Note: This story is set in the 2k12 universe in the not-so distant future.

Disclaimer: I do not own the ninja turtles or any other TMNT characters referenced in the fic.

Click

By: Ponaco

Chapter One

Click, click, click. The tap of the keyboard has a way of calming my nerves. The constant, repetitive sound acts as a reminder that work is getting done, that plans are moving forward. No matter what is going wrong, no matter what is making my anxiety thrash around in my stomach like a particularly vindictive fish, if the click, click, click of computer keys fills my lab I at least know I'm on my way to solving a problem. Never stop moving. I can sleep when I'm dead. Although I'm not entirely sure death could quiet the constant noise in my head. My typing can't keep up with the rapid fire pace of my imagination.

Maybe if you had five fingers you could type faster.

Self-defeating thoughts like that tend to slow my momentum to a crawl. I try to avoid them. I can usually avoid them. I have far too much on my plate to contemplate what ifs and never could bes. They do tend to sneak up on me sometimes though. When I'm tired or frustrated and things aren't going right, they creep out of the shadows with sharp talons and pestering little bird beaks that peck away at my resolve. Nasty little thoughts that don't help my anxiety one bit and certainly don't help me finish my current project. Push them away. Type something. Write more code, any code. You can fix it later just keep moving forward.

You would have been done by now if your big, clumsy fingers didn't keep hitting the wrong keys.

It's never a good sign when the nasty thoughts come together in a complete sentence. They are begging for me to acknowledge them, to give credence to their accusations, to argue against them. It's no use arguing with myself after all. Although I'd be lying if I said I never rose to the bait or if I said I didn't often rise to it. My hypothesis on the matter is that talking through a problem out loud is one of the best ways to reach a conclusion, even if there is no one but you there to hear it. Although it could simply be that my inner critic sounds an awful lot like Raphael and even a fake Raphael built of doubt and anxiety could drive the most stoic of people to confrontation and I'm not exactly the poster child for stoicism.

I push away from the computer desk with a heavy slide of my chair. I've lost track of time. A quick glance at the clock and the sudden sharp crick in my neck let me know I've been working for far longer than I thought. If I was above ground I might be able to see the first, timid sunshine of morning creep over the horizon and flutter across the rooftops of the waking city. There was no point in trying to sleep now. Morning training would rear its ugly head before I could relax enough to reach anything close to rest. It was going to be a long, most likely painful, session.

If you didn't take so long to do everything you could have been asleep hours ago.

The move from my chair to my feet is not a pleasant one. The crick in my neck settles heavy on my shoulders and the arches of my feet cramp when I attempt to put weight on them. I take in a slow, steadying breath and settle my hands in front of my chest before reaching them above my head with a deep inhale. Stretching would only get me so far. My arms and legs felt numb and heavy like I was carrying an invisible weight I couldn't shake. That weight was exhaustion and I knew the feel of it all too well. It clung to me when I went without sleep, when the click, click of the keyboard kept my heavy eyelids open and tapped out a soundtrack for those nasty thoughts to surface with increasing eloquence and insight.

What exactly do you think will happen if you go to sleep? You can't accomplish anything when you're awake so why not shut your eyes and go to bed?

I look down at my hands. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but for a genius I'm not always that bright. My clunky, three-fingered mitts stare back. It's useless to resent them, to resent any of myself that I can't change. They are what they are. I am what I am and there's no getting around it. There's no fixing it. There is nothing that needs fixing. I ball my left hand into a fist and reach for my discarded T-phone with the other. No new messages. I know that without looking. I would have heard it ring or chirp out a text alert, but I look anyway. I have been known to get caught up in my work after all. I might have missed it.

There was nothing to miss. What did you expect? For her to drop everything and call you with an update? Perhaps a play by play of how much fun she's having with him?

"Shut up," I grumble, rubbing my eyes with more force than is probably advisable.

I push down with my palms until little star bursts explode in my vision. I want to hit something or more accurately someone. It's important to be accurate. Instead I let out a sigh that echoes up towards the vaulted ceiling of my lab and only makes my shoulders slump further. I tuck the phone into my belt and lean over the computer to save my work. Even the staccato click of the keyboard can't calm me now that I've thought of the one thing I was adamant about avoiding. My stomach gives a sudden, angry growl and I'm happy for the distraction. I can't remember when I ate last.

