If Ever Tilley is at Michelangelo's pizzeria something must be up with Renet. Donatello decided he'd call his little brother later, see if he needed anything.
His phone had stopped ringing while he'd shaken Ever's hand and while his stomach churned and clenched matching the sick jerk of his heart he was somewhat relieved it had.
Just as he'd taken two steps away from Ever and Leonardo, as much to escape the socialites overwhelming perfume as to get to work, of which he'd soon be late, the phone belted out their song again. The same lyrics that once carried him to the peak of his spiritual mountain, holding his arms open and wide, bandana tails soaring behind him while inside he'd screamed, "I'm king of the world!" because April O'Neil was his girl. His. Eat it Casey Jones. Moved in, vacations, and long passionate nights kind of his. Or so Donatello had thought.
"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,"
I'm gonna have to change her ringtone. Right after this phone call. He cleared his throat. "Answer," he instructed the device.
"Donnie," April's voice reached through the phone like a hand, wrapping gentle fingers around his heart only to squeeze it so tight her fingernails ground in until it stopped. "Donnie?" she repeated.
Donatello cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'm here." He forced a tight smile to his face as a group of passing tourists recognized him and began snapping pictures. Not now. "When are you coming by to pick up your things?" he managed.
April's breath hitched through the phone. He knew the face that went with that sound. It involved a trembling pink lower lip, glossy red-rimmed blue eyes, and tear-stained cheeks. His resolve waivered, shredded with the urge to comfort and protect her as he'd done through every difficult moment they'd endured together in the past fifteen years.
"Donnie, please don't do this," her sweet voice cracked, "it doesn't have to be this way."
"No, it does." Donatello's jaw shifted, his grip on the phone tightening. He reminded himself not to accidentally crush the thin device. This wasn't his fault. "You decided it had to be this way, when you refused to tell me who you've been meeting up with when you're supposed to be at work."
He realized he'd stopped walking and the tourists were lingering, listening to his conversation. He signed an autograph and excused himself, stopping at his favorite street vendors for coffee. As he stood in line, waiting for her to respond, knowing she'd feed him the same tired line for the hundredth time, the hard proof stared at him from the tabloid on the magazine rack.
"You have to trust me Donnie. How many times have I ever questioned you? I don't understand. I told you, I'm helping out an old friend."
Donatello lifted the gloss-finished magazine from the rack, his teeth clenching. He closed his eyes, counted to ten. "And that old friend wouldn't happen to be Casey Jones, would it?"
"What? Donnie, no. You know he'll only meet with me. He won't do an interview with anyone else. Let me guess, you're looking at the tabloid?"
He wasn't looking at the tabloid, not anymore. It was a crumpled mess in his hand.
"You gonna pay for that Don?" Joe, the coffee guy, called over the two customers ahead of him.
Donnie's head moved up and down to acknowledge his friend, while the image of his long time love, dressed in a yellow gown that would make the fairy tale princess Belle of Beauty and the Beast jealous, burned into his eyelids. He gave new meaning to the phrase green-with-envy, because he was her beast, but the beauty in this photo, his beauty, was on the arm of one Casey Arnold Jones.
"Donnie? It was a trade, to get the interview. I had to accompany him to The Rangers red-carpet charity gala. Donnie, it's not how it looks."
It's not how it looks. It's not how it looks.
It's not how it looks when she's meeting him for lunch, or dinner, or accompanying him to some event… It's not how it looks when their photographed together at black tie affairs.
"Stop it Donnie. I know what you're thinking. And there are just as many pictures of me on your arm, so just…" her voice broke, "stop, please."
She was sobbing again. He was so tired of hearing her cry. His shoulders drooped, his heart grinding into the pit of his stomach. He was tired of fighting with her. The emotional battles wore on him worse than some of the most horrible fights he'd survived.
"It's not how it looks," she repeated.
"It never is," he murmured, stepping up in line. "Look April, I've got to go. If you want to come by and get your things, can you please do it while I'm at work?"
She sniffled, cleared her throat. "That's not why I called. And I'm not ready to give up on us yet. This is a horrible misunderstanding Donnie. If we were married you'd have the security you need, you'd know it doesn't have to be this way."
Donatello flinched. Ever since they'd legalized mutant marriages she'd been photographed gazing in jewelry store windows. But the timing had never been right. His father had passed, then Leo went into rehab, there was always something. Maybe there always would be.
"Then tell me where you've been. Or is there someone besides Casey, because I know he was out of town, for a game, at least two of the past five times you've not been where you say you were going to be." His own breaths quickened as he fumbled in his pocket, then handed Joe his money. He tossed the tabloid in the trash and took his coffee. It sloshed over the lip burning his hand, the same way her lies had scorched his heart.
April heaved an exasperated sigh. They'd been together so long he recognized the sound. His chest tightened as he braced for her wrath. But her voice came out low, even, and more terrifying than if she'd exploded.
"I'm very disappointed in you Hamato Donatello. That you doubt me the way you have. Because I've never betrayed you, never given you a reason to doubt me, regardless of how the tabloids make it look." Her breaths rushed through her nose, into the phone, the sound quickening the beat of his heart to match her inhales and exhales. "I love you, and I refuse to give up on us." She took a deep breath. "Now, you and I are not what I called to discuss—," she hesitated, "this is actually a business call."
A business call. Donatello straightened at the formality. "A business, call?" he repeated.
"Yes," her voice came out soft. He visualized the frown on her mouth, felt a pang in his gut.
He pictured a power switch over his heart, one that in the 'on' position would represent his love for her as brilliant as a thousand mega-watt bulb, the 'off' as dark and cold as their bed had been every night for the past week. His conscious reached up, wrapping three thick fingers over the lever and pulled it.
Blackout.
As if in perfect synch with the tiny winged Donatello on his shoulder, the device in his hand cut off while the electrical cords on Joe's food truck shorted. All along the sidewalk people stared at their phones.
A man yelled at him. "Hey! Something wrong with your phone too? I can't get the internet or call nobody!"
Idiots. If the powers out modems don't work, cell towers don't work. Your phones are about as useful as a flashlight during the day.
Donatello's eyes travelled the stores lining the streets, finding them unlit, clerks ushering out customers, frantic to lock the doors.
"Blackout!" Another man yelled.
Blackout. Oh, no. Where did April say she was? New York City during a blackout was a dangerous place to be. Knowing her she'll be in the thick of a riot trying to conduct an interview. He had to find her.
As he looked up and down the street, debating to go back to Michelangelo's to form a plan with his brothers, the power flickered back on. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and his phone belted out those damned lyrics again.
It was only ten thirty in the morning and he was exhausted. He licked his lips and answered the phone. "I can't do this anymore April."
"I'm not calling about us Donatello." April's professional voice cut through him. "I'm calling to talk about the break in at your lab this morning."
An electric sensation travelled down his spine, his heart slowing to long hard beats. "My lab?" he croaked. No. No. No. He closed his eyes, reeled. "Tell me it's still there."
He didn't know how she did it, but April maintained her cool tone. "Professor Hamato Donatello, can you tell me, how dangerous is the Mutagen Blocking Compound known as MBC-26? It is my understanding-"
Donatello's fingers went numb. "I've got to go, April." He disconnected the call, feeling his knees buckle as the coffee cup fell from his fingers, hot liquid splashing over the sidewalk below. The compound. The lab.
He had to get to the lab, and he had to call Leo.
