******
Fragments: Donatello
******
Donnie half- frowned as he turned a rusted piece of pipe over in his hands. "Well, *this* might turn out to be a problem." The innards of the kitchen sink were scattered across the kitchen table, grouped in a haphazard system of organization that could only have been devised by one man.
Casey Jones.
Donnie shook his head. Casey had an awful habit of ripping the guts out of any non-functioning system (whether a truck engine or a kitchen sink) and then forgetting what order everything went back together in. It had made for some pretty interesting times . . . back in the old days. Donatello set aside the rusty pipe and picked up a twisted length of electrical wire. *Now where did that come from?*
Fragments of pipe and truck engine. Like the fragments of his friendship with Casey Jones. Donatello turned the wire over in his hands, then set it back down and reached for his wrenches. It looked like the sink could be salvaged.
He wondered if there was any hope for the friendship.
*** ***
"No way, Atomic Mouth! Gilligan was her main man. They'd be married and have like six kids by now!!"
*** ***
"Huh?" Donnie half-turned -- but it was his own voice he'd heard, echoing back from the past.
*** ***
"Not a chance, Barfaroni!" Casey buried his head under the truck's rusted hood.
"Camel face!"
"Dome Head!"
*** ***
Donatello lifted his hand briefly to his head, sighing with regret. Then he worked his way under the kitchen sink.
He'd missed Casey -- still missed him, for that matter. The quick-tempered,long-haired hockey player had (for a while, at least) been his closest friend. True, their personalities were almost completely opposite -- the brash, exuberant Casey versus Donnie's quieter, more studious temperament -- but they both had a knack for fixing things, or trying to fix them.
Donnie brushed a drop of water from the plumbing out of his eye. He'd always been the one to fix things -- around the lair, in April's apartment . . . and in his brother's lives. If Leo needed advice after a fight with Raph, he'd turn to Donatello for advice. When Mikey got frustrated over a story that wouldn't turn out right, Donnie was the beta reader. And if Raph grew angry to the point of doing something stupid . . .
** Tomorrow leave the windows open
** As fear grows please hold me in your arms
** Won't you help me if you can to shake this anger
** I need your gentle hands to keep me calm
*** ***
"Come on, Raph. This isn't worth it . . ."
"Yeah? Wanna bet?"
"Raph! Come on . . . would you calm down?!"
"Not a chance."
"Raphael!"
*** ***
Well, truth be told Donnie couldn't always keep Raph from doing something stupid. But he liked to think that he helped -- at least a little. Donatello liked to believe that his small repairs somehow made a difference.
*This sink, for instance.* If he could get it working it would be one less thing for Casey to do when Summer rolled around.
That brought his thoughts back to his old friend -- and what Mikey had told them about his nocturnal visit to the Jones apartment. Donatello chuckled. A daughter. He tried to picture Casey Jones walking the floor with a baby, or -- now *here* was a mental image -- changing a diaper.
"Casey at a tea party." He snickered, then rolled his eyes. "Who am I kiddin'? She's *Casey's* daughter -- kid probably plays peewee football."
He tapped his wrench absently against one of the pipes, suddenly remembering a proverb Splinter had taught him a long time ago.
*The greatest bridge rests upon a single pebble.*
Translation for the proverb-challenged: big things have to start somewhere.
Donatello slid out from under the sink. Splinter was gone -- much as he hated to think about it -- and that meant that a lot of things were open for discussion again. Like the role the four of them were going to play in the lives of April, Casey and their daughter.
He stood and began sifting through the pipe fragments on the kitchen table. He'd known for almost a year that Splinter was dying, and in a way he'd already mourned for him. He'd had time to come to terms with the idea of Splinter not being there.
Donatello was ready to start picking up the pieces.
A soft, muted thump from the room above him caught his attention, and he glanced up. Not everyone was dealing as well as he was with Splinter's death.
Donatello picked up another scrap of pipe. He just hoped the sink was the worst thing he'd have to fix today . . . .
