A/N: I think I may have just written myself into a corner with this one, since I don't see Raphael as a bully, or April as one to toy with anyone's emotions. They're still in a nebulous place; maybe I can get away with it for a little longer. But Apritello just kind of ran away with me. Oops. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! Your enthusiasm was one of the things that spurred me on as I agonized over this one.
Donatello hunched over April's laptop and wrinkled his nose. He was running a scan, and the red progress bar at the bottom of the screen that had been gradually becoming more full had come abruptly to a halt. The turtle sighed. For someone as intelligent as she was, she sure did have a lot of malware. But her machine was old, and so was her antivirus. It wasn't much of a surprise that her laptop was riddled with adware. And spyware. He had found a particularly nasty bug that had glommed onto her operating system, and spent much of the evening sussing it out.
Drawing his cold cup of coffee closer to him, he gave the laptop a scrutinizing glance. It would have been easier to build her a new computer. He would have been happy to. It would have been no problem, really. But she had said the one she had was fine. She had insisted. So Donatello sat hunched over her laptop in the recesses of his workshop, sighing. It was the least he could do.
April had let him sleep on her couch when his black eye was so bad he couldn't even open it. When the swelling had subsided, he had returned to the lair. It had taken Leonardo all but five minutes to discern his injuries from the discoloration around his eye, but it hardly mattered. Donatello could still remember the way she smelled, if he closed his eyes. Raphael must have known. Why else would his brow ridge have creased like that?
It was bad enough that he had stayed the night at April's place, but thinking about her - that was crossing the line. Raphael had been spending a lot of time with her lately. But even though he wanted everyone to think he was bad, he was usually home by curfew. Donatello might have considered the scowling across the breakfast table to have been worth mentioning, if it weren't already his brother's default expression.
Raphael had to have known.
But that night, he was out on patrol with Leonardo, which gave Donatello a sense of reprieve. There was a certain comfort in knowing Raphael wouldn't be skulking around the lair, and that Donatello wouldn't turn his computer chair to see his biggest brother glowering at him from the doorway. And best of all, if he was out on patrol, he wasn't at April's. The visceral memory of Raphael's scent all over her couch, all over her apartment, all over her, hit him like a punch in the gut. Hard and fast and unforgiving. The turtle shook his head, and forced his eyes back to her laptop. He had work to do.
Donatello's pushed his glasses up his nose, squinting behind the lenses. The progress bar was still frozen. The turtle groaned a little too loudly.
"Everything ok over there?"
"Yeah," Donatello replied absentmindedly, tossing the tails of his purple bandana back over his shoulder. "It's fine. Really. Just slow going."
Donatello saw her from the corner of his eye. April O'Neil was standing in the doorway in that yellow leather jacket, her messenger bag slung across her shoulders. Suddenly his mouth was very dry.
"A-April!" he stammered. "What are you doing here?"
A smile spread across her face. "Do I need a reason to visit my favorite ninja mutant turtles?"
The turtle gulped. "I s-suppose not."
Her words hung in his mind. She said "My favorite ninja mutant turtles." Not turtle. Biting his lip, he attempted to stifle a sigh. It had been years since he had stuttered. His brothers had teased him for it relentlessly when they were children. Even Leonardo. Leo wouldn't care to admit it, but there was a time when he did not know honor. But Donatello had always known shame.
April rummaged through her bag, and before he knew it, she was holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a bottle of baileys in the other. "Do you want a drink?" April asked. Donatello opened his mouth, but before he could reply, April answered for him. "Let's have a drink."
The turtle's eyes strayed across his desk, which was littered with cups crusted with dry coffee. He blinked.
"Glasses," he managed. "Kitchen."
April nodded and she was on her way, her heeled boots clicking as she went.
"B-be careful in there! Michelangelo's Sewer Surprise actually turned out to be quite a surprise tonight, if you catch my drift."