There is no silent way to open the door to my lab, believe me I've had years of trial and error. The heavy, metal contraption squeals ever so slightly when I open it just far enough to slip through. The lair is always an odd thing without the noise of my family filling every crevice. Like it isn't quite a home without the television blaring or the clang of weapons emitting from the dojo. I know it's only a matter of time before the whole place roars to life. The murky flood light above the couches only cooling the sleeping dragon.

I pad across the main living space towards the kitchen, straining my ears to make sure there isn't anyone else moving about. I'm not in the mood for surprises. The kitchen is dark and quiet save for the muffled shuffling and tiny meows of Ice cream kitty in the freezer. I squint at the sudden influx of light when I flick the switch and stagger over to the coffee pot in the corner. Coffee will make things better. It hasn't failed me yet.

"You're going to eat something, right? That stuff'll eat through your stomach if you don't."

I jump at the voice, so intent on the small task of filling the coffee filter I'm easily taken by surprise. The coffee grounds explode across the counter-top and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from cursing or hitting something in childish frustration. I'm letting today get the better of me and it isn't pleasant, it isn't endearing and it isn't acceptable.

Pathetic. Can't even make a cup of coffee. What can you do, Genius?

"You want me to make you an omelet?" Mikey asks. He's still lingering in the doorway, his eyes wide with concern, although he mostly keeps that to himself. "I was going to make one for me anyway," he adds with a sleepy smile.

"Sure, thanks," I say in reply, both for offering to make me breakfast and for not calling attention to the fact that he made me jump.

"No problem, man," he replies, scooting around me while humming what sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol my exhausted mind can't quite place. "I had Casey get me some hot sauce. Ya know, the one with the devil on the bottle?"

The name is like ice water in my veins and I start to clean up the coffee grounds with renewed vigor. Don't think about it. The counter will be spotless by the time I am done. Mikey might be in his own world a good deal of the time, but he's remarkably observant when it suits him. He knows me as much as any of my brothers do. We have a series of wordless looks that pass between us when Raph and Leo are fighting or when he needs something explained or when I get to that place where the nasty thoughts live and sleep seems like an abstract concept. He pauses for only a second to hip check the refrigerator door shut, his arm full of ingredients.

"You get any sleep last night?" He presents it as a question, when one look at me would tell him the answer.

"I…I had work to do," I reply in place of actually answering out right.

"Uh huh, uh huh," he says with a bobbled-headed, over exaggerated nod. He's trying to get me to crack a smile. It won't work. "So that's what? Two nights in a row? Three? Are you trying for some kind of record? You can't stay awake forever, ya know."

"Eleven days," I mumble, remembering some long-ago read article. "The record is eleven days."

Mikey crinkles his nose before setting to the task of chopping onions. "And you're going to break it?" he says, quickly moving on to his next target, a green pepper. "I know you're smart and all, but that's a dumb idea, D."

"I'm not…I just…I'm just saying the record is eleven days. Two is nothing. Three is nothing," I say in a jumble of words that barely constitute a response.

Why are you justifying yourself to him? He's already made up his mind about you. They all have. Pathetic.

Mikey is staring at me now. His knife is lifted, mid-chop and he's staring at me with those wide and worried eyes he wears when something is wrong. When I'm wrong. He's letting me know that I can tell him what's bothering me, even though I'm sure he already knows. They all must know. I'm not exactly opaque.

She knows.

"Sorry, I just…I just have a lot on my mind," I say, turning my back on him and focusing once again on the task of making coffee.

"No worries, man," he says with a tiny laugh that sounds anything but cheerful. "You've always got a lot on your mind."

I lean forward on the counter and listen to the renewed sound of Mikey cutting vegetables. Chop, chop, chop, slice. It's not quite the click of a keyboard but it's steady and repetitive and helps to calm the increased rate of my heartbeats. The kitchen soon fills with the glorious smell of brewing coffee, followed shortly after by the sizzle and spray of onions in a frying pan. My stomach gives another growl, this one impatient with anticipation. Mikey's earlier humming has grown to a full-force belt of Rudolph the red nosed reindeer with lyrics that are only slightly close to being accurate. It does the impossible and brings the tiniest of smiles to my face. The warm cup of coffee in my hands only helps to improve my mood.

"Give it a rest, will ya? It's seven in the damn morning," Raphael snaps, stomping into the kitchen and smacking Mikey upside the head.

