[Author's Notes] There was something really cute about the facial expressions of Michael Bay's Donatello. His hysterical high-strung panic about single command line interfaces with the fate of an entire city at stake during the finale made me laugh, but c'mon Bay you're trying to tell me Donnie isn't a Linux user? Pfft. Yeah right. After the way he hacked April's computer? People like Donnie are always Linux users. Probably running a Kali distro, too.
Oh, er, sorry, just ignore that rant. I may or may not be a programmer. *Cough.* But no, really: "Tiramisu for everybody, I'm buying!" Tiramisu!? You just saved the city and possibly the country, and you want a dainty little coffee-flavored custard and ladyfingers cake!? That's... amazing, I whole-heartedly approve of your priorities, Donnie.
"Sandro?"
No one engaged in the act of beating the stuffing out of an inanimate object wanted to converse amiably while doing it. In Sandro's own humble opinion, punching bags ought to have emanated a magical Silence aura. He gave an exasperated eye-roll and grabbed the bag to still it, but didn't look back. "I'm busy."
Donatello came up beside him. "I'm know, but your parents just signaled they're starting the commute, Mikey has already headed out, and I need to tell you something before everyone gets back." He paused a breath. "I know you're angry with me."
Was that true? The sound of it edged uncomfortably under his shell like a chisel. Sandro wrinkled his nose and then shook his head. "Rules are rules."
"Listen. Please." Donatello reached out to push the bag away from him, and to turn Sandro to face him. "Just because we are older doesn't mean we can't become confused or surprised, or make mistakes. Sandro." Sandro still wasn't listening particularly well, and Donatello grasped both of his shoulders and leaned over to catch his gaze. "I don't care about rules. Unless they're taxonomic guidelines for large-scale database programming, I do admittedly have a lot of irrational pet peeves about those. But what I care about is you. And I did listen when you explained your fear of losing Anastasia, and I sympathize, but I was... disoriented by it. And I panicked, and I acted like doing things by the book, or being unyielding, would somehow fix everything. And of course that was wrong of me."
Sandro reeled, his stomach caving out from inside him as he tried to understand the implications of what was being said. "What?"
"Change in plan, okay? I don't want you telling April and Raphael about Anastasia yet." Copper-gold eyes widened at him, and all the fight and tension went out of the boy's body. "You are to tell them you've been going topside, because that was reckless and stupid of you, and you will be grounded—but only for that. No one is going to be punishing you for doing something so innocent as meeting a new friend." Sandro looked up at him as if Donnie really were a super hero. "But listen, listen, in exchange, you need to be willing to talk to me about your relationship with your parents. Because this is a problem, but it's a problem I will help you fix every step of the way, okay?"
Sandro bobbed his head, and apparently didn't trust himself to say anything.
Donatello sighed out a heavy breath. Then he released the boy's shoulders and touched his cheek. "Some of the burden of making this better is on you, and I'm going to expect you to work on that with me: To improve your tone, your conversational endurance, and to express yourself even when under duress. Sandro... You must know your mother would be the very first person to champion you in anything if... if she just knew what you needed. Don't you?" Sandro winced. Apparently not. Donatello considered him. Then he asked, softly: "Are there times when you are angry at her?"
The boy's eyes widened. "I-I love my mother," he blurted, almost as if set into a panic.
Donatello squeezed his shoulder again."But?" As truthful as that might have been, he knew there was more.
"B-But I... I barely know her." Sandro swallowed past a lump and looked down. "And she always answers questions for me, like I can't think for myself or she doesn't think I'll choose right or something. She's always planning everything. When she asks questions, she lectures if she doesn't like what she heard, and picks her way anyway."
Donatello was quiet a moment. Then he nodded. "You know, your mother has been my closest friend since I was not much older than you," he said with an understanding smirk and a raise of his brows. "I know how she is. I guess I just... didn't calculate how that might compound itself into a bigger problem if she was taking charge of someone who couldn't argue with her... Similar to Raphael picking on someone who can't fight back, I'd imagine."
Sandro didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, he lifted his head and mumbled a dazed and cracking: "I really don't have to tell them?"