*****************************************************************************************************************************
*** Continued in Chapter Three ***
Fragments: Donatello
******
Donnie half- frowned as he turned a rusted piece of pipe over in his hands. "Well, *this* might turn out to be a problem." The innards of the kitchen sink were scattered across the kitchen table, grouped in a haphazard system of organization that could only have been devised by one man.
Casey Jones.
Donnie shook his head. Casey had an awful habit of ripping the guts out of any non-functioning system (whether a truck engine or a kitchen sink) and then forgetting what order everything went back together in. It had made for some pretty interesting times . . . back in the old days. Donatello set aside the rusty pipe and picked up a twisted length of electrical wire. *Now where did that come from?*
Fragments of pipe and truck engine. Like the fragments of his friendship with Casey Jones. Donatello turned the wire over in his hands, then set it back down and reached for his wrenches. It looked like the sink could be salvaged.
He wondered if there was any hope for the friendship.
*** ***
"No way, Atomic Mouth! Gilligan was her main man. They'd be married and have like six kids by now!!"
*** ***
"Huh?" Donnie half-turned -- but it was his own voice he'd heard, echoing back from the past.
*** ***
"Not a chance, Barfaroni!" Casey buried his head under the truck's rusted hood.
"Camel face!"
"Dome Head!"
*** ***
Donatello lifted his hand briefly to his head, sighing with regret. Then he worked his way under the kitchen sink.
He'd missed Casey -- still missed him, for that matter. The quick-tempered,long-haired hockey player had (for a while, at least) been his closest friend. True, their personalities were almost completely opposite -- the brash, exuberant Casey versus Donnie's quieter, more studious temperament -- but they both had a knack for fixing things, or trying to fix them.
Donnie brushed a drop of water from the plumbing out of his eye. He'd always been the one to fix things -- around the lair, in April's apartment . . . and in his brother's lives. If Leo needed advice after a fight with Raph, he'd turn to Donatello for advice. When Mikey got frustrated over a story that wouldn't turn out right, Donnie was the beta reader. And if Raph grew angry to the point of doing something stupid . . .
** Tomorrow leave the windows open
** As fear grows please hold me in your arms
** Won't you help me if you can to shake this anger
** I need your gentle hands to keep me calm
*** ***
"Come on, Raph. This isn't worth it . . ."
"Yeah? Wanna bet?"
"Raph! Come on . . . would you calm down?!"
"Not a chance."
"Raphael!"
*** ***
Well, truth be told Donnie couldn't always keep Raph from doing something stupid. But he liked to think that he helped -- at least a little. Donatello liked to believe that his small repairs somehow made a difference.
*This sink, for instance.* If he could get it working it would be one less thing for Casey to do when Summer rolled around.
That brought his thoughts back to his old friend -- and what Mikey had told them about his nocturnal visit to the Jones apartment. Donatello chuckled. A daughter. He tried to picture Casey Jones walking the floor with a baby, or -- now *here* was a mental image -- changing a diaper.
"Casey at a tea party." He snickered, then rolled his eyes. "Who am I kiddin'? She's *Casey's* daughter -- kid probably plays peewee football."
He tapped his wrench absently against one of the pipes, suddenly remembering a proverb Splinter had taught him a long time ago.
*The greatest bridge rests upon a single pebble.*
Translation for the proverb-challenged: big things have to start somewhere.
Donatello slid out from under the sink. Splinter was gone -- much as he hated to think about it -- and that meant that a lot of things were open for discussion again. Like the role the four of them were going to play in the lives of April, Casey and their daughter.
He stood and began sifting through the pipe fragments on the kitchen table. He'd known for almost a year that Splinter was dying, and in a way he'd already mourned for him. He'd had time to come to terms with the idea of Splinter not being there.
Donatello was ready to start picking up the pieces.
A soft, muted thump from the room above him caught his attention, and he glanced up. Not everyone was dealing as well as he was with Splinter's death.
Donatello picked up another scrap of pipe. He just hoped the sink was the worst thing he'd have to fix today . . . .
*****************************************************************************************************************************
*** Continued in Chapter Three ***