The hit puts an end to the song and any ghost of a smile I had mustered. Mikey swats away Raph's hand with a half-hearted swipe of the spatula and curl of his lip.

"I can't help it if you don't appreciate the finer things in life," Mikey replies, cracking open several eggs in succession before mixing the ingredients. "Singing makes the food taste better."

Raphael lets out a dismissive snort, but doesn't make any further threats when Mikey continues his off-key rendition. I slump forward in my seat, leaning my face above the rim of the coffee cup. I take a few tentative sips and close my eyes to savor the taste. Coffee truly is one of the best things the world has to offer. I can feel Raphael watching me. Unlike Mikey who teeters on the edge of sad puppy dog eyes and tends to wait you out, Raph's gaze is as sharp and unyielding as his preferred fighting style. He doesn't hold punches in anything.

"What?" I grumble, not bothering to open my eyes as I take another sip of coffee.

"You look like crap."

Always direct and to the point. I suppose there's something to be said for that. Although I think I'd be more inclined to appreciate his honesty if it wasn't more often than not just cloaking criticism. I don't need help criticizing myself, I have it down to an art form all on my own. I choose the path of least resistance and only shrug in response. I don't have the energy to deal with him right now. Mikey plops a plate down in front of me with a worrisome clatter. Even though my stomach is hallow and empty the sight of the wiggly omelet turns my insides into a queasy knot. I think some nice, dry toast might have been a better option over a squiggly folded egg full of hot sauce and peppers.

"Thanks, Mikey," I say with a forced smile I'm sure doesn't reach my eyes.

"No problem," he says with a grin, turning back to the stove to make his own breakfast; apparently placated by my disingenuous smile and tentative bite of food.

Raphael isn't buying it. I take another bite, grateful that my stomach seems more willing to hold onto the food the more of it I force down. Raph leans forward and rests his crossed arms on the table top. He's watching my every move with an increasingly smug turn of his mouth. I'd like to wipe that look off his face. The more he smirks the angrier I get. Usually I can push it aside, convince myself it isn't worth pursuing. Nine times out of ten I'm not going to win a fight with my brother and fights with Raph always tend to end with violence. He doesn't hold his punches after all. My exhaustion gets the better of me. It tends to when I let it. I can't sit back and let him leer at me like he knows something I don't.

"What?" I say again, this time the word more like a clap of thunder.

Nice job, Genius. That's exactly what he wanted. Why not punch yourself in the face and save everyone some time.

His smirk that started me on the quick slide to anger grows and he leans back in his chair looking all the world like the cat that caught the canary. "You know you're more likely to blow us all up when you don't sleep."

I take in a sharp breath through my nose and stab forcefully at another fork-full of omelet; the eggs seem unappealing again and it takes a certain level of control to fight back my gag reflex.

"I was writing code. I can't blow up the lair writing code," I reply around a mouthful of omelet. I had intended for my retort to sound cutting, in reality it was mostly whiny and defensive. "And mind your own business."

He lets out a harsh chuckle. It's his particular brand of laughter that's cutting and joyless without any sense of warmth one would hope for. It says more with two arrogant beats of sound than any fully formed words ever could. He thinks I'm being ridiculous. He thinks he knows better. Even if he is right the presumption gets under my skin and sets my teeth on edge. He knows he's getting to me because he adds before I have a chance to respond.

"All right, Donnie. I'll mind my own business, but how about you do everyone a favor and let us know when you're done moping so we can all stop walking on eggshells around you. It's just sad at this point, get over it, man. She's not worth it."

You should have stayed in the lab.

I don't have a response to that. What could I possibly say that wouldn't sound petty or defensive? Mikey is staring wide-eyed at the two of us, egg yolk dripping from the spatula held in his hand. He puts his hand on his hip and turns his disapproving look in Raph's direction.

"Dude…" he breathes, narrowing his eyes and setting his mouth in a firm line. "Not cool."

"Forget it, Mikey," I say, pushing away from the table and my half-eaten breakfast with a loud scrape of my chair.

I appreciate the gesture. It's good to know someone has my back. I try to leave. All I want is to leave that kitchen and the truth of my brother's words. I want to go hide in my lab and calm the thudding of my heart with the calm, steady click click of computer keys. It is a rare thing for me to ever truly get what I desire. Leo is in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame and successfully blocking my hasty exit. I don't know how long he has been standing there. My exhaustion is wreaking havoc on my spatial awareness. I'm not sure how long he has been standing there, but one look at the tense bearing of his shoulders and the slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes lets me know he isn't happy.