"You aren't to tell them," Donatello corrected. "Not until you can do so successfully. Assuming your friend is not a spy and trying to kill us, April will just have to tolerate her no matter whether she's a saint... or a female Casey Jones. Because she's yours, and we of all people ought to know how lonely it gets down here, and how much a real friend means. And... look, I'm sorry, Sandro, sorry that you felt so alone when talking to your parents, and I'm sorry for acting callous while merely pretending that I knew what to do. That's not going to be how it is in the future, I promise."
Sandro stared up at him again for a long moment. Then he stumbled forward and hugged his uncle, and Donatello slumped and hugged him back. This, at last, felt correct.
The Hamato residence had two powerful computers. The first was almost exclusively Donnie's and serviced his laboratory and the adjoining garage. The second handled security, surveillance, and telecommunications for the entire Turtle family, and sat up on a raised platform above the primary living space where it was both easy to reach and yet usually safe from the roughhousing of seven-foot, three hundred pound turtles.
With the commute starting, Donatello needed to be stationed at the surveillance computer to keep a bird's-eye view on the situation. Sandro followed him, not only to watch as would be normal, but also probably because he felt a strong attachment to his uncle at the moment.
"You'll get your phone back on Monday," Donnie was explained with a glance back at Sandro. "Though if you ever disable the GPS again, I won't forgive you no matter what you're trying to hide."
"Got it. Will I ever get to see her again?" Sandro dared to ask.
"Michelangelo has a plan for that, but I need you to meet us halfway on this. No going topside again without direct supervision. Clear?"
"Yeah! Crystal."
They were all on the same page again. "Alright, we'll talk when the weekend's over. Until then, behave yourself for your parents; they barely get to see you. Leo still doesn't know, by the way. Probably for the best, given how he gets about 'safety.'"
"Heyy, I just saw a Pizza Hut delivery car!" radioed in Michelangelo through the speakers. "Quick poll guys, can we do pizza tonight?"
Donatello sat and pulled on the headset so he could talk to them. He usually left the audio on anyway so Sandro could listen. "This is Donnie. Mushrooms and olives, please, and I honestly implore you to set our minimum standard higher than Pizza Hut for the entire rest of forever."
"Gino's is the best," Michelangelo agreed, but Leo radioed in with: "Renato's is more authentic." The two proceeded to argue, one Mikey-rant against one Leo-lecture, about the virtues and shortcomings of their respective favorites. Donnie sighed heavily, and glanced at Sandro, who shrugged and said quietly: "Have you ever heard of Pat's Pizza Hut?"
Donatello straightened and then turned off the mic to laugh. "You found Pat's? That was our place! One of us could bundle up in heavy clothing to place an order in the middle of the night, before we had any money, or phones, or an address for deliveries. We got attacked there once, and ended up using reward money to pay for them to put in bullet-proof glass after Raph and Mikey threw a rhino through the front window and nearly completely demolished the interior."
"Is that why?! It's pretty greasy pizza," Sandro admitted with a startled grin, "but it gets the job done."
Donnie was grinning wide as he turned back to activate the mic again. "Alright children," he interrupted his brothers. "Where is everybody?"
"In position," Leo answered. "No suspicious activity up top. Mikey?"
"Maintenance's clear," the latter replied. "Anything on the cams, Don?"
"Negative. Might want to take a peer at number four since we had to repair it."
"Nah bro, I got a visual on four, nothing fishy's up!"
"Well aside from that, satellite has some wonderfully orange top-down footage in this smog, but my algorithm's still got a bead on April's car. Looks like all's normal," Donatello mentioned.
"Hello, Gentlemen," April greeted as she logged on to the conversation. "I have stolen a few hours of sleep and am just about to reach the gas station."
"Hey April," A chorus of uncles responded, but then Mikey immediately complained: "Hey, you didn't say it right."
"Oh Mikey, how could I forget? Ahem! The O'Neilmobile is ready to rumble," she obliged him with a laugh in her voice, and he gave a little triumphant 'yes!' in the background. They heard a click as another voice joined the conversation. "You there, Hubby?"
