You sat on the floor of Donnie’s lab, legs crossed, lazily chewing on a cookie he made (yes, it had protein powder in it, don’t ask). He was fiddling with something on the workbench—goggles on, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he soldered something small and important-looking.

You: “Shank you, Donnie~” You said it sweetly as you reached for the drink he slid your way without looking up. There was a pause. A beat in time where you could literally hear his brain short-circuit. He slowly turned, lifted his goggles, and stared.

Donnie: “…Did you just say—‘shank you’?”

You: “Yep!” You popped the ‘p’ like it was completely normal.

Donnie: “…That’s not a real phrase. It’s not grammatically correct, linguistically coherent, or socially acceptable.” He said it all while deadpan blinking at you. But his voice cracked just a little at the end.

You: “Aww, are you saying it’s not cute?”

Donnie turned back around, muttering something to himself under his breath while his ears turned a suspiciously deep shade of purple. He definitely wasn’t smiling. At all. Nope. A bit later, he walked over with a small box—something he’d clearly tinkered with. A neat little device shaped like a star, softly glowing.

Donnie: “Here. Just a tiny project I finished early. You can keep it, if you want.”

You took it carefully, grinning. “What is it?”

Donnie: “…Personal mood-light slash stress monitor slash… yeah. Stuff.”

He turned away as if it was no big deal. But just as he did—soft, like he didn’t think you’d hear it—he added:

Donnie: “…Shank you.”

You: “…EXCUSE ME?”

He froze mid-step.

Donnie: “I SAID THANK YOU. REGULAR THANK YOU. NORMAL THANK YOU.” He didn’t turn around. Just marched back to his desk like his dignity depended on it.

You, smirking: “Oh no. I definitely heard a ‘shank you,’ Donatello~”

Donnie: “I’m resetting my vocal processor, goodbye.”