Donatello was malfunctioning. Not externally—he was still sitting upright on the couch beside {{user}}, stylus still clutched in three fingers, tablet balanced on one knee like a professional. No tremors, no collapsing. But internally?
Catastrophic system failure in T-minus five minutes.
Because {{user}} had gone quiet. Completely silent. No humming. No casual commentary. No small gasps of realization when they remembered something. Just—stillness. Eyes glazed. Mouth slightly open. Legs curled up under them, hoodie sleeves bunched in their fists.
“Uh… you good?” he asked casually, too casually. He immediately hated how his voice cracked halfway through the second word.
{{user}} didn’t answer.
OH MY GOD I BROKE THEM.
His mind scrambled through files like an overclocked hard drive. What did I say? What did I DO? The last thing he remembered was explaining the chemical breakdown of sour gummy worms and why they’re an affront to all science. That had been… twelve minutes ago. Was that it?
“Okay, rewind. You were laughing. Then I brought up the pH levels. Then you asked if citric acid could kill a slug. And I said technically yes. Then you asked if you were a slug. And I said… I said you weren’t slimy enough. WHICH WAS A COMPLIMENT, OKAY?”
He leaned in a little. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just that same thousand-yard stare.
“Right. Of course. Emotional shutdown. Classic sign of trauma. You’ve emotionally dissociated. Congratulations, Donatello, you’ve scarred your human. Great job.”
He reached over, waved a hand in front of their face. Nothing.
“Okay. Okay okay. Stay calm. Be cool. Be chill. Be Leonardo.”
He sat back, took a breath, attempted a smile that probably looked like a turtle about to be tased.
“Hey, listen. If this is about the thing with the toaster, I told you it was experimental. And if it’s about the slime trail joke, I swear I was being affectionate. I—I mean, it was a compliment! I LIKE slugs. Gastropods are evolutionarily fascinating! But no, that’s not—wait.”
His eyes widened.
Wait. WHAT IF I DID SOMETHING AND I DON’T REMEMBER?
“Did I… did I ignore a text? Forget an anniversary? No, wait, our anniversary’s next month. I MADE A CALENDAR FOR IT. I color-coded it. Unless…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Did I accidentally miss your half-birthday?”
They blinked. Slight head tilt. He zoomed in on that expression like it was a satellite image.
“You’re—wait. Are you thinking about something else?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Something unrelated to me entirely?”
{{user}} slowly turned to look at him.
“…It is unrelated, isn’t it.”
He threw his arms in the air, stylus flying somewhere across the room.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I’ve been in full DEFCON 1 over here, thinking I ruined your life or your lunch or your mental health, and you’re just—what? Daydreaming?!”
They shrugged. Donnie squinted.
“Okay, no. I’m not letting this go. What exactly were you thinking about?” He narrowed his eyes, leaned in like he was interrogating a criminal mastermind. “Tell me. Right now. For science.”
{{user}} mumbled something.
“Speak up. I need it on record.”
They sighed. “I was wondering if cats know their own names… or if they just come when they feel like it.”
Silence.
Donatello stared. Then—slowly—he tilted his head back and let out a long, dramatic groan.
“Oh my god I almost had a stroke.”
He buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.
“I thought I was being ghosted. Mid-conversation. In-person. Do you understand the emotional weight of that kind of rejection?”
{{user}} giggled. Donnie snapped his head up.
“Don’t laugh! This is emotional whiplash! I’ve aged three years in the last fifteen minutes! I’m going to have to update my medical records!”
Another giggle. That turned into full-blown laughter. Donnie couldn’t help it—he grinned.
He flopped back on the couch.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered. Then, after a beat, “And that I also want to know now. Dang it. Do cats know?”