Her laughter followed her out the door. Donatello forced his attention back to the laptop, with its progress bar that was still painfully frozen. Exhaling sharply through his nostrils in frustration, his fingers darted across the keyboard and a search engine opened up across the screen. As he typed his query in the search field, it began to autofill. His eyes widened. Donatello swallowed as a list of terms began to populate based on April's previous searches. If the search terms were any indication, she and his brother had gone much further than he had thought. Than he had even thought possible.
Eyes unnaturally wide, Donatello scrambled to shut the laptop. From the doorway, April cocked her head to the side. He slammed it closed, the screen smacking loudly over the keyboard. Her long auburn hair cascaded across her shoulders as she straightened herself. And those rosebud lips of hers blossomed into a smile as she raised her glass.
"You like Irish Coffee, Don?"
"Why do I get the feeling that's a pejorative term?" Donatello swallowed so loudly he thought Michelangelo might be able to hear him from the kitchen.
"It's a drink," she shook her head, but she didn't stop smiling. "You're over twenty-one, right?"
The turtle nodded, but only because he didn't know what else to do. One of the bottles clattered amidst the chaos of his desk. She was unscrewing the other, biting her lip as she twisted the cap. Her hand slid down the neck of the bottle and his breath caught in his throat. It was only then that he realized that his scan stopped when he shut the laptop.
The turtle silently berated himself for allowing his emotions to interfere with his work, but April didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were on the the whiskey filling his mug. When she finished with the whiskey, she wasted no time in wrenching the bottle of baileys open, its contents sloshing in the bottle, threatening to spill all over the laptop he had been so painstakingly tending to all evening. She tipped the bottle into his coffee mug and the liqueur flowed freely, making what little coffee was left rise dangerously close to the edge.
April shook her head, and wet tendrils of her hair fell about her face, then clung to her neck. "What a fucking day."
When she offered no other details, Donatello stared at the mug, which brimmed with a solution that was undoubtedly more liquor than coffee. The neck of the whiskey bottle clinked against the edge of her glass. The turtle clutched his mug, holding carefully in his six fingers. His glasses had slipped down his nose again, and he glanced at her over the edge of the thick tortoiseshell frames. Next to him, April had settled into one of his salvaged computer chairs, the one with the broken wheel (but no pizza stains). She sighed, staring blankly at her drink. He couldn't help but wonder if she would rather be sharing her libations with Raphael instead.
The turtle sniffed his drink. He took a tentative sip and coughed. Scrambling to push his glasses back up, he gazed at April, mouth agape. "You drink this straight?" he pointed incredulously to his mug.
"Only on special occasions," she chuckled, and the amber spirit sloshed against the sides of her glass as her shoulders shook with her subdued laughter.
Timorously, Donatello took another drink, and much to his surprise, the second sip was easier to swallow. Something flickered in him, flaring up, like a fire in his gut. Not a lurching, rolling flame that burned everything in its path, but a comforting heat that spread from his core to the rest of his extremities. A fire in the hearth of his heart. April took another drink, and he followed her example. He had always been a fast learner.
With a deep sigh, April set her glass aside and whipped her wet hair atop her head in a messy bun. Her shirt was wet, too. So wet that it clung to her, more revealing than it should have been, even in the low light of the lab. Donatello could see the outline of her bra, the curve of her waist, the dip of her navel; the sopping wet fabric accentuating the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. It must have been raining, up there, above ground.
Donatello leaned back in his chair, holding his mug to his chest. The little fire that wouldn't go out.
"Want to play a game, Donatello?" she grinned.
The turtle's eyes narrowed behind his bandana, and his glasses, and everything else piled atop his head. He was always wary of games. Growing up, games were just another opportunity for Leonardo to espouse some moral. To teach them a lesson. The team building of game play was fine enough, until Raphael inevitably lost his temper. As an adult, Donatello wasn't above the occasional video game bout with Michelangelo, but otherwise, he avoided games in favor of more practical applications of his time. Though it had been some time since he had been sideswiped with an N64 controller, Donatello was still wary of games.
