Explanation

Sitting down sounded like a reasonable idea. Donnie's legs were like jelly, and of course it wasn't possible because he needed the solid skeletal structure provided by his bones to stand up, with jelly he would have fallen down, but that was the way he felt. Like he was going to fall down every second.

He grabbed Splinter's robe tighter as the reasonable thought of letting him go so they could both sit down tried to fight his way through his traumatized brain.

It whispered that he had chairs in his lab, good, comfortable chairs that would make explanations easier, and didn't he want an explanation?

And Donnie shook his head against his father's chest, no, he didn't want an explanation, he wanted to stay here forever.

But his brain, his treacherous brain was already building theories. What if Splinter was a clone? What if an unknown power had somehow found Splinter's DNA, had managed to give him Splinter's expressions and perfect knowledge of the way Splinter used to hug Donnie, and sent him to the lair to mess with them?

Shut up, brain, this is stupid, the probability of a meteorite falling upon the lair is higher, shut up.

And what if Splinter was time-traveling? What if he had been torn from the place he used to live in, what if he would be missed by his sons, his younger sons, his innocent sons who knew nothing about loss and pain and the misery of a deathwatch.

They will get him back, Donnie reasoned, we must have. I have no memory of Splinter disappearing.

And what if his memories had been tampered with? Or what if this Splinter was from another universe?

What if this whole situation was a mess of epic proportions?

I don't care. I don't care, let me be with him, just a little more.

"Donatello?"

Splinter's voice was soft, but he was leaning heavier on Donnie and what did he just say? Ah yes, that he wanted to sit down. He was waiting for Donnie to allow him to sit down.

Donnie released his father and Splinter immediately took a seat. Losing physical contact with his father filled Donnie with a feeling of loss that was almost unbearable, as if Splinter was suddenly less real, and Donnie collapsed on another chair in front of him.

He kept his eyes glued on his father. If Donnie didn't blink, then Splinter couldn't disappear, right? Right?

Splinter closed his eyes briefly, obviously he wasn't afraid of Donnie disappearing, and he took several deep breathes.

Donnie wasn't sure what to tell him, except maybe Please never leave me again, so he waited for his father to talk first.

"Tell me, Donatello," Splinter finally said. "If I was to walk through the dojo and into my room, would I find myself face-to-face with an older version of me?"

Donnie shook his head, impossibly relieved that he didn't have to tell it. That his father was so clever, so, so clever that he had already understood that he wasn't here, not anymore, that he was… that he was…

No. Donnie didn't want to think about that word. It was a painful word, a final word, and Splinter was here in front of him, alive, so no.

"When did it happen?"

Donnie looked at the time to give his father the most accurate answer possible.

"Four weeks, five days, three hours and twenty-five minutes."

He didn't have the granularity down to the second. Hopefully his father didn't mind that.

Splinter watched him, a twitching in his whiskers the only sign of emotional turmoil.

"I see."

Splinter's emotions were a whirlwind that he was barely able to keep hidden inside of him.

He was in the future. Whatever the device that his sons had brought home was, it had worked on him, not on them. It had thrown him into a time where he was…

Where he was dead.

It was the only logical conclusion, and although Splinter felt the void from that thought fill him with dread, he was too courageous not to face it.

Splinter had so many questions. What had happened? Where were his other sons? How were they doing?

Splinter had always known a time would come when his sons would be left without him. In fact, he had prayed for it to happen, as late as possible of course, because as dreadful as the thought of his sons burying him was, it was better than the alternative. It was better than him losing one of them.

Considering the date, he had been given an untimely death. Sickness or death in battle? He wanted to know, but he wasn't going to ask Donatello and demand he revive the traumatic memories.

Donatello whose grief was so obvious to him now, it was breaking his father's heart.

But Donatello was also enduring. Obviously his sons had grown up enough that they could take care of themselves, which Splinter had done everything to ensure.

It was a non-negligible comfort to see he had done his part well.

With one last breath to steady himself, Splinter decided that the situation required a one-step-at-a-time strategy.

And he knew exactly what should come first.

"Your foot needs bandaging," he said, pointing at Donatello's injury.

Donnie didn't dare to move as his father gave him medical care. He relished in the touch of his father's soft hands as Splinter held his foot so he could bandage it.

It abolished the passing of time, making everything that had happened in the last five weeks a distant nightmare.

Except it wasn't a nightmare, and it wasn't distant; it was barely kept at bay by Donnie's choice to focus on everything else but it.

Silence made such focus harder, though, and Donnie racked his brain for something appropriate to say.

His basic need for explanations provided him with a series of questions that would prevent him from thinking about other, more painful implications for a while longer.

"Sensei?"

Splinter raised his head, his expression interrogative.

"When are you from? How did you come here?"

Splinter took the time to finish the bandage before answering.

"Two years ago if the calendar in your laboratory is accurate, which I have no doubt it is, my son. You and your brothers had just gone home from a mission. Michelangelo was playing with an object of some sort. One second I was watching the four of you, and the next I was here."

Splinter's answer rang a bell in Donnie's memory.

"I remember," he said, fascinated. "You disappeared for a second and then you were back. You told us... you told us you hadn't noticed anything. At first I thought it was the scepter we found in the ocean, that it had the power to make people invisible, but..." Donnie cleared his throat, always reluctant to admit defeat. "I could never reproduce it, nor find out what the scepter was for. Then I had all these theories about reality glitching, and it never happened again."

"Hmm." Splinter stroked his beard.

Donnie gave him a sheepish look.

"Now I see that this scepter was a time-traveling device."

"It would appear so."

Splinter's voice held the slightest touch of humor, and it was so painfully familiar to Donatello that it threatened to destroy the defenses he had hastily built in his mind.

It also reminded him that he had something very important to do, before his brothers came home to find him chatting with their decea—with a living and breathing version of their father.

Donnie couldn't keep his hands from trembling when he took his T-Phone. He only had one key to press in order to make the call, but he counted five seconds in his head before he could do it.

The person he was calling picked up immediately.

"Donnie? What's the problem?"

Donnie hoped his voice wouldn't tremble too much. Hearing his brother's voice made him aware of how much he wanted him—how much he wanted all of them—to be here and deal with the situation with him.

"Leo? You... You might want to sit down."