A brief pause as Raphael activated his microphone. "Ah hate this commute."
"That's funny," April laughed, "so do most Jerseyans. Does that mean we're normal for once?"
Donnie scoffed. "No. Normal commuters don't have mutant super-villains and militarized mafioso Japanese martial artists who try to blockade or cave-in the roads they're driving on." That was by no means an exaggeration; the security computer had a piece of paper tacked up next to it which read in Mikey's circular scrawl: 'Amount of Times the Holland Tunnel Nearly Blew Up but Didn't.' There were sixteen hash marks underneath, although some of them had merely been 'incidents' in the tunnel and had not actually involved any explosives.
Raphael could almost be heard to roll his eyes. "Yeah still wish it weren't part of the reg'larly scheduled program. Tunnel's clear this side."
"Loading up the giant, complaining baby as we speak," April drawled. "Hi Raphie. Do I get a kiss?
Donatello heard Sandro sigh, and glanced away from the screens. He had to disengage from security mode to try and figure out why his nephew suddenly looked a little bitter. Then he tapped the microphone off and pulled off the headset. "San, Raphael means he wished they lived here, not that he wishes they never had to come home."
"Yeah, okay." Sandro didn't look like he quite believed that, and Donatello made a mental note this was one of the things they'd need to address. A person's bias could make them read into everything the wrong way and repeatedly confirm past suspicions; and Sandro was clearly sensitive enough to other people's casual comments that he might be amassing a great quantity of 'proof' for some erroneous conclusions. But there wasn't time now, as April's, "Am I clear to drive?" and Mikey's prod of, "Donniieee, yooohooo?" made clear.
"Had to step away for a sec," Donatello said as he righted the headset and activated the mic. "We all good to go?"
"We're asking you, genius."
"Thank you for reorienting me to the conversation quickly and efficiently, Raph," Donatello retorted snidely. "Yeah, everything's clear on my end. Sound off!" he called, and Leo and Mikey both answered with: 'Clear.'
"Alright boys, the O'Neilmobile is now officially enroute towards-"
"What!? I thought ah told Mikey we weren't callin' it that ever again, dammit!" Raphael snarled to Michelangelo's cacophonous laughter. Sandro thought it was little wonder Mikey liked Wildcard. Out of all the people who could have learned about her first, maybe this had happened the best possible way.
Sandro approached his parents right as they were coming in the door with Mikey and Leo. His mother had gotten her shoes off first, and was helping Raphael set some things down. Shoes honestly made living in a sewer much more sanitary.
"Mom? Dad? I'm grounded," he explained as April reached out to hug him and he (a little awkwardly these days) returned it. He'd had time to rehearse how this would go in his mind, and now the added knowledge that he wouldn't be forced to talk to them about Wildcard just yet had him honestly almost excited to be done with confessing his mistakes.
"What for?" his mother asked.
"I've been abusing my privilege to wander the sewers by repeatedly going topside for about five months, and I even got in one fight," he said, and wow was it somehow easier when one blurted it all out matter-of-factly like that. He'd been right in telling Anastasia to making it quick; strung out confessions just gave everyone more time to get upset.
April leaned back in surprise and alarm with a reproachful, "Sandro!" but Raphael, who was still leaned over and getting his shoes off, asked, "Did you win the fight?"
Sandro stiffened, uncertain if he'd heard correctly and glancing between both of them. He cleared his throat. "Uh, no. I messed up, was clearly losing, ran away, got chased by three elites, fell into a dumpster, and darted back into the sewer. And then I never did that again."
April gaped. But Raphael hissed out into a full-blown, loud belly-laugh. He stood up straight, gold eyes bright, jaws parted as he laughed hard and loud as Sandro had ever heard him laugh. April turned to him in alarm. Sandro, shocked with all his nerves alight, tried to decide if being laughed at by his own father was mortifying. Was it? Strangely no. Wild laughed at him all the time. Laughter wasn't really upsetting.
