Author's Notes: Donnie POV. Warning slight angst ahead. I blame IDW for giving me the Donnie sads today.

Wait and See

"I got this recipe from Margie," Mr. O'Neil explains, cutting into the eggplant parmesan with obvious excitement. "You remember her, right, April? She works in accounts payable at the office."

"Oh, um, yeah, of course," April says, shaking her head no at me when her father's back is turned.

"It smells really good, Mr. O'Neil," I say, feeling an undeniable need to fill every silence.

Everything about this entire situation is unfamiliar and more than a little surreal. I'm having a tough time wrapping my mind around it. Dinner with April is one thing. It is nothing out of the ordinary. I know what to expect, what is expected. This is a whole other beast entirely. I shift in my chair, the wood seeming to squeak loudly with each move I make. I don't know where to set my hands or keep my gaze. I lift a hand to grip the strap across my chest and wonder if I should have worn a shirt…or pants…or something. The sharp and obvious fact that I don't belong in this scene of human normalcy makes it increasingly difficult to swallow as my throat tightens and I fight the urge to flee.

"Hopefully it tastes good too," Mr. O'Neil replies with a chuckle, before rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

He serves us each a plate before taking his seat at the head of the table. "Dig in," he says, picking up his own fork without waiting.

We eat in silence for a few moments. The food is good, I'm sure it is, but regardless it sits like a rock in the nervous pit of my stomach and each mouthful is a struggle to chew and swallow without gagging. April doesn't seem nervous in the slightest and tucks into her food happily.

"S'really good, Dad," she says, cutting off another piece with the side of her fork.

"Glad you like it," Mr. O'Neil replies with a proud puff of his chest. "What do you think, Donnie?"

I force down the current forkful and attempt a smile. "Very good, sir," I say quietly, lifting up another bite so he is more inclined to believe my lie.

He seems content with my answer and turns his attention back to his own meal. The next few moments drag slowly with only the clink of cutlery and the dull thud of glasses set on the table to break up the awkward silence. I should say something. It is rude to sit in silence when you've been invited for dinner. Isn't it? I have no idea. I have never been invited to a real dinner before. I should have researched. What was I thinking walking in here without doing any research? I should have worn clothes.

"Did you tell Donatello the good news, April?" Mr. O'Neil says, interrupting my increasingly manic thoughts.

I pause with my fork lifted in the air catching sight of the angry furrow of April's brow. She takes a slow sip of water before setting the glass down and leveling her gaze on the wall to avoid having to look at either of us. She clears her throat and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It isn't that big a deal, Dad," she murmurs, obviously not interested in this line of conversation.

My nerves flare to life and the tightness in my throat travels downward to sit heavy and crushing on my chest. Mr. O'Neil waves off her comment with a scoff and a chuckle.

"Don't be so modest," he insists, turning to me. "April got into North Western," he says with a grin and proud gleam in his eyes. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Chicago. She's going to leave and you're never going to see her again.

My vision shrinks to a pinpoint and I stare down at the remains of my dinner. His words register. I heard them. I understand them, but I was not prepared. I should have been. I know she sent out her applications. I proofread her essays and saw the stack of brochures on her desk. This was inevitable. There was a tiny, horrible, selfish part of me that hoped she wouldn't get in to any of those far-flung schools. That she would stay here. That she would stay with me. Guilt and shame burn a path across my face and I swallow back the bitter taste they leave in my mouth.

"That's…that's wonderful," I say, the words little more than a whisper and not a convincing one at that. I clear my throat and try again. "That's great you…you worked really hard…congratulations."

I can see it in her eyes when I trust myself enough to look up; pity. It's sharp and mournful and I look away from the shame of it. I don't want her pity. I don't want her to feel bad. It wasn't a lie. She did work hard for this. She deserves success. She deserves to be happy. What she doesn't deserve is for me to ruin this for her. I pick up my fork again, but I can't bring myself to eat. If Mr. O'Neil notices the sudden uncomfortable turn he doesn't pay it any mind, too excited to be stopped.

"They even offered her a scholarship," he says, beaming. "It's one of the best programs in the country and to think…"

"Dad," April says, cutting him off with a quiet yet stern voice and a rest of her hand atop his. "We don't have to talk about this now."

You're ruining this for her. You're selfish. You're ruining it for both of them.

"Did you hear back from any of the other schools?" I ask trying my best to sound genuine.

The pity is back, her eyes darkened by the sadness in her gaze. "Not yet," she replies, her voice gentle and guarded as though she is talking down a wild animal. "Probably within the next few weeks."

I nod and look back down at my plate. "Your essay was excellent," I say, taking in a slow breath that I hope will settle the tremor in my voice. "They'd be stupid not to accept you."

I want to leave. I want to run and never look back. I never should have come here tonight. I don't belong. It was obvious before and now it is painful in the glaring wrongness of it all. I've been playing at being human at being normal. I tricked myself into thinking I could have this; that this would ever be anything more than a wonderful interlude in a life only made for isolation and solitude. She's going to leave. She's going to realize what she's missing, that I'm holding her back from a real life and I'm never going to see her again. Never hold her again or hear her say that she loves me.

You knew this was coming. She's human. This is what is supposed to happen for her. Don't ruin this you selfish monster. Go back to your sewer where you belong.

"I…I should get going," I murmur, standing up too quickly and almost knocking over April's water as my knee hits the underside of the table.

"Donnie," April is on her feet and the warmth of her hand on my arm is almost enough to make me forget that we have an audience.

"I have a curfew," I reply, which isn't entirely a lie. "Thank you for dinner, Mr. O'Neil," I say with something close to a smile.

I duck into the hallway and make a beeline for April's room. It's rude and childish and I'm being ridiculous. I don't care. I have to leave. I have to get away. I can't sit and pretend I'm all right while he carries on as though April leaving is the best thing to ever happen. I snag my bo-staff from the corner and slide it into its holster. My hand reaches out for the window when the bedroom door closes behind me.

"Donatello," she says sharply and I cringe at the tone. "Don't you dare go out that window."

My fingers curl around the frame but I don't move. She's beside me in an instant, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that begs to be returned. The tightness is back in my throat and my arms move to embrace her. I can't not. I close my eyes and lean down to breathe in her scent. I should explain myself. She deserves an explanation. I try to speak, the words struggling to form anything beyond pitiful vowel sounds.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage with a mournful sigh. "I didn't…I didn't mean to ruin dinner."

"You didn't ruin anything," she says, tightening her grip. "I'm sorry he just sprung that on you. I was going to tell you later."

Fix this. You need to fix this.

"No…no it…its fine. I…I overreacted is all," I reply, kissing the top of her head. "I'm so proud of you. You deserve this."

I can feel her smile against the skin of my arm as she gives me another squeeze. "Thank you," she whispers, swaying slightly where we stand. "And this doesn't mean I have to go to Chicago," she adds. "It's only the first letter. I applied to schools nearby too."

"I'm sure you'll have your pick," I say quietly.

She sighs and nuzzles into the crook of my shoulder. "Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

I close my eyes once more and take in a slow breath. I want to commit everything about her to memory. Her scent and the constant warmth of her skin, the way each freckle sits across her the bridge of her nose, the way her entire body lifts and falls when she sighs. I need to memorize it all, categorize it away for the future when she isn't in my arms. Maybe everything will be all right. Maybe this won't be the end. She said she loves me. That must mean something. It has to mean something. There has to be more to this world than fighting and hiding and cruelty even for something like me. I have to hope this can last. I guess we'll wait and see.