"We have a training session in twenty minutes," he says, silently refusing to let me pass. "I expect you all to be there."

He says 'all,' when he obviously means me. I give a small nod. I'd agree to anything if he would just let me leave the kitchen. He tries to hold my gaze but I dodge his eyes at every turn. I don't need a lecture. There's nothing he could say to me that my nagging inner voice hasn't shouted a hundred times. When my anxiety and doubt take hold and logic can't settle my nerves. He lingers for a few more painful seconds before letting his arm drop and stepping aside. I push past him before he can change his mind.

I take in a deep breath once I'm free of the stuffy kitchen, closing my eyes for a second to collect my thoughts. There's no collecting them. Raph's words rattle around alongside my own doubts and accusations. The sliver of light coming from my lab is like a beacon in a storm. I hurry towards it on shaky legs and heave the door shut behind me once I'm safely inside. I lean back against the cool metal and pull my knees up to my chest. I close my eyes and rest my face in my hands. I count out the digits of Pi until the next number eludes me. I only reach twenty decimals, a pathetic showing in the grand scheme of things. It's an old habit, something that occupied my mind when sleep eluded me and I lay in my bed staring up at the dark ceiling. Some people count sheep. I find numbers far more calming than farm animals.

You gonna cry, Freak?

"No," I hiss, the word shaking as badly as my tired limbs.

I'm not surprised when there's a sharp knock on the door. It was too much to hope that I could be left alone after such an embarrassing showing. I expect to find Mikey on the other side, all worried-eyed and holding my unfinished breakfast as a peace offering. So when I crawl to my feet and pull the door open I can't hide my surprise when I find Leonardo staring back at me. He doesn't move from his spot. We've all received the same amount of training, but Leo's ability to remain so perfectly still has always been something of a wonder to me. I have too much to do, too many ideas to get down on paper before they disappear to reach that level of stillness. I'd be lying if I wasn't a bit jealous. It must be nice to just stop every now and then.

"Are you all right?" he asks, surprising me for the second time in under a minute.

I feel my shoulders fall and lift again in a defeated shrug. "Yeah," I say quietly, never that good at a lie, especially with such an obvious one. "I mean, I will be, just need some rest."

He's not talking about my obvious lack of rest. I know what he means, what he is implying. I am not ready to have that conversation. I don't need to have that conversation. Enough has already been said on the topic this morning and I'm not looking for a repeat performance. Leo will skirt around the issue. He'll talk in generalizations and knowing looks. That will have to be enough for now.

"Did you try meditating?" he asks as if that's the answer to all of life's problems. A good, long sit and chant.

I nod. "Yeah, I uh…yesterday I think. Didn't really help so I worked on the code for the security system. You know how it's been glitching in the east tunnel. Figured if I couldn't sleep I might as well get some work done," I ramble and throw in a forced smile for good measure.

He doesn't look convinced. "That work can wait. It's not worth risking your health."

I nod again, mentally replaying this same conversation from years of re-runs. Go to bed, Donnie. Finish that in the morning, Donnie. You'll make yourself sick. You'll blow up the lair. Just go to sleep. Why don't you just go to sleep? As if it's that easy. If meditation and counting sheep were all it took for sleep to conquer my endless thoughts I would have been in bed hours ago, blissfully snoring away my worries. I've grown tired of trying to explain my insomnia to a family that is so foreign to the concept I might as well be shouting at them in Klingon. So I do what I always do when there is no hope of them understanding me, I tell them what they want to hear.

"I know, I'm sorry," I say with another rueful smile. "I lost track of time, won't happen again."

The worried crease along his forehead doesn't disappear but he doesn't push the topic. "Come on, we have training," he says.

Training, Leo's other cure all. There is something to be said about physical activity being linked to mood and mental stability. There's science behind it that I can appreciate and site. However, at the moment, when my eyes are so tired it feels as if something is trying to push them out of my skull from the inside out and my stiff muscles and joints ache from hours spent hunched over a keyboard any workout sounds like an insurmountable task. I'm going to try anyway because that's what's expected. Maybe they'll feel pity and go easy on me; although I don't expect Raph to pull his punches.