"Ha! HAhahahhahahhaha! You-you-" Raph elbowed April gently, "you sure you didn't tap Donnie back in North-haha!-hampton, stead of me?" April punched his arm hard enough to make him wince. "Hahahaha!"
Sandro decided that joke didn't bother him, though Donatello, who had come up behind Sandro upon realizing what was happening, now sank back with a dry expression and a tolerant tone: "Way to stay classy Raph."
Raphael passed April and came up beside Sandro, still stripping off his jacket. "You been put through Hashi yet, kid?"
"No. I cleaned the dojo instead," Sandro answered truthfully.
"Even better." He gestured with his chin. "Get ya ass in there, and there'd better be some seriously committed push-ups goin' on by the time I arrive."
"Hai," Sandro acquiesced with a bow, and then turned and ran for the dojo.
Raphael grinned after him and shook his head, still chuckling. April scowled up at him. "What?"
"Don't say things like that in front of him," she scolded.
"Oh come on. When you evah seen me admit to gettin my tail kicked and runnin' away from somethin before a fight could turn serious? Eh? That was funny." He winced and laughed more when she punched him again. "How'd you get 'im to fess, Don?"
"Mikey caught him," Donatello explained, dryly amused and privately relieved.
"Mikey! Mikey were prob'ly the one turnin a blind eye to watchin him and lettin' him out in the first place."
"Hey!" their brother complained. "Don't blame me, you ever seen him move? It's like he's a little ninja or something...!" A moment of silence followed to acknowledge a phenomenal joke had been made. Then Leo smacked Michelangelo upside the back of the head on Raphael's behalf. "Ow!" But nearly everyone was smiling or chuckling afterwards, and Mikey settled down in the knowledge that everything had gone perfect, and all Sandro had really needed was to feel happy about talking to them for once. Just a little bit of real courage, that was all.
Sandro was indeed repenting by route of push-up when Raphael made his way into the dojo. As usual, his father went first to bow before the little shrine to dearly departed Master Splinter, which sat in a protected alcoveat the rear of the chamber.
"So," his father said when that little ritual was complete, and as he started towards the weapon's wall, "how'd that fight go, exactly?"
"Badly," Sandro admitted between push-ups. "I was going to get hemmed into a corner if I didn't split, and I was being pushed around by a black-belt with a katana."
"Ohhh, see, that ain't gonna fly."
Sandro tried to figure out exactly what part of his description lacked for aerodynamics. He realized it had probably been 'katana,' which was Leonardo's weapon. "I'm sorry for getting in a fight. I'm sorry for going topside."
"You'll be sorry soon enough when ya face is in the carpet. Get ya kama, kid, you've some moves to learn."
Sandro's spirits brightened again, and he looked up as Raphael selected a dull practice katana from the wall. Raphael was usually all one way or another in the dojo: Tough but patient and fair was Sandro's favorite. He had a keen intuitive sense for identifying errors in balance or force made mid-motion, and could help Sandro fix mistakes that Leo might have been attempting to pin down the better part of a week.
But then there were bad days, training sessions where Raphael was so ruthless and pushed Sandro so hard that the boy knew at least some of it had to be Raphael taking out frustration on him. Sandro could smell them coming from a mile away by the thundercloud his father would be carrying, and Raphael would usually smile while doing it, and never let him win, and seemed to treat it like an honest fight or outright beating. Today was not one of those days.
Today was going to be fine. "Hai!" Sandro answered, and quickly scrambled to get his training kama.
Donatello called to them, "Dinner'll be here in an hour, guys!"
Raphael responded, "Hey genius, stop feedin' my kid salad. He just needs beef from here on out. Probably raw, too."
"That's not how nutrition works, Raph," droned the genius.
"No? Pity." Red Turtle smirked as he settled into a defensive stance. "Alright kid, try to hit me."
Sandro privately thought of how much smaller Wildcard was than himself, but decided not to comment. Raphael and he weren't very good at talking to one another unless it involved explaining a kata, and a conversation about size comparisons made whilst topside wasn't going to go anywhere useful. Besides, he was too busy trying not to smile while still being knee-deep in trouble, lest his father catch on how happy he was.