"It's called I've Never."
Donatello's brow ridge creased dubiously.
"Someone says something they've never done, and if they other person has, you know - done the thing, they have to take a drink," she shrugged. "It's easy. I'll show you."
"That just seems like a thinly veiled excuse to drink more," he sniffed.
"That's because it is."
The turtle felt his lips turn up at the edges as he shook his head wryly.
"Alright alright, I'll start," she said, taking a brief sip of her whiskey. "I've never...hacked someone's computer." She leaned forward, clutching her glass.
The turtle blinked as she stared up at him.
"You drink now."
"Oh!" the turtle stammered. "Oh. Right." He took a conservative sip.
"Oh no. Oh no no no," April shook her head.
"What!?" he spit defensively, then rushed to cover his mouth.
"Take a bigger drink than that," she cocked her head to the side. "Come on."
With a deep breath, he knocked back his mug, and the searing liquid rushed down his throat. "I can't believe you drink this straight," he coughed, thumping his chest with his fist.
"That's better," she smirked. "Your turn."
"As you wish," Donatello exhaled, his breath hot. "I've never been on TV."
April licked her lips and took a long, deep swig. He watched her throat undulate as she drank the spirit down, trying to keep himself from inhaling too sharply. Like Raphael, she had to know. But that didn't mean he had any interest in discussing it.
"Alright, wise guy," she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I've never…" she paused to bite her lip. "I've never slept in the sewer."
"Oh, low blow," Donatello chuckled, taking another drink. His eyes fell across her face, and his own softened with a smile. "I've never...been published."
She smiled at him. "You will, someday."
"Y-yeah, sure," the turtle felt the heat rise in his face, and he was quick to divert his gaze to the floor. "Drink up."
A comforting warmth had settled over him, leaving his mind quiet. Still. He had never really drank, before. Raphael had come home with a bottle of half-empty Jack Daniels, once, dug out of some dumpster, he said; though none of them actually believed that. Leonardo had tried it, sparingly. Michelangelo had overindulged, and woken up hanging upside down from the ceiling in the hashi. But Donatello had refrained. He could not afford to tamper with his greatest asset. What good would he be, if he couldn't think? But those were assumptions he had held, before he knew about the warmth. And the quiet. It was wonderful, with her, in the newfound quiet.
"Well, I've never," she hesitated, groping for her next prompt, "I've never used a bo staff."
"Oh, come on Miss O'Neil," Donatello teased. "You can do better than that."
She shrugged. He drank. When he was done, he found himself struggling to focus his eyes. Donatello readjusted his glasses, to no avail. Everything was still slightly askew.
"Donnie."
"Huh?" he sputtered, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
"It's your turn."
"Oh, yes, well," he blinked. "Uh, I've...I've never been kissed."
He stared at her, waiting. Waiting for her to echo her earlier sentiment. You will, someday. But the words never came. She finished her drink in silence. She didn't even flinch. Despite his best efforts to restrain himself, the sullen, subtle line of a frown spread across his face.
A bead of water dripped from her wet hair, rolling down her face, breaking the tenuous bond between her eyelashes and her mascara, making her makeup run. A black streak shot across her blushing cheeks, hot and pink from four fingers of whiskey. Blinking, she ran her fingers along the edge of her eyelashes in an attempt to wipe away the smudge, but only made it worse. When she pulled her fingers away, black and wet with smeared mascara, she frowned.
"Our meteorologist said it wasn't going to rain today."
"Need a towel?" he asked, grateful for the excuse to take his eyes off her. If his gaze had lingered any longer, it might necessitate an explanation he was not ready to give.
April shook her head, slowly.
Donatello leaned back in his computer chair, scrambling as he tilted backward, his equilibrium reeling. He scavenged his desk for something that might help. Anything at all. There wasn't anything that hadn't sopped up the leavings of countless coffee rings. He bit his lip; he had nothing to offer her.
She sighed. "I'm such a mess."
