Nodding miserably, she turned back towards Don's computer area. At least I can still be of some help here, even if I can't promise anything.
None of us can promise anything. And it sucks.
"Ms O'Neill? There is something I have been rather wondering about – it is not important, mark you. Just something I thought you might have known, as a close friend of Donatello's."
April blinked. "Yes, Professor – what is it?"
"I could not help but notice the background that exists on Donatello's desktop – It has some lines which I believe to be a poetry excerpt. However, I was not aware that Donatello was an aficionado of poetry, and I do not recognise this particular piece in any case." The Fugitoid seemed genuinely puzzled, as puzzled as April herself. Then as she glanced upon the verse sitting and glowing calmly out from the screen, it clicked with all the force of a sledgehammer blow to the gut.
Don wasn't a particular fan of poetry, or of this particular poet – but she was. And she'd mentioned it to him not long ago.
"He made this background for me," she whispered as she allowed herself to collapse in the chair, reading the lines swirled in elegant cursive alongside a magnificent image of a sunrise.
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour,
Rains from the sky a meteoric shower
Of facts . . .
"Upon This Age by Edna St. Vincent Millay…" she whispered. Then she burst out in bitter laughter that surprised even her. "It should have been First Fig, really. Or maybe Dirge Without Music."
"Oh." The Professor seemed to considered this for a moment. "Why should it have been one and not the other? This one seems most lovely, and very much a philosophy that you and Donatello both seem to share in regards to science – there is always something new to be discovered."
April shook her head. "Right now, First Fig is so fitting it's cruel." Then she booted up the internet and found the poem she was looking for. I'm not reciting it out loud. If Splinter should hear…
Silently Professor Honeycutt took in the words on the screen before him.
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light!
Despite having processing power and memory capacity far beyond that of his 'old' human body, he found himself reading the poem more slowly than necessary. And a second time, and a third. "Yes, I can see what you are referring to," he said to the unhappy young woman softly. "And I do truly understand. You are not the only one for whom Donatello has been creating a gift as a surprise."
He held up a jar that was full of something moving, something very familiar… "Nano!" she exclaimed in recognition.
"Yes, the attached files do note their history. Donatello appears to have collected these nanobots from encountering a larger self-aware program unit named 'Nano', as you say. He had modified their programming so that it would allow the nanobots to function as a self-repair unit for me – essentially, as an immune system, much as I once had as an organic being. I would no longer have had to examine and treat every injury and programming virus with conscious effort, since much of it would have been done automatically, just as for you. You need not feel guilty over his gift, Ms O'Neill. It is a major part of Donatello's method for showing his affection for another being, even though it 'burns the candle at both ends', to use the imagery of the poem.
But to continue the imagery, it is our task to ensure that the candle does not burn out, by any means possible."
Rubbing at her eyes fiercely, April ordered herself angrily not to cry. There are more important things to worry about here… Ignoring the smudges of mascara left behind on her fingers, and deliberately choosing to forget about what her eyes must appear like, she stood. "Is there anything else?"
"Not at this moment, Ms O'Neill. Perhaps you could check on Donatello and Splinter, and see if anything is required for their comfort." Left unspoken was the fact that at the moment, Splinter was the only one they could truly do anything for.
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Author's Notes: First Fig, Dirge Without Music and the excerpt from Upon This Age are both written by the poet Edna St Vincent Millay, not me.
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I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind.
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love-
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
"Dirge Without Music" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.