Hallucination

At first, Donnie thought he was hallucinating. The tall figure in front of him couldn't be there, not when they had buried him in the farmhouse not even five weeks ago...

His senses must be betraying him. That was it, finally; he was crazy.

It wasn't that much of a surprise, with the life he led and the brothers he had. Just this morning, Mikey had almost destroyed his whole lab and—

"Donatello?"

Donnie started again. The voice... It sounded so much like his beloved, dead father.

The hallucination was auditory too. Oh, the tricks memory could play on people...

"You can't be real," Donnie said, his voice trembling. "I'm hallucinating. I'm hallucinating and I've hurt myself and..." He looked at the welding torch on the ground and unplugged it. "And Leo will insist I need to rest when I'm perfectly fine and Mikey will say I should have let him do the welding after all and Raph will never leave it down..."

Donnie swallowed hard. He was rambling in front of an hallucination. Maybe Leo was right and he needed some rest. But rest meant allowing thoughts and memories to go through his fragile heart, while hard work made sure his thoughts remained controlled and focused.

Far from the grief and far from the pain that he didn't want to deal with any further.

"You're worrying me, my son," the hallucination said, and its whiskers twitched in an inimitable way that Donnie had feared was slowly escaping his memory. "What is happening here?"

Donnie removed his welding helmet completely and wiped away a treacherous tear. Why did his brain torture him like that?

The pain in his foot was already fading, but he would need to bandage it. He didn't want to turn his back to the hallucination, though.

He didn't want it to go away, even though it was hurting so much. He wanted to watch the hallucination and fix its features and expressions and subtle movements in his memory, until it vanished from his sight and he was all alone again.

Donnie was prepared to remain standing for hours if he was granted that much time. However, he found himself helpless when the hallucination moved closer to him.

Everything was wrong in Donatello's reaction, and Splinter's finely tuned fatherly alarm was blaring inside his head.

Why did his son look so upset? He was on the verge of tears, apparently for no better reason than Splinter being here. And he was completely disregarding Splinter's questions, which was highly unusual.

Of all of his sons, Donatello was the one who loved to explain the most, and he never passed up an opportunity to do so. Unless, of course, he had to explain the consequences of him disobeying Splinter in some way; but it wasn't the case here, Splinter was sure of it.

After all, Donatello had sounded perfectly fine when he had welcomed Splinter as if the rat were one of his brothers.

Slowly, carefully, Splinter took a step towards Donatello. He itched to be close to his overwhelmed son, to wrap his arms around him and hold him tight. Right now Donatello looked so young, as if he was still the little boy who ran to Splinter when he had caught his finger in one of the machines he used to rebuild from scattered pieces, after he had carefully taken them apart.

Of course Donatello still was his father's baby, which was why Splinter made it a point of honor not to treat him—or any of his brothers—that way.

Teenagers needed their own space, most of the time.

"My son. Please talk to me," he whispered when he was but a few inches from Donatello.

His prayer went unanswered. Instead, Donatello took one step forward—in a mechanical, robotic kind of way—and wrapped his arms around his father's waist, holding on for dear life.

Splinter's ears lowered in deep concern as he returned the hug.

Donnie didn't know what to think anymore. His limbic system was too strong for the rational part of his brain. That hallucination looked like Splinter, talked like Splinter, moved like Splinter, smelled like Splinter and felt like Splinter.

Donnie wanted it so, so much to be his lost dad.

"Father," he cried. "Father. Father. Father."

Splinter held his son, a sense of foreboding threatening to overwhelm him.

"Yes, my son. I'm here," he whispered in Donatello's ear. "I'm right here with you."

"O-okay," Donatello hiccuped. "Okay."

Obviously Donatello was in no state to express himself in a more coherent way, so Splinter didn't ask him anything else as he kept whispering reassuring words that his son soaked up like he hadn't heard them in decades.

At the same time, Splinter scanned the lab, looking for clues that could help him understand what was going on here.

His eyes fell upon the calendar that Donatello kept displayed on the wall.

Splinter froze.

It wasn't the right day. It wasn't the right month.

And worst of all, it wasn't the right year.

Donnie wanted the hallucination to keep talking, to keep telling him how much he was loved. So when it stopped, he raised his head in light indignation; and the confusion he saw on its face made no sense.

Unless... Unless...

The cogs inside Donnie's brain came back on.

Unless it didn't know where it was. Or when it was. Unless it didn't understand Donnie's reaction, unless...

Unless it wasn't, in fact, an hallucination.

"I think I need to sit down," Splinter said softly.