"Oh, April, you're not a mess," he snapped back upright in his chair, what was left of his coffee sloshing to and fro as he abandoned the mug haphazardly at the edge of his desk. "You're beautiful."
Donatello reached to touch her, to brush away the smear of makeup. He just wanted her to feel beautiful. To see herself the way he saw her.
If it hadn't been for I've Never, he never would have told her what he thought. If it hadn't been for I've Never, he never would have touched her. If it hadn't been for I've Never, he would have felt the swell of self-consciousness, screaming at him about how clammy his hands were, compared to her skin. Her cheek was so warm. Soft, and perfect under his calloused fingers. Suddenly Donatello was deeply grateful for games.
A buzzing sound cracked the silence between them. It fell away, like thin ice under their weight. Leaving Donatello scrambling. The turtle blinked, then closed one eye in an attempt to focus as April lurched out of the computer chair; away from him. Yanking her messenger bag up, she dug furiously through its contents.
"I didn't even know I could get a signal down here…" she muttered.
Donatello silently cursed himself for installing all those signal boosters in the lair.
"Ah ha!" she cried, triumphantly wrenching her battered smartphone from the recesses of her bag, which slumped unceremoniously from her lap to the floor.
Though his vision blurred, he could see the caller's ID blinking on the screen as the buzzing droned on. Raphael. But it didn't say Raphael. It simply said "Red". Something roiled in Donatello. She had given him a nickname. The turtle took a deep breath, trying to swallow the sick feeling that was clawing up from the depths of his gut.
"What do you see in him, anyway?"
The words had just fallen out of his mouth. He hadn't even thought about them beforehand. They just happened. That frightened him more than any answer she might give him. His lips pressed together ruefully. The phone kept buzzing. Donatello froze in his chair, his entire body tensing. Her phone fell silent in her hand. As the vibrations died, his fight-or-flight response was still shrieking, making his muscles scream as he refused to move. Deep seated instinct echoed in every corner of his mind; run. Run. Run!
April looked up at him, with those big blue eyes, and dark lashes, smokey with smeared makeup. The phone buzzed again. He bit his lip. She took the call.
Though her mouth moved, Donatello did not hear what she said. Too busy silently admonishing himself. Idiot. The insult hammered relentlessly at the back of his mind. When he looked up, she was already walking away.
Donatello slumped back in his chair with a sigh. Within seconds, he reached the mug she had filled with liquor. At least he would always have coffee. Bringing the mug to his lips, he took a timorous sip, before knocking his head back, imbibing all that was left. Even though his coffee had long since gone cold, that Irish Coffee was still hot. The whiskey slid down his throat like fire.
The click of her boot heels alerted him of her return, and he blinked, trying to get a read on her. With a sigh, she slid her phone into her back pocket.
"I've gotta go," she muttered hurriedly, tossing the liquor bottles into her bag.
"A-are you sure you're ok to drive?" he squeezed his eyes shut. "I mean, bike?"
"I'm fine, Don," April shrugged on her signature yellow leather jacket. Then, more gently, she said, "But thank you for asking."
As she slung her messenger back over her shoulder, she gave him a fleeting glance. And then, almost shyly, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her still wet jeans. "Thanks for everything, tonight. It was just what I needed." Her eyes wandered to his desk, where the light of her laptop still blinked. A gnawing reminder of unfinished business between them.
"I'm sorry for interrupting you."
"April," Donatello said, standing slowly, steadying himself on his desk. When he realized how he towered over her, he shrunk back, rubbing the back of his head uneasily. "You can interrupt me any time."
Before he could even blink, she squeezed his hand and leaned up, surprising him with a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Her nose hit the mouthpiece of his headset, leaving it thrumming in his ear, against his face, even after she pulled away.
"Now you can't use that bullshit never been kissed line on me next time," she smiled. "See you later, Donnie."
Donatello wanted to speak, to say goodbye, to tell her to travel safe; but his breath was trapped in his throat, held hostage by the wild beating of his heart.